THE

OLD VICARAGE.


A NOVEL.


BY MRS. HUBBACK,

AUTHORESS OF

“THE WIFE’S SISTER,” “MAY AND DECEMBER,” ETC. ETC.




NEW YORK:

W. P. FETRIDGE & CO., PUBLISHERS,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.




BOSTON:

FETRIDGE & CO., 100 WASHINGTON ST.

1856.




STEREOTYPED BY

THOMAS B. SMITH,

82 & 84 Beekman Street.


PRINTED BY

GROSSMAN AND WILLETT,

82 & 84 Beekman St.




THE OLD VICARAGE.




CHAPTER I.


  “Children’s voices should be dear
  (Call once more) to a mother’s ear;
  Children’s voices wild with pain,
  Surely she will come again;
  Call her once, and come away!”
                                     THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.


It was a summer’s evening. The yellow sunshine streamed through the
boles of the forest trees, tinting them with purple, vermilion, gold,
or the richest brown. It gave a metallic luster to the tops of the
giant oaks, and lighted up with a silvery gleam the long feathery
sprays of the graceful beech-trees, waving gently and slowly as the
soft breeze passed rustling among them. The same slanting sunbeams
fell on the dark glossy foliage of the tall groups of holly, and
twinkled like stars upon their stiff-pointed leaves.

Beneath these ancient and hoary trees, on a natural terrace clothed
with soft mossy turf, and commanding, along the glade in the forest, a
full view of the glowing west, there walked, with slow and lingering
step, two persons, who seemed too deeply engrossed in conversation to
heed the loveliness of the evening. One of these was a woman, who
might perhaps be half way between thirty and forty, but still
possessing a large share of personal beauty; tall, dark, glowing, with
bright black eyes, and hair as black as jet, parted off her forehead
in rich braids, and as she carried her bonnet in her hand, they caught
the gleaming sunshine, and seemed to turn purple in its splendor. Her
companion was a young girl, slender, fair, and rather pale, except
that as she listened to the earnest discourse of the matron, the
flitting color dyed her cheek for a moment, and then left it pale
again. Her slim figure, and girlish proportions, gave a notion of
extreme youth and delicacy, and yet her face was of that kind which
brings a feeling of trust and repose as you gaze upon it; an idea
that, young as she was, there was steadiness and principle to be read
there.

“But, dear mamma,” said the girl, “why do you talk in this way? You
will soon be about again, and able to see all these things yourself.”

And she gazed with earnest, anxious fondness at the face of her
companion, unable to realize that danger could lurk near, or death
invade a countenance so healthy, and so invariably cheerful.

“His will be done,” said Mrs. Duncan, raising her eyes, and fixing
them on the glowing west. “Life and death are in His hands; but,
Hilary, it will neither increase my danger, nor my anxiety, if I give
you such directions as may be your help and guide hereafter. It is a
great charge, a heavy responsibility which will fall on you, should I
be taken from you, but one which will not be laid on you, unless He
sees good; and received from Him in a humble, trusting, loving spirit,
the event will be blessed. In my weakness and want of faith, I shrink
from the idea, sometimes; but I know that all is, all will be right,
if you can but believe, and feel it so. Nothing He lays on us is too
heavy to bear, if we do not add to it the burden of our own selfish
repinings, mistrust, and impatience.”

“Oh! mamma, it can not be best to be without you; such a trial can not
be in store for us; for my father too――how could he bear it? and
surely be so good, so heavenly-minded, so tender as he is――oh! he can
not need affliction; do not talk so, mamma, do not fancy such things;
you will do yourself harm by dwelling on it.”

Mrs. Duncan’s eyes filled, and her lip quivered for a minute; she was
silent a little space, and then she spoke again, calmly, firmly,
gravely.

“Hilary, ever since I have filled your mother’s place, I have met with
the duty and affection of a daughter from you. I came to you when you
were too young to understand my claims, but I have never had to
complain, so far as our relationship is concerned. Be ever the same!
do not now, by giving way to your feelings, make it more difficult for
me to control my own. Try to listen to what may be my last wishes.”

Hilary clasped her step-mother’s hand, struggled with her rising
tears, swallowed down a sob or two, and then turning quietly round,
said――“Go on, dear mother! I will attend, and endeavor to remember.”

“Young as you are, Hilary, I do not fear to trust you, for I know that
you have that within you which will lead you right. Experience,
indeed, you can not have, and you may mistake sometimes; but with your
earnest love of truth, your simplicity, candor, gentleness, and
humility, you can not go very far wrong; and I would rather confide my
girls to you, than to many an elder head. I know that you will lean on
the true, unfailing Support――that you will not trust your own
understanding.”

“Dear mother, if I have any good principle or right habit, I owe it to
you and papa; what should I have been, had you not led me so kindly
and gently in childhood?” said Hilary, blushing at the praise which
she could not believe she deserved.

“But my girls are not like you, Hilary,” continued the mother, “and
their characters have cost me many an anxious hour. Heaven knows how
earnestly I have prayed sometimes, to be spared as their guide; but
this is self-will, and self-conceit, perhaps; now my only prayer is,
that, in whose hands soever they may fall, whatever troubles may come
upon them, they may be brought home safe at last. We are so
unbelieving, we would fain choose our own path, and the paths of our
dear ones also; as if our narrow view could be better trusted than
His, who has told us so plainly what we ought to seek, and what we may
then hope for. All will be right at last, and now I trust them
entirely to the Will which can not err: yet not the less would I warn
you, Hilary, of the care and discipline they need. Sybil is tender,
loving, feeble, clinging for support to those around her; do not act
for her, my love; make her feel her own responsibility, or the
realities and cares of life will fall with a crushing force on her.
Look at the clematis which garlands this lime――such is she; take away
her support, and the long wreaths will droop and sink to the earth,
and may be trampled by every careless foot.”

“But we can not change the nature of the clematis, mamma; we can only
prop it up, and guard it carefully, and rejoice even in its clinging,
graceful fragility, which gives a beauty to the bare and rugged stem,
or the unpoetical wall and trellis.”

“True, you can not change the clematis, Hilary; but therein a
Christian differs from a soulless plant; her nature may be
strengthened by attention and discipline, till she may be firm and yet
flexible; yielding and yet self-supporting; regaining with elastic
vigor the upward tendency, even after the hand has bent it down, or
the breeze turned it aside. You can not make a clematis into a willow,
but you may teach a feeble mind and drooping heart where to find
strength of purpose and constancy of aim. Teach Sybil that the weakest
may have strength sufficient to their need, but not in earthly things;
earthly props break and crumble away, or are removed in kindness, lest
we lean too much upon them. Trust to the One above. He never fails.
Poor Sybil! she is very far from knowing this as yet!”

They were both silent for some time; then Mrs. Duncan seated herself,
and continued, as Hilary nestled close to her side.

“As to Gwyneth, she is different; she has all the passionate and hasty
nature of my country. Welsh blood runs in her veins, and along with
this warmth she has much self-will and presumption; she doubts not her
own opinion, and can not bear to have it questioned; yet she is so
young that I have every reason to hope that attention may check what
is wrong, and religion lead her to true strength and confidence. And
then for my little Nest――the darling! who can tell what that little
black-eyed, bewitching fairy may turn out? Heaven help me! but it is
hard to think of leaving her.”

Mrs. Duncan shuddered, and closed her eyes, as if struggling with some
deep emotion.

“Why should you?” said Hilary, anxiously. “Dearest mother, do you feel
ill now? It is so long since you have had one of your bad attacks of
pain; not for months now; I am sure you need not be alarmed.”

Mrs. Duncan smiled; a faint smile it was, as if she would rather put
aside a subject of discussion than enter on it. Then, after a pause,
she added, “I believe you will find all my papers and accounts quite
clear, and for the rest, dear Hilary, you are well able to take my
place in the parish now; and whatever may occur, you must do it for a
month at least. But there are horses’ feet upon the turf; your father
and sisters are coming home. Say nothing at present of what I have
told you, and let us go to meet them!”

They rose, and advanced toward the house; crossing a part of the
garden, of which the terrace where they had been walking formed the
eastern boundary. Dividing the lawn from an open green space which lay
in front of the old rectory, was a line of wooden palings nearly
covered by ivy, honeysuckle, roses, and many flowering shrubs, and
over this they saw, approaching through a shadowy glade, three forest
ponies; the tallest bore Mr. Duncan, an elderly man, whose figure was,
however, active and upright, and his countenance marked with the glow
of health and the look of peace; the other two riders were girls, the
Sybil and Gwyneth already mentioned, whose black eyes, and long waving
locks flowing from beneath their broad-brimmed straw hats, immediately
reminded you of their mother. The children, for they were only girls
of twelve and thirteen, sprung from their little ponies, and rushed up
to the garden gate, just as Mrs. Duncan and Hilary reached it; and
before their father had descended in his more leisurely way, and
consigned the animals to the old gray-headed servant who came forward
to receive them, they had advanced far in the history of their ride,
its adventures, delights, and novelties. They had found a new path,
had come to a beautiful stream; Gwyneth had leaped her horse across
before papa came up; Sybil was afraid, and had hung back, even when
encouraged by him; then they had seen such a lovely dell, all
surrounded with trees――oh! such a place for a gipsey party; mamma must
come there some day, and they would have tea out there, under the huge
oaks and beech, beside that broken mossy bank, out of which such a
bright tiny stream trickled from under a gray stone. Up came papa, and
listened to the eager speaker, as Gwyneth, with her cheeks glowing,
and her bright eyes glittering, dwelt with rather too much
complacency, perhaps, upon the courage she had shown, until her father
reminded her, with laughing but affectionate manner, how Gwyneth
herself had shrunk and trembled when, as they were leading their
ponies down a steep and precipitous path, a large toad had crossed the
road, and hopped toward her; while Sybil’s only care had been that the
creature should not be hurt by foot or hoof; and after that, Gwyneth
held her tongue for a while.

They sat in the large wide porch, which, with its projecting gable and
curiously-carved roof, formed so conspicuous an ornament to the front
of the Vicarage, and harmonized so well with the many angles,
overhanging eaves, mullioned windows, and twisted chimneys of that
quaint old house. It was a building well suited to the forest scenery
on which it closely bordered, with its time-mellowed red-brick, and
gray stone coignings, and huge oaken beams, whose ends were
grotesquely carved. From that porch you could see the old church, half
concealed in a grove of trees, principally lime and sycamore; and
further off, the houses scattered on the village green, or retreating
back amid the clumps of oak and holly; while to the south, through a
long vista in the forest, you caught a view of distant hills, blue and
shadowy, and a winding river, and a wide extended plain.

Here they sat and chatted gayly, while the young girls ate the fruit
and cake, for which their ride had given them an appetite, and which
Hilary brought out to them in an old-fashioned china basket, until the
hour of bed-time arrived, and the children left them; and then the
others returned to the cool parlor, where Hilary made tea, and smiled
and chatted with her father; Mrs. Duncan meanwhile resting quietly on
the sofa, nearly silent, and perhaps engrossed in thought.

Hilary’s was the hopeful as well as the trustful temper of youth,
unaccustomed to the vicissitudes of life; the storm of which she saw
no symptoms could not alarm her; and although her step-mother’s
presentiments had at first raised a vague terror, she had recovered
from this feeling, and was now tranquil.

The trust which she felt that all would be for the best, conspired to
increase this peaceful state, for to her young mind, it seemed
impossible that good could spring from such sorrow as the loss of the
only mother she had known, would occasion her and her family;
therefore this loss was not to be expected or feared. Hers was the
youthful idea of divine protection, and fatherly care; years of
experience alone can teach us that “His ways are not as ours,” and
that it is not exemption from suffering which is promised to His
children, but such discipline as shall strengthen, and purify, and
elevate their hearts.

It was a cheerful family party on which the bright summer moon peeped
in through the old windows that evening; and Hilary, as she penned a
few words at night, of the journal which she always kept for her only
brother Maurice, recorded with a grateful heart, that hers was indeed
a happy lot.

Yet scarce was the ink dry on the paper where she wrote these lines,
than her pleasant dreams were suddenly dissipated, and the very sorrow
which she had refused to consider as probable, was presented to her
mind. Mrs. Duncan was ill――very ill――alarmingly so; and before that
sun which had set in such glory, returned to their view, the eyes that
had gazed on it so earnestly were closed in death, and the spirit
which had looked out so clear and loving but twelve hours before, had
fled to that land which needs no sun to lighten it, and which knows
neither change, nor time, nor darkness.

The mother just now in all the prime of womanhood, in her glorious
beauty, was cold, and white, and silent, and on her arm lay the tiny
marble face of that little being, whose entrance to this world had
cost his parents such a price, and whose stay had been so short, that
you wondered why he came at all.

On Hilary devolved the task of making her young sisters acquainted
with their loss; of communicating to them the sad change that one
night had occasioned; for this, when all was over, and her father had
withdrawn to the solitude of his own study, she crept softly to their
sleeping apartment, and sitting down beside the bed, watched patiently
and silently for their first awaking.

Her grief was very quiet, although very deep. In idea she tried to
follow the departed, and to realize what she now was, so far as mortal
fancy might paint it; and the glad, solemn, mysterious thought, that
that dear one had felt her last grief, suffered her last pain, heaved
her last sigh forever, made it seem even a profanation to indulge
regret. It was when she permitted her thoughts to anticipate, that she
shuddered and mourned; it was the future for herself, her sisters, her
father, which made her tremble. How barren and blank it seemed; the
sweet voice which had taught and soothed her, silent now; the bright
smile vanished forever; the sunshine of the house gone; who would fill
her place? Could it be that she so young, so simple, so inexperienced,
that she should be called on to attempt this heavy duty? did it
devolve on her to soothe, instruct, watch over her sisters, to think
for the household, to comfort her bereaved father, assist in
lightening his cares, or sharing his anxieties? _She_ had told her
such would be her duty――had bid her reflect on the responsibilities
laid on her; had warned, encouraged, and comforted her――and as she had
spoken so, Hilary had felt strong and trustful; but now――oh! how
miserably weak, ignorant, helpless, and deficient she appeared to
herself; the memory of all her own girlish faults, indolence,
thoughtlessness, ignorance, selfish indulgences, idle ways, all the
many failings for which she daily judged and condemned herself, rose
up in her mind, and seemed to say, “impossible;” seemed to whisper to
her that her task was harder than she could endure; that such a life
of carefulness and watching, and thought for others, and denial of
self, as her mother had depicted for her, _could_ not be expected of
one so young; it would wither her youth, and blight her spirit, and
darken all the gay happiness which ought to be hers!

Nay, but it was her duty! it was _God’s_ will, and as such, it could
not be too hard; her burden would not be greater than she could bear;
more would not be expected of her than she would have power to
perform; could she but fix her eyes aright, and draw strength from the
Source of everlasting strength, she should not find it fail; weak,
trembling, insufficient as she was, she need not fear, if she only
trusted all to Him, and nothing to herself. And then a voice seemed to
whisper to her heart,

  “Child of my love, how have I wearied thee,
  Why wilt thou err from me?”

and half unconsciously she repeated to herself the succeeding lines of
the same hymn; there was soothing in the thought.

Yet ever and again, as she grew calmer, came rushing in the painful
memory of her loss; and while she doubted not the wisdom and mercy
which had ordered all, and accepted meekly the burden of care which
seemed laid on her, her heart ached in bitterness when she remembered
what had been, and what was.

That hour of watching and waiting was intensely trying. She had been
occupied all the night, so eagerly and energetically, as to exclude
thought or anticipation; now she could only sit in silence, and weary,
worn out, sorrowful, and yet striving to be patient, remain quietly
expecting the painful task before her.

She wished to keep awake, and opening her Bible, she tried to fix her
eyes and thoughts upon it, and determined so to pass the time; but
blessed sleep stole over her so softly, that she knew not of its
approaches, and the tearful eyes closed, the heavy head dropped upon
the pillow beside it, and a deep unconsciousness, a perfect dreamless
repose wrapped all the past in oblivion, and brought the refreshment
which that young, but willing spirit needed to fulfil her destined
task. “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

Gwyneth was astonished that morning, when, on unclosing her eyes, she
discovered her eldest sister, half sitting, half lying on her pillow,
dressed as last night, and yet sleeping profoundly, even though tears
trembled on her eye-lashes, while her long and glossy brown hair lay
unbound and unbraided over her neck and cheek.

With the thoughtless impulse of her nature, she at once woke her up,
and eagerly inquired why she was there, what was the matter, what had
made her cry.

That sudden waking bewildered Hilary; the vague, puzzled feeling which
so often follows deep sleep, at an unusual time, or in an unaccustomed
place, came over her, and for a minute she could remember nothing; not
where she was, nor what had happened, nor why she found herself so
strangely sleeping there. She pressed her hands over her eyes; the
full tide of thought and memory came back, and she shrank from the
pain she was about to give. But it must be done! yes, and done by her
too, or the task would fall on her father, perhaps; and done at once,
that the first wild agony of tears and grief might be stilled and
composed in part before it came to add to that father’s pain and
desolation.

She drew the two rosy faces toward her, for Sybil was awake now, and
pressing each in her arms, as they knelt or crouched upon the bed, she
faltered out the words, through her tears,

“Mamma has been ill in the night!”

Gwyneth fixed her full dark eyes upon her sister’s face with a gaze
which seemed to ask for more, for some explanation. Sybil gave a
frightened start, and said,

“Oh, Hilary, and how is she now?――has she been very ill?”

“Very,” replied Hilary, forcing back her tears, and speaking gravely,
calmly, but very sadly; “very ill indeed; but, Sybil, she is better
now!”

Gwyneth still stared at Hilary. “Then why were you crying?” was her
question.

“Let me go to her,” said Sybil, struggling to release herself from her
sister’s clasp, which, however, now bound her the closer for her
efforts to move. Sybil was quiet without a word, only glancing
apprehensively at the face hanging over her, with brimming eyelids and
quivering lips. Gwyneth exclaimed again impatiently,

“Speak, Hilary, or let me go;――nay, I _will_ go to mamma.”

“No, Gwyneth, you can not,” said the elder sister, laying her forehead
down on her sister’s black curls.

“Who says so?――did she? she never refuses to see us! how unkind you
are, Hilary.”

“A higher hand than mine, dear Gwyneth――be quiet; you can not see
mamma now, because――” and such a deep, heartfelt sob stopped her
words, that Sybil saw it all in one moment, and quietly turning from
them both, laid her head among the pillows, and, except for a slight
convulsive shiver now and then, was still and silent.

“Why, why, where is mamma?” cried Gwyneth, fighting with the wild,
incomprehensible terror which was overpowering her.

“In heaven, we trust,” said Hilary, regaining her composure in a
wonderful way; she pressed one hand upon her heart, made a strong
physical effort to put away her grief, and then endeavored to draw
Sybil toward her, hoping that the sight of her tears would touch
Gwyneth’s heart. For Gwyneth sat still now, with wide open, tearless
eyes, and parted lips, and cheeks as colorless as her neck; and her
breath came slowly and with difficulty, and in deep, sobbing
inspirations, and yet there was no tear; it was not like childish
grief, it was the stillness of despair――her face might have belonged
to a woman of thirty, so old it looked at that moment.

Hilary felt helpless at first; then her whole heart was raised in
prayer; words not her own came to her mind, to express her thoughts
and wants, as she prayed that in all her troubles she might put her
whole trust and confidence in that mercy which would not, could not
fail.

Sense and feeling returned to Gwyneth, and with it the self-will, the
passionate independence of her character. Hilary’s arms had relaxed
their hold: she seized the opportunity, escaped from the grasp, and
springing from the bed, ran out of the room without so much as pausing
to put her feet into her slippers. She crossed the broad passage, and
rushing to the door of her mother’s chamber, tried violently to force
it open. It was locked. Hilary had followed the willful child, and now
laid her hand upon her arm. But Gwyneth screamed, bursting into a
furious passion, and uttering cries which resounded through the
otherwise silent house. It was a mixture of feelings, terror
undefined, and therefore the more oppressive, grief, vexation,
anger――she could not well have told what it was; but the utterance of
these wild screams for a moment relieved her, and appeared to throw
off the weight on her heart.

In vain Hilary tried to soothe, to quiet, to command; her gentle voice
was unheard, and Gwyneth, clinging to the handle of the door, and
hiding her face on her arms, continued to scream with increasing
energy. The old nurse appeared, and tried what she could do; but
interjectory addresses, supplications, and entreaties, were unnoticed,
and force made matters worse; when suddenly the door unclosed from the
inside, and Gwyneth was only saved from falling on the floor by being
caught in her father’s arms.

The screams stopped instantly; she gave one glance at his pale, sad
face, then hid her own upon his shoulder, and indulged in a copious
and passionate burst of tears. He held her quietly and gravely,
without a word. Hilary stood with the feelings of a culprit; it seemed
to her as if in her very first endeavor, she had failed entirely of
all she ought to have done; she blamed herself for her sister’s
willfulness, and changing color and trembling, waited for what might
follow.

By degrees Gwyneth’s sobs subsided, and she lay quiet in her father’s
arms.

“What is all this?” said he at length, glancing at his eldest
daughter. She could not answer.

Gwyneth whispered, “Mamma――I want mamma.” Hilary looked up hastily and
fearfully at her father’s face. A sadder shade swept over it, like the
darkening gloom which precedes the heavy shower; then it passed away,
and the quivering lip was still.

“Hilary, love, does she not know?” said he, gently, and drawing her
close to him.

Hilary conquered the rising inclination to give way to tears; it was a
hard struggle first, however, but she felt she must answer, and to her
own surprise her voice came.

“I tried, papa, to tell her; but she would not believe――she can not
understand――she is so young, and feels so acutely; oh, papa! it was my
fault, I did not know how!”

“My poor child,” said he, as he stooped and kissed her forehead, after
anxiously scanning her pale cheeks and weary eyes; “you have had no
rest; you have overtasked yourself: you should have gone to bed.”

“Never mind me, papa dear! I shall do well enough, but let me take
Gwyneth back, she will be cold. Come Gwyneth.”

But the child rebelled again, clung to her father, and seemed about to
renew her shrieks.

“Hush, hush! this will not do,” said he, “this must not be. Be still,
Gwyneth, and you shall see your mother once more.”

He stepped into the darkened room, whose grave and solemn aspect
hushed the mourner’s emotion at once. He opened one shutter a little
way; the bright morning sun streamed in upon the white bed-curtains,
and danced upon the toilet-glass. He brought his young daughter,
clinging to his arms, to the bed, drew back the curtain, lifted the
sheet, and Gwyneth’s eyes fell on the cold, still face of her, for
whom she had called in vain.

Words can not describe the feelings of a child thus brought face to
face with death. The dead flower appears as a shriveled atom――the
extinguished fire presents an uncouth heap of ashes――the setting sun
vanishes from our sight――these speak for themselves, here the change
is real, perceptible, obvious; but the soul departed leaves the body
the same, and yet how different, how slight, yet how immense the
alteration. Lost in wonder, unable to realize what is gone, the child
gazes in unspeakable awe at what remains――death, is that death? it
looks but too like a profound and happy sleep; for a moment the eye is
deceived: but to the touch the truth is at once revealed, and the
young finger shrinks, and never again forgets the strange, cold,
unyielding, icy feeling of the dead. For years it will thrill through
her frame.

Perhaps it was a hazardous experiment, to place that young and
susceptible girl in such a presence. Mr. Duncan did not know what he
was doing; he was one of those individuals who can not in the least
understand childhood, its deep feelings, its mysterious impulses, its
strange associations, its superstitions taught by Nature herself, its
heavenly breathings, to which it can give neither form nor words. He
believed the experiment was perfectly successful, for Gwyneth’s tears
and cries alike ceased in that solemn presence, and she gazed in
quiet, awestruck, breathless surprise at the form before her.

Softly and gently her father talked to her, whispering of the absent
spirit which had gone away for a time, but which might even now be
near, how near to them they could not tell; and of that day when this
spirit should return again, and that fair form, now motionless, cold,
inanimate as marble itself, should arise once more to everlasting
life. And then he knelt with Gwyneth in his arms, and prayed that they
might all meet hereafter in that home of everlasting peace, where no
partings come. She was very still and subdued as he carried her back
from the room, and gave her to the nurse’s charge, and they did not
know the effect that sight had produced on her, for she could not
speak of her feelings; but sleeping or waking, that face for weeks was
before her eyes, and the coldness of death seemed over her lips and
cheeks, such as she had felt it, when, at her father’s bidding, she
had pressed a last kiss on the corpse; and she would shrink into
corners of the house or garden, to cry and shudder alone, when none
saw her, and muse in silence upon what her mother was.

Sybil was different; she clung to Hilary, she hardly dared to be
alone; but with a pallid face, and swimming eyes, and little trembling
hands, she followed her sister all day long; and never wearied of
talking of her mother; of her wishes, her tastes, her goodness; every
action seemed referred to that object; and she spoke of her as one
that was absent only for a short time, who would soon return to claim
their obedience again.

Gwyneth would turn pale, shiver, and, if possible, quit the room at
the slightest mention of her mother’s name; nor could Hilary’s utmost
efforts win from her the feelings that oppressed her.

Of course, as time passed, it brought the usual mitigation of acute
sorrow. Sybil learned to speak with dry eyes of the departed, Gwyneth
taught herself to bear the thought without visible demonstration of
feeling; but the effect remained upon their characters; Sybil was more
soft and dependent, Gwyneth more reserved in her general demeanor,
while the fire which burned below that outward crust of indifference
and calmness was but the fiercer for its concealment.




CHAPTER II.

  “Blowing between the stems, the forest air
  Had loosened the brown curls of Vivian’s hair,
  Which played o’er her flushed cheeks; and her blue eyes
  Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.”
                                                  ISEULT OF BRITTANY.


It was about two months after the death of Mrs. Duncan, when the
cheering news arrived at the old Vicarage, that the ship in which
Maurice Duncan was serving had reached Chatham, and was to be paid off
immediately.

The letter was indeed a sunbeam thrown upon a gloomy path. Some change
was greatly wanted at home. Mr. Duncan was a man of deep and true
piety, but of little judgment in worldly matters. It would not be easy
to find one less fitted to guide aright four girls like his daughters:
he had no idea of what was good or hurtful to them. In education,
indeed, both intellectual and religious, he could safely lead them;
but of their physical natures he was quite ignorant. He had no
quickness of perception. He did not see that Gwyneth was becoming
daily more gloomy and abstracted, yielding to fanciful terrors, all
the more powerful because she dared not speak of them. He did not
discover that Sybil was giving way to indolence and repining, loving
to indulge in visionary dreams of future happiness, or in
retrospective pictures of past bliss, but shrinking from real, actual
exertion, and the toils of every-day life. Still less did he perceive
that Hilary was working beyond her strength, and sinking under a
weight of responsibility which she felt too vividly to endure safely.

She was keenly sensible of her sisters’ defects; she felt them with an
acuteness and a self-condemnation almost morbid in its excess; it
seemed to her as if they were entirely her own fault, and she saw
that, however she might guard their health, minister to their comfort,
and promote their pleasures, she was still failing in the more
important part of her stepmother’s charge, while these evils were
allowed to increase and overshadow their characters. Yet she could do
nothing to repress them by herself, and she was not seconded by her
father. Not that he wished or intended to thwart her; he doted on her
far too much for that; but he was quite ignorant of the best manner of
training children, or of the importance due to the small points of
which Hilary thought so much. He secretly attributed the stress she
laid on such things to the over-anxiety of a new-made governess,
precise about unnecessary particulars from the scruples of a young
responsibility; and when Hilary had said as much as duty and respect
permitted, and urged her opinions with the small degree of earnestness
which diffidence and humility allowed her, he would reply with a kind
smile and a kiss, “Very true, my love; you are a good girl to think so
much about your sisters, and I hope they will be grateful. I do not
know what I should do without you.” But the things to which she
objected, the indulgences which she reprehended, were continued just
the same.

Theoretically, he would tell the children to obey Hilary; practically,
he would encourage the contrary conduct. Not that there was any
positive rebellion――there was no passion, ill-will, or disobedience
apparent; these would have been instantly suppressed; but these were
not necessary to gain her ends, Sybil found, and her nature was too
soft to use them. So when she and Hilary differed about her
occupations, her manner of employing her time, or her amusements, an
appeal to her father, a smile and a kiss, always won him to her side
of the argument, and gained for her the right of following her own
taste, rather than submitting to the act of self-denial which her
sister had proposed. Mr. Duncan only saw that both acts were alike
innocent, why then should she not take her choice? Hilary saw further;
for she not only reflected on the results of self-indulgence, but she
felt keenly how her power was annihilated, and her actual authority
annulled; all the more keenly because it was owing to an affection she
could not bear to blame, even in thought.

One of Sybil’s greatest indulgences was in drawing her father into
long conversations respecting her deceased mother, recapitulating her
virtues, and dwelling on their own loss. Had he possessed judgment
enough to turn such recollections to good effect, to increase the
child’s desire of excellence by the memory of what her mother had
been, to strengthen her faith and love by pointing out how these had
been a support in trouble and a comfort in sickness or pain, and to
incite her onward in the same course by the wish of meeting again,
there might have been more reason in his conduct; but this was not the
case, and every such discussion seemed only to soften and weaken her
nerves, make her more indolently dreamy, and bring on floods of
regretful tears, such as she ought to have checked as willful, not
encouraged as amiable and affectionate.

Conversations such as these only drove Gwyneth more completely apart,
and made her shudder in silence. If, when the girls were riding or
walking with their father, as they did almost every day, Sybil fell
into this strain, her sister would draw back, and endeavor to escape
beyond hearing; or if this were impossible, her white cheeks, and
firm-closed lips, and slightly knitted brows told plainly to Hilary
how she was inwardly suffering.

It was too much for Hilary; the household cares, the anxiety for her
sisters, the watchfulness and broken rest which Nest, the youngest,
often caused her――for she had taken the little one to her room at
night, and watched her as her mother had once done; and then the
unwearied attention to her father, the arrangement of his books,
papers, and accounts, all which she took up where Mrs. Duncan had laid
them down; the superintendence of the village school; the parochial
cares; all these fell heavily on her young head――on her willing but
over-anxious mind. The discipline, however, was good for her, and
taught her many things; she saw much was beyond her power, and that
what she could not accomplish, she must be content to leave undone;
she saw many things which should not be, and from clearly ascertaining
the evil, knew better what was good to seek.

And then at length, when she had taught herself to submit with
patience, and to bear what she could not remedy, and to ask and look
for help for what she could not supply by her own power, help and
comfort were sent to her.

Maurice came home: within ten days of their hearing of his arrival in
England, his ship was paid off, and he was free; it was only for a
limited period, however, for not having yet served his time as a
midshipman, and being little more than eighteen, he had determined not
to be idle, and had applied for immediate employment. Consequently he
had but six weeks’ leave to spend at home, after an absence of nearly
four years.

The delight with which Hilary looked forward to the arrival of her
brother, was a stimulus to every power of her mind; and the ecstasy
with which she threw her arms around the tall, slight, graceful youth
on his presenting himself, seemed at the moment a compensation for all
past anxiety and wrong. Maurice was returned to her, and returned with
the same loving smile, and dancing eyes, and cheerful voice which had
dwelt in her memory for so large a portion of her life; he was the
same! could she be thankful enough for this blessing, not only for her
own, but still more for her father’s sake?

How delighted she was to watch her father’s eye brighten, and his
voice assume a more lively tone, as Maurice laughed and talked,
questioned and commented, with the gayety of youth at home and happy.
For Maurice was always happy; his boyhood had been all joy and
sunshine, so far as he could remember; his school-life had been
cheerful and pleasant; and his ship! oh, that had been the happiest on
the station; the captain the most considerate, the first lieutenant
the best fellow in the world, and all his messmates, great and small,
appeared to deserve the same character; and now, though for a short
time, the blank in their home was felt and mourned by him, and he
looked grave when he saw the empty chair and the disused work-table
placed back in a corner: yet his joyous spirit soon rose again, and
with so many blessings left, so much still unchanged, he said and felt
it would be ungrateful to repine that one had been taken.

So, when, in company of Hilary, he had visited the spot where his
step-mother was buried, and talked with his sister of her last hours,
and heard what they had since discovered from her written papers, that
she had been warned by a physician some months before, that, in all
human probability, her days were numbered, and that she would not
survive her next confinement, and when they had recounted her kindness
and her virtues, and shed tears together at the memory of past times,
and made a solemn engagement to return her affection for them as
children, if possible, in double care and attention to the interests
of her daughters, Maurice turned his thoughts to other objects, and
endeavored to show his reverence for the dead by his consideration for
the living. Cheerfulness was what was needed in his dear old home;
cheerfulness to restore the tone of his father’s spirits, to cheer
Sybil, to excite Gwyneth, and, above all, to aid and comfort and
sustain his darling Hilary.

Maurice Duncan had the happy, lively temper ascribed by common report
to sailors; but he had not the wild _insouciance_, the careless,
reckless, or coarse habits often attributed to them. He was
delicately, exquisitely refined in all his feelings; his behavior to
his father was perfect in the respectful attention, engaging
confidence, and invariable consideration he showed him. It was a sight
worth seeing, too, to view him playing with his little sisters; Nest
perched in the back of the old large arm-chair, leaning over his
shoulder, and bringing her bright dark eyes, and ebony curls, in such
charming contrast with his genuine Saxon features; while two other
elder ones each occupied a knee, and drew an arm close round their
waists. Then he would pour out long tales of India, China, or some
other distant land, of tornadoes and breakers, coral-reefs and
palm-trees, of wild shooting excursions, and narrow escapes from
danger――to all which the children listened with wonder and almost awe;
and Hilary sat smiling by, with bright eyes dancing in joy and
thankfulness, and Mr. Duncan paused over his book, and listened with
feelings scarcely less moved and excited than his children.

But, above all, it was beautiful to see how he would wait on Hilary,
attend to her least wish, accommodate himself to her habits and
occupations, relieve her of every burden he could take upon himself,
or share it with her by his sympathy when he could not. Without any
verbal communication, he discovered in what respects she was
overworked, and to some extent contrived to remedy the evil.

Without seeming to find fault, he contrived to arouse his father’s
attention to what was wrong, to what was unfair on her, or pressed too
much on one so young. His devoted attention to her wishes, the
importance he attached to instant obedience to her words, had a great
effect on the younger ones; be the game ever so amusing, the romp ever
so exciting, or the tale ever so deeply interesting, all was quitted
the moment Hilary spoke; and this conduct in one older and much taller
than Hilary herself, could not fail to produce most beneficial results
on the children’s habits and actions. Long after he was gone, his
sister felt the good effects of his care and kindness.

No summer sea sparkling in the sunshine was ever more bright and
buoyant than his spirit; and not even those same waves could exceed
his determined energy of character, his steady perseverance in right,
or the gradual but resistless force with which he won his way through
impediments, and silently swept away obstructions and prejudices.

One Saturday afternoon, the young people all set out together for a
long ramble through the forest, the two girls on their ponies, Hilary
and Maurice arm-in-arm, an arrangement which suited them admirably, as
affording pleasure to the young ones, and securing at the same time
the luxury of confidential communication between the brother and
sister. Thus they strolled along, the children choosing the way, and
leading them down beautiful glades carpeted with mossy turf, and
over-arched by the old elms, and beech, and oak, where thickets of
holly, underwood, and fern made what Maurice called reefs,
promontories, islands, or sheltering bays; winding about sometimes in
one direction, sometimes in another, at length they were entirely
beyond the knowledge of any of the party, and it suddenly became a
matter of doubt which way they were to turn. Hilary had gone on,
leaning, figuratively as well as actually, on her brother; and it had
never occurred to her, that with all his experience, and knowledge,
and learning, he might not be so well qualified to guide them as to
deserve this implicit credit. They all came to a stand-still at last,
and looked about them with different degrees of wonder and uneasiness.
There was no track, no mark of foot-steps, no sound of man to guide
them. Hilary sat down on a fallen tree, puzzled and yet amused, while
Maurice and her sisters made little excursions in different
directions, to endeavor to discover some leading indications. They had
gone a little out of sight, and she was looking toward the point from
which she expected them to return, when she heard footsteps
approaching, and turning round, saw, through a thicket of thorn,
hazel, and holly, a person whom at first she believed to be her
brother.

“Maurice, have you found the path?” exclaimed she, eagerly; but the
next moment she perceived it was a stranger who advanced, and who,
springing over the intervening underwood of fern and bramble,
presently stood by her side.

“I beg your pardon,” said Hilary, as she looked at him; “I thought it
was my brother when I spoke.”

She addressed him with an easy grace and courtesy, which was very
attractive; and the intruder replied, with as much eagerness as
politeness permitted,

“I have not seen your brother; can I be of any service to you? may I
infer from your question that you have lost your way?”

“Indeed we have,” replied Hilary, frankly; “well as I know the forest
generally, I am quite puzzled now, and my brother and sisters are gone
a little way to try and find a path.”

“If you will allow me to remain with you till their return,” replied
the stranger, “I shall be most happy to act as your guide. In which
direction do you wish to proceed?”

“We belong to Hurstdene,” replied Hilary; “I am the clergyman’s
daughter; perhaps you know the name of Mr. Duncan?”

“Perfectly; though I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance; but
you are a long way from Hurstdene; five miles, I should think, at
least.”

“I have no idea where we are,” replied Miss Duncan, looking round; “I
never was so far on this side of the wood. Is there any hamlet or
village near us?”

“I think my house must be the nearest inhabited spot,” said the
gentleman; “perhaps you may know that by the name, ‘the Ferns,’ and
that may give you some idea where you are.”

“Oh, yes, I know the gates and fences of ‘the Ferns’ very well,”
answered Hilary, looking with a sort of modified and restrained
curiosity at her companion; “but I had no idea it was inhabited; I
thought the owner was abroad still.”

“I was abroad,” said he, smiling, “until very lately; but just at
present I am living on my own domain. Is this your brother
approaching?”

Hilary looked round: Maurice and the children approached quickly,
evidently surprised to find she had a companion.

“We can not see any path,” cried Gwyneth; “what shall we do? we are
quite lost.” She looked exceedingly frightened.

“Maurice,” said Hilary, stepping forward to meet him, “this is Mr.
Huyton, of ‘the Ferns.’ I believe I am right,” added she, looking with
a sort of apologetic smile at the stranger.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Duncan,” said he, frankly
holding out his hand, “and still more happy to think that I can be of
service to your party. I learn from Miss Duncan that you have lost
your way, and I believe I can direct you to the road home. But do you
know how far you are?”

“I am so great a stranger here,” replied Maurice, “that it is easy for
me to lose myself, and I have no bearings to direct me: so we shall be
really obliged if you can set us right.”

“But will Miss Duncan be able to walk back five or six miles?”
inquired Mr. Huyton.

“Hilary, dear, you can not do that, I am sure,” said Maurice,
anxiously.

“Necessity knows no law,” was Hilary’s cheerful reply. “I am not so
very tired; besides, I can ride a little to rest myself, you know;
neither Sybil nor Gwyneth have walked at all!”

Both girls, who had been gazing most attentively at the stranger, now
cried out that Hilary should ride when she liked; all the way, if she
liked.

“Then your shortest way home,” replied Mr. Huyton, “is through my
park, and out into the road which skirts the side of it; that will
lead you direct to Hurstdene.”

The children looked delighted, and whispered, audibly enough, how they
should like to go through the “the Ferns;” they had never been inside
the gates.

This point was soon settled, and he led them along a green alley of
the forest, until they came to the park palings. The fence was of the
wildest description. Ivy, clematis, and woodbine, mixed in the utmost
profusion with bryony, bind-weed, and other climbing plants,
overshadowed by gigantic ferns and gorse, which might almost be
classed among trees. Over these, huge forest trees swung their ancient
branches, and made a sort of twilight of the spot. The children
wondered what would come next; but Mr. Huyton, drawing a key from his
pocket, and pushing aside a tangled screen of green boughs, soon threw
open a little door, which at first had hardly been perceptible, and
the party found themselves within the park.

A narrow path, which seemed but rarely trodden, leading between
thickets of tall fern, picturesque old thorns, and ancient hollies,
opened before them. Eager and amused, the girls pressed their ponies
along at a quick pace; Hilary still leaned on her brother’s arm, while
Mr. Huyton walked by her side, and assisted Maurice to hold back the
encroaching brambles, or overhanging prickly branches, which might
have impeded her progress.

A turn in the path brought them suddenly in sight of the house, and
then the owner, turning to Hilary, said,

“If you will trust yourself to the wild style of housekeeping which a
bachelor hermit’s establishment affords, you will come in and rest
yourself, Miss Duncan?”

Hilary at first declined, but her companion would not be refused, and
Maurice was so charmed with the manners of their new acquaintance, and
with the style of his conversation, that he seconded his proposal,
when, of course, Hilary yielded.

“Thank you, very much,” exclaimed Mr. Huyton, warmly; “but I must tell
you that to rest in my house is but a part of my plan. You must let me
have the pleasure of taking you all home in my carriage, I am sure
Miss Duncan is too fatigued for more exertion; and perhaps the young
ladies would not mind exchanging their saddle for a seat in the
britschka?”

“Oh, no; we can not think of giving such trouble,” exclaimed Hilary
quite shocked at the idea.

“Besides, there are the ponies!” suggested Maurice.

“Never mind them, the groom shall bring them home in the evening,”
replied Mr. Huyton; and without listening to any further objections,
he called to a man who was standing by the gate of the stable-yard,
close to which their path led them, and gave orders for the carriage
to be got ready.

Their path now emerged into a beautiful triple avenue, which extended
at least half a mile from the front of the house, along which Hilary’s
eye glanced with intense admiration, and a low exclamation of
“beautiful!” escaped her.

