Mary Seaham: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3Grey, Mrs. (Elizabeth Caroline)
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Mary Seaham: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3
Grey, Mrs. (Elizabeth Caroline)
Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Mate selection -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
What would Trevor have said had he seen her then? What indeed! for
perchance he may be amongst the number of those who do not know the
force and purity of natural affection; and how, far from detracting from
other ties, other affections, it is but the fountain in which these have
learnt to flow with a singleness and strength to which those unexercised
in such a school can seldom attain. Perhaps he may be one of those to
whose ear the name of "brother" bears no glad and holy signification.
CHAPTER XVIII.
.... Manhood's earliest youth
Shone from the clear eye with a light like truth.
There play'd that fearless smile with which we meet
The sward that hides the swamp before our feet;
The bright on-looking to the Future, ere
Our sins reflect their own dark shadows there.
THE NEW TIMON.
We will not intrude on the first sacred moments of the reunion of the
brother and sister, but rejoin them in the drawing-room, when that
tumultuous period being over, there is something more distinct and
connected in their words and conduct for the reasonable and indifferent
reader to appreciate.
They are still alone together. Mrs. de Burgh is driving Mrs.
Trevyllian, and Louis out in the grounds; no one, then, is in the house
to break upon their glad communion.
And it was well; for theirs was indeed a joy in which the stranger
intermeddleth not. Mary, with the glistening drops gladness had called
forth still hanging on her lashes like rain in the sunshine of her
beaming countenance, sits on a low seat, and gazes up in the face of her
tall, handsome brother, as he stands on the hearth-rug, looking down
with caressing interest into her own.
She tells him he has grown ten times more handsome--that she had no idea
he was so tall. She gazes up into his clear blue eyes, clear, open,
truthful, unshrinking eyes, and it must have been to her like one who
gazes on the blue, pellucid, open vault of our summer heaven, after
having been long accustomed to the dark, uncertain, latent fire of some
tropic sky.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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