“My ancestors must have loved trees,” said Mr. Huyton; “there are
avenues extending from each side of this huge, unwieldy house. I
should like to show them to you some day.”

“Is this the front?” inquired Maurice.

“Yes; I fancy this is; but the house is square, and either side looks
like the front; each has an entrance in the same heavy, substantial
style; but I like the south rooms, so I have chosen this part for my
residence. Let me welcome you to my domicile,” added he, smiling with
captivating grace on Hilary, as he pushed open the door, and ushered
her into a broad entrance passage. He then turned to assist the others
from their ponies, and after directing a stable helper to lead off the
animals, he took the hands of the girls and led them in.

“Oh, how charming!” cried both Sybil and Gwyneth, as they glanced
along the passage which opened into a great hall, occupying the center
of the house. They caught sight of a wide branching staircase with a
heavy balustrade; of sundry trophies of the chase, and ancient arms
and armor, of various unknown articles, and not a few packing-cases
and great boxes, standing about in extraordinary confusion.

Mr. Huyton seemed amused at their wondering admiration. He opened a
door on the right. “Here is my room,” said he, “no other is quite
habitable yet; I have not been home long enough to get another
furnished.”

“We never heard you were at home at all,” said Sybil; “when did you
come, sir?”

“About a month ago,” replied he, as he pushed up a large easy chair,
and made Hilary seat herself in it; “I will tell you all about it
presently, but you must let me attend to your sister’s comfort first,
will you not?”

He rang the bell as he spoke, and then looked round to see what more
he could do for her convenience, bringing her a foot-stool, and
drawing down the blind, that the sun might not shine on her head; and
showing, by his whole air and manner, how anxious he felt for her
comfort.

“Bring some wine and biscuits, or bread and butter, or something,”
said he, as a servant presented himself at the door.

“Not for us, Mr. Huyton,” exclaimed Hilary, eagerly; “pray do not take
the trouble; we _never_ touch wine, except Maurice, and I do not
suppose _he_ would either, now.”

“Some ladies do not, I know,” replied he, gently; “then bring coffee
as soon as possible, and tell Leblanc to make it, that it may be
good.”

The servant disappeared, and Hilary found it vain to contend against
such politeness and hospitality,

“Those are beautiful specimens of wood-carving, are they not?” said
their host to Maurice, who was examining some book-shelves at one end
of the room; “they are for my library――nothing is in its place about
the house. Indeed I have hardly had time to get my things unpacked
yet.”

“You have always been abroad, Mr. Huyton?” said Sybil, coming up to
his side.

“Yes,” was his reply, with a smile, as he looked at her face of
curiosity. “I have spent twenty-five years, my whole life indeed,
abroad; but I mean to settle in England now, and make this my home.
Look at these beautiful cameos, shall we show them to your sister?
would she like to see them?”

“Oh, yes! Hilary has some of her own, which I know she likes very
much,” replied Sybil, eagerly.

“But she would like these best,” said Gwyneth, decidedly; pointing to
a book of drawings, between the leaves of which she had furtively
peeped. It was a collection of drawings, copied from some of the most
celebrated works of good artists, all done in a masterly style.

“She shall have her choice,” replied their host, looking much pleased;
“you bring the book, and I will carry the case of cameos.”

Again Hilary begged him not to trouble himself, but without any
effect: a small table was placed beside her, and one article after
another produced for her amusement. Her admiration of the colored
drawings was extreme, and evidently highly gratifying to her host.

“How much my father would enjoy these,” said she to Maurice.

“If you think them worth the trouble of carrying home with you,” said
Mr. Huyton, “I shall be only too much flattered to lend them to you. I
can see, by your careful handling of them, the book would be as safe
with you as with me.”

“They are exquisitely beautiful,” said Hilary, gazing with intense
admiration at a copy of one of Raphael’s best works. “Who was the
artist?”

“I made the copies myself,” was his reply; an answer which brought
Hilary’s eyes on him with a look of reverence and admiration.

The coffee was soon brought in, most excellent of its kind; indeed,
whatever they saw, belonging to Mr. Huyton, which could be supposed
finished, appeared as perfect as possible. Although it was evident
that as yet hardly any thing was in its place, and the whole house had
the air of having been so long neglected, that Hilary could not wonder
that its progress towards order and classification had gone on slowly.

“I shall get on by degrees,” said he, in answer to some observation of
hers relative to the labor before him. “By-and-by, when the library
has been new floored and cleaned, we will have these carved
book-frames put up, of which that is a specimen. But I like to
superintend the whole. It doubles the value of a place to arrange it
all oneself: unless one had the happiness of falling in with some
second mind and fancy, which could sympathize with and enter into
one’s own peculiarities and wishes.”

“And do you not find the noise and bustle of workmen disagreeable, Mr.
Huyton?” asked Hilary.

“I do not mind it; and when I am tired I go out in the forest, or
stroll about, and form plans for the ground and gardens.”

“There used to be a famous garden here always,” observed Maurice;
“many a time have I bought peaches and nectarines at the Lodge gates
in former years.”

“These windows look up that beautiful avenue, I see,” said Hilary;
“what magnificent timber you have about here.”

“Yes, and so quaintly planted,” replied he; “one wonders at the taste.
Straight rows seem the prevailing idea. Rows of oaks, rows of cedars,
rows of larch trees, varied by quadrangles of enormous yews, or of
double rows of limes, which must be delicious in summer. Miss Duncan,
I do not wish to hurry you away, but whenever you please, the carriage
is at your service.”

Hilary rose to prepare for her departure. The children cast many a
longing, lingering look towards the unexplored regions of the house,
which Mr. Huyton observing, told them that they should come again some
other day, and they would have a good game at hide-and-seek all over
the house; a promise which they resolved not to allow him to forget.

The most unqualified admiration was excited by the beautiful horses
and carriage which stood at the door, Sybil declaring they were just
what he ought to have, and Gwyneth whispering to Maurice that the
afternoon’s adventure was quite like a fairy tale.

“Are you going to drive, Mr. Huyton?” asked Sybil, as he was preparing
to hand Hilary in.

“Not if you can make room for me inside,” was his answer; “do you
think you two little girls could sit by your sister without squeezing
her too much?”

“Easily, easily,” cried Sybil, springing up and down on the elastic
cushions of the carriage. “Oh, Hilary, is it not delicious? if we had
but such a carriage as this for every day!”

Maurice preferred going on the box, when it came to the point, so that
after all there was plenty of room; and Sybil and Gwyneth were able to
change sides in the carriage every five minutes, a process which any
one less patiently indulgent than Hilary would soon have stopped.

Mr. Huyton, however, sitting opposite to her, kept her in such
pleasant conversation on really interesting subjects, that she had not
much time to be worried by any restlessness of her sisters; and the
half-hour’s drive passed only too rapidly. He was as enthusiastic an
admirer of scenery as she herself, and with an eye and taste
cultivated by familiarity with the best examples; yet he did not
despise or look down contemptuously on English scenery, or an English
climate, because the one could not show the Alps, nor the other boast
of the bright suns of Italy or Greece. The small specimen that he had
seen was enough to give him most favorable impressions; and he was
equally prepared to like the women of his country. His expectations
were high, but he had not as yet met with a disappointment.

“I am so glad of that,” replied Hilary, with a simplicity and candor
which told how little she suspected that she was the first English
lady he had conversed with since his return from abroad. The idea of
his intending a compliment to her was as far as possible from her
mind.

Mr. Duncan was naturally a good deal surprised when he perceived the
style in which his children had returned home; but nothing could be
more cordial and grateful than his thanks and his invitation to their
new acquaintance to walk in and share their tea. Sybil and Gwyneth,
too, seconded the invitation with all their might; but Hilary was
engrossed with little Nest, and either did not or would not attend; he
was not sure which was the case.

“I must say good evening,” said he, approaching the end of the room,
where she was sitting on the end of the sofa, with her arms around the
little one. “Is this another of your sisters, Miss Duncan? I never saw
more lovely children; and yet how unlike they are to you!”

Nest fixed her large black eyes on Mr. Huyton, with a perfect
appreciation of his compliment. Her sister colored, looked grave, and
then rising, held out her hand, only replying, “Good evening, then,
and we are so much obliged to you!”

“The obligation is to me,” replied he, gracefully; then stooping down
to kiss the beautiful little face, which, half-shyly,
half-coquettishly, rested against Hilary’s shoulder, he added, “It has
been a bright afternoon to me, and the acquaintance I have formed I
shall not easily relinquish!”

No sooner was he gone, than the whole party joined in one unanimous
chorus in praise of their new friend, his house, his trees, his
manners, his carriage, and his coffee.

Maurice was as enthusiastic as the girls, and the whole of tea-time
was spent in recapitulating the charms and virtues of Mr. Huyton. In
short, the entire thing had so much the air of a romance, and they had
so rarely met with any adventure before, that enough could not be said
in praise, or delight.

After tea, Hilary produced the book of drawings, and they were
thoroughly appreciated by Mr. Duncan, who had, in his youth, made a
tour abroad, and taken the opportunity of cultivating a natural taste
and love for painting.

In the middle of this occupation, a message was brought in, that Mr.
Huyton’s groom had brought home the ponies, and also a basket of
peaches and grapes from “the Ferns;” sent specially directed to Mr.
Maurice, to remind him of old times; an attention to her brother’s
pleasure which charmed Hilary more than all the rest of the
transaction together.




CHAPTER III.

  “Her ’haviour had the morning’s fresh, clear grace,
  The spirit of the woods was in her face,
  She looked so witching fair――――”
                                                  ISEULT OF BRITTANY.


Sybil’s lessons, the next Monday morning, were much disturbed by
sundry dreams and visions; she was possessed with the idea that Mr.
Huyton would drive over in his beautiful carriage again to-day, and
perhaps take them all back to the Ferns, for the promised game of hide
and seek. She was listening every moment for the sound of wheels, and
trying to catch a glimpse of the carriage driving over the green,
toward the house.

After all, Mr. Huyton came, but so quietly, that Sybil was perfectly
ignorant when he entered the house. He rode over, rather early for a
morning visit, and met Maurice on the green, who put his horse in the
stable, and took the visitor into the garden, to wait till lesson-time
was over, as he knew Hilary did not like to be interrupted in her
teaching. They were all much surprised, in consequence, when, just as
the children were putting away their books, the two young men walked
into the room. None of the party was sorry to see Mr. Huyton; he
seemed to have such genuine pleasure in the intercourse, that it
naturally communicated itself to the whole family.

Mr. Huyton, indeed, was delighted with the acquaintance. The
simplicity, frankness, and refinement of the whole family enchanted
him. Weary of the fashionable manners, and artificial style of living,
prevalent among the circles in foreign capitals, which he had
frequented, there was something bewitching in this little glimpse of
nature and truth now presented to him. Of English society he knew
nothing, save such as he had met abroad, seldom the best, or under the
best aspects; and without troubling himself to discover in what the
peculiar charm consisted, he resolved to cultivate the acquaintance of
the Duncans, and make himself at home with them.

He was surprised to find in a girl of Hilary’s age, and educated
completely in retirement, such a degree of elegance, and what he
called high-breeding. It was a wonder to him how she learned a style
of courtesy, which is sometimes wanting under what he would have
considered much more favorable circumstances. He had yet to learn that
real Christianity is the best school of good manners; and that the
rule of doing as we would be done by, secures that substance, of which
politeness and refinement can only give the shadow or the reflection.

She was so unconsciously pretty too, with all her delightful
simplicity; so unintentionally graceful, and quietly elegant, that he
never discovered how plain her dress was, nor how slightly it
conformed to the prevalent fashion. The black close-fitting gown, with
the clean little white collar, seemed made precisely to show off her
slender form and fair skin; and the pretty brown hair, with its long
curl, just put back behind a small delicately-shaped ear, and the rich
braid forming a Grecian knot, needed no coiffeur to make it look
smoother, more glossy, or more becoming to the classic shape of her
little head.

Without forming any definite ideas as to the ultimate results likely
to ensue, he entered at once with youthful ardor upon an acquaintance
so accidentally formed. It was not likely that a young man of large
fortune and prepossessing person and manners, would long be left to
the solitude of his own country house, nor obliged to pick up his
acquaintance at random in the forest; but he was sufficiently peculiar
and independent in his tastes and habits, to take his own line and
adhere to it; and for the present his chosen line lay in associating
almost exclusively with the Duncans. Prudent fathers of families, and
speculating brothers, hoping for future _battues_ or other delights,
made visits at the Ferns, as soon as it was generally known that the
owner was resident there; and, thanks to the necessity of eating and
drinking, and the circulating nature of butchers and bakers, as well
as gossip in a country place, that was pretty soon after his arrival.

No one had, however, as yet got further than the doorway, the answer
being apparently stereotyped, that the house was in confusion, and Mr.
Huyton did not receive company. The Duncans alone had been permitted
to enter. They were perfectly unconscious of the superior privilege
accorded them. They were out of the way of gossip, and had few
visitors except the farmers’ and cottagers’ wives of their own
village. Mr. Huyton himself was the only landed proprietor in the
parish, and on that account might be considered as belonging to them.
The lay-impropriator resided six or seven miles from them; he was a
man generally well-spoken of, and the father of two daughters, but
there had never been any intercourse between them.

In short, Mr. Huyton’s appearance among them was like the discovery of
a new and wonderful comet to an enthusiastic astronomer; and he could
not be more ready for the acquaintance, than they were to admit and
encourage it.

Had Mr. Duncan been really a prudent father, he might have hesitated,
perhaps, to admit to such an intimacy a young man of whom they knew
only the name and the residence; but his charity made him literally
think no evil; and the young men proved so congenial to each other in
general taste, that they speedily became as nearly inseparable as the
five miles between their respective homes would permit.

Maurice would have been constantly at the Ferns, if the owner of that
place had not been so often at Hurstdene; and the little girls never
seemed to think of riding in any other direction, unless he was with
them to guide them in a different path.

All his plans were brought over to the Vicarage to be discussed and
re-arranged according to the tastes of his friends there; nominally of
the whole family, actually of Hilary herself, in most cases, with the
assistance of her father’s opinion.

The number of nutting parties, whortle berry parties, and other
rambling, scrambling expeditions in which he was engaged by the
children, was wonderful. It was apparently all the same to him,
whether their object was to pick berries or make sketches, he was an
adept at either, and he soon constituted himself drawing-master to the
whole party, and presented Sybil with a stock of materials for the
work, which amply supplied, as it was perhaps intended it should, both
her sisters also.

Then he was delighted to encourage Gwyneth’s natural and native love
of music, and finding their only instrument was such a piano as you
might expect to find in an old-fashioned country vicarage, he
transferred to her as a birth-day present, a small but beautiful
instrument, which he had ordered for his own room at the Ferns, but
which he succeeded in persuading Mr. Duncan, it would greatly oblige
him if he could now get rid of. There were some scruples about
accepting so valuable a present, but Mr. Huyton had his own way after
all. If he expected Gwyneth to be able to play the music which
accompanied the piano, he must have formed wonderful ideas of the
capabilities of the child: but Hilary reveled in Beethoven and Mozart
for months afterward, and it certainly was an advantage to Gwyneth
herself, to _hear_ such good music as was now placed within her reach.

So the weeks sped away, fast and bright, as the evening rainbow fades
from the sky, until Maurice’s leave was over, and the sad eve of
parting arrived. It was a subject which had never been discussed in
Mr. Huyton’s presence, and one which had not occurred to his mind; so
that it took him quite by surprise when, late one afternoon, on
arriving at the Vicarage, after an accidental absence of nearly
forty-eight hours, he found Sybil and Gwyneth with very sober faces,
sitting in the porch, and was told by them, with tearful eyes, that
Maurice was really to go early to-morrow, so Hilary was helping him to
pack his trunk.

The door of the little room on one side of the hall was opened as they
spoke, and Maurice called out, “Oh, Charles! is that you? I began to
think I should have to leave without seeing you again!”

The visitor entered the door, and there he found Maurice sitting on a
portmanteau, in the hope that his weight would bring the two sides
into fair proximity to each other; while Hilary was half kneeling,
half sitting on the floor, from which she made a sort of motion to
rise as he entered, looking at him with very pale cheeks and mournful
eyes. “I had no idea, my dear fellow! you were going so soon,” said
Charles Huyton, quietly placing himself beside his friend on the
portmanteau. “Oh the misery of packing up,” added he, taking a curious
look round the room at the various litters it contained.

“Well, we have done for to-day,” replied Maurice; “I never got through
it so nicely before; but Hilary, dear, we will rest now. I say,
Charles, where have you been?”

“I had to go to Hitchinboro’ about some business, and could not come
earlier. Miss Duncan, is it too late for a walk? I had hoped to be in
time to finish that sketch of the old oak-tree.”

“I don’t know,” said Hilary, trying to rouse herself. “What do you
say, Maurice?”

“If my father will come,” replied he. “I should not like to leave him
for the whole evening; and he talked of wanting to visit those
cottages by the tree.”

Hilary said she would go and see; and rising, left the room.

“Poor dear girl!” said Maurice, looking after her; “do you know what
it is to leave such dear ones, Charles?――I could cry just now with
pleasure.”

“Your sister will miss you immensely,” replied Mr. Huyton; “but she
has so uncommon a degree of self-control and firmness of character,
that I have no doubt but she will bear up under it with vigor.”

“Hilary is not the least like any other girl I ever saw,” replied
Maurice, thoughtfully, “and I have seen a good many, one way or
another; she is just a hundred times better than any one I ever came
across; you might live with her ten years, and never know her do a
selfish or an unkind thing. I really do not believe she ever thinks of
herself.”

“It is certainly rare to see one so young so thoughtful and womanly in
her mind,” said Charles Huyton, earnestly. “I think you told me she is
not yet eighteen?”

“Oh! no, only just turned seventeen; most girls are mere children at
her age. To see how she teaches and manages the little ones, and cares
for my father, and attends to all the old women and babies in the
parish, knowing exactly who wants a flannel petticoat, or a pig, or a
dose of rhubarb: it is really something wonderful! I do not believe
she ever forgets any thing from one Sunday to another!”

“Except herself,” replied the visitor.

“Ay, except herself, in the right sense. I say, Charles, though, I
have seen many girls forget themselves when I could have wished them a
little more memory, for their own sakes; and you never see Hilary do
that.”

“Never――I wonder you can make up your mind to leave your family,”
observed Charles Huyton, with the utter unconsciousness of the laws of
necessity which young men of large fortunes, independent of guardians,
sometimes feel.

“What would you have?” said Maurice. “I must work, and, indeed, I love
my profession; and but for these leave-takings, have nothing to
complain of. If I am only lucky enough to get promoted by-and-by, when
I am older, Hilary and I will settle down together in some little
cottage on the sea-shore, and live on my half-pay and her fortune
together, and be a regular old cozy brother and sister. That’s my
notion of happiness. I don’t think either Hilary or I shall ever want
to marry!”

“Don’t you?” observed his friend, with a somewhat incredulous smile.

“I only hope she will not over-work herself; she is too anxious about
every thing; and with nobody to help her, the three children come
heavily upon her. Charles, you will come and see them sometimes when I
am gone?”

“Sometimes!” replied Mr. Huyton, quietly.

Maurice turned round abruptly. “I am selfish for her sake, perhaps;
but you must excuse me; don’t come if you do not like, however. I
thought perhaps――but never mind; I daresay you have plenty to do much
pleasanter than dawdling about here with such rustics as we all are.”

“There is nothing I like better, upon my honor. My great fear has
been, that your absence would make a difference――that perhaps I should
not be admitted. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to think
there need be no change.”

“No change! well, I do not say that; but let Hilary settle the change
for herself. I only wish you could help her teach the children a
little,” added he, laughing; “but I am afraid you can not quite take
my place as tutor.”

“We will see,” was the reply, gravely given.

The little girls came running in, equipped for walking, and summoned
the two young men to join Mr. Duncan and his daughter, who were out at
the gate, settling Nest in the pannier of a pony, that being the way
in which that young lady made her excursions with her sisters; and on
this occasion she was not to be left behind.

There was a good deal of desultory conversation passed between the
family, not the least connected with the subject which occupied their
minds; _that_ was too sorrowful to be dwelt on; and both Maurice and
Hilary thought more of their father, and of amusing him, than of
indulging their own low spirits at the moment.

When they came to the Great Oak, it was settled that Maurice should
accompany Mr. Duncan as he went round to visit a few scattered huts
and hovels, inhabited by a wild and somewhat lawless race of
wood-cutters, brickmakers, and poachers, who had located themselves in
this secluded spot, while Hilary and Sybil sat down, under Mr.
Huyton’s protection, to finish a sketch of the old tree.

“How well it looks this evening,” observed he; “the tawney russet
shade which has tinged the leaves, shows well against those
orange-colored beech-trees which back it up. If you can but catch the
effect of that slanting sunbeam falling on those bright leaves, and
tinging the trunk with gold! It is made for a picture!”

Hilary laid down her pencil, and gazed abstractedly at the scene till
the tears gathered in her eyes, and first blinded her sight, and then
dropped on her sketch-book and blotted her drawing. Her companion saw
it, and gently drew it away from under her hands, to which she
passively submitted, hardly knowing what he did, and hoping to quiet
her emotion more easily by keeping silence.

“The sunbeam may fade to-night,” whispered he, “but it will come again
to-morrow, Miss Duncan; and we can sleep away the hours of darkness,
with the hope of a brighter dawn.”

“I was thinking,” said Hilary, after a pause, and carefully steadying
her voice, “that that oak was like my father, how grand and venerable
it looks; and that glowing, golden sunbeam was Maurice’s visit to us,
just slipping away; what a bright gleam it shed on us for a little
time; and now it is over, and he will be left――as that tree will
be――to the night-dews, and the cold light of the moon and stars, which
may glimmer round him, and seem to make a show and brightness, but
have no real warmth, or strength, or power, in their poor feeble
beams.”

“That is a comparison which does little justice to the bright light
which shines on your father’s home and household,” replied Charles
Huyton, warmly.

“I know it, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, understanding his words in a
different sense from what he intended; “I know that he has that light
within which makes external lights of little consequence. But yet, I
can not help feeling that our home is not what it was once, and how
sad, how desolate it must look to him. If I could but fill the place
more effectually――but I am such a child――”

“Maurice says, your only fault is that you are too anxious,” replied
Charles Huyton, who found it much easier to praise Hilary than to
answer her feelings.

“Ah, Maurice does not know――” was her only answer.

“You do not in general dispute his judgment,” said Charles, smiling a
little. “Do not take your responsibilities so to heart――do not fancy
that you are called on to wear yourself out; the very fact of taking
things easily yourself, will make them easy to others also. Nobody
expects a woman’s grave and severe prudence and consideration, from
your youth. Give yourself more liberty, and take less trouble.”

“Did Maurice tell you to say that to me?” inquired Hilary.

“No――I say it of myself; I can see that you are over-anxious.”

“Perhaps I am――but can one really be too anxious to do one’s duty, Mr.
Huyton? Do I take uncalled-for tasks on myself――and if not, if, as I
believe, what I do is merely what I ought to do, then, you know, it is
what I have the power to do also. More is not required than is
possible; ours is not a hard Master; but then the proper interest must
be returned for the talents committed to us, or we are unfaithful as
well as unprofitable servants.”

He was silent, for she was talking in an unknown tongue to him,
alluding to things as realities, whose existence he hardly recognized.

“I know the fault is mine when I fail; and the merit, if I ever
succeed, is His from whom help cometh,” added she, a little
hesitatingly, as if in deprecation of his grave looks.

“Maurice has given me leave, as far as he can, to try and fill his
place,” said the young man; “and he referred me to you, as to the way
in which I could be of use, and when I may come and see you.”

“Will you really?” said Hilary, showing the most innocent pleasure at
the prospect; “I thought when he was gone, you would not care much for
coming here as you have done.”

“Then you are mistaken. I have known no pleasanter hours than those I
have spent at the Vicarage. Besides, how could I get on with my
improvements? who would plan my walks, or choose my papers, or design
my greenhouses?――no, I am not such an idiot as to throw away a
valuable friendship when I have once made it.”

Hilary laughed lightly, as her only reply.

“Gwyneth,” added he, pulling the child toward him as he sat on the
turf, “you know very well that I could not do without you and Sybil to
help me, don’t you?”

“We could not get on without you,” replied Gwyneth; “Hilary wants to
go on learning German, and I am sure nobody could teach her so well;
and your French and English books, and your music and paintings are
much better, and nicer, and prettier than any we have of our own.”

“But then, Gwyneth,” whispered he, “you have things which I have
not――much better things, things that I can not buy.”

“I thought you had money enough to buy every thing you wanted,” said
Gwyneth.

“Not every thing. I can not buy a father, or sisters, or a brother
like Maurice――and you have all these, which I want; so who is best
off?”

Gwyneth looked uncertain, or unwilling to speak.

“Suppose you were to give me back my sketch-book?” said Hilary,
stretching out her hand for it; but he drew it back out of her reach,
with a look which quieted Hilary, and prevented her saying any more,
although she could not easily have told why.

The father and son returned, during the silence which ensued after
Hilary’s last speech; and Sybil, who had been very industriously
working away at her sketch, now held it up for approbation, which it
obtained, as it deserved. The party then prepared to return homeward,
and little Nest, who had been wandering about under the charge of
Gwyneth, was recalled, and once more lodged in her pannier.

Mr. Huyton was pressed to come in as usual; but thinking that on the
last evening the family would be more comfortable without a stranger
of the party, he declined, and mounting his horse, after very cordial
farewells to Maurice, he rode slowly home, meditating on the charms of
Hilary, and thinking what he should do with regard to her. To let
things take their own course, and be decided hereafter by events,
seemed to him the best thing to do.

In the mean time he carried away the sketch-book, with the intention
of abstracting and appropriating the unfinished sketch on which her
tears had fallen, and giving her a copy, of his own doing, of the
scene she had attempted to delineate.

So things did take their course; and acting on impulse, with out any
definite idea, or decided plan, Charles Huyton continued to come and
go, between the Ferns and the Vicarage, all through the autumn and
ensuing winter. He finished his house, and arranged his grounds, and
returned his neighbors’ visits, sometimes accepting invitations to
dinner, sometimes even appearing at a ball, being exceedingly admired,
and very much courted, and making himself universally agreeable when
he did go into society; but withal preserving a sort of mystery about
his usual pursuits and amusements, which rendered him _piquant_ and
interesting in the highest degree.

He never gave parties of any kind, not even to gentlemen; did not
preserve his game, and did not either hunt or shoot; men were as much
puzzled to account for his oddities as women. The neighborhood――that
is, the part of the country inhabited by gentlemen’s families――lay
almost entirely in the opposite direction to Hurstdene, and so far
removed from the vicinity of the Vicarage, that the length and
frequency of his visits to the Duncans passed unheeded and unheard of.

All his leisure time was spent there, reading, drawing, teaching,
gardening for them, and with them, and discussing his own plans and
projects. Inspired by Hilary, and advised by her father, he did some
very useful things: he built and endowed a school at the edge of his
park, for some of the scattered population around; he improved the
dwellings of the poor tenants, and, in short, fell in with all the
usual schemes of benevolence patronized by a well-meaning landholder.
But the hand that guided him was not at all apparent, and nobody could
be more ignorant of her influence than Hilary herself: she really
believed that all the right things Mr. Huyton did came from his own
right feelings and good principles. Indeed this was one great secret
of her power; he could see through the designs of the mammas who
invited him to their houses, and their daughters who took such
interest in his house, his park, his garden, or his school. He felt
that they only cared for him because he was rich, and he believed that
had he offered his hand and fortune to any of these elegant young
women, it would have been unhesitatingly accepted on the shortest
notice, and with the greatest triumph. With Hilary it was different;
kind and obliging as she was, unreserved in many respects, frank and
simple, he by no means felt sure that she loved him; on the contrary,
as months rolled on, and the graceful girl grew and developed into a
very handsome and elegant woman, while her mind matured in proportion
as her person improved, he became more dubious on the question which
he often asked himself, “Would she ever consent to become his wife?”

His own wishes took a most decisive shape before she had quite
completed her eighteenth year; but his hopes stood on a very different
ground: shifting in their appearance as if they rested on a quicksand,
and varying with every interview. That such a notion had never entered
her head he would have boldly maintained, had it been necessary; he
would have staked his fortune fearlessly on her perfect innocence and
simplicity; he had cautiously guarded against putting it there by any
conduct of his own; for he had an intuitive conviction that the day
his wishes were discovered would be the last of that pleasant, frank,
comfortable intercourse which now existed; and he by no means felt
convinced that it would be replaced by any thing more pleasant.

Every part of her conduct convinced him that she did not love him;
Sybil and Gwyneth could not have appeared more unconscious and
unsusceptible of this feeling. But he hoped that time would produce a
change; there was no fear of a rival, so he could wait; and rather
than risk all by a premature discovery, he did wait, and watch and
guard his looks and manners, and lived in hopes of the future.

He was quite right; Hilary did not love him. He was very pleasant; a
great comfort to her father; most kind to her sisters, and very
good-natured to herself; but for some hidden reason, she never
entertained for him the smallest approach to what could be called
love; perhaps it was because she did not think about it: busy and
useful, cheerful and yet thoughtful, she had adopted Maurice’s notion
that she should never marry, but should continue as she now was. To
leave her father or desert her sisters, indeed, would have seemed a
monstrous impossibility to her――a thing too much contrary to right
even to be thought of with a negative. Nest, who was but just five
years old, would want her care for fifteen years to come at least; and
oh! what an age that seems to the girl who has herself only counted
eighteen years of life.

But it was very kind and pleasant to have such a friend as Mr. Huyton,
to lend them books, and bring them reviews and prints, and help them
in the parish with money, and especially to be so fond of
Maurice――write to him so often, and always show the letters he
received from him to them.

And so matters went on, and things took their course, and Hilary
worked and read, and governed her household, her sisters, and herself,
and, very unconsciously, the owner of the Ferns also; and months
passed, and she saw her nineteenth birth-day arrive, and wondered to
think how old she felt when she was yet so young, and questioned much
with herself whether she had rightly fulfilled her task, and feared
that could her step-mother revisit her children, she would find her
best efforts had been fearfully imperfect, and that their characters
were too much the result of chance and circumstance, and that the
guiding hand had been too weak to be efficient.

No――she did not love Charles Huyton; no thought of him mingled with
her reflections on her nineteenth birth-day.




CHAPTER IV.

  “Far, far from each other
  Our spirits have grown;
  And what heart knows another?
  Ah! who knows his own?”
                               ARNOLD.


Mr. Huyton, it may be presumed, did not know that Hilary gave him so
small a part in her thoughts, or he probably would not have acted as
he did on that very day. However, I will not venture positively to
affirm this; for such are the inconsistencies and contradictions of
human nature, that it is safer to calculate on resolutions being
broken, and promises forfeited, than on the exact performance of
either.

Charles Huyton’s resolutions had not been communicated to others, and
his promises were made only to himself, so there was no one who could
charge him with inconsistency, or blame him for want of faith, when,
after having firmly resolved to conceal his opinions and wishes with
regard to Hilary, he betrayed them to her on her nineteenth birth-day.

She was standing in the church-yard, beside the graves of her own
mother and her step-mother, recalling her past life, and renewing her
resolutions to watch over, guard, and devote herself to her younger
sisters, when Charles Huyton, directed by some extraordinary instinct,
discovered and joined her there.

It was a very picturesque little spot. The east window, which was
handsome in itself, formed the background; a beautiful spreading lime,
with its pale tassels just then in full blossom, hung overhead, and
sheltered it from the north; the graves were carefully preserved, and
planted with myrtle, rosemary, and some other evergreens; and the wall
of the church was richly decorated with large purple and
white-flowered clematis, Virginia creeper, and climbing roses. Hilary
was sitting on a bench under the lime-tree, plunged in profound
meditation, when Mr. Huyton, whose footstep was inaudible on the short
turf, presented himself before her.

“You have chosen rather a mournful place of retirement, Miss Duncan,”
said he, seating himself by her, after the first greeting; “may I
venture to remain with you, or do you court solitude as well as
gloom?”

“I do not feel either solitude or gloom in this spot, Mr. Huyton,”
said she, quietly; “but it seems to me a wholesome occupation for the
mind sometimes to quit the brightness of life for the calm repose of
such a scene as this.”

He did not answer immediately――he was reading the inscription on the
headstones before him; she, too, was silent. After some minutes, he
turned to her.

“I should like to know the thoughts which occupy you so deeply,” said
he.

She colored a little, and replied, “They are sacred to the memory of
the departed; but there are so many thoughts which come in such a
place as this――I _could_ not tell them if I would.”

“The most prominent one, then――will you not trust me?”

“I was thinking how false our lives are to our professed principles.”

“In what way?” questioned he, curious to learn the feelings of a girl
like Hilary, although not in the least entering into them.

“I was thinking,” replied she, “that all words spoken, and thoughts
unuttered, too, exist somewhere――are recorded――not passed away into
empty air――not perished like the flowers which fall to decay.”

“Well, what then?” said he, not discovering any connection in the
ideas.

“How many thousand times have those words been repeated here, in this
church-yard, praying that the number of the elect may shortly be
accomplished; and yet how little we realize our own meaning, or live
in accordance with the words we use.”

“You do not mean to say that we ought to be glad when our friends
die?” inquired he.

“Partings for an indefinite time must always be painful, and those
left behind to sorrow and struggle――to combat the waves of this
troublesome world――must feel desolation and grief; but when we look at
a quiet grave like this, where all is so calm and still, and think of
the spirit away in some unknown but happy place, we ought not to feel
gloom. Gloom might rest on the graves of those who call it ‘Ultima
Domus’――but for us, who daily repeat our belief in ‘the resurrection
of the dead,’ gloom ought to be banished with despair.”

“That is a very beautiful idea,” said he, looking with admiration at
her elevated expression of countenance.

“It should be more than an idea――it should be a guiding principle; I
mean that our business here is so to live that we may think of lying
down there without a shudder. Do you know, I have often wondered what
I shall feel――with what kind of emotions I shall look down――when they
lay _me_ there――or rather what once was myself.”

He looked at her with amazement. “Do you suppose you will be conscious
at all?――but do not talk of it; _I_ can not think of you in such a
connection without more than a shudder. Did you train these creepers
so gracefully round the church windows?”

“Partly; there have been other hands here besides mine, however; it
has been the work of affection――the result of the very feelings of
which I was speaking.”

“Which is your favorite?” inquired Mr. Huyton, determined to change
the subject.

“Of the shrubs?――that Virginian creeper, I believe.”

“Why, it has no blossoms, and is not even an evergreen,” replied he.

“I like it the better for that; it says the more to me.”

“What does it say?” replied he, smiling.

“The fading of its leaves speaks of sympathy with us, which I never
can fancy evergreens feel. And then they become more beautiful as they
decay, glowing with richer colors lent by the frost which is about to
strip them; just as those who have silently spent their strength in
aspiring heavenward like that plant, often show, when touched by
suffering, new and unexpected graces.”

“You are fanciful――but I like to hear your imaginations.”

“The Virginian creeper has another meaning to me,” pursued Hilary; “it
is an emblem of friendship, of which I am very fond.”

“I thought ivy was the emblem of friendship,” observed he.

“Not my emblem――at least, not of the friendship I mean. Did you ever
notice the plants? ivy is a parasite, living on the substance which
supports it; drawing its own existence from the life of another; and
it is very persevering too, where any thing can be gained: it is
difficult to check; tear it down, and it will send out new roots and
fix itself afresh, until the prop is destroyed by the encroachment of
the counterfeit friend; then it is so cold and apathetic, always green
and unchanging in appearance, one can not love an ivy plant, or make a
companion of it, however picturesque it may be.”

“And your favorite, what character does it bear?”

“Examine it――do you see these little spreading hands with which it
supports itself?――see how closely they adhere; if you tear it down, it
can never be replaced, however; they will hold, while they have life,
but forcibly detached, they can not fix themselves again. They ask
nothing in return, but permission to be undisturbed; and once allowed
to attach themselves, they soon cover their sustaining prop with their
luxuriant foliage. But the prop must be _real_ of its kind, stone, or
brick, or wood; but not stucco for stone, nor whitewashed plaster;
there they retain no hold; nor polished glass you see; to that they
can not fix themselves, it is too hard. Is not that constant, true,
devoted friendship?”

“And you think then friendship repulsed, or violently severed, can
never be replaced?”

“Unkindly severed――no, I should think not; but mine is only
theoretical friendship, Mr. Huyton; practically, I have no experience.
You, perhaps, know better.”

“I believe the only one I ever called a friend, was Maurice, your
brother,” was his answer.

“I had hoped,” said she, looking up ingenuously, “that others of his
family might have shared in that title.”

“No,” replied he, earnestly, and gazing at her clear, innocent eyes,
“Mr. Duncan is too old. I respect him greatly, but we are too unequal
for friendship, and your sisters, of course, are out of the question.”

He paused――her eyes were bent down with a slight shade of
disappointment in them: did he not think her worth caring for at all
then? well, perhaps this was natural enough. She was startled by his
hand being laid on hers, and his voice breaking the silence as he
said,

“And for you, it is not _friendship_ that I feel; that is not the name
of the sentiment which just now fills my heart.”

She looked up again, but her eyes fell under his once more, for she
read there something which gave her no pleasure, although it
occasioned her surprise. The idea for the first time flashed across
her, that he loved her, and, quick as thought can go, her mind took in
at once all the probable consequences of such a circumstance; the pain
and disappointment to him, the interrupted intercourse, the loss to
their society, which his absence would occasion, what Maurice would
think, and whether he would wish it either one way or the other. The
silence was not of more than a minute’s duration, but her mind
traveled far and fast during that interval. One idea did not occur to
her; that was the possibility of marrying Mr. Huyton; she did not
raise the question.

His thoughts had not gone so far, they were all concentrated round
her, watching the changing color of her cheeks, and the long
eye-lashes which rested on them. He was partly thinking how pretty she
was, partly wondering what she was feeling. Of course he had to speak
again.

“Hilary, I love you. Ever since the moment when I suddenly saw you
standing alone in the forest, like some unearthly being, like one of
those angels of whom you are so fond of talking, you, and you only,
have filled my heart. I have lived for you, worked for you, thought of
you all day, dreamed of you at night, watched your progress to
perfection with an intenseness of admiration you little guessed; dwelt
on your image when absent, loved your very shadow, doted on you with a
heart which never, never loved before.”

“Hush! Mr. Huyton,” said she, gravely; “these are wild words, not
language for one human creature to use to another; and to _me_, if I
did not know you too well, I should think you meant to mock me; do not
talk so!”

“Mock you! praise can not come near your merits; words are too cold;
in that sense they may be unfit to be addressed to you; as any attempt
to paint a rainbow is mockery. But my meaning is most sincere,
earnest, true. I love you!”

He held her hand in both of his, and looked in her face with all the
eloquence of which his very handsome eyes were capable; but she shook
her head.

“I do not love you, Mr. Huyton――at least, not in that way;” ending her
sentence abruptly, and with crimson cheeks, which made him think her
mistaken.

“You do not _hate_ me?” said he, perseveringly detaining the hand she
endeavored to withdraw; “tell me, am I disagreeable to you?”

“Hate you! oh, no; you are so good and kind to me and mine; and
Maurice loves you so, I could not _hate_ you; but I am so sorry, so
very sorry, that you can not think of me as I do of you; liking,
wishing well to, esteeming one another, being friends and no more.”

“Impossible! a man must be made of marble, who could see you as I have
seen you, know you as I have known you, and not do more than like you.
Are you sure――but no, I have no right to doubt, to expect, to fancy
even, that you returned my passion; but I may hope for the future;
perhaps now you know my heart, you will pity me. Let me try to make
you love me; give me leave to devote myself to that; if I might look
forward to one day making you my wife; oh, Hilary, it is for you I
have worked at ‘the Ferns,’ in the dear hope of placing you there,
where, surrounded by all that could reward your virtue, and enhance
your charms, I might see my idol the center of worship, the admiration
of the neighborhood――let me hope.”

“I hardly know what to say to you in answer; you think of me a great
deal too well, but yet I must thank you, and feel grateful to you for
your good opinion and your kind wishes, and your love; and do not
blame me, please, for not doing more, or not doing it rightly; I am
very ignorant of what would be considered right to do or say; but
indeed I only mean to be sincere and true, so if I speak too frankly,
you must forgive me.”

“You can not speak otherwise than rightly; like yourself, the very
soul of innocence and modesty, and grace; be as frank as you please, I
promise not to misunderstand you.”

“Mr. Huyton, I can not be your wife, or the wife of any one, while my
father and sisters require me with them. I believe the conviction of
this was so strong in my mind, that I thought you must see it and know
it too, and that was why I was so surprised at your talking as you
do.”

“But, Hilary, ‘the Ferns’ is not so far off, as to be called leaving
them. If you give me no other objection, I need not despair; if your
feeling for me would not prevent you giving me your hand, your
feelings for them need not surely. I come here every day, so could
you; the separation would be merely nominal, and how much more I could
and would do for them, as _my_ father and _my_ sisters, than I could
or might do now; what they lost in one way, might be more than
compensated in another.”

Hilary shook her head, and then, pointing to the grave before her, she
said: “I promised her not to desert her children; I have since renewed
the promise more than once, on this very spot; and for my father――oh,
Mr. Huyton, what excuse could I have for leaving him? What selfishness
to think of it?”

Mr. Huyton bit his lip, and then answered:

“If it is on their account you act, that need not prevent my hoping;
if regard for them prevents your entertaining the thought of leaving
them now, this reason will not always exist. In a very few years,
Sybil will be able to take your place, and then――”

“But you mistake,” said Hilary, drawing back, “if you think they are
the _only_ reason; I do not wish to give you pain, and I hope you will
not think me proud, or any thing wrong, but, indeed I must tell you
the truth――I do not feel for you what you would like; I hardly know
what to say, but I mean, what you would wish your wife to do. I do not
think I should make you happy, or that I could be happy with you,
feeling as I do; and while I really am very much obliged to you for
your good-will to my sisters, and all that you say, I do wish you to
leave off thinking of any thing more. Find somebody more suited to be
your wife, and the mistress of ‘the Ferns,’ somebody who could do you
credit, and not a poor, ignorant country girl, like me, quite unused
to society, and hardly knowing even how ignorant I am.”

“I might search through all the world, and not meet one more
thoroughly good, elegant, refined, and excellent than yourself,
Hilary. It is no use to tell me not to hope and wish; it is no use to
tell me to love another, after a two years’ acquaintance with you.
Only let me try to win you. I do not ask you to bind yourself――_you_
shall be quite free and unfettered by promises of any kind; only do
not send me away; suffer me in your sight, though I have had the
presumption to love you!”

“I thought you would have wished to leave me of yourself, after what
has passed,” replied Hilary, in a little surprise.

“You did me injustice, then; while you are free, and therefore to be
won by the man who can best deserve you, I will not leave you, unless
you drive me away; and you will not do that, will you? I ask no more;
only allow me to go on as I have done.”

Poor Hilary! she was very young, very innocent, and very ignorant of
the selfish pride of a man’s nature, or she would not have yielded
this point. She had no female friend to guide her――to warn her of the
difficulties in which a promise which seemed so fair and simple might
involve her, or to teach her how far the mere permission to try to win
her might be interpreted in favor of her suitor’s claims.

She felt how very disinterested it was of a rich man like Mr.
Huyton――clever, fashionable, admired, no doubt, in the world――to ask
for the hand of a simple country maiden like herself, whose future
fortune bore no proportion to his, and whose family could add nothing
to his honor or influence. He might represent the county if he chose;
he had discussed the subject several times with Mr. Duncan; he might,
no doubt, win a wife from any noble family in the land; and yet he
loved her, and asked her to marry him. The wonder of her mind at his
making such a choice, so unequal in every respect as her modesty made
her think it, was only surpassed by her astonishment at finding that
she could not love him in return. Why not?――why could not all his good
qualities, his ardent affection, and his kindness to her family,
influence her to wish to be his wife? Why did the idea seem
incompatible with happiness? and why did the notion of reigning
at ‘the Ferns’ make her cling the closer to her duties and
responsibilities at the Vicarage?

Was it the mere idea of leaving those she loved? there was something
in that; for she was not blinded by the fallacies of his arguments;
she knew the separation would be more than nominal; she knew it must
be real, because it ought to be so. Once mistress of ‘the Ferns,’ in
how many new duties and cares should she not be involved, with which
her old pursuits at Hurstdene would be incompatible; and once Mr.
Huyton’s wife, his claims on her time and society would be paramount;
and would he yield them to others? She was convinced he would not. It
was true, he was at Hurstdene every day _now_, but then it would be
different; and every future plan on which he now dwelt would call him
in an opposite direction.

She did not say to herself in words, or form a distinct idea in her
mind, that he was innately selfish or self-willed; but it was this
unexpressed thought and feeling which made her certain that his wife
must make him her first and last object, if she would please him, and
be at peace.

Hilary could not have told why she mistrusted one who talked so well
and acted so fairly; she had unconsciously explained it by a symbol to
him when she dwelt on the peculiarities of her favorite plant; but she
did not know that she was the Virginian creeper, he the wall which
bore the fair appearance of stone, and was in truth only stucco, and
that, to one of her nature, the effort to attach herself to him must
be utterly vain.

She really wished she could love him; I need not say not from any
unworthy motives, but from gratitude for his kindness and his
affection for herself; and although hardly believing that any change
was possible, she yet engaged to allow him the opportunity to effect
it which he desired. One other mistake she committed――one likewise
resulting from delicacy and regard to his feelings: she promised to
keep what had passed between them a profound secret, even from her
father. She fancied she was doing right; a dislike to say what might
seem to claim her father’s thanks, a dread of appearing to boast of
her attractions and the admiration she had inspired, had a little
influence; she felt how unmaidenly it was to triumph in her conquests;
but the chief reason for her silence was regard to Mr. Huyton’s
feelings, and a fear of mortifying him by making known his
disappointment. It was the romantic delicacy of a young mind much
accustomed to act and decide for itself――used to bear its own burdens
in silence, and to endure rather than to indulge its feelings.

Her theory was right; secresy in such a case being, in general,
honorable and just; but hers was one of the exceptions which prove a
rule; and in her peculiar circumstances, it would have been her
father’s part to decide how their future intercourse should be
arranged, as it was his due to know the footing on which they now
stood.

Mr. Huyton was well aware of the advantage which he gained when he won
from Hilary’s gratitude and delicacy the promise that nothing should
be said to others of this conversation. Conscious how unfair this
requisition was, he quitted her, immediately she had given it, with
many a word of gratitude, passionate affection, and intense
admiration, and many an assurance of the changeless nature of the
feelings he professed.

His love for her was very strong, as well as very sincere; he fully
appreciated her character; he saw and admired her genuine truth and
simplicity――her innocence and modesty――her humility and her loving
nature. He had seen a good deal of women of the world――women of
fashion――and could value pretty accurately their admiration of him; he
understood his charms in their eyes, and despised them accordingly. He
did not believe there was another woman besides Hilary who could have
been constantly the object of his friendly attentions, and the
companion of his pursuits and wishes, as she had been for the last two
years, and yet have never understood his motives, or calculated on his
probable intentions. He was aware that this was partly owing to her
entire ignorance of the manners and habits of men in general, and the
circumstance of having been long used to such devoted care and
kindness from her brother as could hardly be exceeded by the
attentions of a lover himself. But he saw also that it marked an
entire disinterestedness of character, a total absence of selfish
ambition, and a devotion to the plain, straight-forward duties of
life, which, if her affections could but be turned into the channel he
desired, would certainly secure his happiness.

He was not angry with her for refusing him; in his calmer moments he
would have himself predicted such a result to any explanation between
them; he had spoken on the impulse of the moment, and could not be
surprised at the answer he received. He loved her the better, as well
as admired her the more; emotion had given a more lovely hue to her
face; and this proof of her purity of principles had added a brighter
charm to her mental qualities. He was more thoroughly captivated than
ever, and rode home, dreaming of Hilary the whole way; of the time
when he could transport his beautiful flower, now blooming so fairly
in retirement, and place it where all would admire his choice, and
wonder at his good fortune, and honor his taste in the selection of a
perfect wife. For as to failing eventually in the attempt, there was
not a fear in his mind of that occurring. There was no rival, and no
chance of one; nothing to interfere with his success; and he could
exert all the powers of his mind and imagination to win her,
undisturbed by jealous passions, unpleasant observations, or the cold
interference of worldly customs and reserve. She had promised all
should go on as usual, and reliance on her word was as unbounded as
his love for her.

Scarcely had her lover left her, when Hilary, sinking on her knees
beside the grave of her step-mother, and covering her face with her
hands, renewed in a low but distinct voice the pledge she had already
given, never to leave her sisters so long as they required her care,
never to forsake them, unless she could see them under safer and
tenderer guardianship than her own; but to devote her thoughts, her
strength, her love, and her life to their and their father’s service.

It was no sacrifice which she resolved on; she was not prompted by any
enthusiastic impulse; she did not imagine herself acting a heroic
part; she believed that it was simply her duty. The ties knit by
Nature, the friends given her by Heaven, the charge imposed on her by
God himself, these must surely have the first claim; and till she had
discharged these faithfully, she felt she had no right to form others,
or to engage in new and uncalled-for duties. Then she raised her head,
and with the grateful emotions of a child relieved from danger or
trouble by a tender parent, she thanked her Heavenly Father, that he
made her duty so plain and so easy, that she had no counter-wishes to
struggle against, no affection to subdue, no opposing feelings to
torment and perplex her. She was glad, then, from the bottom of her
heart, that she did not love Mr. Huyton, and wondered how she could
ever have been tempted to wish it otherwise.

At that moment she felt that to love him was impossible, and that to
allow him to hope or expect a change was unjust to him, as well as
untrue to her own convictions; she repented that she had not spoken
more clearly, regretted what she had promised, and resolved to take an
early occasion to explain decidedly to him, that the sooner he
resigned all his views on her hand, and allowed his love to cool into
friendship and good-will, the pleasanter it would be for her, the
better and happier for himself. She pitied him exceedingly; she
thought it was so very generous and noble of him to love her so; she
could not be insensible to such a compliment; and he had shown such
forbearance and moderation after her refusal, had been so humble and
gentle, so considerate of her feelings, as she fancied, that he
deserved to meet with something better than disappointment. She would
make no change toward him, she had promised she would not, she would
keep his secret, and trust that her calmness and quiet indifference
would soon dispel a love which could not live quite unreturned.

But it was much easier for Hilary to promise to make no difference
toward him, than to keep her word, although she fully intended to do
so; it was simply impossible. A conscious shyness took the place of
her former open friendliness; she dreaded being alone with him,
carefully avoided sitting near him, dropped her German lessons, gave
up her drawing for the indispensable business of making frocks for the
school-children, and was uncommonly silent in his company. He saw all
this clearly enough, and he saw she could not help it; he did not
blame her; he rather loved her the better for the bashfulness which
made her shrink from him. It gave more interest to his pursuit; he no
longer had the certainty of unchecked intercourse, but there was more
excitement, more difficulty, and therefore more amusement as well as
novelty. Sometimes he spent a whole afternoon at the Vicarage, without
winning from her one open, straightforward smile; or obtaining even
five minutes’ conversation, unrestrained by her sisters’ presence.

Any eyes less dim than her father’s had lately become, or more awake
than her young sisters, must have noticed the very great change in
their mutual manners; the absolute and unreserved devotion on his
part, the shrinking timidity and constraint on hers. Poor Hilary! she
would have been very glad had her father noticed these circumstances;
she wanted some one to counsel her, to teach her how to escape from
the embarrassment in which she found herself; but she could not break
her word, and her father saw nothing of what was passing.

However, things came to a crisis at last. Mr. Huyton took it into his
head to add cloaks and bonnets to the set of new frocks which Hilary
was getting ready for her little scholars. Of course he had a right to
do so if he pleased, and Miss Duncan could not have objected, if he
had not taken pains to let her know that it was done for her sake, and
to please her. What could she do? he had mentioned it to her father,
had received his cordial approval, and his ready promise that Hilary
should co-operate, and assist his ignorance. She sat by in silence,
until appealed to by Mr. Huyton, who suggested that she should take on
herself all the active and responsible part of the distribution.
Hilary felt that to do so would be giving a tacit encouragement to his
wishes, such as she could not conscientiously bestow. If he had only
_not_ hinted that he did it for her, it would have been possible; but
after that, she could not accept the office.

She replied, gravely, that she would furnish the necessary details,
but that she thought Mr. Huyton’s housekeeper would probably be far
better able than herself to superintend the purchasing and making up
of the articles of her master’s bounty.

“I do not think so at all, Miss Duncan,” replied he, smiling quietly;
“my housekeeper, I am afraid, is a vast deal too fine a lady to enter
into such schemes with the right spirit; it requires a certain degree
of refined tact, the offspring only of a really elegant and generous
mind, to do these things without hurting the feelings of those who
receive the benefit. Mrs. Gainsborough, I feel sure, would put on a
condescending and self-satisfied air, which would affront all the
mothers, frighten the little girls, and probably bring on a quarrel
with the school-mistress herself.”

“Why do you keep so uncompromising a character, then?” demanded Mr.
Duncan; “a bachelor like you, ought to have some one who can give away
cloaks or any thing else, without fatal consequences to the
recipients.”

“I have been wishing to change for some time,” replied Charles Huyton;
“I know exactly the character which would suit me; can estimate to a
nicety the advantages of truth, simplicity, steadiness, and
gentleness, combined with benevolence, charity, humility, and a
universal desire of making others happy.”

Mr. Duncan laughed.

“Content yourself with those characters in a wife, Charles,” said he;
“do not expect romantic perfection in a housekeeper; lower your
estimate, or you will go unsuited.”

“I shall remain as I am till I do find them; but indeed it is only
under one circumstance that I intend to change at all; the housekeeper
I seek, my dear sir, will, as you suggest, be also my wife; till then,
Mrs. Gainsborough may rule supreme.”

“Except over cloaks and school-girls, it appears,” replied Mr. Duncan;
“and those Hilary is to undertake instead.”

“If Miss Duncan will do me that favor,” replied he; “but not if you do
not like,” he added in a lower voice, coming close to the table where
she was working.

“Then I advise you, Hilary, to make your calculations of yards and
quarters,” said Mr. Duncan, rising as he spoke, and preparing to leave
the room. “I am going to ride into the town to-day; and could order
patterns sent out for you and Mr. Huyton to inspect and settle on, if
you please.”

He went out as he spoke, and Hilary was left alone with her lover.




CHAPTER V.

  “For she was passing weary of his love.”
                                          ISEULT OF BRITTANY.


Hilary looked up from her needle-work with a trembling heart, but a
face of calm determination. She had made up her mind to speak.

“Mr. Huyton, this will not do; this must not be.”

“What, dear Miss Duncan?” sitting down close beside her as he spoke.

“I can not allow this; you must not suppose that if my father knew
what has passed, he would act as he does now. He would see as plainly
as I do, the impropriety of my undertaking what is done avowedly for
such motives.”

“Impropriety! nay, you must not put it so strongly; surely there is
nothing improper in my assisting to clothe the same children as you
do; or even in my caring for them because they are objects of interest
to you!”

“That is not what I mean; and indeed, I am sure you will not press
your request, when I tell you that after the motive you assigned, it
would be unpleasant to me to grant it.”

“I would not do what is unpleasant to you, not for the hundredth part
of a minute; no, not if it were to procure me the greatest pleasure in
the world. Say no more about these foolish cloaks, I entreat you.”

“And tell my father the reason?” said Hilary, blushing very deeply.

“That is not necessary, surely,” replied he, gravely; “there is no
occasion to assign any other reason; make the business over to your
school-mistress; I dare say she will be competent enough. But remember
the _motive_ is the same; I can not pretend to retract that; and
whether you accept of it as a proof of devotion to you or not, there
is no other plea to put it on.”

Hilary was silent, and looked down.

“You did not suppose I _could_ change?” continued he; “you are unjust
alike to my constancy and your perfections. That indeed is the cause
of my constancy; there is no merit in loving you unchangeably――nobody
could help it.”

“Mr. Huyton, I believe I was wrong,” replied Hilary, with very crimson
cheeks, and a rather unsteady voice; “when I promised to allow you to
remain――to go on the same as ever――I can not――it is painful,
embarrassing, most distressing to me. Am I asking too much in asking
you to leave us for a time?――perhaps, too, absence might be good for
you, might teach you how much you over-rate me; but, at least, it
would do _me_ good. After a time, I might learn to meet you
unembarrassed, and look on you as I used to do: I can not now; I have
tried in vain――your presence distresses, frightens me――makes me
uncomfortable and unhappy.”

Hilary ended her sentence in very great trepidation, and finally burst
into tears, which both frightened and perplexed Mr. Huyton.

“Dear Miss Duncan, don’t; dearest, sweetest Hilary; my beloved!――do
not make yourself unhappy; I will not stay another day to distress
you. Though to leave you is exile and banishment, and protracted pain,
I will go; only don’t cry. I would not cause you a tear if I could
help it. I will make any sacrifice――there now, dry your eyes, take
this glass of water! are you better? trust me, your happiness is
dearer than my own. I will do any thing you ask.”

Hilary dried her eyes, and quieted herself with an effort; then
looking up, she said, “I beg your pardon for being so foolish;
but――did I understand you rightly?――you said you would leave us!”

“I did, and I will.”

“Thank you. You will tell my father, will you not?”

“I will explain all that is necessary. Compose yourself, and trust
me.”

She rose hastily, and left the room; dropping, as she did so, a
carnation she had worn in her bosom, of which he took possession with
a lover’s enthusiasm. He did not, however, go away immediately; he
could not, without saying good-by to her; but he sat down, and formed
his plan for the future.

When Mr. Duncan returned, Hilary entered the room along with him, and
glanced, with some confusion, at Charles, who, on catching her eye,
said, half turning to the clergyman, “I propose to go with you, Mr.
Duncan, and give these very important orders myself. I imagine my
genius will be equal to that, if the shopman will only help me out a
little; so if you will accept my society, I will order my horse round
with yours, sir.”

The offer of his company was readily accepted, and Hilary saw the two
depart together, with much satisfaction, for more reasons than one;
and having watched them off, and sighed to witness how uncertain her
father’s step had become, she turned again into the house, to attend
to household duties.

Mr. Duncan’s eyesight had lately been failing rapidly, and Hilary, who
was aware of the circumstance, had become extremely unwilling to allow
him to ride about alone; but it was not in her power to accompany him
that day, as the girls were all poorly with bad colds, and she did not
like to leave them. She was therefore as glad on her father’s account
that he should have a companion, as she was herself to get rid of Mr.
Huyton’s society.

She went to her sisters, and read or talked to them, to amuse and
comfort them under the unpleasantness of their indisposition; and she
continued with them until the sound of horses’ hoofs warned her that
her father had returned.

Charles Huyton was still with him, consequently Hilary went into the
drawing-room to await his entrance, instead of running out into the
porch. The two gentlemen entered together: the young man looking
apologetically at Miss Duncan, as if to excuse his return.

“I made Charles come in and give an account of his purchases in the
woolen-drapery line,” observed Mr. Duncan, “that there might be no
mistake in so important a transaction, Hilary; when you have arranged
about quantities and other necessaries, he says he will turn the
matter of making over to the village sempstress.”

Hilary made no answer, busying herself with the tea equipage, which
was on the table.

“How are the children?” inquired Charles, drawing near her; and then
adding, as the vicar went out of the room, “do not be displeased with
me for coming once more.”

She colored, and answered, “I am very much obliged for your going with
my father, Mr. Huyton, and also for the arrangements you have made
about this business. The little ones are much the same, thank you, but
they will be better to-morrow, I hope. Do you stay to tea this
evening?”

“May I?――I should like――I have made up my mind during my ride; I will
go abroad to-morrow; but I have not told your father, and it may seem
unkind to leave abruptly, without any explanation. But I will do
exactly as you please.”

“I have made tea for you,” replied Hilary, busying herself as she
spoke, in putting water into the tea-pot, and thereby avoiding looking
up.

While they three were sitting together round the tea-table, Charles
Huyton said, rather to the surprise of Mr. Duncan,

“Do you know, sir, I am thinking of going abroad.”

“Abroad!” exclaimed the vicar, with an expression of sorrow in his
countenance; “I had hoped, Charles, you were going to settle here for
life.”

“So did I, at one time,” replied Charles; “but circumstances have
interfered, and I am proposing a visit to my mother’s family at
Dresden; they have asked me several times during the last two years,
and now I mean to go.”

“When? soon? not directly, I hope?” said Mr. Duncan, still looking
much concerned.

“Yes, immediately; when a disagreeable thing has to be done, the
sooner it is commenced the better. Unless Miss Duncan will give me
leave to call to-morrow to say farewell to her sisters, I shall
perform that painful ceremony to you both to-night.” He fixed his eyes
on Hilary with a look of meaning, which she had great difficulty in
_not_ seeing.

“Come to-morrow, by all means,” replied Mr. Duncan. “Hilary, dear, the
girls will be able to see him then, and they would break their hearts
at missing him altogether. Are you going with any permanent views of
settling in life, Charles? Excuse my curiosity, but do you mean to
bring home a bride with you? Or, perhaps, you will marry and stay
there.”

“Most decidedly not,” exclaimed he, eagerly and warmly; “there is not
the smallest prospect of either one or the other. All my affections
are centered in England, all my hopes of happiness are founded on a
residence at ‘the Ferns,’ and every prospective plan of fancy, or
retrospective glance of happy memory, will carry me at once to the
parish of Hurstdene. You will see me here again as soon as it is in my
power to come.”

“I shall never see you here again, Charles,” replied the vicar, with a
gentle shake of his head, and a very patient smile.

“My dear sir, do not imagine such a thing; I trust to be with you at
least in the spring.”

“I trust you will, my dear Charles; but do you not understand what I
mean? Before that time my old eyes will be quite worn out; at the rate
in which they have lately failed me, they will be totally dark before
the spring comes, and I shall not see your face, though you may look
on mine when you return.”

“I am shocked to hear you say so,” exclaimed Charles, with a face of
the deepest sympathy. His glance went from the father to the daughter;
Hilary was very pale, and her brimming eyes and quivering lips warned
him not to speak to her at that moment; he turned again to the vicar.
“But can nothing be done, dear sir? have you had advice? _must_ this
sad fate befall you? Do not believe it inevitable till it is proved to
be so.”

“I do not imagine any advice can avail,” replied the vicar, calmly; “I
have looked forward for some time to this event; and having enjoyed my
eyesight for sixty years, Charles, I have no reason to think it a very
grievous hardship if I spend a few more in darkness. It will not last
forever――light will come, I humbly trust, at length; a better, purer,
brighter light than that on which my old eyes are so fast closing; the
Light of everlasting day. There will be no darkness in heaven,
Charles; and thinking of that, shall I complain?”

With a suppressed sob, Hilary started from the table, and ran out of
the room.

“She is crying, is she not, Charles?” inquired the father, a little
moved; “I can not see that dear face now as I used to do, to read all
her emotions as in a book. Poor girl! she has not learned to think of
it yet with composure; but she will find strength in her time of need.
I mind it more, when I think of being a burden on the girls, than for
any other reason; but _His_ will be done――I will be as little
troublesome as I can.”

“Troublesome――a burden!” exclaimed Charles Huyton, extremely affected
at the quiet resignation of the old man. You know _that_ is
impossible. A burden and a trouble implies something unwillingly
carried; and Hilary, angel that she is, would bear any thing for you,
or for others with pleasure. With such a daughter, your domestic
happiness can never be entirely destroyed; I could almost envy you the
blindness which will be waited on, and alleviated by her kindness.”

“I am just going to take measures for inquiring for a curate. I can
not trust my sight much longer, and some help I must have very soon,”
said Mr. Duncan.

Charles Huyton started. A curate settled at Hurstdene, and he away!
images of a painful nature crossed his mind. He foresaw how much
Hilary would be thrown with this curate; he knew the influence which
religious enthusiasm exercises over the minds of women; he foresaw
what he supposed would be the inevitable consequence――an attachment
between them; the overthrow of his hopes. Should this be! what could
he do to remedy or prevent it?

“I suppose you would wish for a _married_ curate,” suggested he, after
a pause. “A lady resident in the village would be a comfort, perhaps,
to Miss Duncan; it would be better in every respect to have the
gentleman married.”

“If we could lodge him; but how can that be done? Stair’s farm would
accommodate a single man, but there is no house in the village where a
couple could live.”

“True, perhaps; but I think, if you will give me time to arrange, it
could be managed. You remember that cottage on the green, which is
known as Primrose Bank, about a quarter of a mile beyond the church.
Would not that do?”

“My dear Charles, are you dreaming? it is quite out of repair, and
small besides.”

“But that is easily altered; it is mine now; the lease fell in last
Lady Day, and the tenants are gone. I must have it repaired, as you
say, and a little addition, a couple of hundred pounds laid out on it,
would make it just the thing.”

“What a spirit you have, Charles; you never see difficulties.”

“Not where there are none; but, my dear Mr. Duncan, I have a motive;
it was only last week I heard from a sort of cousin of mine, saying,
he wanted a curacy to marry on; and this would be the very thing. I do
not know the lady, but I am sure you would like him; and as he is very
well off, only wanting work, not pay, until a certain family living
falls vacant, I am convinced it would suit exactly. I will put off my
departure, until the whole matter is arranged to your liking.”

“Can you do that?”

“My departure does not depend on myself, Mr. Duncan; but on one, who,
for your sake, would, I am sure, endure me in her presence a little
longer. I only wish to please one, for whom I would go or stay, work,
beg, die, if needs were――your angel-daughter, Hilary!”

“Hilary!” exclaimed Mr. Duncan; “I do not understand! what has your
going to do with her!”

“Dear Mr. Duncan, I love Hilary with a devotion which is beyond any
words of mine to express; but she does not love me; and to please her,
to prove my constancy, to relieve her from my society, to try if my
absence will win a regard which my presence has failed to do, I have
resolved to quit England for a time.”

Still Mr. Duncan was puzzled; the idea of Charles wishing to marry
Hilary was entirely new to him; and he trembled at the notion of
losing her, even while he wished he could see her, as he supposed, so
safely settled.

Charles explained all that had passed between them, dwelling much on
Hilary’s determination never to leave her father, with a sort of hope
that his influence would be used to turn her wishes in favor of her
lover. His eloquence was interrupted by the return of Miss Duncan,
calm and composed, as usual; and on her resuming her seat, her father
immediately entered on the discussion of Mr. Huyton’s plan respecting
his cousin, and the house at Primrose Bank, anxiously appealing to her
for an opinion.

Hilary, who had been for some time aware that an assistant in the
parish was every day becoming more necessary, and who saw at once the
possible advantage of having that assistant a married man, admitted
that the plan was a good one, and did not frown when Charles, with
some anxiety and doubt, proposed delaying his departure from England
for the purpose of superintending the necessary alterations. It was
unpleasant to her, but she could not allow her own wishes or fancies
to interfere with the advantage of others, or her father’s comfort. To
have this affair settled, was of great importance to him, as he had
more than once hinted at the necessity of leaving the Vicarage for his
successor, and retiring to some other home; but Hilary knew well that
to leave the abode where he had spent nearly thirty years, to break
off all the ties formed in a lifetime, to quit his people, his church,
his schools, and all the interests accumulated around him, would be as
painful to his mind and heart, as unknown rooms and paths, and people,
would assuredly be trying to his bodily infirmities.

She could not refuse her acquiescence to these plans, although it
increased her obligations to one from whom she was forced still to
withhold the only return he asked for his kindness.

After a good deal of discussion, Charles decided that he would go the
next morning to London to seek an interview with his cousin, Mr.
Paine, and, if possible, bring him down to “the Ferns;” he further
determined to engage some clever architect, who could give them the
best plan for arranging Primrose Bank, and then the alterations could
commence without the least delay; and having come to this
determination, he took leave, and returned to his house, to think what
more he could do to win Hilary’s heart.

Left together, the father and daughter sat some time in silence; he
broke it by saying,

“Hilary, my child, is it for my sake only that you will not listen to
Charles Huyton’s love?”

Hilary started, laid down her work, and going to him, she hid her face
on the back of his chair, while she whispered――

“Dearest papa, I would not listen to any one’s love, who proposed to
take me away from you!”

“I could ill spare you just now; but yet, if it would make you happy,
my child, I would give you to him,” replied he, drawing down her face
and kissing her.

“But it would _not_――it would make me miserable; I do not love Mr.
Huyton well enough to marry him. To go and live with him would be
wretchedness, and I am very, very happy, with you and my sisters――as
happy as I can be!”

“I do not feel sure of that; I shall regret my blindness more than I
ought, if it interferes with such a prospect for you.”

“Don’t say so, dear, dearest father; ah! how glad I am that I am not
in any danger of being tempted away. Would I leave you in solitary
darkness for any thing this world can offer; or, would I throw such a
burden on my younger sisters, as to expect them to take the duties I
deserted. I hope _nothing_ would tempt me to such selfish wickedness.
But, indeed, papa, I do _not_ love Mr. Huyton in the least; I can not
tell why, but the more I tried the less I found I could; so now I have
given up trying, and mean to devote myself to one dearer, better, more
precious than he, or twenty such;” kissing him over and over again as
she spoke.

“Dear Hilary, I will not say a word to urge you to wed where you do
not love; but be quite sure, before you decide for life. I should like
to see you safely housed at ‘the Ferns,’ with such a guardian and
husband as Charles Huyton.”

“You never will, papa――do not talk of it; I will not leave you; I
never mean to marry. I have made up my mind to be your single daughter
for life, and to give away my sisters, as if I were an old
maiden-aunt, or a lady-abbess, at least.”

He smiled, and passed his hand over her forehead, putting back her
hair, and looking lovingly at her face; then he added, in a sort of
regretful tone,

“Charles Huyton loves you very much, Hilary.”

“I believe he does now, papa; but I daresay it will not last; you do
not think a man could go on loving a woman who did not care for him,
do you? He will find some one else to marry; and when I am an old
woman of thirty-five, he will be thankful that he has so much more
charming a wife.”

“You do not do yourself or him justice, my dear; I expect he will be
constant!”

“Constant for a man, dear papa; but that is not constant to one woman,
only to one idea――that of marrying somebody.”

“What do you know of men, Hilary?” inquired her father, laughingly.

“A little from history and books; a little otherwise,” said Hilary,
smiling also.

However, Hilary coaxed her father into not minding her refusal of
Charles Huyton, and not regretting her resolution of never quitting
him; and the matter was dropped between them, although it could not be
forgotten by either.

About four days after this conversation, as Hilary and her father were
walking together in the garden, where the other girls, now quite
recovered, were also amusing themselves, the sound of horses’ feet
upon the green drew their attention, and looking up, they saw Mr.
Huyton advancing to the Vicarage, accompanied by three gentlemen who
were strangers. He sprang off his horse, and came hastily into the
garden, leaving his companions to occupy themselves by surveying the
village.

After a hurried greeting, though a joyous one enough from all but
Hilary, Charles told Mr. Duncan, not without some little
embarrassment, that he had brought his cousin, Mr. Paine, to visit
him; that one of his other companions was a Mr. Jeffries, a clever
architect, who was to give them plans for improving Primrose Bank; and
the other was a friend of his own, whose name he, for some reason,
omitted just then to mention.

Mr. Duncan most courteously desired he would introduce any friends he
wished; and the three gentlemen, leaving their horses to the groom,
were ushered into the garden. Hilary had no difficulty in deciding
which of the three strangers was the clergyman, during the short
interval of their approach down the garden walk, and she as rapidly
made up her mind that she liked his looks; his countenance conveyed
the impression of benevolence, sense, and firmness: she hoped he would
come to settle among them.

He, as might naturally be expected, gave his attention to the vicar,
and they soon were deeply engaged in conversation. Mr. Jeffries, the
architect, began talking to little Nest, to whom he speedily made
himself very agreeable; Charles Huyton stood by Hilary in silence,
while she made an effort to converse with the third stranger, a very
clever, intelligent-looking man, who answered her remarks with a quick
but pleasant manner, although with a slightly foreign accent, while
his eyes followed Mr. Duncan’s movements, and expressed great interest
in him.

After a while, the whole party adjourned to see the church; Hilary
then claiming her right of leading her father, Mr. Paine still by his
side conversing on parish matters, the architect leading little Nest,
and devoting himself to her prattle with astonishing pleasure, while
the other two gentlemen followed behind, earnestly discussing some
topic in under-tones.

Love of his profession, apparently, overcame his love of children in
Mr. Jeffries, when in the church, for he examined the building
minutely; but Hilary observed that the unknown placed himself beside
Mr. Duncan, and seemed far more interested in watching his expression
and countenance than in looking at windows, or deciphering brasses.

Her curiosity was excited; something more than curiosity, indeed, for
whatever was connected with her father interested her deeply, and she
determined, as soon as she was outside the church, to inquire of Mr.
Huyton who this stranger was.

Meantime, the quick eyes and keen perception of Mr. Jeffries had
revealed a circumstance which country church-wardens had not detected,
and which Mr. Duncan’s increasing blindness had prevented him from
seeing. The chancel was exceedingly out of repair, and Mr. Paine
suggested that immediate application should be made to the
lay-impropriator to remedy that evil now first pointed out. Mr. Duncan
promised to take measures to that effect, and they all left the church
together.

Charles came up to Hilary’s side as they did so, and rather detaining
her behind the others, said, “Your eyes, Miss Duncan, have been
questioning, ever since we arrived, who the individual now walking
with your father is; he is an eminent French physician, a friend of
mine, an oculist, I should rather say, whom I persuaded to come over
here with me to-day, thinking that perhaps his advice might be of
service to Mr. Duncan.”

Hilary colored deeply; she saw, or thought she saw at once, that this
was another obligation under which Mr. Huyton had laid them; possibly
he had only invited M. de la Récaille to ‘the Ferns’ in order to see
and consult about her father’s sight. It was a positive pain to her to
receive favors in their present relative situation; and while she felt
she ought to be obliged for the kindness of the thought, she could not
entirely suppress a feeling of repulsion toward one who would heap
benefits on her which she would rather have avoided.

“Do you think Mr. Duncan would mind my friend looking at his eyes?”
continued Charles, watching her countenance attentively; “I was afraid
of doing any thing disagreeable, so did not like to mention it to him
without your leave; but M. de la Récaille is such an enthusiast in his
profession, that he declares I can not oblige him more than by
bringing new cases under his notice; that is the reason he accompanied
me here to-day!”

This speech in some measure quieted Hilary’s mind; and after scolding
herself in secret for being such a goose as to think that Mr. Huyton
must be influenced by thoughts of her in all he did, she entered upon
the subject more readily with him, and it was agreed that the
suggestion should be made to Mr. Duncan.

“I am not afraid of hurting him,” continued Hilary; “for his
resignation to whatever happens, is too deep to be shaken by an
observation, a hope, or a decision of any man. I have not learned to
view it so calmly yet,” her lip quivering as she spoke, “and can
hardly discuss the subject――but, oh! if your friend could give us
hopes――could tell us how to avert――” her voice was lost entirely, and
Charles almost regretted that he had introduced the topic. However she
recovered her composure again when M. de la Récaille spoke to her on
the subject, inquiring particularly, methodically, and with great
acuteness, all the symptoms of which she had ever been aware in her
father’s case; what advice he had taken, and what remedies had been
used. His quick, business-like questions, the manner in which he
caught the meaning and point of her answers, stopping her from
entering on useless details, and arranging all the facts which he
elicited during his searching interrogatory, compelled her to use her
utmost endeavors to meet his inquiries, to banish feeling and
agitation, and to look only at facts in the same light as that in
which he viewed them.

It was too late in the day, when they returned from the church, to be
favorable for an examination at that time; and it was finally settled
that the gentlemen should proceed at once to Primrose Bank, conclude
their investigations there, and return to Hurstdene the next morning;
when Mr. Paine and the vicar could mutually make known their decisions
concerning the curacy, and M. de la Récaille might carry out his
wishes with regard to Mr. Duncan’s eyesight.

It was an evening of great trial to Hilary; hope for her father had
entered her heart, and she could not bid its gentle whispers be still:
but she dared not impart her fancies, or allow him to see how much she
dwelt on the idea. He was as calm as ever; the notion of approaching
darkness had become familiar to him, and he was so firmly convinced of
the incurable nature of his complaint, that he would hardly have been
disturbed had all the oculists in the kingdom promised him sight. She
would not distress him with her agitation; her feelings must be
smothered under an assumed appearance of calmness, but she could not
approach the topic; and while her sisters were chattering gayly about
the gentlemen whom they had seen that day, and describing again and
again the personal appearance of all three strangers, never agreeing
in details, nor feeling sure whether any pair of eyes were blue,
black, or brown, Hilary smiled, and answered, and gave her opinion
with almost her ordinary cheerfulness and readiness, while her heart
was palpitating with excitement, and her mind at every leisure moment
putting up secret petitions for patience, strength, and submission,
whatever the result might be.

The morrow came, and the visitors arrived punctually. After a brief
interview between the clergymen in Mr. Duncan’s study, he repaired to
the drawing-room, and seating himself according to the oculist’s
directions, quietly submitted to his examination. His daughter stood
beside him, her hand clasping his, her breath almost stopped from
agitation, her very lips white with intense excitement, and yet her
face calm, rigid, and pale as marble. Oh! the suspense of that moment:
her eyes eagerly bent on the oculist’s countenance, endeavored to read
his decision in his face, before his lips pronounced it; and,
unconscious of all beside, her whole mind and understanding was
centred on that one object.

Charles was close to her, his eyes intently gazing on her, but she
knew it not: had he been a hundred miles off she could hardly have
been more indifferent about him.

It was over at last; that prolonged agony was ended; M. de la Récaille
shook his head, sighed, and announced there was no hope, no human
probability of any cure; perfect rest might delay the result,
agitation might expedite the evil; but come it must; total blindness,
sooner or later, was inevitably impending.

Mr. Duncan heard it unmoved; he only drew Hilary’s hand closer to his
heart, and said, in a cheerful voice,

“Then, my child, I must submit to be dependent on you for eyes; thank
God, that I have still a daughter!”

She pressed his hand, words could not come, and she was too shy to
caress him before strangers; but Charles saw that her feelings were
wrought to the uttermost, that composure was on the point of giving
way, and only anxious to release her, addressed Mr. Duncan, so as to
call off his attention. Hilary had sufficient fortitude quietly to
withdraw her hand, and then escaping from the room, rushed into her
father’s study, where, throwing herself on a chair, and burying her
face in her hands, she gave way to sobs deep and agonizing, such as
are the outpourings of suppressed feeling alone, the quivering of the
spring long held in suspense.

She was not aware that Mr. Paine had continued in the study after her
father left it; at the moment of her entrance he was sitting in a
large chair, engrossed in reading, but startled from his occupation by
her appearance, and the expressive agony she betrayed, he looked at
her for a minute in silent commiseration, and then rising, and
approaching close to her, he said, in a peculiarly gentle and sweet
voice,

“Miss Duncan, I am grieved to see you so much distressed; has any
thing occurred?”

She started at the sound of his voice, but her feelings were too
strongly moved for ceremony, and the soft, kind tone went to her heart
like the words of a friend.

“Oh, my father! my father!” she sobbed, “all hope is gone; he is, he
must be――” then her voice was choked again in an agony of tears.

“M. de la Récaille gives no hope, then?” said he, very gently; “I am
indeed grieved.”

“Ah, if it had been to me,” exclaimed Hilary, “I think I could have
borne it better; but for my father, dear, dear father, that he should
be helpless, dependent, dark――he who has such intense pleasure in
beauty, who has been so active, so busy all his life――that he should
be reduced to the state――oh, for submission, resignation, faith like
his!”

“Is he much disappointed at the result?” inquired Mr. Paine.

“No, oh, no; he never hoped at all; and he is so good, so trustful!”

“Dear Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Paine, drawing a chair close beside hers,
“short as our acquaintance has been, it is impossible for me not to be
interested in your father and family; and the future connection
between us, the claim which I hope to have as your pastor, when I come
to assist Mr. Duncan in his duties here, makes me feel that I have a
right to speak to you. Will you let me address you as a friend, or
shall I be intruding unpleasantly on a sorrow I would gladly assuage
or mitigate?”

Hilary raised her head, and wiping away her tears, she said, with a
sort of watery smile,

“Be our friend, Mr. Paine, and speak; I deserve reproof for my
rebellion to the will of heaven!”

“I would rather give you comfort than reproof, Miss Duncan; and
painful as the certainty you have just acquired must be, natural as
grief is under such feelings, I think there is comfort to be found
even here. The entire and beautiful resignation of your father shows
so clearly that he has that blessed light within which is alone the
source of true happiness, that I think you may repose in perfect
confidence on this dispensation proving a blessing, not a scourge to
him. ‘HE that formed the eye, shall not HE see’ the sorrow or the
suffering of His servant? and can not that Arm guard him from evil
during the rest of his life which has led him hitherto? HE has not
left him helpless, for He has given him daughters who, I am sure, will
all make it their privilege to minister to his wants. There is the
same home to shelter him, the same daily comforts to which he has been
used, the same church, and the same loved services to cheer him. And
best of all, beyond all,” added Mr. Paine, looking upward, “the same
hope of everlasting life in the brightness of light, when our poor,
feeble bodies shall be changed into the likeness of the glorious body
of our Adorable Redeemer, and when all sorrow, sighing, and darkness
shall forever flee away.”

Hilary could not answer, and he was silent, too, for a few minutes.
Such thoughts as these make earthly trials and earthly pleasures seem
small and poor indeed; and the young man just entering on life’s
serious duties and engagements felt he could readily have changed his
own bright prospects for the fate of the elder Christian, whose active
warfare must be nearly accomplished, and who must now retire from
harassing duties to that quiet contemplation so suited to the last
stages of our pilgrimage here.

Recollecting himself and his companion, who was sitting before him
with downcast eyes, and composed though pale features, he added, in a
more cheerful voice,

“And indeed, my dear Miss Duncan, if you have had any experience among
blind people, you must know that there is far less trouble to the
sufferer than to those who care for and watch over him. There are many
alleviations mercifully sent in all trials; and I have often remarked
that those deprived of sight are cheerful, and even joyous, under
their affliction. To you, and to your sisters, the anxiety and
responsibility may be great, but I feel convinced that, in such a
cause, no labor will be a trouble.”

“Trouble!” repeated Hilary, clasping her hands; “Mr. Paine, I can only
consider it, as far as I am concerned, a privilege, a blessing, to be
allowed to minister to such a father as mine. It is a thing to be
thankful for for life.”

“Fear not, then, you will not be deserted, or left without strength to
fulfill your labor of love; services so rendered are indeed a
blessing; and happy as I believe your father to be in having a
daughter from whom he may receive attentions, I hold that daughter
happier still who, from the truest, highest, holiest motives, can give
her undivided affection to such an object. Miss Duncan, if you can
view your position in the true light, you are not an object of pity;
the line of your duty is so plainly marked out, you can have no
hesitation in following it. Give yourself to it unreservedly, and your
strength will not fail; or, if your cares should become too heavy, and
your burden more than you can bear alone, then only believe, and help
will be sent you in your need. Look above for aid, and you will find
it come to you by earthly means, as you require it. Look below, fasten
your hopes on temporal things, and they will wither in your grasp!”

“True, most true; at this moment I feel it true; just now, when, weak
and fainting, you have been sent to strengthen me, Mr. Paine; thank
you for your words. No, I am not to be pitied, indeed; for I can put
my trust above, and even below I have blessings innumerable. You are
right; my duty is plain, and with God’s help I will not depart from
it.”

“I hope we shall always continue to be friends, Miss Duncan,” added
the clergyman; “looking forward as I do to a residence among you, I
feel happy in the prospect of having such neighbors; and I trust to
bring one among you, who, I am sure, will be desirous to be numbered
also among your friends; one whose society will, I hope, be not
disagreeable to you. I will not venture to say more, for perhaps you
may not consider my evidence conclusive, but I hope we _shall_ be
friends.

“I am sure I shall be most happy to have a friend,” replied Hilary,
simply. “I have never had one of near my own age, and I shall look
forward to the prospect of the acquaintance with very great pleasure.
Now shall we go back to my father? perhaps he will want me; and,”
added she, with something between a sigh and a smile, “do not betray
how weak I have been, and then my dear father need not know it.”




CHAPTER VI.

  “But in the world, I learnt, what there
  Thou too wilt surely one day prove――
  That will, that energy, though rare,
  Are yet far, far less rare than love.”
                                         ARNOLD.


     “I can not leave England, and quit for an indefinite time
     the spot which contains all that is dearest on earth to me,
     without one more attempt to avert the necessity of
     separation from you; one more endeavor to soften an
     indifference which occasions me so intense a regret. Dearest
     Miss Duncan, I fear, in my efforts for your father’s
     benefit, I have increased your sorrow, have deepened and
     aggravated the wounds, from which your loving heart was
     already so acutely aching. Forgive me the deed for the
     intention; may I suggest that, however bitter was the pang
     of disappointment, it must be less severe than would
     hereafter be the misery of self-reproach, had you neglected
     any means which might have alleviated his affliction? Your
     pale face of suffering, self-command, and fortitude is ever
     before me; I longed intensely yesterday to speak words of
     sympathy and affection; my heart was yearning to pour out
     its passionate pity for your agony――but I might not――I whose
     love for you is, oh, so deep! so pure, so strong! I was
     forced to be silent, or to breathe only calm sentences of
     courteous regard, and polite, well-bred, decorous
     compassion. Do not be angry with me for putting on paper the
     feeling I can not hope to express otherwise; condescend to
     read and give some attention to what I say. Must I leave you
     now, with this sad destiny closing darkly round you! leave
     you to struggle alone, to toil beyond your strength, to
     sacrifice yourself in the melancholy fate that awaits you!
     Do you think I can contemplate such a conclusion with
     calmness? Oh, no! it is agony to me to dwell upon the idea,
     which haunts me night and day. Beloved, excellent, adorable
     Hilary, you have an angel’s spirit in an angel form, but
     your strength, alas! is mortal, and well I know that rest
     and comfort for yourself will be your last thought, while
     your services of love are poured out on the helpless ones
     around you. May I tell you what is my dream, my vision of
     bliss? I fancy I see you all transported to ‘the Ferns,’
     your younger sisters making joyous with their bright
     presence the dreary walls of the old house, and causing
     their empty chambers to echo to their merry voices; there I
     see them in idea, growing up under every advantage which can
     be procured by love and wealth united; proper attendants,
     masters, literature, enjoyments in doors and out, every
     taste developed, every talent cultivated to the utmost. I
     see your dear parent, too, enjoying under the same roof
     every blessing and comfort which perfect filial love and
     unbounded power could shower on him――every compensation for
     this new affliction which could assist to lighten the
     burden, and brighten the remainder of his path through life.
     And there I see, reigning supreme over all, with all the
     despotic power of love, and gentleness, and tender firmness
     combined, one whose presence is like a ray of sunshine,
     blessing and gladdening every thing within reach. I think I
     see you, ruling the family, governing the parish, protecting
     the weak, comforting the unhappy, delighting the gay;
     influencing all around by the imperceptible power of
     goodness, even as a delicate odor spreads itself unseen, and
     yet all-pervading, driving away what is bad, and purifying
     the surrounding atmosphere. Do you frown upon my dream?
     alas! that there should be that in _me_, which prevents its
     realization; that though to me it looks so fair and
     beautiful, my presence should cast the shadow on it, which
     alone makes it impossible. But is it so? let me ask, is
     there no change? may I have no hope? Have the three months
     which have elapsed since I first ventured to express my
     feelings passed, and left no trace behind? am I as far off
     as ever from the point, the only thing which can make me
     happy? If so, I go to exile and solitary misery to-morrow,
     for solitary I must ever be where you are not; solitary I
     shall continue until the weary months roll by, which you may
     consider necessary. But, tell me how long must it be? how
     long must my home duties be laid aside, my house be left
     untenanted, and myself a wanderer in foreign lands, away
     from all who have any claim on me? Hilary, you shall
     dictate; but remember you decide for more than yourself;
     look at the whole circumstances, and then tell me how long
     shall I be justified in absenting myself from what you have
     taught me to consider duties and responsibilities? Deign to
     give me an answer to this question. Must my dream continue
     nothing but an empty dream, while I go, and for how long――or
     may I remain and realize it?

                                               “CHARLES HUYTON.”

Such was the letter which, on the ensuing day after the interview with
the oculist, Charles Huyton’s groom carried to the Vicarage; and to
this Hilary was forced to reply, for the servant was waiting for an
answer. Was it not a dazzling vision to place before a young girl’s
eyes, whose self-devotion to her family was her most prominent
characteristic? Opulence and all its advantages for them, instead of a
narrowing income, a humble home, and the wearing routine of close
domestic economy; and the price was to give her hand to an amiable and
agreeable man, passionately devoted to her, and a favorite with every
member of her family. Ought selfish feelings to stand in the way, and
prevent their enjoying benefits which she might so easily purchase?

For a moment she hesitated; she deliberated not for herself, but for
those most dear to her. Then, too, there was his plea. Could it be
necessary to insist on his leaving home and home duties, renouncing
his occupations and pursuits, and all for her? Had she any right to
require such a sacrifice? She pondered the question again and again:
her head was bewildered, and she could decide on nothing. Time was
flying quickly; the answer must be written. Oh! for a friend to guide
and counsel her.

Nay, but she had a friend; One who would not leave her; One always
accessible, always loving and patient. And there was a rule, too, a
rule to guide her, if she could but discover it; she knew that she
must not expect sudden illuminations, divine impulses to direct her;
such were not the answers to her prayers for which she had been taught
to look. Her line of duty was marked out, and she could see it,
doubtless, clear and distinct, if she could but remove the intervening
mists and shadows, which passion and prejudice, imaginations,
mistrust, or too great anxiety for the future had thrown across it.
She prayed to be guided aright, and then quietly set herself to review
the case, trusting that she should eventually see what the right was.

The cloud passed from her eyes; she saw the snare laid before her;
stepped aside, and thanked God that she had been saved from sin and
danger.

“Thou shalt not do evil that good may come of it.”

There was the rule; and plausible as the temptation had appeared, she
saw now that it was _evil_. Yes, _evil_ to give her hand without her
heart, to sell herself for any earthly good, either to herself or
others; to make the solemn vow to love, honor, and obey, one toward
whom the two former seemed impossible, and the latter might be
incompatible with other duties. What, if she shrank from the claims
now existing on her, should she therefore form others more
indissoluble, more exacting still? If she had not strength to act a
daughter’s part, should she take the responsibilities of a wife also?
Would she have more time to attend to her father’s wants, when she had
added the cares of an extensive establishment, and a large dependent
neighborhood? What madness to dream of such a change! And would the
luxuries, the indulgences of wealth be a real blessing, a safe
acquisition to those for whom she had been tempted to procure them.
Whose words then were those who spake――“How hardly shall they that
have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven?” Did not He know, or
could He be mistaken?

She wept! not that she must resign the prospect, but that it should
have proved a temptation to her; and seizing a sheet of paper, she
hastily wrote the answer which should decide this point as she hoped
forever.


     “Again, and I trust for the last time, let me say, I thank
     you for your good wishes, but my plans, my intentions are
     unchanged. I deeply regret having been the cause of so much
     disappointment to you. Our duties henceforth must keep a
     separate path. Mine is too clear to be mistaken; nor am I
     making any sacrifice in my resolution; my wishes, my hopes
     of peace and happiness all point to remaining as I am, as
     clearly as my sense of right, and my convictions of duty.
     Now will you allow me, as the only return I can make for
     your attachment and kind wishes, to say one word to you
     about what your _duty_ is? Is it right for you to throw on
     me the decision of what it should be? you know, whatever you
     may say, you can not really make me responsible for what I
     can not help.

     “Must you renounce your country and your home, because you
     must renounce my society? I asked you _not_ to come to the
     Vicarage; I did not bid you go to Dresden――neither do I tell
     you _not_ to go there. If your mother’s family have claims
     on you, of course you must attend to them; if the claims of
     others are pre-eminent, should you not give them their due
     place?

     “Does it become any of us, poor, short-sighted, weak
     individuals to quarrel with our station in life, and because
     Providence denies us one thing we wish for, should we fret
     like a pettish child, and throw aside every other blessing
     in angry disgust? Pardon me for writing thus to you; I
     should not have presumed to do so, but for the part of your
     letter in which you call on me to decide. Mr. Huyton, when
     you have hereafter to answer for your conduct, will it be a
     good plea that you gave up the helm of your mind to another
     hand, one which could not guide you rightly?

     “Now, farewell. I trust that we shall each be led right in
     our separate ways, and if I can give you nothing else, I
     will, at least, give you my poor prayers for a blessing on
     you, in return for the kind wishes you have expressed for my
     family, and the favors you have conferred on them.

                                                         “H. D.”

This answer dispatched, of its results she knew nothing, except that
Charles Huyton left the country with the intention of going abroad;
and this information was conveyed by a servant, who brought over a
little parcel, directed to Miss Sybil Duncan. There was the key of his
library, and an order to his gardener to admit Mr. Duncan’s family,
when and where they pleased, in his grounds, a privilege accorded to
no one else. Hilary was glad of this little proof of kindness, it
shewed that he did not resent her answer; and she trusted that she was
acting from right motives, whatever his course might be.

She was the only one of her family who did not either secretly or
openly regret his absence; but to her the relief was unspeakable, and
she knew that her father owned it was right, however much he might
miss his society.

Charles Huyton gone, she was able to devote herself to other cares and
occupations, and all disagreeable memories connected with him vanished
gradually from her mind in the more pressing duties which surrounded
her, and unexpected pleasures which opened upon her view.

Mr. Barham, the gentleman whose duty it was to keep the chancel in
repair, answered the letter from the Vicar on the subject by a visit
in person, accompanied by his steward, Mr. Edwards, and a surveyor,
whose opinion was much relied on by his employer. Mr. Duncan’s
infirmities rendered Hilary’s presence necessary during the interview;
and the gentlemen really seemed much struck by the young lady’s
personal appearance, graceful manners, and quick yet clear powers of
mind. Mr. Edwards paid her several compliments on her business-like
habits and capacities; the surveyor admired her command over her
pencil; and Mr. Barham, who was a courteous but calm-mannered person,
and who was known generally as possessing a considerable degree of
that pride of family and exclusiveness of habits which often develops
itself in a lofty graciousness to all others supposed to be inferiors,
intimated his wish to come again, and see how the building went on,
and requested permission to bring over his daughters to visit a place
which had so much to recommend it.

Hilary gave a ready acquiescence; and an early day next week was fixed
on for a party from Drewhurst Abbey to come over and take luncheon at
the Vicarage.

In the course of conversation, Mr. Duncan mentioned the circumstance
of the expected arrival of the curate, who was to come down in a very
short time, and take the duty on Sunday. Mr. Barham immediately began
regretting that he had not known that Mr. Duncan was inquiring for a
curate: there was a young man of good family and great talent whom he
should have been glad to have seen settled there――one, in fact, who
was about to marry a connection of his, a cousin of his daughters――it
would have been pleasant to have had them in the neighborhood: Miss
Duncan would have found the lady an acquisition to their society. He
very much lamented that the arrangement had been made without his
knowledge.

Mr. Duncan was privately a little amused at his visitor, who, having
been contented for thirty years to have no intercourse with him, could
hardly have reasonably expected to be consulted on the choice of an
assistant in duties with which he had no concern.

However, he answered very mildly, “that the gentleman in question was,
he believed, an excellent young man, which, so far as parochial
matters were concerned, was of far more consequence than either high
family or astonishing talents, and he hoped no one would find reason
to complain that their Vicar had been hasty or injudicious in the
selection of a pastor.”

“No doubt that is very true, my dear sir,” blandly observed Mr.
Barham; “virtue in a clergyman undoubtedly ranks above all;
nevertheless, the advantages of a cultivated genius and high family
are not to be despised; and although there may be many men of low
birth highly estimable in a moral point of view, yet it is desirable,
for the sake of the character and standing of the clerical body, that
there should be gentlemen also in the profession. They give a tone――an
elevated tone to the whole!”

Mr. Duncan did not feel called on to reply; and after a pause, Mr.
Barham added,

“I could have wished that your curate had been a man of good
connections, and a certain fortune and position in society. Is he
married?”

“Not yet, I understand,” replied the Vicar; “but he has promised to
bring a wife as soon as his new house is ready. And I believe I may
venture to answer for his connections and fortune being both good. He
is a relative of Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns,’ who assured me he was a
man of independent income.”

“Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns!’――how strange! What may his name be?”

“Paine――the Reverend Edward Paine.”

“My dear sir, this is most extraordinary! he is the very man I was
thinking of. I am delighted to hear it; but it is strange that it
should be settled without my knowing it; neither Mr. Huyton nor Miss
Maxwell has informed us. I wonder she did not let her cousins, my
daughters, know. I wonder Charles Huyton has not called to inform me.”

“Mr. Huyton went abroad last week,” observed Mr. Duncan, quietly.

“Abroad!――are you certain? I knew nothing about that, and I should
have expected, from the sort of terms we were on, that he would have
told me. I can hardly believe it.”

Mr. Duncan made no observation.

“I shall call at ‘the Ferns’ to inquire as I go home. Perhaps you have
been misinformed!” continued Mr. Barham.

“I have reason to think not,” was the Vicar’s quiet observation,
conveying, however, no conviction to the mind of his visitor, who only
thought he knew nothing about it.

“But about Edward Paine,” continued Mr. Barham; “how came it settled
without my hearing, I wonder? Whose arrangement, may I ask, was it?”

“It was so recently settled,” answered Mr. Duncan, “that perhaps there
has not been time to let you know; and in that case, I regret I have
forestalled them in giving information, which would, no doubt, have
come more gracefully from the parties in whom you are so much
interested. Charles knew my wishes, and introduced his cousin here;
and Mr. Paine, once introduced, is a person to make his own way; but
almost nothing was said of the lady, so that I was entirely ignorant
of her being a connection of yours. Charles did not even mention her
name to us, did he, Hilary?”

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Barham; “may I inquire who _Charles_ is?”

“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Barham; I mean Mr. Huyton; but for the
last two years I have been so completely in the habit of speaking _to_
him by his Christian name, I sometimes forget and speak _of_ him as
such, too.”

“I had no idea,” said Mr. Barham, a little majestically, “that my
young friend, Mr. Huyton, was so diffusive in his acquaintances. You
were, then, on very intimate terms?”

“He has always been a kind neighbor to us, and being my principal
parishioner, and owning most of the property about, we naturally were
much interested in many of the same things. He has been very good to
the schools, and, indeed, in many ways; the poor will miss him this
winter, for we can hardly expect him to remember them at Dresden.”

Mr. Barham’s notions were quite discomposed by this speech. His
amiable intentions of patronising and bringing into notice a family
who had hitherto “blushed unseen” in the wilds of Hurstdene, seemed
apparently quite thrown away; possibly they were not such entire
representatives of modern Robinson Crusoes as he had imagined them. He
saw, however, no reason for changing his views with regard to
introducing his daughters, and, accordingly, he soon afterward took
leave, with a renewed promise to come at the time talked of.

Isabel and Dora Barham were both younger than Hilary Duncan, but their
friends had evidently done what they could to give them the advantages
of age, or to deprive them as soon as possible of those peculiarities
of youth which consist in simplicity, bashfulness, or diffidence. They
had been early brought out into the world; early introduced into
society; they had been taught to behave, talk, and dress as women, at
an age when more fortunate girls are allowed still to feel themselves
children. They were now, at sixteen and seventeen, extremely elegant
young women, elegantly educated, elegantly dressed, elegantly
mannered, surrounded from childhood by all the refinements and
luxuries of life; accustomed to lavish indulgence of their fancies,
and an unbounded command of money. Suffering was to them a fable;
self-denial a mere myth. Had they not been naturally amiable, they
would have been now detestable――but they were not. Isabel was a little
proud, a little selfish, a little vain; but she had some very good
qualities mixed with these vices, which, in good hands, might have
turned out well. Dora had no particular character at all; she was
merely a reflection of those she lived with; and as these were chiefly
her father and sister, of course she generally fell in with their
tastes, adopted their habits, and believed all they told her.

They were delighted with the introduction to Hilary; they both
commenced a most enthusiastic girlish friendship with her. Isabel’s
was, perhaps, less sincere than Dora’s――she had more of her father’s
patronising tone; and never, in the least, suspected how very far the
vicar’s daughter was really her superior in every essential
particular.

Hilary was very simply sincere in her regard for the two girls. She
admired them exceedingly, and their kindness, their caressing manners,
and very amiable ways, engaged her affection. They soon became
intimate, and the Miss Barhams would ride over of a morning, and
gliding into the Vicarage drawing-room, would spend the whole
afternoon hanging about Hilary, chatting, idling, or pretending to
learn from her some of the many fancy works which she had acquired.
They were continually trying to wile away Hilary to the Abbey; but
this her home occupations forbade, and only twice, during the autumn
and winter following, was she induced to spend an afternoon there, and
then her father accompanied her.

The introduction of Mrs. Paine was another remarkable event in
Hilary’s quiet life, which gave her, perhaps, even more pleasure than
the acquisition of her other friends. She was a very pleasing young
woman indeed, and, although a cousin of the late Mrs. Barham, and
having a good fortune, she was so earnest in her wishes to follow out
her duty, so simple in her tastes, and indifferent to personal
accommodation, that long before Primrose Bank was habitable, she was
established with her husband in tiny lodgings at Stairs farm, and
giving her time and attention as much to their new parish as to her
future home.

The winter passed quietly, but far more cheerfully than Hilary could
have ventured to hope; Mr. Duncan enjoyed Mr. Paine’s society, and
relied on his judgment in all parochial matters; he also liked the two
young ladies who frequented his house, especially Dora, who, he once
told Hilary, might be made any thing, either good or bad, as
circumstances fell out.

Sybil and Gwyneth, meanwhile, were growing very tall; and whether it
was from their intercourse with the young ladies from the Abbey, or
their own nature, they had lately advanced so rapidly, that their
appearance had got the start of their years, and no one would have
guessed them to be less than sixteen and seventeen, instead of what
was actually their respective ages.

The owner of ‘the Ferns,’ although absent in a foreign land, had by no
means forgotten either his friends or his tenants. More than one
extensive order on his banker was remitted to Mr. Duncan, for the
relief of distress, and the encouragement of good conduct; and several
letters were received from him, written to the same person. Hilary
could neither quarrel with the act, nor the manner of performing it.
Although Mr. Huyton was, of course, aware that she would necessarily
be acquainted with the contents of the letters, there was nothing in
the words which could in the least offend her; they breathed warm
interest in his people, affectionate regard for the vicar, and kind
remembrances to his family. No one could have suspected from these
letters what had passed between them, and it seemed to Hilary’s young
and trustful imagination, that absence was effecting the desired cure;
she hoped that when their friend returned, as he talked of doing in
the spring, it would be to resume a pleasant and rational intercourse,
such as it had been eighteen months ago.

One morning, about the first opening of spring, the two young ladies
from the Abbey arrived earlier than usual; so early, indeed, as to
break in upon the girls’ school hours, which was a point Hilary had
long begged them to attend to. She was looking graver than usual,
which they attributed to this transgression; and Dora, putting her
arms caressingly round her neck, exclaimed――

“Now, Hilary, dear, don’t be angry, but give your sisters a holiday,
and let us be happy for once; do you know we have come to say good-by
for ages.”

“Indeed! are you leaving home?” said Miss Duncan.

“Yes, we are going to martyrdom,” replied Dora.

“We are going to town for the season,” said Isabel, in answer to
Hilary’s look of inquiry. “We always do, of course; it is expected of
people in our rank, you know; Dora pretends she does not like it, but
she does really; and if she did not, one must make some sacrifices for
duty.”

“Going to London for the season――that means going to be very gay, does
it not?” said Sybil.

“Oh, yes, Sybil,” cried Dora, “it means turning night into day, and
spending it in hot crowds, for whom one does not care the least
portion of an atom; and employing all one’s energies, faculties, and
time in dressing, dancing, or sleeping――oh dear!”

“Don’t be foolish, Dora; nobody likes company, or pretty clothes,
better than you,” said Isabel.

“That is the worst of it; I like them against my conscience, and every
time I buy some extravagant ornament, I suffer from remorse; and yet
am just as weak at the next temptation. I wish I could say I really
hated it all. Do you know, Hilary, I envy you for staying here so
quietly in the country, and being able to dress plainly and do good,
while I am only able to wish to do either.”

“I am afraid you would feel rather awkward, Dora, either with my
wardrobe or my occupations. Our duties are so different; yours, you
know, is to go with your father to London, to dress elegantly, and
look pretty.”

“That is just what I despise myself for, Hilary――my perfect
uselessness, and life of gaudy show. I never leave you without wishing
I were situated like you. Not too grand to be useful――living in a
small house, instead of those fatiguing large rooms, which tire one to
walk across; having a garden one could love and care for, instead of
being merely allowed to look at papa’s gardener’s plants and shrubs;
having to do things myself, instead of being always waited on; and oh,
above all, having learned to despise the pomps and vanities of life,
instead of all the time loving them in my heart, and feeling them
necessary to my comfort.”

“She is only talking nonsense, Hilary,” interposed Isabel; “she is
seized with these fits of despondency about her own rank in life,
every now and then, and fancies we are all wrong, for living according
to what is expected of us in society. I am happy to say, however, she
acts on principles of common sense, and her democratic theories of
equality and universal brotherhood are confined to theory entirely.”

“It is not right,” said Dora, thoughtfully shaking her head; “it can
not be right; but I do not know what is wrong, and when I begin to
think, I am involved in a labyrinth of doubt. To be admired, courted,
and caressed, can not be the right aim of life, and yet I am sure it
is mine. Now, is not that absolutely contemptible, Hilary, to live for
such objects?”

“I rather suspect,” replied Hilary, “you mistake your real motives.
You know your father likes you to go into society, and is pleased when
you are admired; and this, I have no doubt, is what makes you like it
too. If nobody wished you to go out, I dare say you would be as
quietly domestic as I am, Dora.”

“I do not know; I believe if any body I cared for wished me to stay at
home, I should yield to them with delight. One comfort is, I know the
London dissipation will make me ill, and then I shall be forced to be
quiet.”

“That is an odd sort of comfort, Dora,” said Hilary, smiling; “one I
can not wish for you!”

“It is her nonsense,” observed Isabel.

“Indeed, it is not. I was quite knocked up last year; and I am not so
strong now. I mean, when I am ill, to ask Mrs. Paine to take me, for
change of air, to Primrose Bank, and try how I like small rooms and a
moderate establishment.”

“Here come Mr. and Mrs. Paine,” observed Gwyneth, who was sitting by a
window; “you can settle with her at once, Dora; it would be so nice to
have you at Primrose Bank.”

Mr. Paine went to Mr. Duncan’s study; his wife came to the
drawing-room, bringing with her little Nest, who had been saying her
lessons to her papa. There were some parish matters to be discussed
first with Hilary; and then, before Dora had time to mention her plans
for her expected illness, Mrs. Paine observed, looking earnestly at
Hilary,

“What is the matter, dear?――have you had bad news of any kind to-day?”

“Not _bad_; at least, not necessarily so,” replied Miss Duncan; “but
we heard from abroad to-day.”

“Your brother! nothing wrong about him, I hope.”

Hilary’s eyes filled, but she spoke calmly. Maurice had been ill, very
ill, of a most dangerous fever; the danger was over now, they hoped,
but, indeed, they believed it had been extreme, and he was not yet
well enough to write himself. Their letter had been from his captain,
who had most kindly written to his father, to assure him that danger
was now over, and that they hoped, by care and attention, to restore
this promising young officer to his family and his country; there was
one to the same effect from the surgeon, also, who had written at the
express desire of Captain Hepburn, to certify his being now in a state
of convalescence.

“It was so kind, so very kind, of Captain Hepburn to write,” pursued
Hilary, with emotion; “and such a beautiful, feeling letter, speaking,
oh, in such terms of Maurice, and so desirous to spare my father’s
feelings. I knew Maurice liked him very much, and now I do not
wonder.”

“What a wonderful girl you are, you dear thing!” said Dora, caressing
her; “having all this on your mind, and yet teaching and talking, as
if nothing had been the matter. How did you see, Fanny? for I never
discovered any change in Hilary.”

“Perhaps, Dora,” said Mrs. Paine, “because you are more accustomed to
attend to your own feelings than those of other people.”

“Well, I am afraid I am; I want to know how to cure that. But do tell
me something more about this brother of yours; how long has he been
away? what is he, a captain, too? or what?”

“He is only a mate, Dora; but has served long enough to be promoted,
only we have no interest. But the best part of Captain Hepburn’s
letter, Mrs. Paine, is, that he hopes to get him leave to come home
for his health, and then we shall have him here again!” Hilary clasped
her hands in a very unusual ecstacy.

“And what sort of interest does it need to make a young man a
lieutenant?” inquired Dora, again. “Could papa do it for you?”

“interest at the Admiralty,” replied Mrs. Paine. “I hardly think Mr.
Barham would like to trouble himself about it, because he has a nephew
at sea himself.”

“Oh, yes! cousin Peter――I can not bear him, Hilary; I hope your
brother Maurice is not like our cousin Peter.”

“Absurd, Dora!” ejaculated Isabel; “Peter is a very good sort of young
man.”

However, Dora’s inquiries were not to be stopped by Isabel’s
ejaculations; and before she took leave of the Vicarage, she had made
herself mistress of the rank which Maurice now held, of the time he
had served, and the wished-for promotion he deserved to attain.

Maurice’s illness, and his expected return to England, so excited and
engrossed the minds of the family at the Vicarage, that another piece
of news, which reached them the same time, was comparatively
insignificant; this was the projected return of Charles Huyton.

A letter to Mr. Duncan reached the Vicarage the week after the Barham
family left the Abbey, intimating that he was proposing to be at “the
Ferns” in about a fortnight. It was a calm and friendly letter; not
one expression or sentiment betrayed any strong emotion, nor was there
the smallest allusion to the motive which had taken him abroad. Hilary
was much pleased; and when she had thoughts to spare for him at all,
they were of a quiet and satisfactory nature.




CHAPTER VII.

  “What lady is this, whose silken attire
  Gleams so rich by the light of the fire?
  The ringlets on her shoulder lying,
  In their flitting luster vying
  With the clasp of burnished gold
  Which her heavy robe doth hold.”
                                          TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.


The Barhams had been in town about a fortnight, when Hilary received a
letter from Dora, inclosing another addressed to that young lady;
Dora’s epistle was written in the following words:

     “DEAREST HILARY――

     “You see I have got it done at last; I have coaxed, and
     prayed, and begged; and not in vain. What would I not give
     to see your dear, beautiful face at this moment! I never
     forgot you, and I made up my mind at once. I said nothing to
     papa, because I thought my dear old friend, the earl (he is
     my godfather, you know) would do it for me; and I believe he
     only made me beg for the fun of the thing. I went down on my
     knees to him; we had such a laugh when he brought me the
     little note inside; I do not think it gave him any more
     trouble than just asking. Remember, I should not have begged
     for any body but _you_; and having never even seen your
     brother’s face, my efforts must be acknowledged
     disinterested. Perhaps you had better not tell _him_;
     however, you may do as you please, for I am not ashamed. I
     am not ill yet, but, on my honor, I am not so well as I
     should be in the country; and though I have tried hard to be
     rational, I rather think I am as extravagant as ever. Tell
     dear Mr. Duncan I am so glad for you all, and I only wish I
     could have asked for a step or two more at the same time.
     The pleasure of making you happy is so great, that I think I
     am best off of the whole party, including your brother. Is
     that the reason you are so fond of doing good, Hilary? it is
     much better than jewels or balls; only now the excitement is
     over, what shall I do? Good-by, you dear darling! Mind, I
     expect a letter of thanks, of course. Your loving friend.

                                               “DORA M. BARHAM.”

Hilary read through her friend’s letter in hopes of meeting with
something explanatory of her meaning; failing that, however, she did
not stop to puzzle over it, but opening the enclosure, found a little
note addressed to the Earl, of whom Dora had been writing, informing
him that a lieutenant’s commission for Maurice Duncan had that morning
been made out, and would be forwarded to the young officer by the next
packet.

The delight of the whole family at this very unexpected news was quite
as great as Dora could have anticipated; it was only a pity that she
was not there to witness it.

Of course there was still considerable anxiety about Maurice’s health;
and until the next account arrived from abroad, they were in a state
of too great and trembling uneasiness, to dwell very much on the
prospect of seeing him again; the certainty of the issue checked their
anticipations, and it required no small exercise of patience and
trust, on Hilary’s part, to go through her ordinary duties, at moments
when her mind was tempted to wander off to the possible or the
probable which might yet be in store for them. Mr. Paine’s society was
a great comfort to her; she could talk freely to him and his wife of
her fears as well as her hopes; while to her father, owing to the
relief she thus obtained, she was able to maintain the same cheerful
demeanor as ever, and to speak with far more confidence of her
brother’s recovery, than she really felt.

Mr. Duncan and his daughters were all seated one day in the little
summer-house at the end of the terrace walk; one of the girls was
reading aloud, while the rest were busy with their needles, when a
shadow crossed the window which made them look up, and the next moment
Charles Huyton turned the corner of the building, and stood in front
of them. Down went Sybil’s book and Gwyneth’s work in a moment; while
Nest, slipping from her father’s knee, made no scruple of throwing
herself at once into the arms which were extended to take her.

“It is Mr. Huyton,” said Hilary to her father, in explanation of the
sudden cry of joy from her sisters; and Charles, putting aside the
little one, advanced to the vicar, taking at the same time in his own,
both the hand which was extended toward him, and that which guided and
supported it. Excepting that one tender and prolonged pressure of her
slight and trembling fingers, there was nothing in his greeting of
Hilary which marked any peculiarity of feeling, and even at that
moment he hardly looked at her; his attention was apparently given
entirely to her father; his words, his looks, his smiles, half sad,
half joyous, were devoted to him. He pressed _his_ hand again and
again, inquired most affectionately after his health, and then turning
to the others, greeted Sybil and Gwyneth, with looks of open,
undisguised pleasure, remarked on their wonderful growth, and paid
some little compliments to their personal appearance, which brought a
still richer glow into their cheeks, all the deeper because the
admiration was but half expressed in words, and much more
unequivocally in looks and smiles. Then sitting down among them, he
exclaimed at his pleasure in being there once more, glancing from the
one to the other of the party with happy eyes, taking Nest upon his
knee, and bidding Gwyneth sit beside him, almost as if he had been
Maurice himself; and all with such an easy, disengaged air, and so
entirely devoid of any appearance of a nature to alarm Hilary, that
after the first half hour her heart ceased to flutter, her cheeks to
glow with consciousness or fear, and she was soon conversing with him
as unreservedly, and almost as readily, as her sisters themselves. He
entered into parish matters with Mr. Duncan, and his questions of, How
do you like Mr. Paine? and How does he please in the parish? and many
others of the same kind, were followed by an appeal to the girls as to
how music and painting went on; and then a gentle questioning of
Hilary herself as to the favorite scholars, the old women pensioners,
the idle and mischievous boys who had formerly vexed her; and sundry
other particulars, which proved that whatever else he had consigned to
oblivion, he had not forgotten any thing connected with the welfare of
his tenantry. Discussing the repairs of the church introduced the name
of the Barham family, with whom he was already acquainted, and he
seemed pleased to think that they had formed an intimacy with the
Duncans, and amused at Sybil’s somewhat enthusiastic friendship and
admiration for Dora.

The relation of what she had done for Maurice might have justified
this partiality, but Sybil did not know the particulars connected with
that transaction; Hilary being rather shy of owning the influence
through which the long-desired promotion had been procured.

“And oh! Mr. Huyton, Maurice is a lieutenant,” was therefore the
information which Gwyneth communicated, without any connection with
Dora Barham’s name.

“A lieutenant! I am glad indeed to hear that! I congratulate you, my
dear sir,” was Charles’s exclamation, grasping Mr. Duncan’s hand once
more with warmth; “nay, I think I may do the same to you all,” added
he, taking the two girls’ hands in his, and kissing little Nest very
heartily. “Indeed I do congratulate you all――_you_, Miss Duncan, more
especially.”

He dropped her sisters’ hands and advanced toward her, very
gracefully, yet with a little hesitation, which bespoke doubt as to
whether he were taking too great a liberty.

She could not help placing her hand in the one he extended, and she
looked up with her clear innocent eyes to him, as he stood before her;
there was nothing in his look to alarm her into shyness, and she met
his gaze with quiet, comfortable confidence, as she said,

“Indeed it has been a pleasure, although it, like mortal affairs
generally, has had a drawback, for Maurice has been ill.”

“Indeed! I am sorry――not seriously, I trust!”

Hilary glanced at her father, and then replied, “We have only had a
report from the captain and doctor as yet; we are expecting further
news in a short time. I will show you the letter from Captain
Hepburn.”

She drew the letters from her work-basket, and gave them to him with
another glance at her father, and a sort of beseeching look at him, as
if deprecating any unnecessary alarm to Mr. Duncan. Charles Huyton
understood her, and seating himself by her side, he quietly read
through the two letters, and returned them; observing――“It was this,
doubtless, that prevented his writing to me lately. I should not
wonder if we were to see him here, before you hear again. He will, of
course, return now.”

She felt grateful to him for the cheerful tone in which he spoke,
although she saw, by the anxious expression of his eyes, that he
participated in her uneasiness on her brother’s account.

“And what are your plans now, Charles?” inquired Mr. Duncan, kindly,
laying his hand on his visitor’s shoulder; “have you made up your mind
to become a useful member of society, a good and hospitable neighbor,
a justice of the peace, or to fill any of the other duties which
country gentlemen ought to attend to?”

“I will place myself in your hands, my dear sir,” replied he, with a
sudden glow over his countenance, which Hilary did not see; “you shall
dictate what my duties are. However, I have indeed made up my mind to
renounce my hermit life at ‘the Ferns;’ and, as a preliminary step,
have persuaded an aunt and cousin of mine to come over to England and
pay me a visit.”

“Indeed! who are they?” inquired Mr. Duncan, with interest.

“Mrs. Fielding was my mother’s sister, and, like her, married an
Englishman. Will you do me the great favor of visiting them, Miss
Duncan?” turning suddenly to Hilary. “I am anxious to give them, my
cousin especially, a favorable impression of England.”

Hilary replied she would be most happy; a sort of wondering feeling
passing through her mind, as to _why_ Mr. Huyton was so desirous to
please his cousin. Perhaps he hoped to persuade her to settle for life
at ‘the Ferns,’ and then how pleasant it would be to have a friend in
his wife; her countenance brightened at the idea; and her manner
became more easy and disengaged toward Charles from that moment.

He seemed readily to fall into his old ways, in every respect, except
such as she might have objected to, and never thought of leaving them
for the rest of the afternoon; taking it as much as a matter of course
that he should remain to tea, as the younger girls did.

On their return to the house, while Hilary supported and guided her
father’s steps, he loitered behind with her sisters, strolling along
the terrace, and laughing and chatting with them, telling Sybil he had
found them out by the sound of her voice reading, which fortunately
was not so much altered as her person was, or he should have run away,
believing them to be a party of strangers. But when Mr. Duncan was
safely past the window, by which he entered into his own room, and
Hilary had turned away to take the path to the porch, he immediately
joined her, and began, in a voice and words of sincerest sympathy, to
inquire into the actual state of her father’s sight. She could speak
of it calmly at last; use, and the quiet submission and unvarying
cheerfulness of Mr. Duncan, had reconciled her to the idea, and she
was able to tell him with composure, or rather resignation, that all
was quite dark to him now; but that she was thankful to say, that the
affliction had been so softened and modified, as to be far less
terrible than she had imagined it could be.

Then he alluded to Maurice; but here the chord of feeling vibrated too
strongly; the tension had been too acute for it to harmonize entirely
with faith and patience; and they sounded in a minor key, compared
with the sharp tone that fear and suspense rang out.

It was with quivering lips and trembling eyelids that she spoke of her
brother’s danger, and it was with looks and tones of answering
sympathy that Charles Huyton replied to her. Had not her eyes been at
that moment blinded by her tears, she might have read how deep his
feelings were.

“It is very wrong, I know,” added she, dashing away the drops from her
eye-lashes; “I ought to feel more resigned, knowing as I do he is in
the same Hands still, and that nothing will happen but for the best. I
still shrink and tremble inwardly as to what may be in store, although
I ought to do better, considering the lessons of trust I have had.”

He stepped into the porch, near which they were standing, and taking
up a small basket from the bench, presented it to her.

“You told me once,” said he, “that flowers preached to you, and taught
you lessons of confidence and hope; may I trust that these will say
something of the sort, and not be rejected?”

He lifted the lid, and showed her a bunch of lilies of the valley,
carefully arranged, with their roots in wet moss.

“Oh! how exquisite!” she exclaimed, stooping over them to hide a
little hesitating consciousness, and not venturing to take the basket
from his hands; “these must be forced, Mr. Huyton!”

“Yes; I found them this morning in my conservatory, and brought them
here, thinking you would all like them. Will you not take them?”

“It seems selfish when you have visitors coming to-morrow,” replied
Hilary, still looking at them.

“My aunt and cousin have nothing to do with these; the gardener raised
them on purpose for you and your sisters, I know; I can claim no
merit, except that of willingly bringing them; do take them, and put
them in pots in the drawing-room; and let them speak of comfort.”

“You have chosen your text well,” replied Hilary, receiving the basket
from his hands, and raising first one and then another of the delicate
bells. “They do indeed preach eloquently. Thank you very much for so
kindly reminding me of all these flowers bid me consider.”

He gave her a quiet, rather grave smile; and then turned the
conversation to some other topic, as they walked into the house
together.

He seemed very happy afterward, assisting Gwyneth and Nest in
preparing the flower-pots in which these lilies were to be planted,
while Hilary sat with her father at the window, and gave her advice on
the subject, but was not allowed by any of them to tire herself over
the plants, as she had taken a long walk that morning, and was
looking, they all agreed, both pale and fatigued.

Mr. Huyton did not come to the Vicarage again for two or three days;
he was supposed to be occupied by his visitors, who, they heard from
Mr. Paine, had arrived when expected.

To Hilary’s great satisfaction, Mrs. Paine offered to accompany her to
“the Ferns” to call on these visitors, a task which, for several
reasons, was rather a formidable undertaking to her. They drove over
together, in Mrs. Paine’s little pony-carriage, and were received at
the door of the large house with a degree of splendor and pomp such as
she had never seen there before.

Hilary thought of her first visit to that place, and the quiet way in
which she had then been introduced, as they followed the servants
through the spacious vestibules and ante-chambers into the morning
sitting-room, where Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were sitting.
Happily for them, Charles entered as they did, and he introduced Mrs.
Paine pointedly as his cousin; Miss Duncan was more slightly named,
but it was evident, by the quick glance which Miss Fielding gave, that
her visitor was an object of some interest to her. The elder lady was
equally foreign in her look and her accent, both which betrayed her
birth, although perfectly lady-like, and rather pleasing; the cousin,
in whom Hilary felt more interest, was a handsome girl, more English
than German in her air and voice, and looking so perfectly at home at
“the Ferns,” that Miss Duncan could not get the idea out of her head
that she was consciously destined one day to be mistress there.

“Victoria has been wanting you so much, Charles,” said Mrs. Fielding,
turning to her nephew, who was standing by Mrs. Paine. “It was
something about the drawing she was copying; I hope presently you will
help her out of her difficulties.”

Mr. Huyton said something about happy, and turned to his cousin with a
smile; but Hilary, who unconsciously watched the expression of his
face, was disappointed: it was not exactly the smile she wished to see
there――not like the happy, frank look she had been used so often to
receive, before she learned to know its meaning.

Victoria Fielding threw back a somewhat haughty head, and said, with a
flashing, mocking look of her bright eyes,

“Mamma flatters you! do not fancy I wanted you in the least. I disdain
help. My motto is, ‘By my own hand.’”

“Very well,” replied he, calmly, but with an expression of admiration
in his face; indeed she was so handsome and graceful, that it was not
easy to look at her without admiration.

Her conversation to him was all in the same style, to Hilary she
hardly spoke at all; and when Miss Duncan tried to find subjects of
conversation, she seemed little inclined to reply, unless Mr. Huyton
joined; whatever she might affect of indifference toward him, Hilary
was convinced, was simply affectation. The wish to attract him was
obvious, although shown in a taunting and defying sort of way.

After about ten minutes’ conversation of this uncomfortable and
disjointed kind, Charles suddenly turned to Hilary, and said――

“Have you been into the conservatory lately, Miss Duncan? I should
like you to see my camellias.”

Hilary feeling that any change would be a relief at that moment,
answered that she should like it very much indeed; and then he asked
Victoria if she would come too.

“No, thank you,” replied the young lady, carelessly, “I have walked
round and about it, till I am more weary of that particular spot of
ground, and those especial flowers, than of any thing else on earth;
except myself,” she added, in a sort of whisper.

He smiled again.

“Conservatories should be made like kaleidoscopes, to vary at every
turn, or they grow intolerably dull,” added she aloud; “don’t you
think so, Miss Duncan? Perhaps you don’t know, however; you probably
have not been so often in the one in question as I have.”

“Perhaps not,” said Hilary, very quietly; “but I always thought it
very pretty when I did see it. However, it is many months now since I
was in it.”

“I can not fancy _you_ tiring of flowers,” said Charles, with more
peculiarity of accent than he had used before; so much so, indeed, as
to cause Victoria to raise her head, and turn a sharp look on the
person thus addressed.

Mrs. Paine rose at this moment to go, and Hilary, glad to escape from
the eyes bent on her, prepared with pleasure to take leave of the
whole party. Charles, however, accompanied them out of the room, and
then, as they were crossing the vestibule, repeated his request that
they would come and look at his camellias; adding, with a quiet, grave
courtesy, which he had assumed since his return, “I hope it was by
your own choice that it is so long since you have entered the
conservatory: for though it was optional with you and your sisters to
visit it, it was not left so with the servants whether you should be
admitted.”

“I am afraid, from your saying that, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary,
“that Sybil omitted to thank you for your thoughtful kindness. I
assure you, my sisters have paid several visits here during the
winter, as Mrs. Paine can testify, having accompanied them every
time.”

“Yes, laying claim to relationship,” said Mrs. Paine, smiling, “I
ventured on that liberty.”

“I am truly glad your sisters enjoyed it,” was his answer; he saw at
once the reason why Hilary herself had scrupulously avoided similar
visits: he did not like her the less.

He cut huge branches of heliotrope, and the loveliest camellias he
could find, “to send to her sisters,” as he said. Most gardeners would
have been in despair at the liberties he took; but Mr. Huyton was
peculiar, and with his gardener, Mr. Allan, the Miss Duncans were
great favorites; so perhaps the surveyor to the conservatory did not
grumble very much.

“Your library has been a great resource to my father,” said Hilary
presently, wishing to say something which should show gratitude, and
avoid misconstruction; “he has often expressed himself so much obliged
to you for your liberality.”

“Is not that a lovely bud?” said he, holding up a half-blown camellia,
whose delicate white petals were just displaying the fringe which
gives them such an air of lightness and refinement. “How I do love a
pure, delicate, unostentatious flower, which seems unconscious of its
own charms, and shrinks modestly from sight.”

He placed it in her hand as he spoke; the only blossom he gave her;
the rest he deposited in a basket to be carried to Hurstdene.

“I think you love flowers better than ever,” was her observation, very
innocently made.

“I do,” replied he, gravely, with eyes turned away in another
direction. “Take this little peeping red and white bud to Nest with my
love, it is the very image of her dear little face. See how
coquettishly it half looks out, half hides.” He said this in a light
and playful tone, and she made him a smiling answer, and then Mrs.
Paine, having concluded a dialogue she had been holding with Mr.
Allan, summoned Hilary to the carriage.

As he helped her in, he said, but without looking up at her――

“Was not I right in saying my cousin had nothing to do with lilies of
the valley?”

“She would wear the crown imperial,” said Mrs. Paine, laughingly; and
then they drove off, while Hilary mused on the feeling he entertained
for his cousin, and what she wished that feeling to be, now she had
seen the lady.

She looked forward with a little anxiety to their visit being
returned. It made her uncomfortable to think of it; there was
something in the quick glance of those very bright eyes which
discomposed her, and made her feel shy and shrinking. It was not,
however, half so bad as she expected, when the visitors really
arrived, which they did in the course of a week. Mrs. and Miss
Fielding drove over, Mr. Huyton accompanied them on horseback. The
ladies made themselves very pleasant; the mother conversing with Mr.
Duncan, evidently and sincerely interested by the courteous manners,
mild countenance, and quiet cheerfulness of the blind clergyman;
Victoria devoting herself to Hilary with a sweetness, complaisance,
and air of satisfaction, which, after her former reception, quite
astonished Miss Duncan. She was delighted to meet her young
acquaintance again; she was enraptured by the drive, enchanted with
the dear, picturesque old parsonage, captivated by the charming
antique room, with its old oak wainscotting, and fine rare china
vases, bequests from Mr. Duncan’s grandmother. She called Nest to her,
and kissed and caressed the beautiful child, wanted to draw her
portrait, begged to have her to spend the day with her, to all which
requests Hilary replied with little more than a smile, considering
them too entirely ideal to deserve a serious answer. But in the middle
of one of her most complimentary speeches, Victoria was astonished to
see Hilary suddenly start from her seat, stand one moment gazing
through the window, with clasped hands and parted lips, and the next
spring from the room, and disappear altogether.

Charles Huyton, who had been chatting with the other girls, rose and
looked after her with an expression of anxiety and alarm, then
approaching his cousin, asked if any thing was the matter with Miss
Duncan.

“You, who know her so well,” replied Victoria, with a peculiar smile,
“ought to be aware if this is her usual manner to her guests. May be
it is the perfection of English politeness!”

But little Nest ran after her sister, and throwing open the door,
disclosed to their view, in the vestibule, Hilary clasped in the arms
of her brother Maurice. It was a pretty thing to see; and the sister
was too completely absorbed in her joy to be conscious there were
spectators, as he bent over her glowing face, and kissed her again and
again. The tall and manly figure, the bronzed complexion, and fine
countenance of the sailor, forming a charming contrast to the elegant
girl whose fair cheek rested on his bosom, while her eyes spoke the
welcome she had not words to say.

Charles, however, cut short the amusement of the spectators by
shutting the door, before the younger sisters had seen what was
passing outside the room; and a few minutes passed in a sort of
awkward silence between Victoria and Charles, although Mr. Duncan,
ignorant of what had occurred, was comfortably talking to Mrs.
Fielding.

All thoughts of the visitors at that moment in the drawing-room had
gone from Hilary’s head; she saw only her brother, and was conscious
only of thankfulness to see him again, and a pang of sorrow for the
one who could not see at all. After the first mute embraces, and then
the whispered words of love and joy, Maurice pronounced his father’s
name, and Hilary, half angry with herself for having even during that
short time engrossed all the delight of knowing him safe and well,
placed her hand in his, and led him into the room.

Then she remembered who was there, and her color came and went:
delight, shyness, pride, and embarrassment mingling in her feelings as
she encountered the eyes within, and recalled how abruptly she had
quitted them.

The visitors drew back, and the exclamations of the girls, the
movement, the unusual step, and a whisper or two around him, warned
Mr. Duncan something had occurred.

“What is it, Hilary?” said he, rising and stretching out his hand;
“Maurice――my son!” as his fingers closed upon those which so warmly
grasped his――“thank God!”

But Maurice could not speak. The sight of his father’s helplessness,
the closed eyes, the slow and cautious movement, and the increased
appearance of age which the last three years had produced, overcame
his fortitude, and the young man had to struggle hard with the
emotions of tenderness and grief before he could control his voice to
answer his father’s greeting.

“Can we not go?” whispered Mrs. Fielding to Charles; “we are sadly in
the way.”

Victoria’s eyes were fixed on the group with a thoughtful, longing
expression; but she felt the propriety of her mother’s proposal, and
turned to quit the room.

Hilary recollected herself and them, and advanced to accompany them to
the door, while Maurice still saw nothing and no one but those so dear
to him.

“I am sorry you should be driven away,” said she, gracefully, “though
I can not pretend to be sorry for the cause. He is my only brother.”

“Do not apologize, my charming young friend,” replied Mrs. Fielding,
with her gentle accents, “you must be glad to get rid of us, and I
feel we have had a pleasure we do not deserve, in witnessing so
captivating a family-picture. I congratulate you with my whole heart.”

“If we have acquired knowledge we have no right to,” said Victoria,
pausing before stepping into the carriage, and warmly clasping
Hilary’s hand, “we have paid dear for the acquisition; at least, _I_
have, for I have discovered my own poverty. I could envy you, Miss
Duncan; and of all the charming things I have seen to-day, to love,
and be beloved like you, appears to me, beyond all comparison, the
best. What would I give for such a brother!”

She sprang into the carriage, not deigning to accept her cousin’s
proffered assistance, and turning on Hilary once more her bright eyes,
brighter for the tears that filled them, she kissed her hand, and
drove off.

“I will not stay now,” said Charles, “to intrude on a happiness in
which I can well sympathize; but let me come to-morrow, and welcome
Maurice home――tell him how sincerely I congratulate him; he is not
looking ill, although rather thin. Good-by!”

He released her hand which he had held in a long, lingering clasp,
gave her one look of indescribable feeling, then mounting his horse,
cantered quickly away; for when he turned to wave his hand to her, ere
he had gone two paces, she was out of sight.

Hilary did not pause a moment indeed to watch his departure: she
darted into the house, and was again beside her brother, ere Charles
had looked round. And then, unrestrained, she could enjoy the full
delight of seeing him once more. Oh! the kisses, the congratulations,
the smiles, the tears, the silent rapture, and the joyous exclamations
of that welcome. It was long before they were rational enough to ask
how, or when he arrived in England, or to remember his increase of
rank――they thought only of himself; while he could hardly find words
to express his wonder and admiration at the change the three years had
made in his sisters. Hilary so improved, and yet so little altered;
the same darling girl, and yet more charming and dear than ever. And
the others too! Sybil as tall as Hilary; Gwyneth not much behind; he
could not believe they were the same. Oh! how glad he was to be here.

“And about your illness, Maurice?” inquired his father.

Then came the history of his fever, how it was increased by
over-exertion, how suddenly it had come on, how bad it had been, and
how, so far as human agents were concerned, he owed his life to the
kindness of his commander.

“He is such a good fellow, father; I hope you will know him some day;
I am sure you would like him, Hilary; he has nursed me like a brother;
he gave me up his cabin; took care of me day and night; if it had not
been for him, I must have died, I should have been stifled in my
berth. How glad I am he is made; more glad than for my own promotion,
which, by-the-by, I only heard yesterday at the Admiralty. Hepburn
came home with me, you know: he was promoted from home, and had to
return of course; and as I had leave for my health, we came in the
same packet, and he promised to come down and see us here, when he has
settled some business in town.”

“God bless him!” said Mr. Duncan from his heart; “if a visit here
could give him pleasure, how gladly we will welcome him: you must
write to him in my name, Maurice, and repeat the invitation.”

The girls were never weary of hearing Maurice talk, and the history of
the last two months had to be gone over and over again; while every
variation of praise which could be bestowed on Captain Hepburn was
poured out by the grateful young lieutenant on his late commander. He
was as true as steel, brave as a hero of romance, firm as a rock in
duty, tender as a girl of others, where feeling only was concerned;
indifferent to his own comfort, careful of his men’s, devoted to his
profession, a first-rate sailor, a pattern of an officer, a thorough
gentleman in conduct, a true Christian in principle, and to crown all,
in the imagination of the girls, he was tall, dark, good-looking, of
an old historic family, and comparatively poor! This was the climax to
the interest in his favor; for Maurice knew that Captain Hepburn’s
family had been unfortunate, had lost their property in a law-suit,
and that he had, by much self-denial and economy, succeeded in paying
debts left by his father, and honorably discharging every claim, far
beyond what law alone required of him.

Allowances must, of course, be made in this bright picture for the
favorable prejudice’s of Maurice’s feelings, seeing his senior
officer’s character through the beautiful vista of his three years of
agreeable command, crowned eventually by the extreme personal
kindness, which had largely contributed to save the young man’s life;
but if the brother, in his strong partiality, over-rated the worth and
merits of his friend, it was not likely that the young sisters would
curb their female fancy, and estimate him in their imaginations by a
juster scale, or a cooler feeling for his virtues. Captain Hepburn was
established as an indisputable hero, in the minds of Sybil and
Gwyneth; and even Hilary gave more of her leisure moments to forming
ideal pictures of him, than it was at all her custom to do, with
regard to unknown individuals, or circumstances, which did not
immediately connect themselves with her daily duties.




CHAPTER VIII.

  “And women――things that live and move
    Min’d by the fever of the soul――
  They seek to find in those they love,
    Stern strength and promise of control.

  “They ask not kindness――gentle ways――
    These they themselves have tried and known;
  They ask a soul that never sways
    With the blind gusts that shake their own.”
                                               ARNOLD.


Charles Huyton kept his word, and came over in the morning, as he had
promised, to see Maurice. There was not much doing in the way of
study, or regular employment, that day; even Hilary was unsettled by
her joy, and after two or three vain attempts to promote reading, or
to engage in their usual occupations, she had given it up, and the
whole family were clustered together round Mr. Duncan’s chair on the
lawn, who, while enjoying the warmth of a spring morning, was also
delighted to be surrounded by the happy voices, and caressed by the
soft hands which seemed continually flitting about him.

The happiness of her feelings, and her conviction that Victoria
Fielding was destined to be Charles’s wife, made Hilary more than
usually cheerful and disengaged in her manners to the visitor; and his
looks and his words were in general so carefully guarded, that she had
nothing to alarm her into coldness or reserve. Frank and friendly to
Maurice, as usual, more so, perhaps, even than formerly, he was; but
_he_ must have been a very close observer, who could have detected
from any thing which passed, that he regarded Hilary with a different
feeling from her sisters. The only thing which could have indicated
peculiar and strong attachment, indeed, was his extreme warmth and
affection of manner to her father and brother; and this might also
arise from other causes unconnected with her. So Hilary was happy and
at ease; Maurice was with her, and Charles, as she supposed, grown so
rational, as to be content to give up a woman who did not love him,
and seek one who did, in her place.

While Mr. Huyton was there, Mr. and Mrs. Paine walked in, having just
come up from the village school; that being one of the duties of which
they had relieved Hilary, since her father’s infirmity had required so
much more of her time and attention. When pleasant people know one
another well by name and report, they do not take long in becoming
acquainted on meeting; so half an hour had scarcely gone by, before
they were all on the most comfortable and easy terms imaginable.

“Only think, Hilary,” said Mrs. Paine, “Dora Barham has carried her
point, and is coming down here next week; let me see, this is
Wednesday; yes, she is coming on Monday next, to stay with me, for
change of air. I never thought Mr. Barham would have allowed her to
give up the chances of a London season.”

“The chances to her, I really believe, would have been a severe fit of
illness,” replied Hilary. “She is very delicate, and I have no doubt
Primrose Bank will be more beneficial to her than Bryanstone-square in
every respect.”

“Who is going to be your visitor?” inquired Charles of his cousin’s
wife.

“Oh, Dorah Barham, my pretty little cousin; you remember her, I dare
say, when you were in England last year. You used to visit at the
Abbey, I know.”

“I remember your cousins very well,” replied he, expressively; “very
agreeable women in society. Some of those girls who are reared
entirely in a forcing-house, and brought out as fashionable ladies,
when they ought to be only children. I used to think her rather idle
and weak, but amiable enough if she were only allowed to be so. With
such an education, one must not look for simplicity, or real
refinement of mind, but be thankful for unaffected and elegant
manners, when one can meet them.”

“You are unjust, Mr. Huyton,” exclaimed Hilary, with animation; “Dora
Barham is much more than that; she has most genuine kindness of heart,
and sweetness of disposition. No one must say a word against Dora
Barham in my hearing, on pain of my intense displeasure. Maurice, I
appeal to you――be her champion.”

“I am convinced,” replied Maurice; “I have been for some months
convinced of her excellence; ever since she first formed your
acquaintance I have been prejudiced in her favor; and though I have
never seen her, there is no lady in the land to whom I am so perfectly
ready to swear allegiance, and devote myself as her champion.”

Mrs. Paine laughed.

“Well, you will have the opportunity soon, I believe; I shall be
curious to know whether she will answer your expectations.”

Mr. Huyton looked puzzled at the enthusiasm of Hilary and Maurice; he
was not aware of the cause of his interest. The young lieutenant had
learned his obligation from his sister, and although his pride might
have been more gratified had promotion been the unsolicited reward of
merit, his feelings were excited and warmed towards the girl, whose
love for Hilary had chosen so judicious a way of exhibiting itself.

“I was charged with a commission from my aunt and cousin,” said
Charles, after a while, “which I hope to execute successfully, or the
consequences will be, I can not venture to say what. Will you all come
over and spend to-morrow at ‘the Ferns?’ Excuse the shortness of the
invitation; it is not to be a formal visit, but a friendly one. Pray
say yes!”

Some excuses were urged by Hilary, but Mr. Huyton would not accept
them. He asked Mr. Duncan first; he appealed to every member of the
family; and from each, especially from Nest, obtained a ready
assurance that each would like very much to go to ‘the Ferns’ to spend
the day. Hilary could not contend against such an overwhelming
majority, and was forced to yield. Charles only urged Victoria’s
wishes to her; it was her invitation, her earnest desire; she wished
to see more of them all; every thing should be arranged to suit the
hours and the tastes of the various members of the family. There were
plenty of amusements for little Nest, and another little girl, a very
nice child, had been invited to meet her. The carriage should be sent
to fetch them, and should take them back in the evening, and Mrs.
Fielding hoped that she should be allowed the pleasure of devoting
herself entirely to the entertainment and care of Mr. Duncan, who so
strongly reminded her of her own father, now some years deceased, that
she longed to see him again, and see more of him.

To resist such an invitation was impossible; and Hilary, mentally
wondering why Victoria should be so anxious for her acquaintance, and
yet gratified at seeing the kindness extended to her whole family, and
not confined exclusively to herself, was, on the whole, much pleased
at the idea.

The next morning proved as warm and bright as could have been desired
by any of the party; and twelve had hardly struck from the church
clock when the carriage drove up to the door. Nothing could exceed the
warm welcome and the undisguised pleasure with which they were all
received at ‘the Ferns.’ The ladies and Mr. Huyton were loitering on
the lawn, in front of the conservatory, and Mrs. Fielding immediately
proved her sincerity by gently taking possession of Mr. Duncan, to
whom she devoted herself so unremittingly, that Hilary found nothing
to do for him.

The luncheon and children’s dinner occupied a considerable time, and
after that, while Mr. Duncan was driven out round the park in a low
garden chair, by his indefatigable companion, and amused by her lively
and interesting conversation, the rest of the party adjourned to the
bowling green. This, which was most beautifully kept, was surrounded
by a double row of limes, whose long bare branches were already
showing the bright crimson buds which precede the leaves, while they,
as yet, afforded but a partial interruption to the sunshine, which, in
April, in England, is not often too hot.

Charles, Maurice, Gwyneth, and Sybil entered into a spirited game at
bowls, while Victoria and Hilary paced up and down on the broad walk
under the trees, partly observing the game, partly engrossed in
conversation. Miss Fielding seemed particularly interested in the
details of her companion’s daily life, about which she asked
innumerable questions; she also admired Maurice very much and very
openly to Hilary, who was as much pleased at this as she was amused
and surprised at her companion’s entire ignorance of English habits
and domestic life.

“Yes, I know little enough about my father’s country,” replied
Victoria, “but I want to understand it better; and I do not think my
cousin’s house or customs are at all a rule for real Englishmen; he
is, like myself, half German.”

“I do not think he would be a bad specimen,” replied Hilary, “let his
country be what it may, he is so very kind and considerate to every
one about him.”

“Charles! yes, he is a good sort of person,” said Victoria, smiling;
“lets me have quite my own way here; has given me _carte-blanche_ to
do as I please; a liberty I can not always expect, so I mean to make
the most of it while it lasts.”

“I dare say it will last,” observed Hilary.

“Oh, I don’t know; you English wives are so very domesticated and
subdued; you seem to me to give up all will and way of your own; one’s
own identity is lost in the unity of the marriage state; one is merged
into another’s being; and so becomes nobody, in fact as well as deed.”

“Perhaps it may be better where such is the case,” said Hilary, “but
it is not invariable.”

“Well, I like to do things well,” said Victoria; “and when I _am_ an
English wife I mean to behave as is expected of women of fortune and
family. Upon the whole, I do not think it will be bad.”

“You are going to marry, then?” said Hilary, a little hesitatingly,
yet anxious for the answer.

“I am to be married in the autumn,” replied Victoria; “meantime I
intend to enjoy myself, and Charles lets me reign here _en princesse_.
He certainly is good-nature itself with regard to me.”

“He told me at first how anxious he was to make England pleasant to
you,” observed Hilary, recollecting the wonder she had felt when he
had mentioned it to her.

“Now, I want to consult you,” continued Victoria, “about some of my
plans.――Ha! well bowled, Mr. Duncan; do you see, your brother plays
well; I think we will weave a crown for the victor, shall we, or at
least give him a sprig of myrtle to stick in his coat as a trophy?
Charles, you will be beat entirely. I wonder you do not exert yourself
more for the sake of your partner.”

“I suspect Miss Gwyneth rejoices more in her brother’s prowess than
she would in mine,” replied Charles, pausing before he sent off his
bowl, which had been driven by Maurice’s last stroke close to the edge
where the ladies were standing. “My defeat excites no sympathy, and my
victory would raise no exultation, so long as one of the family lost
by what I gained.”

He was gravely considering the bowl which he held in his hand as he
spoke, and did not raise his eyes, although Victoria bent hers on him
with a most expressive glance, as she answered in her native language;
but what was the nature of her observation Hilary was not sufficiently
mistress of German to understand; she only saw that the few words
brought a deeper glow to his cheek, and a sort of suppressed smile to
the corners of his mouth, both which spoke no ordinary sense of
gratification. It was the first time she had observed any thing like
emotion in his intercourse with his cousin, and she concluded that it
was some expression of affection or encouragement which had called up
that look of pleasure.

Victoria turned away, and drew her companion on also, resuming the
topic which had interested her before this little interruption,
namely, a party which she wished to give in her cousin’s house. It was
to be a sort of fête, uniting a daylight and an evening party――a
déjeuné in a marquee on the lawn, and out-of-door amusements for the
afternoon――a band of music in the gardens, flowers, fish-ponds, a boat
on the lake, and any other diversions they could devise or invent. All
the country should be asked, and no expense or trouble spared to make
it delightful.

“But, Miss Fielding, consider the time of year,” exclaimed Hilary; “we
are but just at the end of April, and May is often so cold a month
with us that we can not reckon on fine weather for an out-of-doors
party.”

“Stupid climate, then; what, not after the twelfth? I thought of the
fifteenth, which would be a Wednesday; surely the weather by that time
_must_ be fine.”

“_May_ be,” replied Hilary, laughing; “when you have been a little
longer among us, you will find there is no _must_ for an English
climate at any time of year. Sometimes we have snow in May; but by the
fifteenth, perhaps, there may be sunshine and green leaves.”

“I shall trust to that, and plan accordingly,” replied Victoria;
“there is nothing like hope.――There goes your brother again; how he
plays; ah, Charles is completely conquered.”

The girls were tired, and the gentlemen, too, were willing to rest, so
they all went into the conservatory, and seated themselves there,
Victoria beginning a very lively conversation with Maurice, who was
far too much of a sailor not to be ready to admire any handsome young
woman, and quite able to make himself agreeable to her.

On the whole, the visit passed off most pleasantly; they dined rather
early, and after coffee, were allowed to return home in sufficiently
reasonable time to prevent Nest falling asleep before getting into the
carriage. Hilary, whose mind was now quite easy regarding Mr. Huyton,
for she never doubted but that Victoria was engaged to him, though she
had not mentioned his name, was quite cheerful and happy; no longer
afraid of addressing Charles, nor shrinking from his notice; and
delighted to think that his future wife was so pleasant, and so well
disposed toward herself and family.

From this time there was a great deal of intercourse between the two
young ladies, sometimes carried on by notes, which Charles most
frequently brought over, but more often by visits from the cousins to
their friends at the Vicarage; for Hilary could not again be tempted
to “the Ferns;” and therefore Victoria, who was always wanting her
advice, had to seek her at home.

Often the elder lady accompanied them, and insisted on taking out the
clergyman for a drive, while the young people settled their concerns
together: half the notes of invitation, at least, were written by
Hilary’s hand, and plans for ornament or amusement suggested by her
head.

The younger girls were wild at the prospect of such an unexpected
pleasure; and as there were to be numbers of children of the party,
Nest was included among the visitors.

Mr. and Mrs. Paine necessarily often came in for these conferences,
although they did not intend to have any share in the grand fête, Mrs.
Paine’s health at the time affording her a rational excuse for
avoiding excitement and fatigue.

Their domestic party at Primrose Bank was in due time reinforced by
the promised visit of Dora Barham, who made her appearance at the
Vicarage the next day; and whatever might have been the state of her
health on leaving London, she certainly was glowing enough when
introduced to her darling Hilary’s tall brother.

The handsome young officer, with the frank gratitude natural to him,
made a little advance toward shaking hands with the pretty young
woman, to whom he was so essentially obliged; an advance which would
have been instantly checked and cut short by recollections of what
cold courtesy required, had she not perceived both the first motion
and the subsequent impulse. More anxious to save him from awkward
feelings than scrupulous about etiquette, she gave him her hand with a
charming grace and a bewitching smile, from the powerful effect of
which Maurice did not recover for the rest of the morning, at least.

Half an hour afterward, the party was scattered considerably; Mr.
Duncan and Gwyneth out driving with Mrs. Fielding; Maurice, Sybil, and
Dora, sauntering along the terrace in the garden; Mr. and Mrs. Paine,
quietly at work in the school; and Hilary seated between Victoria and
Charles, talking over plans, smoothing difficulties, and showing how
impossibilities even might be conquered or set aside.

Several days slipped by, much in the same way. Dora was a heedless
girl, and more than once left a bracelet or a handkerchief at the
Vicarage, which made it indispensable that Maurice should go over to
Primrose Bank, to return it, on those mornings when she did not intend
to come to the Vicarage; and this intercourse was carried on to such
an extent, that Mrs. Paine became seriously alarmed for the result.
She knew Mr. Barham well, and was perfectly certain that any
attachment to a poor lieutenant, on his daughter’s part, must be as
little to his taste as aloes to a child. To remonstrate with Dora,
would infallibly make matters worse, if she had any inclination in his
favor; and poor Mrs. Paine most heartily wished that she had never
undertaken a charge of so delicate and difficult a nature, as the care
of her young cousin.

To her great relief, however, before ten days had passed, Mr. Barham
and Isabel came down for a few days to the Abbey, and Dora was
summoned home immediately. Maurice regretted it much; but poor Dora,
who had permitted her imagination to be most unwisely occupied by the
charms of her new acquaintance, felt it a great deal more; and now
looked forward to the grand fête at “the Ferns” as a day of possible
felicity, because it would throw her once more into his society. She
made some effort to go over to the Vicarage once or twice; but Isabel
seemed backward to do it, observing, that now Hilary had her brother,
it made a difference; and poor Dora, only too conscious that it did
make a most important difference, dared not press a proposal of the
kind, from this very consciousness. Whether Isabel knew of her
frequent interviews with Maurice Duncan, she did not discover, and
could not decidedly guess; the only motive avowed for the visit to the
country, was to be present at Mr. Huyton’s grand party; and as several
friends accompanied Isabel from London, their abstaining from their
former frequent visits at the Vicarage while engaged with visitors,
appeared too natural to require an excuse.

As I said, Dora felt the separation more acutely than Maurice, partly
because he knew his own admiration to be so very presumptuous that he
could no more wonder at her being removed from his society, than he
could at the setting of the sun or moon; and partly because he had
another engagement, which necessarily engrossed his time and occupied
his thoughts. This was a visit from Captain Hepburn, who came down in
answer to the pressing invitations he had received both from Maurice
and his father.

His arrival in itself was rather a disappointment to the younger
girls; he came down in so very unheroic a style, as little accorded
with their romantic fancies regarding him. In the first place, he did
not take them by surprise, but having written to announce his
intention, afterward came just when he had promised, and might have
been expected. Then he drove up in a gig, and brought a portmanteau
and hat-box; he wore a black coat, and an ordinary hat, and seemed to
have met neither misfortunes nor adventures on his journey.

He certainly was tall and handsome, but he was also quiet and grave,
with a complexion so bronzed by weather, and an expression so
thoughtful and sedate, as to give him the appearance of six or eight
years more than his actual age.

The two girls were awed into silence and fear, and even Hilary felt
the regard she had already imbibed for him, deepen into a respect
almost too strong to be compatible with ease, and which produced an
appearance of timidity and reserve in her manners, not at all usual
with her. This, however, was only at first; fear soon wore off with
him, for he was as simple as he was quiet in his habits and manners,
and as easily pleased as Maurice himself. He arrived in time for their
early tea, and Maurice having once mentioned what their hours were, he
appeared perfectly ready to conform to them. His friendly regard for
Maurice was indisputable, and his pleasant and attentive manners to
his father were very conciliatory. To the young ladies he was at first
quietly civil, and Hilary learned to appreciate more correctly the
anxious _empressement_ and extreme attention once so naturally
received from Charles Huyton, when she discovered that politeness
alone did not dictate such devotion.

Captain Hepburn had not been twenty-four hours in the house, before
all the young ladies learned to regard him with composure as well as
respect. He was generally rather silent, and much given to reading, in
which occupation he spent nearly his whole morning, in appearance so
profoundly engrossed by the page before him, as to be unconscious of
all else. This quiet habit made it perfectly possible even on the
first morning, for the others to occupy themselves as usual; Sybil and
Gwyneth read and wrote, worked, drew, or practiced on the piano, as
comfortably as if Captain Hepburn had been a hundred miles off,
instead of being seated at a table only three yards from themselves;
and Hilary went in and out, and attended to her father’s comforts,
arranged her housekeeping, worked for Maurice, overlooked her sister’s
exercises, or taught little Nest her arithmetic, exactly as if there
had been no visitor present, or as if he had been there all her life.

When she appeared with her bonnet on, and her youngest sister by her,
and half-whispered to Sybil that she was going to take something to
Mary Clay on the Common, Captain Hepburn roused himself from his
studies, much to her surprise, and asked leave to go with her.

Leave was granted, and the trio set out together; Maurice was reading
to his father, so he did not accompany them.

It was a very pleasant walk, after Hilary had conquered the first
feeling of shyness which her companion excited. He conversed so
pleasantly at first about the forest, and forest scenery in England
and abroad, then about Maurice; and of him he spoke so kindly and
cordially, that Hilary took courage to say what she had before been
longing to express, their extreme and heartfelt gratitude for his
kindness and attention to their brother during his perilous illness.
Captain Hepburn would gladly at first have stopped her thanks; but she
would not be stopped, and the earnest eloquence, the trembling tones
of deep feeling, the glowing, grateful expressions, were of a nature
to touch the heart of even a cold or selfish man, and on him, who was
neither, produced a powerful effect. He looked at her eyes glittering
with tears, at the color varying in her cheeks, at the lips trembling
with emotion, and he thought he had never in his life seen so
interesting a picture of affection and sensibility.

“You think a great deal too much of what I did, Miss Duncan,” said he,
when she paused; “I only wish I deserved your thanks. Maurice is as
fine a fellow as ever lived, and one could not do too much for him;
and now I see what his home is, and whose hearts and happiness were
wrapped up in his welfare, I am doubly happy to have been of any use.
There is no need of repaying me with thanks, it is more compensation
than I deserve.”

“We can not think so,” replied Hilary, raising her eyes to his face.

“To see your brother with your father is perfectly beautiful,”
continued Captain Hepburn, well knowing how to return the pleasure
which Hilary’s thanks had given him.

“Oh, yes!” cried she, artlessly, “is it not? we are so happy when he
is at home.”

They walked on in silence for some time, and when he spoke again, it
was to make some remark on the advancing spring.

From that time all remains of shyness had vanished from Hilary’s
manner to their guest, and she became as perfectly at her ease with
him as with Maurice himself. The first week of his visit was a very
quiet one; their visitors, except the Paines, had deserted them; Mr.
Huyton had gone to London, and was not to return until the fourteenth,
and Victoria and her mother had other engagements, which occupied them
during the same time. This week of repose was very welcome to Hilary,
it was a relief after the unusual bustle and occupation which had
preceded it; she was able to resume her old domestic habits, and
although the party in prospect must sometimes claim a thought, she was
not obliged to give up all her leisure moments to its concerns.

She read, and worked, and walked as in old time, with one important
exception, that she had a companion such as she had never had before.
There is an affinity between some minds, which is inexplicable and
incomprehensible to those who have it not. That week had not been
passed away, before Hilary had learned to look with interest, and
something more indefinable still, for the opinions of Captain Hepburn,
as she gave her own; a glance told her how well she was understood,
even before the words of agreement came, and then she felt she was
right. She learned more, too; she saw how those dark eyes would fix
themselves on her with an expression which sent a strange thrill of
pleasure through her heart, even when it brought a bright color to her
cheeks; she discovered how often when his head was bent over his book,
his glance was following her as she moved about the room, and she was
neither annoyed nor frightened at the discovery. It was so pleasant to
find that this cultivated and intelligent man, as brave as he was
good, and as clever as he was kind, could take such interest in her
thoughts, her ways, her wishes. She looked up to him as something so
immeasurably her superior, that his approbation seemed an honor; she
felt she could trust him; that he would be one who would sacrifice all
to right, and that no selfish consideration would induce him to forget
her interests, or to endeavor to influence her to a questionable act.

There was some strange spell on her surely, which made her confide to
him so many of her fancies and feelings; thoughts which were hard to
put into words, but which he understood intuitively, or from a hint, a
few hesitating sentences, or even an unfinished phrase. And then when
he talked, it was so delightful to hear him, there was such a spirit
of kindness, sincerity, uprightness, through all he said, that she
unconsciously ranked him as the first of human beings, and his
occasional words of half-uttered commendation as the most valuable
praise she had ever received. Captain Hepburn, in that single week,
had done what Charles Huyton, in two years, had failed to accomplish;
he had, unknown to herself, touched Hilary’s heart, and won a large
share in her affections.

The day preceding the fête at “the Ferns,” brought Victoria over to
the Vicarage to make the final arrangements concerning Hilary and her
sisters. Mr. Duncan entirely declining to be present, it had been
settled that Mr. and Mrs. Paine should spend the day with him, while
his daughters were all absent; an arrangement which Hilary was more
than half inclined to contest, as hardly doing sufficient for his
comfort. She and her sisters were to be under the especial care and
chaperonage of Mrs. Fielding, who, since she could not persuade the
father to come, said she should find some compensation in taking
charge of his daughters. Victoria came on Tuesday to propose that the
sisters should be fetched over rather early, that they might be
comfortably established before the general assembly appeared; and,
also, Miss Fielding said that Hilary might help her overlook the
preparations, and see that all was complete and appropriate.

While she said this Victoria’s eyes were glancing inquiringly at the
tall, dark, handsome stranger who was seated, with a book in his hand,
at the other end of the room, but who, she was sure, was listening
attentively to her discourse. After a moment’s consideration, Hilary
asked leave for Maurice to bring a friend with him, and then named
Captain Hepburn to Miss Fielding; but the introduction was not made
without a slight blush, which Victoria’s keen eyes perceived. She
received this new acquaintance with equal grace and graciousness, gave
him a cordial invitation to her fête, and was as pleasant as possible
for a few minutes; then she turned again to Hilary, talked of Charles,
who was to return that evening; his anxiety that all should be right,
his confidence in Hilary’s taste, and his wishes that it should be
consulted, and some other remarks, of a kind which _she_ passed by as
mere compliments, from the woman who was engaged to Mr. Huyton; but
which there was another person whose ignorance of this fact made him
view very differently.

When Victoria was gone, Captain Hepburn arose, and after walking once
or twice from the window to the table, he suddenly asked Miss Duncan
if she was not intending to exchange her thimble for her bonnet, and
take some exercise that afternoon.

Maurice and his father had gone on a long expedition across the
forest, the latter on a pony which his son led, and Hilary had
intimated an intention of going to meet them on their return, which
Captain Hepburn was evidently anxious she should fulfil. Her sisters
were at Primrose Bank, and there was nothing to interrupt the
perfection of their _tête-à-tête_ except a slight and unusual shade of
something in Captain Hepburn’s eyes, which Hilary had never seen
before, and did not quite understand now.

Whatever might be the source of this change, whether displeasure,
anxiety, or weariness, it somewhat awed and chilled her; she looked up
to him with such reverence, and thought so humbly of herself that she
did not venture to seek an explanation. She fancied that either he was
secretly tired of her society, or that she had said or done something
which had appeared to him silly or wrong; and she felt ashamed of her
imaginary fault, although quite unable to attach any definite name to
her misdemeanor. She walked on silently, and so did he by her side,
casting now and then a longing, sorrowful look at her face, which, had
she ventured to meet it, would have told her it was neither anger nor
contempt then occupying his mind.

At length he spoke.

“That Miss Fielding! what is she to the owner of ‘the Ferns,’ Miss
Duncan?”

“Cousin,” replied Hilary; she hesitated whether she should add more,
but thought it best not to explain what she believed their relative
position to be.

“And this Mr. Huyton, of whom she speaks so much; is he married?” said
he, fixing an anxious look on her face as he spoke.

“No, not yet,” said Hilary, almost unconsciously betraying a little of
the amusement at the question, which she could not effectually
suppress.

“And you know them all very well, I suppose?” was his next
observation.

“I have not known Miss Fielding very long, but she is so kind and
friendly, that I look forward with pleasure to――” she checked herself
with a blush, that she was so nearly owning her expectations.

He saw it; and the momentary glow which colored his face gave way to a
deeper shade and a paler hue than before.

“Mr. Huyton we have known nearly three years,” added Hilary, looking
up; “I think you will like him, perhaps; and yet I am not sure; there
is a great difference between you.”

“Very great,” observed he, with assumed philosophy; “he has
recommendations to which I can not aspire――wealth and station are
great advantages; and three years allow time for all good qualities to
become apparent; so lengthened a friendship is enough of itself to
speak for him.”

Hilary was silent for some minutes, and then raising her eyes timidly,
she said――

“There is always a debtor and creditor side in all accounts, Captain
Hepburn!”

“True, as a principle; to what do you refer, Miss Duncan?”

“To what you just said,” blushing deeply as she spoke; “I only wish to
remind you, that even Mr. Huyton may not have all the advantages of
life within his reach; and there may be grievances to be endured even
by him, of which we know nothing.”

“True. I acknowledge we are more ready to reckon our troubles than our
blessings,” replied he, in a tone of self-correction; “and as we see
the bright parts of our neighbors’ life, and not those which are in
shadow, we are apt to forget how much may be concealed.”

“Yes,” replied Hilary, “we gaze at our neighbors as we do at the moon,
and often forget their existence altogether when they are not lighted
by the rays of prosperity. It requires an effort of the reason to
realize that our lot in life, like the face of our planet, may seem as
bright to their view as theirs does to us; we are so intimately aware
of the roughnesses and inequalities which surround our feet, and see
so little of the light of Heaven on our own path.”

He smiled, and answered,

“You are fond of picturesque analogy, Miss Duncan.”

“Distance alone, I think, often prevents our judging with accuracy,”
continued Hilary; “what we take for an ornament, or a support, may be
simply a chain or a burden; and what we fancy a halo of glory, is,
perhaps, the torturing fire consuming its victim.”

“You are exerting your fancy, I think, to make me view my lot in life
with complacency.”

“No, I was trying to convince you of the injustice of the charge you
brought by implication against me just now,” was Hilary’s answer,
half-shyly given.

“What charge?” inquired he, with some eagerness; “of what could you
imagine I could accuse you, to require any justification?”

“By implying that the difference I alluded to, as apparent between you
and Mr. Huyton, must necessarily be a comparison to the disadvantage
of either. Or supposing that the possession of property had any
influence on my likes or dislikes.”

“Did I imply such injustice to you? And yet, though theoretically we
know of how little importance wealth may be in attaining the great end
of life, it is difficult always to regulate our wishes; wealth gives
so much power of doing good and making others happy.”

“But often, too often, takes away the wish to do so,” returned Hilary.
“But if the power to oblige can be obtained only by wealth, Captain
Hepburn must have valuable hoards of available riches; for I know
those who feel themselves unable to repay what they owe him, except by
sentiments of gratitude which can never grow cold.”

He turned his eyes upon her with a look of pleasure which was unseen,
for her eyes were bent on the ground; but he made no answer.

“Mr. Huyton’s wealth will oblige the whole neighborhood to-morrow,”
continued she; “but who will remember it as a favor three months
hence? Oh, no, the obligations which wealth alone enables one to
bestow can never be the most highly prized, or gratefully
acknowledged.”

“I admit it; at least by those whose gratitude is worth having,”
replied he, giving her one of those looks which she felt all over her,
in every nerve; “the gratitude of the pure, unworldly, high-toned,
tender heart, is very different in nature and quality from any which
could count the cost of a favor by pounds and shillings. Our standard
of worth is regulated, I suppose, by our favorite possessions, and the
minds which value affection and truth the most, will often esteem
services springing from these motives far beyond their intrinsic
merit. They affix an imaginary importance to such acts, from certain
properties which they perceive through the magnifying lens of a loving
heart; while the ignorant and coarse-minded, seeing no token of what
may be below the rough surface, naturally prefer a polished brilliant,
even though it may be paste.”

It was Hilary’s turn to be silent now.

“It is La Bruyère, I think, who says that the way in which riches and
honors are distributed in this world, shows of how little real value
they are in the sight of Heaven,” added Captain Hepburn, when they had
walked on in silence a short time.

“That seems to me too much of a discontented sort of submission for
poor people to comfort themselves by,” said Hilary; “we know that
riches and honors are great trials and temptations, but they may also
be great blessings. Those who have them may view them in the light in
which the satirist places them, and so learn to value them less; but I
do not think it does for those who have them not to comfort themselves
with thinking that they are bestowed because people are wicked. May
be, it is their possession which has hardened the heart, or blinded
the eyes, and so their owners are subjects for our pity, not our
censure. Don’t you think it is safer to view them as trials than as
judgments?”

“You mean that we should be thankful, not self-complacent, for being
poor: grateful, and also fearful, if we are rich,” said he.

“Yes, and do not fancy, from what I said, that riches have spoiled Mr.
Huyton. Papa thinks very well of him, and I have no doubt his wealth
has hitherto proved a blessing to many.”

The free and disengaged air with which she spoke would have carried
the conviction of her calm feelings regarding the owner of “the Ferns”
to any one but a lover, who felt his worldly circumstances formed a
painful contrast to the individual in question.

After a little pause, Captain Hepburn began again.

“You have afforded me a striking example of your own theory, Miss
Duncan, by showing that it does not require more than a wish to do
right――to be able to confer favors. Your reproof for my discontented
allusion to my worldly circumstances is an obligation, the value of
which I hope I am not too dull to appreciate.”

“A reproof!” said Hilary, with a look of alarm and crimson cheeks;
“indeed I am not so presumptuous; I did not mean it.”

“Then was the presumption mine, in supposing myself a sufficient
object of interest to you to incur it,” replied he, smiling. “I would
rather be judged worthy of reproof than of contempt.”

“I see you are laughing at me,” replied Hilary, smiling also; “and it
was stupid of me to believe you serious when you talked in that way;
but you looked so grave, I thought you really meant it.”

Whether Captain Hepburn might not have succeeded in convincing her
that he did mean a great deal, and that his looks as well as his words
could be depended on, can not be known, as just then Mr. Duncan and
Maurice came in sight, and their conversation concluded as the others
joined them.




CHAPTER IX.

  “In the hall, with sconces blazing,
  Ladies waiting round her seat,
  Clothed in smiles beneath the dais,
  Sat the Duchess Marguerite.”
                                     THE CHURCH OF BEOU.


Victoria was fortunate in her arrangements. The weather, that great
object of interest, because of uncertainty, in our island, beginning
with a little hesitation, settled into brilliancy and warmth; and the
sun, after coquetting in the morning with the earth, through the
clouds which it had called up round itself, finally dispersed them
all, and smiled out graciously on the many anxious eyes turned toward
it.

Pretty and elegant as Hilary looked when dressed for the fête, I do
not believe that she gained any thing in Captain Hepburn’s eyes by her
more elaborate toilette; he would have preferred seeing her in her
usual morning gown; although he blamed himself for selfishness, at the
thought which would have deprived her, if possible, of so great a
pleasure. However, he had an unexpected consolation, which more than
made up for the pain of helping her into Mr. Huyton’s carriage, when
he perceived that the little bunch of double violets he had taken such
pains to gather from under an exceedingly wild and overhanging
sweet-briar bush, were now carefully arranged in a knot of white
ribbon, and formed her only ornament as a _bouquet de corsage_. Hilary
herself had no very overpowering expectations of pleasure from the
party; her principal emotion was curiosity to witness a scene from the
gay world, such as she little expected to find transported into their
forest life. For herself, she was far too insignificant in her own
opinion to form more than one of the many spectators of the festivity;
she hoped that from behind Mrs. Fielding’s chair she might look on
quietly, and see how her friends were admired and courted. Victoria,
of course, would be first and most prominent; perhaps the two sisters
from the Abbey might come next in importance. She hoped Sybil and
Gwyneth would enjoy themselves; she was sure Mr. Huyton would make it
pleasant for them if he could, but he would probably be too busy to
attend to them; but then, Maurice, too, would be there, and would
certainly be kind and careful; and if Nest was happy and her sisters
pleased, and if Captain Hepburn sometimes came and conversed with her,
she should be very well off.

Such were her reflections as they drove along to “the Ferns;” and so
she settled her expectations of amusement for the day.

Whatever other cares might have engrossed the master of the house,
there was nothing to prevent his being ready to assist Hilary and her
sisters from the carriage. He shook hands warmly with the young
ladies, caught Nest in his arms, and kissed her affectionately,
declaring it was an age since he had seen her, and then drawing Miss
Duncan’s arm under his, walked with her into the house, with an air of
satisfaction and appropriation, which, perhaps, it was as well for
Captain Hepburn’s peace of mind that he did not see.

In the hall were a profusion of bouquets, prepared, as Charles told
Hilary, that any lady might take one who liked. He picked out the two
prettiest for her sisters himself, and gave them with pleasant
speeches and open friendly looks; but in the ante-chamber he
stopped again, and taking from a vase standing there a most
exquisitely-arranged bunch of flowers, far more rare and beautiful
than any of the others, he gave them to Hilary himself, without a
word, but with a look, which made her feel as if the flowers had burnt
her fingers, and raised an intense desire to dash them immediately on
the ground.

The hot blood mounted to her cheeks, and her eyes were bent on the
beautiful blossoms with an intentness which seemed to indicate a
serious study of their botanical peculiarities; but she could not have
told of what they consisted, nor have distinguished the moss-roses
from the Peristerium, or the Deletria from the orange blossoms she
held in her hand. She was thinking how much she preferred the scent of
double violets; or, perhaps, comparing the glance which had
accompanied each gift, and wondering why the one should recall the
other, or why, if their expression was so much alike, the impression
on her own mind should be so different. He led them on, without
speaking, to the saloon where Mrs. Fielding was seated, and then, as
that lady rose to welcome them, he said:

“I need not beg you to be kind to them, dear aunt; you know how much I
trust to you when I place them under your care.”

Hilary’s cheeks were still glowing, as the elderly lady embraced her
in foreign fashion, and expressed her extreme pleasure at seeing her
there. Her manner to her sisters was hardly less cordial, and Nest
received immediately the permission most valued by a child of her age,
to run about and look at every thing before the company came.

A minute after, Victoria came in, and attaching Hilary immediately to
herself, she said they would go round and take a survey of the
decorations. Every thing was equally complete and beautiful, flowers
and evergreens scattered about in profusion on the lawn, in the house,
and in the pavilion in the garden where the feast was to be served.
Victoria went about examining every thing, and explaining her plans to
Hilary; how the band was to be stationed on such a terrace, and what
music they were to play; how refreshments in any quantity, and of
every description, would be procurable in the pavilion, between three
and six o’clock, so that the most dainty young lady, or most hungry
young gentleman might be perfectly satisfied. She pointed out the
boats which had been brought from the boat-houses, and were now
floating invitingly by the side of the sheet of water, the boatmen, in
a picturesque costume, lounging by them; she showed the glen where she
intended to produce a grand effect in the evening by a bugle, for she
had discovered there a most enchanting echo; and with this she hoped
to surprise the company while they were looking on at a grand
exhibition of fire-works, to be displayed on the edge of the lake;
then they might conclude with a magnificent supper in the
banqueting-room, to be preceded, if they liked, by dancing, in the
house; and singing from some professional performers, who had come
from London for the occasion.

“In short,” said Victoria, “I hope to illustrate my name in the
country, and be remembered with gratitude for a half year at least.”

She seemed in high spirits, and went about singing to herself, as she
pointed out one ornament or another to Hilary――

  “Voi che sapete
  Che cosa él’ amor.”

Hilary did not feel very glad herself; for the sight of Victoria had
reminded her of Mr. Huyton’s supposed engagement, and she was shocked
and ashamed of herself, to think that she had even for a moment
imagined he had implied any degree of devotion to herself by his
manner. She was angry at what she believed her own unpardonable
vanity, and wondered what could make her so absurd. Then she began to
meditate how it happened that she could have imagined any resemblance
between the look of Charles and that of Captain Hepburn; could they
really think alike? were they actuated by the same feelings, and if
so, was the latter also engaged to another woman? why did such an idea
give her pain? what right had she to turn so sick at heart as she
contemplated it? what was it to her? Oh, shame, shame on herself, that
she could have allowed such fancies to take possession of her heart;
that she should be actually unhappy at the notion of his loving
another; she, who had home duties which ought to exclude such
feelings; she, who had so firmly resolved to devote herself to her
father and sisters; she, who had never heard from him a word which
could imply a similar preference for herself; could she have been
indulging in such a weak and foolish partiality?

She could hardly attend to what her friend was saying; she was
incapable of giving a rational answer, and her only wish was to be
allowed to sit down in some remote corner, and hide her blushes and
her emotion. Charles Huyton joined them as they stood on the lawn, to
tell Victoria that some carriages were approaching down the avenue,
and ask her whether she would not return to the house.

Hilary was most thankful for this relief; they went back to the saloon
together, and she gladly retreated into a nook behind Mrs. Fielding’s
chair, where she hoped to be quiet and unobserved amid the expected
crowds. The room soon began to fill with company, and after a while,
Victoria, finding that although inconveniently crowded, nobody seemed
to like to go out first, led the way herself to the lawn, and the band
commencing at the same time to perform their part, every body was
ready enough to follow her example; Hilary, who was still standing
with her sisters in a recess of one of the windows, was, however,
roused from her engrossing thoughts by the rapturous greeting of Dora
Barham, whose party coming rather late, did not arrive until the first
crowd had greatly dispersed.

Isabel, after speaking to the Duncans, and other of her acquaintance,
wanted to draw Dora away, as their chaperon, Lady Margaret, had
proposed going out on the terrace. But Dora would not leave Hilary,
whom she had not seen for more than a week; so Isabel and her party
passed on, only calling her a willful child as they went.

They had not been gone many minutes, when the one arrived for whom
Dora’s eyes had been anxiously searching, and whose appearance brought
hot, quick, pretty blushes to her cheeks. It was impossible not to
perceive her emotion, although the reason and object of it, amid such
a varying assembly, might have been doubtful to those who had no clew
to guide them. Maurice and Captain Hepburn entered together, and
advancing at once toward Mrs. Fielding, to whom the latter had to be
introduced, of course, came immediately afterward to join the little
group in the window behind her.

Perhaps it would not have been easy to have found a more complete
contrast than those young friends exhibited at that moment. Dora
glowing, smiling, dimpling, with pleasure, and displaying, with a
sincerity which her education had been intended to repress and
contradict, the emotions which the sight of Maurice called out; and
Hilary, pale and cold, struggling to conceal a degree of most unusual
excitement, under a calmness which gave her an air almost approaching
to haughtiness.

Captain Hepburn came up with an eagerness not often shown by him,
although not to be compared with the glow of satisfaction which
Maurice exhibited when he saw who was his sister’s companion; and at
the first tones of his voice, the first glance of his eye, Hilary’s
coldness vanished, her fears were removed, and all her happiness was
restored to her; for she felt that his look and tone said openly alike
that she was _first_ with him, and that each look and tone was truth.

His conversation, after he had smilingly satisfied her anxiety as to
her father’s being comfortably settled with Mrs. Paine by his side,
turned on the house and scenery. It was grand and beautiful; he had
not been prepared for a mansion so fine, or a park so picturesque; she
had never described it as so very charming; did she not think it so?

“Had she not? she thought she had mentioned how much she admired it;
perhaps he had forgotten; descriptions of unknown places seldom made
much impression.”

That depended, he affirmed, on who gave the description; he did not
think he had forgotten any thing she had ever said, any conversation
they had ever held.

Hilary looked down at the bunch of exotics she held in her hand. They
caught his eye also, and he remarked on their beauty, taking them from
her hand to examine them.

“They are all foreigners,” said he, “or raised in a hot-house!”

“Yes, I believe they came from Mr. Huyton’s hot-houses, which are
always beautiful.”

“And what is that, and that, and that?” questioned he, still holding
the flowers. He made her tell him the names of each blossom, and
commented on them and their peculiarities.

He seemed very happy, and perhaps was rendered still more so, by an
observation of Hilary’s in reply to his remarks. As he returned her
flowers, he said, with a sort of subdued smile,

“You should give me my violets back again, for they are quite put to
shame by these grand specimens of floriculture. They did very well at
the Vicarage, but here they seem out of place, and it would be a
charity to hide them in their native obscurity again.”

“Then they are exactly like their wearer,” replied she, blushing a
little, and smiling at the same time, “and sympathy forbids my
throwing them away.”

“I had no intention of doing that,” was his answer; “the modest beauty
and fragrance which may be eclipsed amid a crowd of gayer forms and
brighter colors, are too dear to me, to be in danger of neglect.
Should you consider it throwing them away then, to return them to me?”

Hilary hesitated.

“I do not wish to part with them,” said she; and then afraid lest he
should consider her refusal to do so, as the result of a regard for
the donor, she added, “I love real English-grown violets better than
the rarest exotics.”

“At least, do not throw them away yourself,” said he, earnestly; “give
them to me when faded and withered; they will still be sweet.”

Hilary was conscious that she had no intention whatever of throwing
them away; but she did not wish to tell him so; she colored very much,
and did not answer.

“Then you will not bestow on me even a faded bouquet?” said he,
looking at her with smiling eyes, and not seeming much distressed at
her conscious hesitation.

“If I give you two or three flowers now, will you leave me the rest in
peace?” said she, playfully; “but I must say, I think it ungenerous to
wish to take back from me what you bestowed unasked, unless you saw me
neglecting or undervaluing the gift.”

“Unsolicited gifts are sometimes not much prized,” replied he, softly;
“might I flatter myself that you fixed any value to _all_ I have
bestowed on you――”

“Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Huyton, advancing to the corner where the
little group stood, forming two distinct pairs, each too much
engrossed to be conscious of aught beyond them, “Victoria has sent me
to conduct you to her; I am not to return without you, on any
account.”

He offered his arm to Hilary, who started and colored exceedingly at
the sudden interruption to a sentence, which from its tone and manner,
she was particularly anxious to hear completed.

Mr. Huyton looked inquiringly at her companion, and then rousing
Maurice from the whispered conversation with Dora, which had quite
engrossed him, desired to be presented to his friend.

Hilary’s hand was under his arm, as he made polite speeches to Captain
Hepburn, and he looked so very much as if he thought she belonged to
him, that the other could not forbear noticing it; and a doubt shot
through his mind, whether the conjectures of Maurice relative to his
engagement to Miss Fielding, could have the slightest foundation.

It had been this very announcement which had raised his spirits, and
made him bolder in his own advances; and the contradiction of all his
hopes which his fancy drew from Charles Huyton’s manner, was such as
immediately to depress and silence him.

“Where are my sisters?” inquired Hilary, looking round, now first
aware that they had left her.

Charles told her they had gone out on the lawn with Mrs. Fielding some
time before――had she not missed them? he hoped, then, she had been
pleasantly engaged. It was said in a simple and friendly tone; but the
thought of betraying such absence of mind, deepened the color in her
cheeks, and she glanced apprehensively at Captain Hepburn, to see if
he had noticed it.

Perhaps he had, for his eyes met hers, and she hastily looked away.

“Are you going, Hilary?” said Dora, now perceiving the movement around
her; “oh! don’t leave me! I have not the least notion where my sister
and Lady Margaret are.”

“You must come with us then, Miss Barham,” replied their host; “for
Miss Duncan must go――Victoria wants her.”

“_Must_ is for the king, Mr. Huyton,” said Dora, in pretended
indignation. “Please, Hilary, do not let him dictate to you! I would
not submit to such assumption of authority.”

Maurice offered to conduct her to her party, wherever they might be;
and Dora, caring more for the present pleasure than prudence, took his
arm, and walked happily after her friend.

Hilary did not mind the interruption so much, when she found Captain
Hepburn still accompanied them; she hoped for other opportunities of
conversing with him.

Victoria was standing amid the grandest and most important of the
guests, receiving and returning courteous speeches, taking admiration
as her due, and flattery as the air she breathed; but she welcomed her
friend with a smile, shook hands cordially with Maurice, and advanced
with alacrity to greet Captain Hepburn. Her attention to a party
almost unknown to the whole of the surrounding circle, and the
position Hilary occupied on Mr. Huyton’s arm, roused a good deal of
observation, and many eyes and eye-glasses were turned on them, and
not a few whispered commentaries and inquiries passed round, as to who
they were.

Criticism and satire were, however, unable to find any thing for
observation in the quiet grace and refined simplicity of Miss Duncan,
who was much too unconscious of the observation drawn on her, and too
little engrossed by thoughts of herself, to be shy, although she was
too humble not to be retiring in such a group. If she noticed that
people looked toward her, she naturally concluded that they were
attracted by the appearance of their host; and if she had been
observing enough to discover traces of admiration, she would still
have attributed it to his claims, or those of Dora, who was close to
her.

“You belong to us, Hilary,” said Victoria, quite loud enough to be
heard by those near, although in a sort of stage-aside; “you are part
of our _home_ circle, and must not get away. I can not do without
you.”

She then turned and drew Captain Hepburn into conversation; Maurice
and Dora joined his sisters who were a little behind, and although
Hilary would gladly have disengaged herself from Charles, she could
not do so immediately, without an appearance of awkwardness, which she
wished to avoid.

The grand luncheon, or breakfast, or whatever name the meal deserved,
obliged him to quit her, for there were Countesses’ and Earls’
daughters present, whose claims could not be disregarded; and when
they were all seated at table, Hilary found herself, much to her
relief, with her own family, and Captain Hepburn beside her. They
were, however, close to Victoria, and, in spite of all the Lord
Williams and Honorable Johns who courted her notice, when they rose,
she still seemed inclined to pay more attention to the naval captain
than to any of the other gentlemen.

He had been admiring her in a low tone to Hilary, during the repast,
and she, with a sort of satisfaction for which she was afterward
ashamed of herself, informed him she was going to be married and
settled in England, in the autumn, but without adding her own idea as
to who her future husband was. Although, therefore, Hilary would
rather he should have stayed near her, she was not much disturbed at
Victoria’s preference for his society; and when she saw them slowly
walking together, gradually disengaging themselves from the company,
and finally disappearing behind a thicket of evergreens, she felt no
jealousy, although she did wish to join them. The company then
gradually scattered themselves about; some went to the lake, and
entered the boats; some strolled through the conservatories and
forcing-houses; some visited the stables; some wandered amid the wild
scenery of the park; there was a game of bowls going on between some
lively parties, while others were content to remain still and listen
to the music. An air of general content and satisfaction appeared;
every body was determined to be pleased, and a great many actually
were so. The party of a wealthy and single man, would naturally be
popular; and as he took great pains to go about and diffuse his
civilities among all the young ladies, introduce those who wished it
to each other, recommend amusements, suggest variety to the dull, and
encourage every kind of hilarity, there was no outward symptom of
discontent or ennui; all was as lively and harmonious as the music on
the lawn.

Victoria had carried off Captain Hepburn, to show him what she
considered the most curious part of the park. Such was her excuse.

This was an avenue of very ancient yews, whose large stems and
branches, intertwined over head, formed a gloomy aisle, which reminded
one of a cathedral crypt. It led to a circle of still older trees of
the same species, surrounding a mound of earth; the trunks were
hollowed by time, the over-hanging boughs were, many of them, blanched
and bare, and sprung out like huge skeleton arms, which produced a
ghastly spectral effect; beyond, and inclosing them, was a double row
of gigantic oaks, just now in all the glory of young spring foliage;
but even their bright green was unable to give a liveliness to a scene
in which such heavy and dark hues predominated. The ground beneath
their feet was dry and brown, a thick carpet of the needle-shaped
leaves of the yews making it soft and slippery; no green plant could
spring under their poisonous shade; there was neither leaf nor flower
to be seen; all was gloomy and somber as a neglected church-yard.

“Now, is not this wild and strange, Captain Hepburn?” said the young
lady. “I brought you here alone, that you might enjoy the full effect
of contrast; we left light and music, company and mirth――here we have
gloom and silence, solitude and somber thoughts. Tell me, do you think
this is the work of those ancient Druids, who ruled your country
before history begins, or do you suppose the Saxons, my countrymen,
worshiped here their Thor and Friga?”

“It is very strange and wild, truly, Miss Fielding; do you delight in
such violent contrasts? Old as they are, however, I think these trees
are hardly old enough to be planted by Druid hands: remember the
lengthened period――nineteen hundred years at least.”

“Horrid, to destroy my pleasant illusions; I had hoped to awe you into
immediate acquiescence with my fancies.”

“And pass for Friga with the golden hair, yourself, for you are more
like a Saxon than a British divinity of old?” said he, with smiling
gallantry.

“I am Saxon on my mother’s side,” replied she, “as you doubtless know;
so is my cousin Charles; but I believe we both intend to turn English
in our habits and homes for the future.”

She colored a little as she said this, and, after a moment’s pause,
she added――

“Do you know the county of Cheshire, Captain Hepburn?”

“Not at all――do you?”

“Not yet, but I expect hereafter to get pretty well acquainted with
it. It is there my future home is situated, and, of course, the place
excites some curiosity in my mind.”

“Your future home!” repeated he, a little surprised.

“Yes, did you not know? I thought Hilary might have told you,” replied
she.

“I had heard that Miss Fielding had done one of my countrymen the
honor of promising to take his name and adopt his nation!” he
answered, in a sort of tone which, however, implied a dissatisfied or
uncertain mind.

“Then why are you surprised at my mentioning it? perhaps that shocks
British prejudices; but with us a betrothal is not a secret! Was that
what astonished you?”

“No, to say the truth, it was at discovering a mistake of mine. I had
fancied ‘the Ferns’ had been the future home which you had selected,”
was his reply.

“Oh!” said Victoria, coloring and laughing, “that was your guess, was
it? I wonder at your want of penetration. If this had been my future
home, I should not have been visiting here now, and you must have
seen――oh, by the way, Charles was not here before, so you have _not_
seen any thing. But Hilary did not tell you that, did she?”

“Miss Duncan mentioned no names to me,” said he; “she only informed me
to-day, that you were to be united to a countryman of ours.”

“Oh, Hilary, of all people, has reason to know better; for though I
never mentioned Mr. Legh by name to her, she knew Charles was not my
_futur_. Perhaps if you had seen them together, you would have known
it too.”

“Seen who together?” asked Captain Hepburn, with a countenance of
extreme self-command, which baffled, by its quietness, the scrutiny of
Victoria’s bright eyes.

“My cousin and Miss Duncan! She will not engage herself at present,
because of her father and sisters; she devotes herself to them; but
that kind of thing will not last forever; and though one has no right
to speculate on a young lady’s feelings, in spite of her saying _no_,
I suspect Charles’s constancy is making way with her, and will meet
with its reward in time. Meantime, I say nothing to her on the topic.”

Captain Hepburn was a brave man, one who had met peril unflinchingly,
and dared death in a good cause. His nerves were under perfect
control; and one reason, probably, of the influence he exercised over
those about him, was that he had learned, before commanding others, to
command himself. Whatever his feelings were on hearing this
declaration from his companion, he betrayed none of them; and after a
little pause, he asked, in a quiet tone, devoid of all trace of
emotion,

“Do you mean that Miss Duncan refused your cousin, when he offered his
hand?”

“Yes; but that was nearly a year ago, and there has been, I suspect
and hope, a gradual change working since that. She was very young
then, and had never thought of marrying, and her father’s blindness
was just ascertained, and was a great shock to her, so she thought she
should never leave him, and would not listen to Charles; but he is
very persevering and patient――quite a model of a lover; and as her
sisters get old enough to take her place, and other feelings for other
people arise, she will retract. As to my cousin, he, I am sure, will
never change.”

Victoria did not intend to do any harm by what she had said: she
really believed that, in promoting a union between her cousin and
Hilary, she was acting as kindly by one as the other, and her
assertions were strictly true. She thought he was gaining ground, and
fancied that if she could only keep away rivals, his interests would
be safe; time and constancy, a better knowledge of his value, and a
more thorough appreciation of the honor his love did its object, would
alter her opinions, and change her tone.

His value she hoped to assist in demonstrating by showing him to
Hilary as the center of attraction, the admired, courted, popular
master of “the Ferns;” and the distinction which his notice conferred
on her in that party would perhaps induce her to consider that it
would be worth while to become his wife. It was very natural that she
should imagine this; she judged, as all must do, by her own feelings,
and set before her friend the temptations which would have had most
influence with herself.

She had, on first arriving at “the Ferns,” been a little vexed that
she could not awaken any visible partiality in her cousin’s mind; for
though betrothed, she had a strong taste for admiration and flattery;
but she had soon penetrated his secret, then gained his confidence,
and warmly taken up his cause. The appearance of Captain Hepburn, his
manner to Hilary, and her glances at him had alarmed her; and desirous
to prevent her young friend from throwing away what she conceived to
be the substance, in grasping at a shadow, she determined to give him
such information on the subject as would probably occasion him to draw
back, and leave the ground open.

She did not know her companion’s character, and was quite mistaken in
Hilary’s also; she was, moreover, too late in her interference to do
any good. Captain Hepburn felt, as he heard Victoria’s suggestions,
that he loved Hilary, and he believed that he had made his partiality
evident to her and others. To draw back, therefore, because he had a
rival was not to be thought of; it would compromise his own character
for truth and honor. She might refuse him; of course, if she preferred
Charles Huyton, she would; and he had as little taste for a refusal as
any other man in England; but his character required that he should
take his chance; and his feelings of honor, nay, his principles of
integrity, were stronger than his vanity and self-love. He had given
her reason to believe in his preference, he must give her the
opportunity of answering it, not so much for her own sake, for she
might not care, but for his! Then came fancy, whispering, would she
not care? was there no soft glance in her ingenuous eyes, no thrilling
tone in her voice, which might give him ground of hope? He was poor,
compared to his rival; but she did not value riches; he thought, if
she would not accept a man because he had them, neither would she
refuse another because he had them not. His profession would probably
soon call him away, and perhaps he could not offer her immediate
marriage; but then she herself considered that incompatible with her
family bonds; when these were lighter, would she not consent to become
his? It seemed as if the very circumstances which, in most cases,
would have been evils and drawbacks, were now advantages to support
his claim. His own freedom from family ties, his having no settled
home, no landed property which bound him to one spot; all these would
be no objection in her case, whereas the reverse might have formed
impediments to his wishes.

It did not take very long to think all these thoughts; and the
consequence of these ideas was, that, instead of exhibiting depression
and uneasiness at Victoria’s observations, he showed a calm face and a
self-possessed manner, which induced her to believe he, at least, was
indifferent on the subject.

“Where does this path lead?” inquired he, ascending a slope on one
side of the circle of yews, and looking round him.

“We are just above the lake, and I thought of going down that way,”
replied Victoria. “Come along this winding path, and we shall reach
some of the company. I hear voices down below. You are a sailor, will
you not take me out in a boat for a sail? we will ask Hilary, or one
or two other ladies, to go with us.”

“I am afraid you will think me a very ungallant and disobliging
sailor, Miss Fielding; but I must say, of all things in the world, I
dread a water-party of ladies, and never, if I can help it, embark in
one.”

“Ah! it has no charms for you――no novelty. ‘Too much water hast thou,’
as the Queen says to Ophelia. I daresay it is stupid.”

“I may be stupid, perhaps, but I think it dangerous, and willingly
avoid the responsibility. So few men understand how to sail a boat.
Unless you had heard as much as I have, you could not imagine how
often they upset; and when women are on board, what can be the
consequence but mischief?”

“Some people are not so cautious, for I see a boat on the lake; and if
I do not mistake, Maurice Duncan and the two Barhams are in it.”

“Yes; but they are only sculling along, and a girl might do that. I
really do not suppose we could sail if we tried; there is scarcely a
breath of wind, or only a puff at intervals.”

The path down which they were descending was so screened by shrubs,
that although they could catch a glimpse of the lake and its borders
here and there, they were unseen themselves by those below.

There were a good many people on the bank; at a little distance, a
group of children were merrily dancing to a violin which one of the
woodmen had produced; near them were some mammas and elder sisters,
looking on, and admiring. Victoria was close enough to recognize some
individuals; they saw Charles Huyton, encouraging the frolics of the
children; Mrs. Fielding and Hilary were standing under a tree at the
edge of the lake, where a steep bank formed a promontory above the
water, apparently watching Maurice’s boat, which was slowly
approaching them.

When they had descended a few yards further, they entirely lost sight
of the loiterers by the lake, and, although so near as to catch voices
and laughter, were unable to discover what was passing. They heard a
child’s voice cry, “Hilary! Hilary!” and recognized the merry tones of
little Nest; then some one, in an accent of alarm, cried, “Take care!”
and then there was a shriek, an exclamation of terror from many
voices, a plunge in the water, and a silence.

Captain Hepburn sprang forward, and in a moment had cleared the
underwood, and obtained sight of the bank and the water. Mrs. Fielding
stood where she had been, and many had rushed to the water’s edge, and
were gazing in. Hilary and Nest were both out of sight.




CHAPTER X.

  “What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers,
  Words by which the wretched are consoled?
  What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler,
  Circled, Tristram, by a crown of gold?”
                                                     ISEULT.


The cry of alarm had brought Charles Huyton also to the spot where the
accident had happened; for one brief moment the rivals stood side by
side and gazed upon the scene. Under the steep, shelving bank, nearly
submerged in the water, but clinging with her left arm to a long,
pendant root, hung Hilary, and with her right hand she grasped, with
all the energy of terrified love, the skirt of her sister’s dress,
thereby but little supporting the child, and risking herself to be
drawn from her precarious hold, and plunged in deep water by her
struggles.

Captain Hepburn and Charles Huyton simultaneously flung off their
coats.

“Save Hilary――I will secure the child,” said the sailor, in a tone of
decision which seemed to command obedience, and without an instant of
unnecessary delay, sprang from the steep bank head-foremost into the
water. Mr. Huyton followed his example, and almost before she was
conscious of help being at hand, Hilary felt an arm supporting her,
and heard a well-known voice saying――

“Trust to me, dearest, and you will be safe.”

She was too exhausted to understand exactly what was passing. She felt
her sister was raised, released her grasp on her dress, and had just
sense and energy enough left to remain quite passive, as she was borne
to a more practical part of the bank. She turned her head, saw Nest
was safe in Captain Hepburn’s care――his strong arms had drawn the
child quickly out of danger――and then, perfectly overpowered, she
fainted away. Landing her was by no means an easy task, the ground was
soft, crumbling, and treacherous; but for the ready help at hand,
Charles could not have done it; and he was so much exhausted by his
efforts, that when he was assisted from the water, he was not only
unable to support his burden, but had himself to sit down on the
grass, to rest and breathe.

Captain Hepburn hastily placed the dripping child in some of the many
arms stretched out to take her, and turned with an eager bound to
Hilary, who seemed as lifeless as her sister. But Maurice reached her
at the same time; he had seen the accident, and with rapid strokes had
brought the boat to the nearest land, where, utterly forgetful even of
Dora Barham, he had thrown the chain, by which the skiff was moored,
into the boatman’s hands, and sprung ashore to assist Hilary.

He clasped his sister in his arms, exclaiming, as he did so, “Darling,
dearest Hilary!” in the tones of the fondest endearment; then added,
with agonized doubt,

“Oh, Hepburn, is she dead?”

Her pale cheeks, closed eyes, and inanimate form terrified him, and he
looked to his friend for advice, assistance, or at least for comfort.

“Heaven forbid!” cried the other, eagerly catching her hand, and
endeavoring to feel her pulse, “she has only fainted from alarm. She
must be taken to the house.”

“Carry your sister to the house this moment,” cried Victoria; “I have
dispatched little Nest there already, and will send some one to make
preparations, and give orders.”

A gentleman present, a relative of the Barhams, offered to run on and
carry a message, but Sybil sprang forward――

“Let me go, Miss Fielding, give me the necessary directions.”

Victoria gave a hasty message to the housekeeper, and Sybil was off
with a fleetness, and a knowledge of the shortest road, which
distanced Mr. Farrington completely.

Some of the many shawls which were proffered for the use of the
sufferers, were hastily wrapped around Hilary, and, raising her in his
arms, her brother walked off with steady steps toward the house.

Charles and Captain Hepburn accompanied him, each entirely occupied by
thoughts of her, and neither at that moment caring to conceal it.

Either the fresh air, or the warmth, or the motion, revived Hilary;
she sighed, opened her eyes, looked up for a moment, in doubt where
she was, and what had happened, then recollecting every thing, she
started up, and cried――

“Nest――oh, Maurice, is she safe?”

“Be still, darling,” replied he, and it was echoed by the other two;
but she only repeated the question in greater alarm.

“Yes, yes, she is safe; she is just on in front. Some one is carrying
her to the house. Hepburn saved her.”

The look which Hilary gave the sailor at that moment, was one which he
never forgot.

“I could walk, Maurice, I could walk quicker, if you would set me
down,” said she, eagerly. “I am quite well, do let me try.”

“Patience, we are just there!” and he would not let her go, until they
reached the door.

Several female attendants, and Sybil herself, were waiting there; they
were carrying the little one up to be placed in Victoria’s own bed;
and, a moment after, Miss Fielding herself joined them, having hurried
on to summon a physician, who, as Isabel reminded her, was happily one
of the party. Dr. Pilgrim was found, and at once took the lead in
ordering and advising; gave the necessary directions for restoring
animation to Nest, who still continued insensible, sent Victoria
instantly to superintend the proper precautions for Hilary’s safety,
and insisted on both the gentlemen retiring to procure dry clothes,
declaring that they could do no good to any one, until they had first
taken care of themselves.

Happily, by the time Hilary was allowed by her active and judicious
attendants to be well enough to seek her sister, Nest was not only
perfectly restored to consciousness, but had dropped off into a quiet
sleep, and Miss Duncan, at her own urgent request, was permitted to
watch by her, on condition, as Dr. Pilgrim insisted, that nothing
should be allowed to disturb the little one’s slumber, on which he
declared her entire recovery to depend. By this means, as he
communicated to Mrs. Gainsborough, the housekeeper, they should compel
Miss Duncan to keep quiet also, and he was really more alarmed on her
account than her sister’s, if the evident excitement under which she
was laboring was not checked by some decisive measures. She ought to
have gone to bed also.

In the darkened room, reclining on an easy chair, beside the bed where
the child peacefully slept, Hilary passed the rest of the afternoon,
putting up mental thanksgivings for the safety of her darling, and for
the preservation of her own life; grateful for the kindness and care
she met with, and more grateful still that _he_, the one to whom her
heart had turned for help in the moment of horror and alarm, had been
near enough to hear her cry, and rescue her sister.

She was hardly aware who had saved herself; the absorbing idea of
Nest’s danger and Nest’s safety, had prevented her making other
inquiries, and her head still felt too weak and confused to think with
accuracy, or recollect with precision. It all seemed a cloud of fear
and agony, from the time when she saw her sister was running into
danger, by so rapidly descending the steep bank, and when, in her
effort to arrest her, she too had lost her footing on the short,
slippery turf, and crumbling, sandy edge, until she had once more
recovered herself in her brother’s arms, and had heard the delicious
assurance that Nest was safe.

At intervals, Sybil or Gwyneth would softly creep into the room, kiss
her, look at Nest, till the tears sprung, and then glide away without
a word; or Victoria would come with some refreshment, which she urged
on Hilary with whispered eagerness; or Dr. Pilgrim would steal in with
a stealthy, noiseless tread, glance at the child, feel Hilary’s pulse,
and in low, positive tones, renew his orders for perfect quiet repose.

The watchful housekeeper, too, was frequent in her silent visits, and
the German maid, who sat in her mistress’s dressing-room, knowing no
tongue saving her own, was deaf to entreaties for admission from all
others, according to the express injunctions of Fraulein Victoria.

Meanwhile, beyond that silent room, away even from sight as well as
hearing of its inmates, all was excitement, bustle, interest, and
gossip. Seeing that the accident had not been attended by fatal
consequences, and that after the first lively alarm there was nothing
which need disturb the festal party, the visitors listened to the
earnest entreaties of Miss Fielding, and remained as if nothing had
happened. Of course, there was much to be said about this interesting
circumstance; all who had seen it had to tell their own story, each
version differing considerably from the other; all who had not enjoyed
the advantage of being spectators were naturally eager to inquire the
needful information; and every lady there was loud in praise of the
heroism of Mr. Huyton in saving Hilary at the risk of his own life.

It was remarkable how much was said of him, how enthusiastic were the
encomiums bestowed on his courage and presence of mind, while the
equal devotion of his companion was passed over in silence. Every one
could tell that Mr. Huyton, without a moment’s hesitation, had sprung
from the bank to rescue the sufferers; none but himself and one other
seemed aware that he was second in the attempt, and that it was the
prompt decision of another mind which had influenced his conduct.
Charles was brave, perhaps, but the total disregard of danger, the
self-devotion which could calmly risk death itself in the cause of
humanity, the quiet trust in a higher power which true Christianity
alone can give, these were not his. Neither had he the quick eye to
see the best means of help, the rapid decision to carry it out, nor
the unselfish prudence which could resign the efforts love would have
prompted, rather than fail of doing all that was required; to these he
had no claim. No human eye could see that jealousy and rivalry had
prompted what others call heroism and self-devotion; that but for the
example of another, he would have shrunk from the attempt; or that had
not his companion been more generous than himself, they might have
clashed in their efforts to rescue Hilary, while Nest might have been
lost by delay.

When Mr. Huyton returned to his guests, having changed his own
clothes, and taken care that Captain Hepburn was properly
accommodated, he was received as a hero. Every one crowded round him
to congratulate and admire; one enthusiastic lady (she had two
grown-up daughters) insisted on his being crowned with laurel; and the
professional singer, Madame G――――, came forward, and volunteered a
grand _bravura_ in his honor. In short, such was the crowd about him,
that Maurice could hardly pierce through to shake his hands in both of
his, and thank him, with grateful emotion, for the safety of his
sister. Charles bore it very well, he put aside the plaudits, escaped
from the ovation, gracefully denied all merit, and seizing Maurice by
the arm eagerly drew him aside to pour out his rapturous delight at
having been of use to Hilary. No one was near, for he had retreated
quite away from his guests; and they had the consideration not to
intrude on the gratitude and thanks of the brother, whatever they
might have wished to do. In this moment of feeling and excitement,
Maurice learned, with surprise, what Hilary had hitherto carefully
concealed even from him――the ardent, constant, unchanging devotion of
his friend for his sister. Charles gave vent to his feelings, told of
his love, his disappointment, his hopes, his fears; Hilary was dearer
to him than ever, dearer far than life (he really thought so, now
there was no danger); had he any chance, could Maurice give him any
encouragement; at least, would he give him his good wishes?

Surprise was the brother’s principal feeling; not surprise that Hilary
was loved, but that he had never discovered what was passing close to
him. As to his sister’s feelings, could he have guessed them, he would
not have betrayed his guesses, nor breathed a word which could make
her blush. He was saved from further solicitation by a summons to
Charles, who was wanted by his cousin immediately.

Maurice at that moment was in no humor for making love himself――his
thoughts were absorbed by his sisters’ peril, and their escape; the
crowd was irksome to him; his feelings wanted a higher and better
outlet than the idle gossip and careless chatter around; he could not
hear the subject lightly discussed, with even outward calmness; and
now, reassured by a recent report from Dr. Pilgrim, that both patients
were doing as well as possible, he quietly stole away into the
shrubbery, and then retraced, with thoughtful step and swelling heart,
the path along which he had borne his sister’s inanimate form.

He reached the spot where the accident had occurred, he saw the marks
on the bank, he gazed at the dark, still, sullen-looking water, whose
black depth had so nearly been the grave of those two loved ones; and
lifting his hat from his head, he raised his whole heart in grateful
praise, that she, the light, the support, the comfort of their home,
and that little one, whose merry voice always spoke of mirth and love,
had been spared to bless them still.

He was roused by a footstep; his hands were grasped by Captain
Hepburn; and warm, earnest, deeply heart-felt congratulations were
poured out to him on his sister’s safety.

“My dear fellow! I can not speak my joy――they say she is doing well!
have you seen her yet?” continued he, eagerly.

Maurice answered he had not.

“They insist on perfect quiet at present, and then, Dr. Pilgrim says,
all will be well; but, Hepburn, how can I thank _you_ enough for this
additional benefit――dearer, more precious far than my own life? I wish
I could speak――”

Maurice could not quite control his voice, and was obliged to break
off abruptly.

“I did not save Hilary,” replied he; “thank Mr. Huyton for that!”

“You did what I am certain Hilary will thank you for more than for her
own life――you saved Nest; and I think she will feel as I do; although
she may not have so entire an appreciation of your motives as I have.”

“My motives were simple enough,” said Captain Hepburn, after a little
pause; “I felt I might trust her to the exertions of Mr. Huyton, at
least, till I had placed the child in safety; and Nest’s struggles
made it difficult to do any thing for either while Hilary retained her
grasp on her clothes.”

“I knew it! I was convinced that it was your doing――your judgment,
decision, prudence, and promptness by which either was rescued! Others
may give Huyton the credit――they are making a hero of him out
there――but _I_ know, and Hilary, too, shall know, to whom we are truly
indebted. What can I say! how poor words are! what can I do to show
our gratitude?”

“Nothing――nothing more, my dear fellow! it was nothing to speak of,
although the result was so important. If Hilary will only believe that
I acted as I thought _she_ would wish――that for her dear sake I did
what I did――would have done any thing possible――would have dared a
thousand times more, had it been necessary――then I shall be amply
repaid!”

Maurice looked at him earnestly and inquiringly. Captain Hepburn went
on after a moment.

“I should have acted as I did, Maurice, even though I had known that
in resigning the charge of her to Mr. Huyton I was resigning all claim
on her forever. Her safety was more to me than my life, as her
happiness is more important than my own. May be, she may never know
this; be it so! if she is happy, I will try to be content.”

“I hardly understand you,” replied Maurice, “at least, I am not sure;
but if your wishes are what I suppose, I can only say that mine will
go with them; more, infinitely more cordially than with Charles
Huyton.”

“I did not mean to have said so much,” replied Captain Hepburn; “it
was a momentary excitement; we will not discuss it now. I want to know
about going back to the Vicarage. Hilary and Nest must remain here,
and will require something in the way of wardrobe, certainly; and you
must remember, the little one was to have returned about seven, and
one of her sisters with her. I think these were the first
arrangements. Your father will be expecting them, and the Paines will
wish to go home.”

“True; what is to be done? Hilary _must_ remain here, of course.”

“I could go home with your sister Gwyneth, if you like; perhaps you
would wish to remain as late as possible, to hear the last account;
and probably Miss Sybil had better, if she can, stay with her sisters
altogether. What do you think?”

“That you have the clearest head for arranging in the world.”

“Well, you may propose it, I can only suggest privately to you, and
have no wish to put myself forward. If they will send us home, I shall
be ready whenever Gwyneth likes, and the carriage can take back the
clothes.”

They turned to walk toward the house, Maurice anxious to find his
sisters, and settle with them what they would wish to have done.

It was soon arranged, and just as Captain Hepburn had suggested. The
invitation to the younger Miss Duncans to remain with their sisters,
had already been given, through the thoughtful kindness of Charles,
and although it was impossible both should accept it, it was
gratefully taken advantage of by Sybil, who shrank from the idea of
being the one to break the intelligence to Mr. Duncan, and gladly
persuaded herself that she could be more use at “the Ferns” to Hilary
herself, while Gwyneth would certainly be much the best able to act
for her father alone.

The carriage was ordered immediately, and Gwyneth stealing up stairs
to take one more look at the invalids, found Hilary had just been
positively ordered by Dr. Pilgrim to go to bed, where he hoped a
composing draught would procure necessary sleep, and avert the
symptoms of fever which he reluctantly admitted were becoming
stronger.

Gwyneth, however, was not informed of this alarm; she stayed to see
Hilary comfortably settled for the night, and as her heavy eyelids
closed almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, it was hoped by
all her nurses that a good night’s rest would cure every thing that
was wrong. Sybil wished to remain with her, but there was really
nothing to be done, and both patients appearing to be quietly asleep.
Victoria persuaded her to trust them to the watchfulness of Mrs.
Gainsborough, and return with her to the company for the present; and
her entreaties being enforced by a threat, that if she did not come
down, Miss Fielding would remain with her upstairs, Sybil was obliged,
though somewhat reluctantly, to yield the point.

As they were issuing from the house, they met Mr. Farrington strolling
about near the door; he joined them immediately, and after inquiring
earnestly for the sufferers up stairs, he turned to Sybil, and
expressed, in very gentlemanlike and pleasant words, his strong
admiration of her promptness in action and swiftness of foot.

Sybil, of course, like a great many other people when undergoing a
compliment, or accused of a virtue, took refuge in denying the facts,
declaring herself peculiarly slow in action, and undecided in thought,
and hardly even allowing that she could run faster than other people;
although, to say the truth, her forest-life, and habits independent of
governess and dancing-master, had given, or at least had not taken
away, a power and ease of motion not common to many young ladies.

Mr. Farrington did not persist in compliments which were evidently
received with as much shy reluctance as conscious pleasure; but
changing the conversation, first discussed with her the details of the
accident, listening with extreme interest to Sybil’s enthusiastic
gratitude to Captain Hepburn and Mr. Huyton, and then led her on, how
she hardly knew, to give a long detail of their usual mode of life;
their quiet habits, their father’s state of health; followed by
glowing descriptions of the lovely forest scenery, through which they
were wont to roam, the quaint manners of the woodmen, the vagrant ways
of the gipsies, and a hundred other particulars, which Sybil detailed
with a poetic feeling for the romance of their situation peculiarly
attractive to him.

Her ardent affection and admiration for her half-sister, convinced Mr.
Farrington that Sybil herself must be equally amiable, and perhaps
equally clever to appreciate her so entirely; and altogether he was so
much interested in his companion, as to feel disinclined to quit her
again during the rest of the evening.

Sybil was too tired, from excitement and exertion, to be disposed to
do any thing but sit still beside Mrs. Fielding, except at the
intervals when she stole up stairs to learn how Hilary slept; and her
spirits being naturally depressed by what had already passed, and
anxiety for the future, she was just in that state of mind which made
her communicative of her hopes and fears, inclined to take
retrospective views of bygone happiness, and thankful to hear cheerful
anticipations for the morrow.

As to Maurice, after he had made the arrangements before recorded,
feeling easier for his sisters at “the Ferns,” and depending entirely
on his friend’s direction to give as little pain as possible to his
father in making known the accident, he suddenly returned to thoughts
of his own affairs, that is to say, to recollections of Dora, whom he
had left with her sister, and wonder what they had done, as well as
what they would think of his conduct.

Isabel he saw was with her aunt, Lady Margaret, and her party, which
was tolerably numerous, but Dora herself was invisible. He went up to
Miss Barham, and apologized for his conduct, in quitting them so
abruptly in the boat; an apology which she declared totally
unnecessary, as of course Hilary must be his first object; but in
answer to his inquiries after her sister, she could only tell him,
that Dora had gone in doors to rest, as she said she had a head-ache,
and the band made it worse. As soon as he could, Maurice went to the
house to look for her, but was unsuccessful in his search through all
the public rooms. Vexed and disappointed, he strolled out again, but
on the opposite side to that on which the pavilion stood, and wandered
away by himself, into a small thicket of laurel and other evergreens,
overhung by some remarkably fine old hawthorns, whose long sprays,
wreathed with snowy blossoms, shed around their rich and enervating
perfume.

A sudden turn in the walk brought him to a small alcove, and there,
reclining on a bank of turf, her face concealed partly by her arm and
partly by her handkerchief, was Dora Barham, sobbing as if her heart
was broken, and so engrossed by the cause of her agitation, as to be
quite unconscious of his approach.

He hesitated a moment, for he could not leave her in such grief, and
yet he did not dare to intrude upon it; he stopped, looked at her,
waited, and was then resolved to go back, when accidentally treading
on a broken stick in the path, the sharp crack it gave under his foot,
startled Dora, and made her instantly raise her head.

“Mr. Duncan!” exclaimed she, trying to brush away her tears in a great
hurry, as she saw him, but not looking at all sorry at the
interruption.

“I hope I do not disturb you,” said he, apologetically. “I had no idea
of finding you here.”

“Not in the least,” looking at the bank beside her (she was now
sitting upright), as if she longed to ask him to sit down. “How is
Hilary?”

“Doing quite well, they tell me; she is going to bed; I hope she will
sleep well, and be all right to-morrow.” He ventured to sit down as he
spoke.

“Oh, I am so glad! dear Hilary――it was horrid, dreadful――I can not get
the idea out of my head; oh, Mr. Duncan! if they had not been there to
save her!” Dora shuddered again, and again tears filled her eyes and
rolled down her cheeks.

“Do not agitate yourself so,” exclaimed her companion, “do not think
of it; can I do nothing for you; get you nothing?”

“No, thank you! I shall be better presently.” She sobbed a little, and
then was quiet.

“And your head-ache? Miss Barham told me it was bad.”

“I believe it was my heart, more than my head, Mr. Duncan,” replied
Dora, with a smile. “I can not bear things as Isabel does, and I was
so frightened; and people seemed so thoughtless and indifferent, and
so ready to forget――so little thankful. Oh, dear! what a set I live
with; it made my heart full, and my head ache; so at last I crept away
here, to be happy and grateful my own way.”

He looked at her with a smile, half-admiring, half arch, but said――

“I had no idea I found you in a state of _happiness_.”

She crimsoned, laughed, and then said――

“It is, nevertheless, very pleasant to cry sometimes.”

“I have heard so before,” was his answer.

“And one can not do it in company, you know; it would look absurd, and
be considered bad manners, which is worse; and besides, people do not
ever understand one; I believe _you_ are rather shocked at me.”

“Do you? then I am afraid my looks are deceitful.”

“Don’t you think me foolish then?” coloring again, and looking down.

“Foolish for feeling for my sister’s danger! foolish for caring for
her safety! if affection, sympathy, friendship, sensibility, gratitude
to Heaven, sincerity, simple truth of feeling, if these are folly, or
if you suppose I consider them so, then accuse me of thinking you
foolish.”

She was silent, but was visibly gratified by his warmth of manner.

“What have I ever done or said, Miss Barham, which can justify your
suspecting me of such hard-hearted, cynical want of feeling? Tears,
which do honor to my sister’s worth; tears, which prove your
disinterested regard for the dearest objects of my heart; tears, which
show how nearly we sympathize in some of _our_ feelings and
affections; if I do not honor and respect such――if I do not feel
intensely and most humbly grateful for them, I do not deserve to be
admitted into civilized society, far less into yours, Miss Barham.”

“Please don’t talk in that way; I did not mean to imply you were any
thing bad; how could I, when I know you love Hilary so?――but I am sure
you give me credit for a great deal more good than I deserve.”

“I do not think that possible.”

“Amiable people always do give the sunshine of their own virtues to
their companion’s character,” said Dora, somewhat thoughtfully.

Maurice kept his gratification to himself, and wisely changing the
subject to one less personal, began relating to Dora all the
arrangements which had been made by Charles Huyton and Victoria for
the accommodation of his sisters.

This was followed by a warm eulogium from Dora of the virtues and
amiability of Mr. Huyton, in which, as on most other subjects, there
was a wonderful similarity in their opinions; and after lingering
together in that pleasant retreat a longer time than it was at all
prudent for a poor lieutenant to spend in the bewitching society of
the co-heiress of the Abbey, they at length remembered that they might
as well return to the world, unsympathizing and hard-hearted as Dora
had just discovered it to be.

On the whole, in spite of her tears and agitation, Dora felt, as she
considered the circumstances of the afternoon, that the party had
produced quite as much pleasure as she had anticipated; by no means a
common occurrence. This was her conclusion, as she stationed herself
by Sybil’s side, on the quiet sofa where she and Mr. Farrington were
composedly conversing; and as Maurice had nothing to do more perfectly
natural and justifiable than to seat himself close to his sister, and
remain there to take care of her, Dora seemed likely to have a good
deal more enjoyment.

The shades of evening came down; and though dancing in the house had
been given up, as the fireworks had not, in due time the company
betook themselves once more to the park, where, under the shelter of
the trees, they could conveniently view the display of cascades,
bouquets, stars, serpents, and initial devices, with which the
pyrotechnist was to delight them; the whole effect being doubled by
the reflection in the waters.

“I really can not go out again,” said Mrs. Fielding to Sybil;
“perhaps, if you wish it, your brother will go with you to see these
fireworks.”

Sybil hesitated; she would rather have gone to Hilary.

“Do come,” said Dora, coaxingly, and foolishly anxious to enjoy the
walk with Maurice. “I want so to see them, Sybil dear, do come.”

Sybil consented; Mr. Farrington gave her his arm; Mrs. Fielding
insisted on her wrapping an additional shawl over her shoulders, to
guard her from the night air. Dora said she would like one also, and
sent Maurice to find a cashmere she had left in the cloak room. At
that moment, Lady Margaret called Dora, who explained that she was
waiting for her shawl, and would follow with Sybil and Mr. Farrington;
she begged the others not to wait; and Lady Margaret, satisfied that
Mr. Farrington, who belonged to their party, should be Dora’s escort,
went on; but as Maurice was some minutes finding the proper article,
her aunt was quite out of sight before Dora, with Sybil, went after
them.

Dora was only too happy; the fireworks were nothing to her; but the
gentle grace with which she was guarded, and the quiet strength of the
arm on which she leaned, were pretty nearly all she cared for in the
world at the moment; she would not think of results, or calculate
consequences; all she wished was to prolong the pleasant intercourse,
dangerous as it might be to future peace.

Something was said about his profession, and Maurice expressed his
hopes of very soon being employed afloat. Dora started, and inquired,
in a faltering voice, if he wanted to go?

“Of course I do, in one sense,” was his answer; and even as he spoke
he could feel the nervous, tremulous movement of the little hand which
rested on his arm. “My first wish is to distinguish myself――to obtain
promotion――to rise. One can not do that without serving.”

“I suppose honor and glory _ought_ to be a sailor’s first wish?” said
Dora, in a slightly disconcerted tone, as if she did not like the
thought.

“The honor leads to promotion; and on promotion all one’s hopes of
domestic happiness, the power of settling in life, making a home of
one’s own, and living in it, depend. One must work, deny oneself now,
to rest and enjoy hereafter,” was his answer.

“Then you will not always be going to sea?” continued she.

“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”

“Or wishing it? I suppose, then, you would be really glad to get an
appointment now――to-morrow――any day?”

“Not quite to-morrow, unless Hilary is well first; and come when it
will, it is a desperate struggle, Miss Barham, to leave all that is
dearest and sweetest on earth for the chances of being tossed about,
living among wild and careless companions, exposed to all manner of
little trials and vexations, and no woman near to soothe one; no sweet
sister to smile one into patience; no sister’s sweeter friend to
bewitch one into forgetfulness. Don’t think we are all stones or
blocks, because we do our best to put on the look of unconcern, Miss
Barham. It often hides a very heavy heart.”

“And how soon can you be promoted?” inquired Dora, after a little
pause, not feeling herself exactly equal to pursuing the conversation
on the same topic.

He told how long he must serve before he had the claim; how much
longer, probably, before he could have the chance to be promoted.
Then, as she continued silent, he went on, emboldened by the darkness
and the solitude, for they were a little apart from the others, and no
one could see any thing distinctly.

“I am not sure whether I ought to say it, but I have so longed to
express――do not be angry with me for mentioning the subject――to
express my gratitude to you for the trouble you took for my benefit. I
have never dared speak of it before. Perhaps I may not have another
opportunity.”

“I was very glad to do it,” said Dora, hurriedly; “but _you_ owe me no
thanks, it was for Hilary I asked; you know I had never seen you
then!”

“I am perfectly aware of that; I never flattered myself it was
personal regard for me; the kindness, I know, was to Hilary; but the
benefit was to myself. Whatever I felt at the time, I can only say
now, the rank is dearer to me, when I remember from whose hand I
received it; and my earnest wish not to disgrace my name, my
profession, and my country, is changed into a longing, ardent desire,
to show that I am sensible of the honor done me, and will do any
thing, lay down my life, were it necessary, to try and deserve it.”

“Heaven forbid!” murmured Dora; “don’t say such dreadful words; you
make me feel as if I should be a murderess. Please don’t be too
anxious to distinguish yourself.”

“I hope you will never have to blush for your kindness, Miss Barham.
There is little danger in these times of peace of any thing leading me
to too great distinction.”

“And I――oh, Mr. Duncan! if your promotion should lead to any
misfortune, I should never forgive myself for having interfered; I
could never look at Hilary again.” Dora spoke with great emotion.

“Nay, do not distress yourself, dear Miss Barham; events and their
results are not in our own hands, and we are not responsible for them.
We have but to do and dare; you in small things at home, perhaps; I in
more distant, but may be, not more trying scenes abroad; to go forward
bravely, trusting heartily in Providence, do our duty firmly, and
leave the rest to heaven, that is our best as well as our wisest
course; and if the end should be stormy, let us still trust and be
strong.”

“I never was strong; I never can be brave. I am afraid of storms, and
whenever some people tell me one thing is right, and others declare
the contrary, as so often happens to me, then I become so puzzled,
that I can do nothing at all. You do not know the misery of
indecision.”

“No; but we all have the compass and chart to guide us, and mostly
find a pilot, if the passage is very shoal, and the rocks are
intricate, and the navigation too puzzling for us; and there are
light-houses, and buoys too, to direct us right. Do you understand
me?”

“I think I do; but although I hear of rules, and discipline, and
self-control, when I go to church, and have been taught to reverence
the Holy Word, and believe in the existence of conscience,
theoretically, practically it is all nothing to me. I do not
understand it. I dare say I ought not to say this to you. It seems
strange to confess all this; only you led to the subject, and I can
see that what is all a mist and unsubstantial phantasmagoria to me, is
a light and comfort, and real guiding force, and existing present
support, to such as you and Hilary.”

“And to you also, if you choose, Miss Barham.”

“Oh, no! never to me; I am too weak to lay hold of them, too foolish
to understand them. Life in itself frightens me. It has claims to
which I ought to attend; but if I try, a whole host of ceremonies,
fashions, customs, prejudices, follies, rise up between me and my
duties; I stretch out my hand, and can not reach it, and spend my time
in sighing and idle wishes.”

“And I am not theologian or philosopher enough to know what advice to
give you. I think, however, I understand your feeling. I wish I could
help you.”

“I was brought up,” continued Dora, “to value nothing but what
contributed to outward show; to consider only appearances; to act only
for effect; I feel the whole root and source of my actions is false; I
despise myself, but I do not know how to mend it. I have waked up to a
sense that there ought to be reality in life, but know not how to find
or make it.”

“Take one duty at a time, and conquer that; give yourself one good
rule, and act upon it; do not look at every thing at once, or you are
bewildered by what is before you. One takes the problems of Euclid,
one by one, and learns them all; without a gradual advance, or
beginning at the simplest, how could we get on?”

“If I only had some one to guide and teach me always; some one like
Hilary, who could keep me right,” sighed Dora. Sybil just then joined
them, and their conversation was ended for the time; but Dora, when
Maurice wished her good-night at parting, whispered: “I shall try to
remember;” and his answer was an enthusiastic “_I_ shall never
forget.”





CHAPTER XI.

  ――――――――――――“Let their hands
  Tremble, and their cheeks be flame
  As they feel the fatal bands
  Of love they dare not name,
  With a wild delicious pain,
  Twine about their hearts.”
                                   TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.


Gwyneth and Captain Hepburn drove home through the beautiful twilight
together.

“I do not think we need alarm your father very much,” said he, after a
considerable silence: “there is every hope that she will be better
to-morrow.”

“Oh, yes! I have no doubt of that,” said Gwyneth; “I am not afraid
about my father, he is too reasonable to entertain foolish fears; and
now that all risk and danger are over, there can be no real ground for
alarm.”

“We must be careful in telling it,” continued he; “you will be able to
break the news to him, perhaps; a woman’s tact is best: you will
undertake it.”

“I have no doubt but that I can do it――I am not at all afraid. There
is every probability that Hilary will be home to-morrow,” repeated
she.

Gwyneth’s sanguine anticipations rather surprised Captain Hepburn; he
had seen Dr. Pilgrim himself, just before quitting “the Ferns,” and
had learned that the danger of fever was very far from passed away:
the doctor had spoken openly to him, considering him a friend of the
family, who had a right to know, and had told him that the result must
be a matter of great anxiety, while the symptoms were so alarming. As,
however, there was room to hope that to-morrow might bring a better
report, and relieve all apprehension, he considered that there was no
reason for exciting unnecessary fears; and also that if Gwyneth did
not know how much there was still to dread, she would be quite secure
from giving alarms which might eventually prove unfounded.

She really managed it very well; and though Mr. Duncan heard the
intelligence with emotion, he bore it with the firmness and
resignation of a Christian. It was quite evident, however, to the keen
perception of his guest, that he did not share in the hopeful
anticipations of his daughter. He did not check her, it was true, but
allowed her to reckon with confidence on the safe return of the other
three to the Vicarage the next day; but when she was out of the room,
forgetful of Captain Hepburn’s presence, who had been sitting some
time in silence, the blind old man clasped his hands together, and
breathed out in deep, heartfelt tones of patient resignation, his
fears, and his aspirations for submission, if the stroke he dreaded
should be really impending.

Captain Hepburn was deeply affected. The thoughts of what Hilary was
in that home, of her importance to her sisters, her indispensability
to her father; of what it would be for them to lose the music of her
voice, the sunshine of her smile; for that parent no more to feel the
touch of those gentle hands, tending his infirmities with such
indefatigable zeal; or to hear the light echo of her busy feet, as she
passed by in her accustomed household duties: for all, to miss her in
her usual seat, in her daily walks, from her place at church; these
thoughts were so replete with sadness, so full of heart-sinking
desolation, that his whole soul was moved at the idea.

He crossed the room, and laying his hand gently on that of his host,
said in a voice which, in spite of his utmost efforts, was unsteady
with deep feeling――

“Dear sir, if your fears should be realized, may your prayers be
granted too! but, from my soul, I trust they may prove groundless, and
that Heaven may long, long bless you with such a treasure as your
daughter must be to you.”

“Thank you, Captain Hepburn; I believe you are a true friend to me and
mine, and I owe you much, much more than I can speak. If you could
save Hilary for us, I believe you would, although you do not know half
her worth. But when one has an angel-visitant on earth, one feels her
stay must be precarious, and may be short.”

“Perhaps so; but surely Heaven will hear your prayers, and she will be
restored.”

“Captain Hepburn, when you have twice mourned, as I have done, over
the heart’s dearest treasure, you will learn perhaps, better I hope
than I have learned the lesson, not to make a mortal’s life your idol;
and to know that the Love which is above all other love, sees not as
we see, judges not as we judge, but works always for our best and
surest interests, even when it thwarts our weak and passionate desires
here. We never know what is unfortunate or what is good for us, except
the one thing, submissive trust. I have no other wish, but that, come
what may, I may be patient and resigned.”

Captain Hepburn was silent. What was his short-lived affection, true
and warm as it was, compared with the fond love of a father for his
eldest daughter? His heart smote him for his selfish wishes, as he
thought that he had even for a moment contemplated taking her away
himself; that he had hoped to tempt her to another home.

“No, never,” said he to himself, “never will I rob their household of
its dearest treasure; never shall this fond and trusting father charge
me with stealing away the daughter in whom he delights. Every selfish
desire of my own shall yield to his happiness, and unless I can really
fill the place of a son to him, I will not deprive him of the child on
whom his comfort depends. If my love can add to their happiness, it
will be well for me; if not, it must be crushed and extinguished in
the performance of higher duties.”

As it would probably be late before Maurice returned from “the Ferns,”
they persuaded the vicar not to sit up, promising that he should
immediately hear the report which his son would bring; and more for
Gwyneth’s sake than his own, he yielded to their wishes; so the
visitor remained alone to wait his friend’s arrival, and wile away the
long minutes as best he could. He had plenty of time for reflection
and consideration then; time to recall all that Victoria had told him,
to weigh her words, and guess what her motives were: time to remember
Hilary’s smile and blush, as she talked of the violets with him; time
to take from his bosom that little bunch of flowers with its soiled
and dabbed white bands, and to smooth and dry the valued memorial of
her peril and his exertions, which he had picked from the grass where
it had dropped as Maurice raised her in his arms; time, too, to put up
ardent prayers for her safety and petitions for her happiness; and to
endeavor to judge how far that happiness was likely to be affected by
his continuing there, persevering in an attempt to win her heart, and
obtain a promise of her love and faith.

The report which Maurice brought, did not materially differ from the
opinion Dr. Pilgrim had given to Captain Hepburn; she was sleeping,
but not quietly; there was still a threatening of fever, which might
subside in the night, or might increase toward morning. Mr. Huyton had
persuaded the doctor to remain all night at “the Ferns,” and Maurice
intended to ride over before breakfast the next morning, to ascertain,
as early as possible, how she had passed the night. Not that the
brother was much alarmed; his sanguine temper and cheerful disposition
made him take a happier view of probabilities than the father or the
lover could do, and he anticipated with tolerable steadiness a much
better report in the morning; or even should there be a little fever
for a day or two, it need be nothing to alarm them; she was always
well, and he did not think her delicate; surely there could be little
serious fear, although there was room perhaps for some anxiety.

So thought and argued Maurice, and apparently Captain Hepburn agreed
with him; he was, however, found anxiously pacing up and down the
green, the next morning, when Maurice returned from his early ride;
and the eagerness with which he asked for intelligence, rather by look
than word, did not indicate calm indifference, or careless certainty.

Not so well――feverish and restless; still Dr. Pilgrim hopes the best,
and thinks it will soon pass off; however, she must see no one but her
nurses, and is to be kept quiet. Nest was sleeping soundly, and to
guess from appearances, would wake quite well.

Such was the report. Charles had promised to come over rather late in
the forenoon, to bring word how she was going on, as the doctor had
recommended some new mode of treatment, from which he expected much
benefit.

Just as they were sitting down to breakfast, the letters arrived.
Among those for Captain Hepburn, there was one large, business-like,
official-looking letter, with “On her Majesty’s Service,” in the
corner, which was not to be seen and opened without some excitement.

It was too truly a summons away from Hurstdene; a notification that
his presence was greatly desired at the Admiralty, to receive his
appointment to the command of a vessel fitting out at Sheerness. There
was time neither for delay nor hesitation――go he must that very day;
though to leave Hilary without seeing her again, ill, in his rival’s
house, and utterly ignorant of his hopes, his love, his sincere love
for her, was a trial which required no small amount of self-command
and resolution to bear calmly.

Long he sat, with his eyes bent upon the letter, with lips compressed
and brows slightly knit, and cheeks glowing even through that bronzed
complexion, before he could force from his tongue the words which must
announce his departure, or trust his voice to speak without betraying
more than he desired. How he craved a little delay; could he but have
waited a week, oh, how precious the days would have been! Or had the
appointment come before he had known and loved, how welcome, would
then have been the announcement.

But it must be done――the words must be spoken; was he turning craven
then, to shrink from the duties he had undertaken, from the sacrifice
required of him! Would Hilary esteem one who valued inglorious sloth
and pleasure, beyond exertion and honor, and self-denial and courage!

He tossed the letter across to Maurice.

“There,” said he, with a smile, “see there; read it aloud, Maurice,
and let your father hear!”

Maurice did so.

“Oh, Captain Hepburn,” exclaimed Gwyneth, starting up, and looking
over her brother’s shoulder, as he read; “it is an appointment! it
will take you away! how sorry, how very sorry I am!”

“Thank you, Miss Gwyneth; your sorrow is more than I deserve; _your_
congratulations will be different, Duncan, I expect; shall I apply for
you?”

“Do, sir, I shall be delighted,” exclaimed Maurice, professional zeal
and enthusiasm for the moment overpowering, with their warm glow, the
cooler calculations of love, or home affections. “I should be happy
indeed to serve with you again.”

“And _I_ must go to-day,” observed Captain Hepburn, struggling with
his own feelings in the wish to appear cheerful.

“To-day!” again exclaimed Gwyneth, “and Hilary away, and not able to
say good-by, nor Sybil either; oh, do stay at least till to-morrow,
and see Sybil again!”

“You are inconsiderate, my dear Gwyneth,” said her father; “you ought
to know that duty admits of no delay, and that his profession has
claims on Captain Hepburn beyond and above all private ties or
inclinations.”

“True, my dear sir, it leaves me no choice, no room for hesitation,
which, perhaps, is a blessing. Could I consult my feelings, Miss
Gwyneth, thus abruptly, and under such circumstances, to quit your
father’s roof, would be the last thing I should wish; nothing would be
more precious to me than delay might I indulge in it. Maurice, will
you help me to make arrangements as to the means of going?”

In a couple of hours more every thing was ready for starting, and
Captain Hepburn had nothing to do but to say farewell to his host and
Gwyneth.

“If it is in your power,” said Mr. Duncan, as he grasped the sailor’s
hand, “we shall be happy to see you here again before leaving England;
do let us hear from you, at least.”

“If possible, I will run down and see you again,” said the other,
warmly; “it will not be want of will that can stop me, my dear sir; I
shall be very, very busy, I know; but my memory and my heart will be
here with you; and my first wish will be that you may have improving
tidings of your daughter to communicate. Maurice has promised to
write.”

“You shall hear regularly, if you are so kind as to wish it,” replied
the clergyman; “but, Captain Hepburn, take your heart to your work, or
I fear it will be but ill performed, and we shall have spoiled a good
officer.”

“My professional heart, sir, may go with me, but when memory wishes to
conjure up an image of domestic happiness, purity, piety, affection,
truth, and all lovely virtues, it will certainly go back mechanically
to the Vicar of Hurstdene and his charming daughters.”

“God bless you,” replied the other, shaking his hand again and again;
“you have been a blessing to me and mine; I owe you, under Providence,
the lives of one, two, perhaps three of my children; and if a father’s
warmest prayers and most heartfelt benediction can call down aught of
blessing or well-being for you, then may you be sure of happiness,
lasting, satisfying happiness, wherever you may go. Farewell!”

To such words, at such a moment, the only answer was the low, earnest
“Thank you!” of subdued feeling, and the close-pressed hand lingering
long in a friendly grasp.

Both Gwyneth’s hands, taken and clasped in silence for a moment, and
then a softly-whispered “Farewell!” which the quivering lip could
hardly utter, was all he had firmness for, as he turned away.

“Have you no message for the absent ones?” inquired she,
half-reproachfully, as she accompanied him to the porch.

“I pass ‘the Ferns’ on my road. I shall call there to hear the latest
news, and at least, see your sisters, Sybil and Nest,” was his
justification, which amply satisfied Gwyneth.

He reached “the Ferns” just as Charles Huyton was on the point of
stepping into his carriage to drive over to the Vicarage. He turned
back, however, and accompanied his guest into the house, who explained
his errand as they crossed the hall.

“I congratulate you on your appointment,” exclaimed Charles, with much
sincerity; “I am truly rejoiced to hear it. I have learned enough of a
sailor’s feelings, during my acquaintance with Maurice, to know how,
beyond all other things, they value professional employment, and covet
professional distinction. I will call my cousin to you, and, perhaps,
as you are going, you will like to say good-by to Miss Sybil Duncan,
and little Nest.”

“It was the particular object of my stopping here. If you will let
Miss Sybil know I am here I dare say she will see me; but do not
disturb Miss Fielding on my account if she is engaged.”

Mr. Huyton sent a message to Sybil to inform her who waited for her in
the saloon. In a moment she came running down.

“How good of you to call, Captain Hepburn! I saw Maurice this morning;
did he tell you?” Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

“Could you come out with me for five minutes on the lawn?” said he,
determined to speak to her without Mr. Huyton’s presence; and almost
without waiting for her acquiescence, he drew the hand which he had
been holding under his arm, and led her through the open window.

“Tell me truly, how is your sister now?” was his first question.

“Restless and feverish, but not worse――rather better if any thing; but
to be kept quite quiet.”

“Thank Heaven! I am come to say good-by to you,” he added, in a
changed voice.

She started, and exclaimed――

“Why, _must_ you just now?”

He explained; and Sybil knew enough of the service to be aware that
there was no choice in such a case. She listened quietly, but her eyes
filled with tears as he spoke.

“You must go then,” said she, sorrowfully; “how we shall miss you. I
suppose I ought to be glad that you are employed, but I am so selfish
as to feel very, very sorry to part. We owe you so much; and when you
are gone, how can we show our gratitude to you, or make you feel how
we thank you every day? What can we do for you?”

“Remember me, dear Sybil; and help others, your sister above all, to
remember me too. Do not let absence or time make you forget me,” said
he, formality giving way before warmly excited feeling.

“Forget you! oh, Captain Hepburn, never! we none of us _can_ do that.
Hilary, when she knows what has happened to you, will grieve that she
has not thanked you with her own lips; but will she ever _forget_ the
preserver of Nest? One of the few things she has said has been to
express her gratitude, and to charge me, when I saw you, to say how
infinitely she felt your courage, and how much more she thanked you
for that action than she would have done for her own life alone. I
hoped in a few days you would have heard it from herself; but since
that can not be, you must try to be satisfied with her gratitude
second-hand. What shall I say to her from you, in answer, when I can
talk to her again.”

“Tell her that nothing dearer than duty would have taken me away from
Hurstdene at the present moment; and that so soon as duty permits, I
pledge myself to be here again. Meantime, I shall write to Maurice.”
His tone gave additional force to his words.

“Write often, do,” said Sybil, earnestly looking at him, with an
appreciation of his meaning dawning on her.

“As often as I can. I must not linger now.” He felt that he was
understood, but dared not say more.

They turned toward the house.

“Mr. Huyton wants my father and Gwyneth to come over here to remain,”
said Sybil, as they retraced their steps; “he is going to fetch them,
if he can.”

“That is very kind; it will be more comfortable for you.”

They entered the saloon, and found Victoria there; Mr. Huyton was
looking slightly impatient.

Miss Fielding’s greetings and adieux were, like herself, lively,
gracious, and emphatic. The traveler did not linger a minute more, and
as soon as he was gone, Charles Huyton drove off to the Vicarage, for
the purpose Sybil had named. The latter went out again for a short
stroll. Hilary was sleeping, and her sister, fearful of disturbing
her, resolved not to return until summoned on her awakening.

Nest, though pretty well, had enjoyed so prolonged a slumber, that she
was not yet dressed; so Sybil resolved to refresh herself by a
solitary walk under the beautiful avenue in front of the house. The
sound of a horse approaching roused her from her reverie, and looking
up, she saw Mr. Farrington, who, immediately on perceiving her,
alighted, and giving his horse to the groom, joined her in her walk.
His object was to inquire for Miss Duncan; he had been deputed by the
party at the Abbey to come over early for news; and the sisters
themselves, or some of them, were intending to drive to “the Ferns”
later in the day to see Sybil, and hear the bulletin in person.

This was his account of himself; perhaps it would have been more
strictly accurate, had he said that he had volunteered the service,
which otherwise the groom would have performed alone; and that, though
feeling a natural interest in the welfare of a young lady in such
circumstances as Hilary, he yet thought and cared a great deal more
about her sister. His fancy had been strangely captivated by the tall,
handsome girl, whose appearance and manners had haunted his memory,
and formed the principal subject of his conversation with Doro Barham
all the morning.

Sybil turned when he joined her, and walked toward the house, from
which they were distant about a quarter of a mile; giving him, as they
went along, first, an answer to his inquiries after her sister; and
then a voluntary detail of her regret at parting with Captain Hepburn,
whom they all valued so highly.

Mr. Farrington listened with real interest to the account of the
family obligations to the gallant officer, and readily conceded that
they owed him great gratitude for an amount of benefit not often
bestowed by one person. He would have admired and applauded kindness
and courage under any circumstances; but when the narrative was
enforced by the bright flash of those dark eyes, and the peculiarly
sweet tones of the voice which recounted it, his enthusiastic
appreciation of Captain Hepburn’s merits was quite equal to what even
Sybil considered right and becoming.

Her energetic eloquence was interrupted by a slight incident: glancing
upward as she spoke, and quite forgetting all minor considerations,
she hit her foot against a projecting root, and was very nearly thrown
down on her face: she was not hurt, only a little confused at her
awkwardness, as she called it; but the gentleman persuaded her to take
his arm after that, and the abrupt pause which ensued was broken by
his starting another topic, namely, that he had to return to London
the next morning, having only come down to the Abbey for a couple of
days, for the sake of Mr. Huyton’s party.

This information by no means disturbed Sybil in the way in which
Captain Hepburn’s departure had affected her. She had found Mr.
Farrington a pleasant companion, but she had not expected even to see
him a second time, and there was neither any surprise or regret
visible, when he talked of going. It seemed to her simply natural. He
talked of regret, and said a good deal about his memory lingering amid
the green shades of “the Ferns,” and his wish to visit this country
again; to which Sybil listened quietly, and presently observed, “If he
liked it so much, what would prevent his coming?” He could not
construe her remark into any thing approaching to conscious
encouragement; she did not seem to have an idea that she had the least
to do with his coming or wishing to come: he found this natural
simplicity particularly captivating, and his admiration for her mind
increased as much as his conviction for her uncommon beauty did. He
thought her more lovely by day-light, in a simple morning dress, than
he had done the evening before, in her more elaborate toilette.

In spite of all his efforts to lengthen out the walk, by stopping to
admire glens in the park, or remarkably fine trees, or to conjecture
the date of the mansion, she yet proceeded so decidedly onward, with
so evident a resolution to reach the house, that he was compelled to
suppose her quite indifferent to any peculiar charm in his society, or
very strictly correct in her notions of propriety and etiquette. He
tried to flatter himself rather it was the latter, as she was
evidently very young, and young girls, he believed, are always either
rigidly prudent, or immensely careless about decorum; but he could not
quite convince himself that this was the fact; he was too diffident,
indeed, to be very certain on this point.

On she walked, at least, straight into the house, and never lingered
till they reached the saloon where Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were
sitting. Then she quietly said that she would go up and learn the very
latest tidings of Hilary, for Isabel and Dora’s benefit, seeming to
expect he would instantly start off to the Abbey with the report. The
interval was employed by him in learning from Victoria all the
particulars relative to the expected visit of Mr. Duncan, whom Charles
hoped to bring back with him; an announcement which excited so strong
a wish in Mr. Farrington to see the clergyman, that the ladies
proposed at once that he should stay and lunch at “the Ferns,” sending
the groom back to the Abbey with the report he had come to fetch.

No pressing was needed to elicit a very ready acceptance of this
proposition; and, to say the truth, Victoria was as glad of the
company of a pleasant and gentlemanlike young man, as he could be to
stay. The morning after a fête is generally flat and dull; and if a
gentleman desires to make his presence thoroughly appreciated, he
should contrive to drop in on such an occasion, among a family party
in the country.

On Sybil’s return, she seemed rather surprised to find that the
message was to be intrusted to the groom; and apparently doubtful
whether he could convey safely so important a verbal communication as
that Miss Duncan was asleep, but seemed much the same, she indited a
little note to Dora Barham; and by this means that young lady became
possessed of the interesting fact, that the whole family from the
Vicarage were expected at “the Ferns,” to remain there as long as
Hilary’s health required it.

Nest, who was now quite well, had entered the room with Sybil, and the
gentleman soon coaxed her on to his knee, and began conversing with
her about her home, her father, and her sisters: they were excellent
friends before Sybil’s note was finished.

“How wonderfully the sisters are alike,” said he to Victoria, as he
gazed admiringly at the little one’s large black eyes and raven hair;
“I should like a sketch of this child.”

“I believe I can show you some, although I can not give them to you,”
replied Victoria, going to a large portfolio which was standing near.
She opened the boards, and began to turn over the sketches it
contained. He put down Nest, and went to examine it with great
interest; there were many views in the forest, at the sight of which
Nest frequently exclaimed she knew that spot, or she had seen this in
Hilary’s sketch-book; and when Sybil joined them, she seemed to know
every view, and owned that they had all been together, when such or
such was done. At last they came to some groups of figures; the
sisters again and again, Hilary always principal; and then single
drawings, Sybil, Gwyneth, and Nest, evidently younger and more
childish, but still very like. There was no finished drawing of Hilary
alone; and Sybil owned that her sister never had sat to Mr. Huyton, as
they had, again and again; she did not know why, perhaps he had never
asked her: the views there were of her, were taken by stealth, or done
from memory, perhaps.

“It is hardly fair to show drawings which so plainly tell a tale,”
whispered Mr. Farrington to Victoria, when Sybil had turned away to
listen to Mrs. Fielding’s questions. “If these were mine, I would not
allow them to be carelessly examined and investigated.”

“Oh! I am breaking no confidence,” replied Victoria, in a laughing
whisper; “Charles makes no secret of his object; the whole plan and
intention of yesterday’s fête, was to distinguish one person above all
others; and though we did not propose to risk drowning her, yet, I
believe, he will by no means regret the accident, if all ends well. At
any rate, it has secured him some important advantages.”

Mr. Farrington looked excessively surprised at this communication, and
made a mental determination to keep his own counsel, so far as
Victoria was concerned, unless he wanted all the world to know his
affairs.

Sybil disappeared again just after this, much to Mr. Farrington’s
disappointment; the only amusement left for him was what Victoria
supplied; and although she was very entertaining and agreeable, as he
was wishing all the time for something else, her powers of pleasing
were lost upon him.

“Where have you been?” was Victoria’s question, when Sybil joined them
at the luncheon table; to which she replied, “she had gone out to
finish her walk, as Hilary was still sleeping soundly; and she wished
when her father arrived, to be quite fresh and ready to attend him.”

Very fresh, and very handsome, too, she looked, with the bright color
which exercise had brought into her cheeks, and the happy expression
which a conviction that her sister was now doing very well, produced;
and her perfect unconsciousness that Mr. Farrington’s visit was made
for her sake, or that his eyes were incessantly attracted to her in
admiration, greatly heightened her charms in his opinion. He tried to
detain her in conversation; but no sooner was the luncheon finished,
than she again withdrew, and remained invisible for the next hour.

It was not Mr. Farrington’s conversational powers which brought her
down at last, but the arrival of her own family, with Charles Huyton.
No sooner did she see the carriage at a little distance, than she ran
hastily down stairs, and was on the steps to receive her father when
it drew up, quite regardless of all the state formalities of porter,
butler, or footman, who had to stand off to make way for her.

Charles sprang out first, and his inquiries of “How is she now? How is
Hilary?” were hardly less earnest and eager than those of Gwyneth and
Maurice. But Sybil had scarcely words to answer them: it was to her
father she looked, of him she thought; and when, by the assistance of
his son and host, the clergyman had been safely placed upon the broad
steps, she threw herself into his arms, and in accents choking from
delight, she whispered that Hilary was better, Dr. Pilgrim had just
seen her, and said she was out of danger.

Mr. Farrington, who was standing near enough to see the meeting,
thought he had never witnessed a more touching sight, than the glad
thankfulness of the young people, and the deep, reverend gratitude of
the father, as he raised his hat from his head, and uttered audible
thanks for this joyful tidings. Mr. Huyton himself was in a state of
excitement most visible to a calm looker-on; he shook hands ardently
with Mr. Duncan, kissed the hands of Sybil and Gwyneth with most
un-English grace, and as to Nest, he caught her up in his arms and
almost smothered her with caresses, the overflowings of a full-hearted
happiness.

They became rational at last, and moved into the house. It was
necessary that Miss Duncan should still be kept quiet; but, under
promise of silence and discretion, Gwyneth was permitted to take her
sister’s place in watching the invalid, and Sybil was able to devote
herself to her father.

Mr. Farrington’s wish of being introduced to the clergyman was
gratified, and he found the next hour spent in conversing with him,
and looking at Sybil, so very pleasant, that he heard with great
regret the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Barham and his daughter.
This brought back Charles Huyton and Maurice into the saloon, they
having been pacing on the terrace, and discussing the wishes of the
latter to sail with Captain Hepburn, in which Mr. Huyton very
cordially joined.

Dora’s vail and bonnet hid her face from her father when she spoke to
Maurice, and after a few fluttered sentences, she turned to Sybil, and
asked if she might not go up stairs and see Gwyneth for a minute; so
the two girls left the room together, with a word of apology to
Victoria. Then Mr. Barham expressed a strong wish to see some
alterations Mr. Huyton was making in his hot-houses, and Isabel said
she should like to accompany them; Victoria politely offered to go
with her, and as Charles seemed to regret leaving Mr. Duncan, both
Maurice and Mr. Farrington volunteered to remain with him; while Mrs.
Fielding, just then entering the room, declared it was her peculiar
right to wait on and attend to him, when he was at “the Ferns.”

Had Mr. Barham and Isabel intended to do what was most pleasant, but
least profitable, to Dora and Maurice, they could hardly have arranged
better. Sybil and her friend returned to the saloon, to find the party
very much reduced; and as Mrs. Fielding was as good as her word, and
entirely engrossed Mr. Duncan, Mr. Farrington enticed Sybil to sit
down with him by the portfolio before alluded to, to tell him more
about the beautiful sketches it contained; and she, quite unaware how
little he had cared for them when only Victoria had turned them over,
very good-naturedly complied with his request, and discussed the times
and places where the sketches had been drawn, with such amusing
vivacity, and in such graphic language, that he did not discover how
time slipped by while so employed.

Why Dora and Maurice chose at the same time to go out of the window,
and continued for the next hour to walk slowly up and down a long
green alley beside the flower garden, or to stand in deep talk,
leaning over a pedestal, was best known to themselves. Mr. Barham was
so very well satisfied to see his eldest daughter attended through his
gardens by Mr. Huyton, and leaning on his arm, that he quite forgot to
think about how little Dora was employed; he could not on any account
hurry a stroll which afforded Isabel so good an opportunity of
displaying her interest in science, and her peculiarly sensible
opinions relative to the regulation of hot-houses, gardeners, village
schools, farmers’ prejudices, and the poor-law; on all which subjects
she spoke with much earnestness and grace. Mr. Huyton being much too
well-bred to show how excessively he was bored, or in the slightest
degree to hurry Miss Barham, although longing to return to the house,
the elder gentleman was quite persuaded that he was delighted with
their society, and fully appreciated the honor done to him by the
owner of Drewhurst Abbey, and his eldest daughter. He judged Charles
by himself; and conscious that no claims of civility would have made
_him_ submit to a _gêne_ of any kind, and that the use he made of
politeness and courtesy, was, not to please others at his own expense,
but to gratify himself on all occasions without actually giving,
offense, he conjectured that what was so gracefully borne, must be a
pleasure in itself; and lingered long on purpose ere he brought his
visit to a close.

And all this time Maurice and Dora were together, on a warm, sunshiny
May afternoon, straying in a beautiful garden, where early roses,
lilacs, and hawthorns, mingled their scent with the rich
rhododendrons, daphnes, and still rarer exotics with which the
flower-beds were glowing, and talking as young people will talk, when,
in the warm glow of true first-love, they forget the cold calculations
of worldly prudence, and ambitious hopes.

He told her how suddenly Captain Hepburn had been called away, and she
turned pale, and her voice faltered, as she suggested that the same
thing might occur to him; and when she heard that his friend had
promised to apply for him, and that his interest was such that there
was little doubt the application would be successful, she was quite
unable to conceal how much she was pained at the idea. In vain she
tried to say she wished him honor and success in his profession; she
was too sincere to deceive, and too thoughtless to remember any thing
but her own emotions. And what could be the result, but that Maurice
made a rash avowal of his passionate admiration and love, his
presumptuous affection, his hopeless attachment, and received in
return a still more rash acknowledgment, that her feelings were but
too much in agreement with his own, and that the certainty of his
devotion to her was the only thing which could console her for his
departure, if he must go.

It was a moment of wild intoxication; the delight of knowing each
other’s hearts, was dearly purchased, and yet it was a delight. Their
whole acquaintance had been a series of imprudencies, and this
conversation was but the crowning imprudence of all. For as to hope,
they really, hardly dared entertain an idea of it; Dora felt, and
Maurice feared, that there was small chance of her father’s consent to
an engagement, and without Mr. Barham’s consent, Maurice would not
even ask her to make him the smallest promise of constancy or faith.

He indeed, would have gone straight to Mr. Barham, owned his
affection, and asked to be allowed to win her hand by gallant deeds,
or constant devotion; but Dora dared do no such thing; she shrank from
cold looks, and harsh, stern words, and contempt and censure. She
could not encounter Isabel’s surprise, or her father’s frown; she
would have gladly plighted her hand to Maurice, and would have
trusted, with the coward’s trusts, to time or chance, to
circumstances, to accident, to any thing in fact, rather than to bold,
straightforward measures. It was his sense of honor, and his rectitude
of feeling alone, which saved her from the misery of a clandestine
engagement; she would have ventured that for him; she dared not be
open, but she thought she could be true. His, too, was all the regret,
the remorse, indeed, for what he had done. When the first violent
emotion had passed away, and he saw how he had won her heart, and yet
must not avow their mutual affection, he became aware how great an
injury he had done her; what a cloud he should have thrown upon her
young life, what a constant, fretting, wearing anxiety he had brought
upon her. Then, in his true and honorable love, he prayed her to
forget him; not to let the thought, the memory of him, darken her
days, or interfere with her future prospects. His love saw no shadow,
no fault in her; it was too warm to permit the thought that she was a
coward at heart, and shrank from the only right step; he called her
weakness, gentleness, docility, feminine tenderness; and while he
would have braved all and any thing for her, he almost trembled at the
idea of entailing on her a moment’s care or mental suffering.

“No, I do not deserve your love; do not make yourself unhappy for a
fellow like me, dearest, sweetest Dora! it is too good of you; I can
never, never forget _you_! but think of me only as of a brother, as of
one who would bring you nothing but good, not sorrow; think of me with
kindness always, but not with sorrowful regret; think of me as one who
loves you devotedly, passionately; I shall treasure your image in my
heart, and dote upon it in my fancy, and in the lonely nightwatch,
dwell on the recollection of your smile; and perhaps in moments of
danger, in storm, and peril, and difficulty, your dear, bright eyes
will shine on my memory, and nerve me for daring deeds; but do not
think of me. It is enough for me to know that had there been no
obstacle you would have loved me; that had my birth and fortune
entitled me to ask your hand, I might have won you; that your heart
should have been mine, had Heaven so willed it. But do not grieve that
we must part; nay, do not shed those tears; dearest Dora! I do not
deserve so very great an honor.”

As if such words would make her care less, or quiet the heart-broken
sobs with which she listened to his protestations!

“But you are not going yet?” she murmured.

“Heaven knows how soon; but, Dora, after this, even if I do not, we
must not meet again.”

“Oh! Maurice,” ejaculated she, in overwhelming distress.

“Not purposely, not alone; no, Dora, it has been madness, wickedness
almost, to love you and make you unhappy; but we will not add to that
unintentional error the real, downright crime of carrying on a secret
understanding, a clandestine intercourse. If I may not ask you of your
father now, at least he shall not, when I do, throw back on me the
imputation that I have meanly, basely encouraged you in defying his
wishes or thwarting his hopes. If that blessed time should ever come
when I may seek you openly――if――oh! Dora,――if you still love me in
some happier future, then let us, at least, have the power of saying
and feeling we were rash, imprudent, thoughtless, but we were not
deceitful.”

The little hand he held tremblingly pressed his fingers with a
convulsive clasp, and then she murmured again――

“Oh! Maurice, I will be true to you for life; I will never, no, never,
be the bride of another; you have my heart, and shall have my faith
for life.”

“No, no, Dora, you must not say so, I will not hold you bound; dear as
your words are, sweetest! you must take them back; no promise must be
given or accepted which truth and honor do not sanction. Time alters
all, every thing; and when I am gone, and you learn to see my
character as it deserves, unblinded by your own sweet fancies, and
that delightful kindness which has moved you to pity a poor sailor
like me, then you must still think of me as of one who would not, even
for his dearest hopes, allow you to fetter yourself with a bond you
might regret, with a promise which, being wrong, could bring no
happiness with it. Dora, your peace of mind is dearer than my own!”

“Good, kind, generous,” was all she could say.

“Give me that ribbon from your wrist,” added he.

She hurriedly undid the blue ribbon that she wore round her left arm,
put it for one moment to her lips, then tossed it to him, and turned
with hasty steps toward the house. He followed her quietly until he
saw her enter the saloon, and turning off by another path, he escaped,
to consider what had passed, and console himself with the blue ribbon
as he could.




CHAPTER XII.

  “Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,
  Was, indeed, the heaviest burthen thrown?
  Thou a weeping exile in thy forest,
  I a smiling queen upon my throne.”
                                                ISEULT.


The amendment in Hilary’s health continued to advance so favorably
that the next day she was considered well enough to see her father
without risk from excitement, and then she began clearly to understand
the fact that her whole family were at “the Ferns.” She did not at
first make any audible comments on the circumstance, but toward
evening she took the opportunity of no one but Sybil being present, to
make her tell her who had proposed this arrangement, and what had been
said on the subject.

Sybil said it had been entirely Charles Huyton’s own idea; and nothing
could be kinder or more hospitable than he was, making it most
pleasant for them all, and avowing that, were it not for Hilary’s
illness, he should be the happiest man possible, with such a family
round him.

Miss Duncan lay silent for some minutes, then observed――

“Were it not that my illness makes it inevitable we should not be here
at all.”

“So Nest proved to him,” remarked Sybil; “and she added, somewhat
uncourteously, she would rather have you well, and be at home.”

“Nest must not be rude, but it is well she thinks so. I must get well
as fast as possible. I shall leave this room to-morrow, I hope,
Sybil.”

“How glad we shall be to have you down stairs,” said her sister.

“I shall not go down till I am well enough to go home,” replied
Hilary, decidedly; “I hope to get into the dressing-room to-morrow,
and on Monday, if Mr. Huyton will lend us his carriage, we can all go
back to the Vicarage.”

“I am sure I shall be glad if we can,” was Sybil’s answer. She partly
understood the motives of Hilary’s conduct.

“Where is Captain Hepburn?” added Hilary, after a pause, turning her
head on the pillow of the sofa where she was lying. “Is he gone?”

“He went away yesterday morning, and hopes to come back again soon. He
promised he would return as soon as he could.”

There was another pause; then Hilary asked――

“Did you see him yesterday?”

“He called here to say good-by, and hear the last account of you!”

“Why did he go, did he tell you?”

“Business, indispensable business,” said Sybil, fearful of distressing
her sister by announcing his appointment, and the expected
consequences to Maurice, who, Hilary well knew, had always reckoned on
going with him.

“Business!” repeated Hilary, looking anxiously at her sister, “that is
a vague term; however, I suppose I have no right to question about it.
Gone without my being able to thank him! I should have liked to do
that!”

“I gave him your message, dear Hilary; do you remember what you told
me to say?”

“Yes, and he――what did he say, Sybil?” said her sister, eager to hear
something, she hardly knew what. Sybil repeated Captain Hepburn’s
message verbatim, and with emphasis.

It was listened to with silence, but after a long pause she
repeated――“Duty.”

“The fact is,” added Sybil, seeing she was perplexing herself about
his departure, “he has been appointed to the command of the
_Pandanus_, a fine new screw steamer, one of the finest in the
service, he says; and he has gone down to Woolwich, where she is
fitting out.”

“Will he take Maurice?” exclaimed Hilary, eagerly. “Oh, I hope he
will!”

“They both expect it, but there has not been time yet; he only went
yesterday; now do lie still, dear, or you will bring on your fever
again, and we shall not go home on Monday.”

Hilary laid her head back on her pillows, and remained perfectly quiet
for the rest of the evening. She resolved not to think of Captain
Hepburn, or to bewilder herself in conjectures relative to any thing
uncertain or unpleasant; she resolutely quieted her mind, banishing
doubt and conjecture, which are worse and more irritating to the weak,
than certainty of evil, and dwelling only on soothing subjects.

Her self-discipline and mental government were successful, and were
rewarded by finding her strength as much improved the next day as she
could have expected. She was able to resume her usual dress, and sit
up in the adjoining room, where the balmy air of a sweet summer Sunday
morning seemed every minute to add to her strength. She kept her
resolution, however, of not going down stairs, or joining the family
party, in spite of Victoria’s urgent entreaties. It was quite true,
that her head would not as yet bear much noise, and she had no
intention of risking a relapse, by taking liberties too early.

She must, of course, have an interview with Charles eventually, and
thank him for his share in saving her life, but she rather shrank from
the thought; she hoped it was not ingratitude, she really did feel
thankful to him; and had there been no recollections of former
conversations and past professions to trouble her, she would have been
ready and anxious to express her gratitude. But now she feared to say
either too little or too much; she dreaded to raise hopes which she
had once trusted were extinguished, and she had a vague foreboding
that any sort of emotion would inevitably lead to painful and
perplexing discoveries.

As memory had resumed its power, a distinct impression of his words
and tone when he reached her in the water, impressed itself on her
mind with unaccountable accuracy and vividness; and though it was not
usually her way to shrink from duty, even if painful, or to put off
the evil day, with that weak procrastination which often trebles the
suffering by unnecessary and prolonged anticipation, she determined to
delay this interview to the very last, that escape to her own home
might immediately follow.

Her resolutions, however, were over-ruled, and her wishes set aside,
by the stronger will, and less scrupulous determinations of others.
Charles and Victoria were alike decided, that she should see him; and
Hilary found herself actually without a choice, although nominally
consulted on the occasion.

It was in the afternoon; the family had returned from church, and
Gwyneth, who had remained at home to read to Hilary, was persuaded by
her to go down stairs, and if Maurice was at leisure, to ask him to
come and sit with her. A knock at the door a few minutes afterward,
made her suppose he was there; but in answer to her invitation,
Victoria entered, inquired how she did, whether she was equal to
conversation: and on Hilary’s cheerfully assuring her that she was
going on nicely, Miss Fielding added, in a manner which left her
almost without choice――

“You will not mind, then, seeing Charles for a moment, who is dying of
impatience to kiss your hand.”

As she said this, she admitted Mr. Huyton into the room, and then
turned toward the toilette table, where she busied herself with her
back to Hilary, in searching among caskets and drawers for unknown
articles, with an evident determination not to see or hear any thing
else; which was extremely distressing to her friend, however pleasant
it might be to her cousin.

Surprised and flurried by an intrusion so unexpected and unwelcome,
Hilary’s pale cheeks flushed, and her hand trembled, as she endeavored
to rise from her easy chair to meet her host. Somehow she hardly
understood how, she was gently put back into it, and in another moment
she found Charles, placing one knee on the ground, was really and very
warmly kissing the hand she had held out, as he pressed it in both of
his. She endeavored to draw it away; she tried to express by a glance,
that whatever gratitude might inspire, love for him did not exist; but
although words may define differences, and draw lines of distinction,
it is often difficult for looks to express nice shades of feeling, and
to mark accurately all the gazer would wish. At least, she feared her
looks were incomprehensible; for though Charles’s tongue was mute, his
eyes declared so plainly and unequivocally the ruling passion of his
life at that time, that it was perfectly impossible for her actually
to misunderstand him. She saw that Victoria was nothing, and that she
was all to him.

The color flitted from her cheeks, and they became white, whiter than
her illness had left them――deadly pale; her hand turned cold in his
grasp, and after feebly trying to draw it away, she sank back against
the pillows behind her, and, for the second time in her life, she
fainted.

When she recovered, she found herself lying on the sofa; and as sense
and perception gradually returned, she discovered that Charles was
supporting her head on his arm, while Victoria was plentifully
bedewing her face with eau-de-Cologne. She moved her head, and
whispered, “I should like to lie down,” which compelled Mr. Huyton to
resign her to the pillows, where common sense would have taught him,
she had better have been all the time.

“Are you better?” said he, softly and anxiously.

“Yes, thank you; please leave me, and send Sybil;” and she fixed her
eyes for one moment on him so decidedly, that disobedience was out of
his power. He was forced to withdraw, and went to find Sybil, with no
other advantage from his visit, than the idea that if she was so very
weak, it would be impossible for her to leave “the Ferns” next day.

But half an hour’s quiet restored her strength; and reflection on what
had passed, made Hilary more than ever certain of the propriety of
leaving the house the next day, even should the effort be attended
with fatigue to herself. It had been a transitory emotion which had
made her faint; she was not at all accustomed to such attacks; but her
physical weakness had perhaps made her feelings more than usually
acute, and herself less able than in general to govern them. It was
the expression of Charles Huyton’s eyes which had overpowered her: she
had read, or seemed to read in them, such a world of strong
concentrated passion, such selfish self-will, such deep determination
to carry out a point which he had never for one moment abandoned; so
much of human pride, and of stern resolution not to submit passively
or unresistingly to what thwarted his wishes, as opened up to her mind
a new view of his character, and made her almost regret that he had
not left her to sink under the black waters in that shady pool, rather
than live to enter into a contest with one who seemed so well fitted
to trample down and overpower her, when their happiness or their
desires crossed. Calm reflection recalled her courage and her
firmness. Let her but walk straight on, he could not hurt her. The
spirit of evil itself was powerless to harm those who trusted in “the
shadow of those Almighty wings,” which she believed stretched out over
her and hers: and should she then fear one who was but man? No; he
might pain, but he could not injure her, unless he enticed her feet
from that narrow path of duty, within which she was safe.

And as her evening prayer arose, that she might “have understanding in
the way of godliness,” she felt more strongly than ever that _that_
way did not point to becoming Charles Huyton’s wife.

When the family met at breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan
announced, that Hilary was quite well enough to go home that day, and
therefore, if Mr. Huyton would be so kind as to lend them his
carriage, he would no longer trespass on his hospitality.

In vain his host and Miss Fielding urged her supposed weakness, and
their desires to detain them all, by every argument which love and
policy could devise. Mr. Duncan was calmly immovable, and they were
obliged to yield the point at last. The younger girls, naturally
enough, had enjoyed the change, and were extremely sorry to quit “the
Ferns;” but Maurice, whose spirits and gayety seemed at times entirely
to fail him, and who, except when with his father, appeared wrapped in
a cloud of impenetrable gloom, was entirely on his father’s side, and
expressed, as warmly as politeness permitted, a strong desire to
return home before his being obliged to quit Hurstdene, an event he
now daily expected.

The carriage accordingly was ordered directly after luncheon; and
meantime, Maurice walked home, to give notice that they were coming,
taking Gwyneth with him, that all might be ready for the reception of
Hilary.

“So you are determined to leave us,” said Victoria, as she entered the
dressing-room, where Hilary had breakfasted; “however, if you are so
well, you will, I trust, come down stairs before quitting the house;
you could surely give us your company in the saloon.”

“I shall be better at home,” replied Miss Duncan; “I am very anxious
to be there on Maurice’s account, for he will want a hundred things
done and arranged, and it would be much less anxiety to me to see to
it all, than to remain absent, and trust to the chance of others doing
right. I can keep quiet at home, you know.”

“Yes; I can understand how quiet you will be, from what I know of your
usual habits; you will only wait on your father incessantly, see to
your brother’s having every comfort, teach Nest, look after your
servants, attend to the housekeeping, and listen to every old man,
sick woman, or unhappy child, who may choose to come and drawl out
their long story to you. That is your quiet.”

Hilary laughed.

“Well, if all that is to be done, the sooner I get about it the
better.”

“Meantime,” said Victoria, “come down stairs.”

Hilary seemed inclined to demur.

“You must,” continued Miss Fielding, urgently, “or I shall conclude it
is want of will, not want of power, prevents you.”

“I will come down by-and-by,” said Hilary, gently, “but I dare not
exhaust myself before I take this little journey; and if you would be
so very kind as to let me, I should like to lie down and rest now.”

Victoria really could not find in her heart to oppose Hilary’s meek
petition, or to say any more at present about her own wishes; so
giving her friend a kiss, she settled her comfortably on the sofa, and
then left her to peace and solitude.

“Will she not come down, Victoria?” asked Charles, eagerly, as he met
her on the stairs.

Victoria told him what had passed, and strongly recommended, under
present circumstances, patience and caution on his part. His rival, if
Captain Hepburn was his rival, was gone, and had left without an
explanation; but although the field was thus open to him, it by no
means followed, that he should rush forward hastily and unadvisedly.
She was not in a state to bear it, and he might lose all, by hazarding
too much.

It was about half an hour before luncheon, when Hilary, leaning on
Victoria’s arm, eventually entered the saloon, where Mr. Huyton had
been passing the morning, in an uncontrollable state of restless
impatience. How he sprang forward to meet her at the door, and how
carefully he provided the easiest chair in the pleasantest corner of
the room for her accommodation, may be imagined. His manners seemed
scarcely to allow that any other person could have the least claim
upon her; and his whole wish seemed to be to engross her himself. But
Hilary would sit near her father, would give her principal attention
to him, and would at first, when she spoke, whisper in her soft voice,
words which marked her regard and consideration for him as her
principal object.

Presently, however, gathering courage and firmness, she turned to her
host, and said:

“I have no doubt that my father has conveyed the thanks I sent by him,
Mr. Huyton; but let me now for myself, thank you again for your share
in the exertions which saved my life. I was too weak to say so
yesterday. I hope you believe that I am grateful.”

“If ever an action brought its own reward,” said he, in a low voice,
and placing his hand on the fingers which rested on the arm of her
chair; “it was mine, when I bore you from the water, and laid you
safely on the bank. I can conceive only one degree of happiness
greater than that.”

“My strength was so completely exhausted,” said Hilary, drawing away
her hand to pass it across her forehead, “that had I not been relieved
from the weight of Nest, and released from her struggles, I must have
sunk in another moment.”

“Poor little thing! she was unconscious how she increased your
danger,” replied Charles; he could not bring himself to say the words
of praise to his rival’s presence of mind, which were his due, and
which Hilary half hoped to hear. Presently he added, looking up
suddenly:

“And you _will_ go to-day! is that kind, Miss Duncan, to hurry away
the moment you can move; at any risk to leave my house, rather than
oblige me?”

“You know, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, “we have sometimes other
things to consider, besides obliging our friends; but it can not
justly be called unkindness to do our duty; and mine takes me home
to-day.”

“Of course, if your _duty_ takes you away,” was his answer, “my
pleasure or happiness must not interfere with it; they have no right
to be considered for a moment.”

“I am sure my father would tell you that the two can not really be at
variance,” answered Hilary, earnestly. “If we both follow the road of
duty, we may be certain that we shall not come into dangerous
collision. They are lines which never clash, except through
carelessness or mistake. They may diverge widely, they may run
parallel, but they will have no unsafe crossings, if we take
conscience for our engineer.”

“True, dear child,” said Mr. Duncan, “as your favorite poet says:

  “‘Duty, like a strict preceptor,
    Sometimes frowns or seems to frown;’

still, when we have the courage to look her calmly in the face, we
shall find the frown is our mistake; a mere shadow cast by fear or
over-anxious wishes.”

Mr. Huyton make no further objections, and the family were permitted
to return to the Vicarage, as had been proposed. Nobody, however,
could prevent his riding beside the carriage the whole way, or to
forbid his being there to hand Hilary out when she descended from it;
it was very disagreeable to her, but he would not see that; and even
when she entered the house, he appeared extremely reluctant to take
his leave, and allow her to rest in peace.

Once more in her place at home, and gathering strength, every hour,
from the pleasure of being there, Hilary could not avoid immediately
perceiving the extreme depression of spirits which overpowered
Maurice; and with a woman’s quickness, made more acute by her own
recent experience, she decided that his unfortunate attachment to
Dora, must in some way be the cause. Of the existence of this
attachment she had been for some time aware; but not guessing what had
really passed between them, she concluded that it was his own sense of
its hopelessness which oppressed her brother. Eager to bury those
too-encroaching thoughts of another person, which were continually
creeping into her mind, she would yield nothing to the lassitude of
recent illness, would allow herself no rest, lest memory should be
engrossed by one image; but resolutely engaged in all her usual
occupations, and threw herself with more than her former zeal into the
cares, hopes, and pleasures of those around her. Of these, naturally,
Maurice was the first, after her father; and his affairs, indeed, were
peculiarly prominent just then. Captain Hepburn had written to say,
that he had received the promise of Maurice’s appointment to the
_Pandanus_; so that they might now expect his removal any day. But
however excited or restless, anxious or happy, such a prospect might
make him, his sister saw clearly this was not all; and earnestly
hoping that a confidence she had so long enjoyed would not now be
withdrawn, she watched him with affectionate attention and silent
pity.

It was not till the day following, that she received from him an
explanation, which told her how truly he deserved the pity she had
already bestowed, and how much real, though unacknowledged, sympathy
there was between them.

They were sitting together on Tuesday afternoon, just arranging about
an expedition to be undertaken by Mr. Duncan, his son, and Gwyneth,
when the Drewhurst carriage drove up to the door. At the first glimpse
of the liveries in the distance, Maurice had started up; but when the
carriage passed the window, he sat down again quietly, and whispered
to his sister, there was only Miss Barham in it.

Isabel entered alone. She came to inquire after Hilary; it appeared
that she and her father had driven over to “the Ferns,” expecting to
find the Duncans still there; and that on discovering the mistake, Mr.
Barham had decided to remain with Mr. Huyton, having some magistrates’
matters to talk over, while his daughter proceeded to the Vicarage.
Isabel said that Mr. Huyton had offered to accompany them; but her
father thought that such an incursion in the Vicarage drawing-room
would be overpowering, so after luncheon she had come alone. She would
not, therefore, remain very long, as papa would be expecting her back
to pick him up; but she was delighted to see how well Hilary was
looking, quite like herself again! getting home must have done her a
world of good. When questioned about her sister, she answered that
Dora was not well; she thought the hot weather disagreed with her; she
complained of head-ache; could not eat, and was very pale; a common
effect of heat on her constitution. Papa talked of sending her to some
friends in the north, for change of air. He meant to remain at the
Abbey himself, for the present, and of course Isabel must be with him;
he could not spare her; but Lady Margaret would take Dora to Scotland,
or Scarborough, or Germany; it was not quite settled which; and she
believed they would go very soon.

“Now I must go,” exclaimed Isabel, starting up, “or papa will not
trust me alone again. Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Maurice Duncan, I thought you
were gone to sea. Surely Mr. Huyton told us you were appointed to some
ship.”

“Perhaps I maybe,” said Maurice, trying to speak carelessly, then
remembering that what he said might be repeated to Dora, he added, “I
expect it any day: I heard it was to come, and of course, it will be
soon.”

“Well then I wish you _bon voyage_,” replied Isabel, lightly; “I am so
very glad to have seen you once more before you go, to say so.
Good-by, Hilary, dear! mind and get well. Do you know, papa wants Mr.
Huyton to stand for the county, and I dare say he will; and with
papa’s interest, I have no doubt he will succeed. He ought to be an
M.P. Papa says, few people know how really clever he is, he is so
quiet and modest. But we want such men for the country. So papa says.
Good-by.”

Hilary watched the carriage drive away, and as Isabel’s pink and white
feathers disappeared in the distance, she sighed to think what would
she not give to be able to hope that Mr. Huyton would really transfer
to the heiress of Drewhurst Abbey the affection which he had hitherto
wasted on herself.

It was with the utmost difficulty that poor Maurice was able to
command his attention and spirits sufficiently to be the usual
cheerful companion to his father. But on his return he hurried into
the garden, and there, when Hilary was able to seek him, she
discovered him stretched on the sloping bank of the terrace, with his
face covered by his arms. She sat down beside him, and gently passing
her hands through his curly hair, she whispered,

“Dear Maurice!”

He turned his face toward her, and she, putting her lips to his cheek,
again whispered,

“I was afraid you were very unhappy.”

“Oh, Hilary, I am such a wretch, such a thoughtless, selfish, cruel
fellow! If you knew all――” was his exclamation, with a passionate
misery of look and manner most unusual to him.

“Indeed, dear Maurice, I can not believe you. You may, perhaps, have
been thoughtless, though that is not like you; but cruel, selfish!
never. Oh no, I know you better!”

“You don’t know, dear; you could not guess what I have done; how I
have pained and half-broken the dearest, warmest, most loving little
heart in the world; how I have dimned her smiles, and clouded her
sunshine, and made both her head and heart ache. Yes, it is all my
fault; mine, mine entirely.”

“Yours, dear Maurice!”

“Yes, Hilary, she loves me; it is no idle vanity which misleads me;
she said it――she owned it with tears and sobs――with fear and
trembling, and yet in spite of both grief and terror, that she loved
me; she, the bright――the rich――the beautiful; she loved _me_! and what
has it brought her? Grief and pain, sickness and fear; and all for me!
I, who though I would lay down my life for her, am not worthy to touch
the tip of her little finger! I, who have no claim, except that of
deep, doting, devoted, never-ending love for her. Oh! Hilary, is she
not an angel to love me!”

“But why, dear Maurice, why be so miserable then, if she really loves
you? does Mr. Barham object?” asked Hilary, not quite understanding
his incoherent exclamations.

“We dared not ask him.”

“Dared not! Maurice, that is not like you!”

“No! Dora dared not. What is there that I would not dare for her that
honor did not forbid? Oh, Hilary, if you only knew how I love her!”

“But it is a pity――nay, surely, Maurice, it is wrong if you love thus,
not to tell Mr. Barham! concealment never can be right, and must be
doubly painful!”

“Yes, Hilary,” said her brother, rising upright and looking
steadfastly at her, “if we went on with it; but when I found how it
was, that I was not only using up my own feelings, but acting on
hers――not only making myself unhappy by indulging a presumptuous
passion, but involving her in the same hopeless misery, I saw there
were but two ways open to us. One to explain all to Mr. Barham, and
cast ourselves on his compassion; the other to part! I would have
taken the first, there would have been far less of suffering and
misery; she judged otherwise, and we parted on Saturday. You heard
what Isabel said to-day.”

“Then you have been neither cruel nor selfish, my dear brother, but
strictly honorable and right. Imprudent, perhaps, but who can control
the heart by prudence, Maurice; or prevent the growth of love, where
there is sympathy and community of feeling? We can not either compel
or forbid its existence, can we?” and Hilary blushed deeply, as she
propounded a doctrine taught her by her late experience.

“I do not think that is right, Hilary,” replied her brother
thoughtfully, considering his own circumstances, and not suspecting
from what feelings she spoke. “I believe we ought to control all our
passions; and if we have not the power, it must be that we have
willfully thrown it away. Love is like ardent spirits, perhaps, we may
refrain altogether, but if we do imbibe it we must be responsible for
the ungovernable evils it produces. And, oh, Hilary!” added he,
throwing himself down on the grass again, “I am a wretch for having
plunged Dora in such a depth of trouble――a selfish, miserable wretch;
because, even now, I can not wish her not to love me; I would give the
world, I would give my hopes of promotion, that she had never begun;
but I can not, try as I will, really wish her now to leave off loving
me. And yet it is only sorrow and pain to her.”

“But, Maurice, better times may come――why should you despair so? who
knows what may happen to induce Mr. Barham to approve of your suit,
and then what happiness for you?”

“What happiness indeed! I wish Dora would let me speak. I am sure it
would have been better, don’t you think so, Hilary? We could but have
been refused; have had to part, and to wait; we _might_ have been
happier. We had better have spoken.”

“Yes, I am sure of that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “certainty would
be better, and candor and openness must be the safest, because the
truest path. She should have let you speak.”

“I don’t know, though,” resumed Maurice, with a strong dislike to hear
even an implied censure on his idol, “she must be the best judge of
that; the evils, the pain of coldness and displeasure, would have all
fallen on her. She would have been the sufferer. It was natural she
should shrink from the disclosure, it would cost her too dear! If I
could only have borne all for her!”

“I can not imagine that she would have met with any thing half so bad
as the trouble of concealment and the pain of mystery. Mr. Barham
might not approve your attachment, and then he would have separated
you, sent her away, or something of that sort; but that is no more
than has now happened. The dictates of honor are as imperative as the
commands of the sternest parent. If he had refused his consent, you
must have given up all hope, and you might both trust to recovering in
time from an unfortunate love.”

“Hilary, you don’t know! Love like mine lasts for life,” was his
determined answer.

“But perhaps it might not with her; and you know you must really wish
her to be happy. If she had no hope she would gradually recover her
serenity; at least I think one must if hope were really gone; but now
she will not only have the sickening misery of protracted suspense,
but the fear of discovery, and the pain of acting a part――of in
appearance deceiving her father.”

“Deceiving! how unjust you are; she is incapable of deceit.”

“I only said the appearance, dear Maurice; but why should she fear to
own her love? You are not unworthy of it; noble birth, indeed, you
have not, but, except that and money, you have every thing a man can
want! Education, profession――why, Maurice, your profession has been
followed by a king!――person, manners, temper, principles. Oh, what
could Mr. Barham ask better; and you have no low connections――nothing
to shock aristocratic prejudices; the son of a gentleman, and of an
old, good family! Why should Dora fear to own you――to acknowledge her
love? A love returned, confessed as yours is, and Mr. Barham never
prevented your being together. Dora has been allowed to come here as
she pleased. Surely she must be mistaken in her judgment on this
occasion.”

“I wish you could persuade her so.”

“I will try when I can see her,” said Hilary.

“But it must be before I go, dear,” returned Maurice, eagerly. “If I
am ordered off, and have to leave this unexplained, it would be base
and cowardly then to throw all the burden and pain on her alone. I
could not do that!”

“I think even then, at any rate, it would be right to avow it all, and
let the consequences follow as they might. Every week’s delay must add
to the evil.”

“If you could but see her, Hilary! but she will not come here, I know.
Where could you meet her? Could you go to the Abbey?”

“How, dear Maurice? I have no means,” said Hilary.

“Perhaps Mrs. Paine could take you over, or Miss Fielding. If you
could contrive it! do think about some way of meeting!”

Eager to fulfill her brother’s wishes, Hilary turned her mind entirely
to the means of their accomplishment; and in her self-devotion to his
interest, contrived to forget, in a great degree, her own feelings of
suspense and anxiety. She would not indulge in contemplation, she
would not listen to the whispers of hope, or to the cold insinuations
of fear and doubt. She put away all retrospective glances, and stilled
her mind with a calm, but fixed resolution, to wait in patience, and
trust for the future, whatever its result might be.

She sent a note to Mrs. Paine to ask if she could drive her over to
the Abbey the next day, saying, that having heard from Isabel that
Dora was suffering, and likely soon to leave home, she was very
desirous of seeing her. Maurice carried the note, eager to do
something, and finding action less painful than quiet and thought. But
the owners of Primrose Bank were out when he arrived there; and after
wandering for some time in the vicinity, in hopes of meeting them,
Maurice was obliged to return home without a reply.

It was about twelve the next day, as the family at the Vicarage were
sitting together, that the carriage from “the Ferns” drove up. Much to
Miss Duncan’s relief, she saw at a glance that there were only the two
ladies in it; and in a few minutes Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were
in the parlor, the one as full of kindness, and the other of energy
and gayety, as usual. They were delighted to find Hilary so much
improved. As well as ever they said, no trace of languor or paleness
visible. This was true, for the sight of them excited her, and they
could not tell that the pink hue in her cheeks, and her apparent
self-possession and activity, were the result of high-wrought, but
concealed, feelings of suffering anxiety. Victoria’s object was to
take her out for a drive, Mrs. Fielding to remain with Mr. Duncan
while his eldest daughter was away.

No answer had come from Mrs. Paine; Hilary saw Maurice look at her
with imploring eyes; and although hardly liking to ask the favor of
Victoria, she was strongly tempted to beg at once to be driven over to
the Abbey. It was, however, by no means improbable that any minute
might bring the answer from Mrs. Paine, and until that arrived, she
could decide nothing. She could only explain to Victoria how far she
was pre-engaged; and while doing so, Mr. Paine himself walked in,
bringing an excuse from his wife. She was not well, and the
poney-carriage had met with an accident; but if to-morrow would do, it
should be at her service. To-morrow, Hilary thought, might be too
late: Maurice was in an agony of impatience, Victoria was urgent and
persuasive, and she herself, afraid of yielding to selfish feelings,
and sacrificing her brother’s happiness to her own scruples, gave way
at length to the united influence of her companions, and prepared to
accompany Miss Fielding.

Certain thoughts as to what Captain Hepburn would think, if he knew
she was driving in Mr. Huyton’s carriage, were put away as intrusive
and selfish; there was no occasion to connect the latter at all with
the act, the obligation was conferred by Victoria alone, and need
concern no one else; and as she hoped to be of use to Maurice, there
was every excuse for taking her present step.




CHAPTER XIII.


          “She moves slow; her voice alone
  Has yet an infantine and silver tone.
  But even that comes languidly: in truth,
  She seems one dying in the mask of youth.”
                                            ISEULT OF BRITTANY.


Hardly had the carriage driven from the door, when Hilary had reason
to repent of having yielded.

“I shall go home first, if it is the same to you,” said her companion,
calmly; “on several accounts; one of which is, that you must not go
without your dinner, and we shall be sure to find luncheon ready when
we get there.”

Hilary remonstrated, and assured her she should have no appetite; and
she did not wish her to go out of the way on that account. But
Victoria was one of those gayly-selfish and cheerfully-obstinate
individuals, who are never really turned out of their way, or
persuaded out of their opinion. She listened with a smile to Hilary’s
remonstrances, and agreed to her remarks, but never in the smallest
point altered her mind or her conduct. To “the Ferns” she meant to go,
and accordingly to “the Ferns” they went; avowedly for Hilary’s
comfort, actually for Miss Fielding’s pleasure. On first reaching it
the master was invisible, and Hilary, for a few minutes, entertained
the hope that, though thus forced against her will into his house, she
should escape meeting him. But this hope soon proved vain, for
presently he entered; and not only did his tone and manner in
addressing her speak of the feelings she did not wish to encourage,
but they evinced so entire an absence of surprise at her visit, as
made her unavoidably suspect that the whole had been a scheme between
the cousins to entrap her into coming there with or without her will.
This was confirmed by the fact of his bringing in with him a basket of
most beautiful flowers, which he began arranging as he sat by her,
observing, as he did so, that he wished to replace the bouquet she had
lost on the day of her accident.

What a world of thoughts rushed through her memory at these words, and
dyed her cheek with hot crimson blushes. How Charles interpreted her
confusion she did not know; her ideas flew off to another person;
there was another voice ringing in her ears――a voice which petitioned,
in never-forgotten whispers, for one violet; and then she wondered, as
she had often done before, not only what had become of those flowers
themselves, but of the feelings they seemed to express, and the hopes
they had awakened; had that bunch of violets sunk, where she had so
narrowly escaped, and were they to be the type, the emblem of the fate
which would attend her own shy affections, and shrinking, undeveloped
expectations?

“You do not know,” continued Charles, after watching her downcast
eyelids and flitting color for some minutes, “that I saw the remains
of that bunch of flowers, scattered, soiled, withered, floating on the
water two days afterward. I tried to secure the peristeria, which I
should have valued for the associations connected with it. It was near
the bank, and I could see one snowy dove, sitting on her little nest,
unsoiled and peaceful. I tried to grasp it; but I failed, and not only
plunged my own feet into a treacherous hole, from which I had some
difficulty in escaping, but pushed the flower itself under water, and
it did not rise again!”

“It was hardly worth the risk,” said Hilary; “you, who have so many
fair flowers in your own houses, should have allowed those which
accident had scattered on the water to float on, until they became the
prize of a less wealthy individual.”

“Had they been mine still, or rather, had they never had another
owner, been pressed by another hand, I might have done so, Miss
Duncan,” was his significant answer.

“I still think it was not worth the risk,” replied Hilary, quietly;
“but we are told that we may learn lessons from every thing, and
certainly life is full of emblems, if we do but read them right.”

“I know how fanciful you are, Miss Duncan,” replied he, in a lighter
tone; “what moral would you deduce from this incident for my benefit?”

She hesitated a little; seeing which, he added more gravely, “Nay, do
tell me; since I lost the flower I coveted, let me profit by the loss
in some way; do not let that pretty dove-blossom have sunk uselessly
beneath the waters; tell me of what it is the emblem!”

“No, excuse me,” replied Hilary, seriously, “I can not undertake to
give lessons in morality to you.” And then, turning away decidedly,
she raised her voice to address Victoria, who was just reading a note,
which she had found waiting for her on her return.

Perhaps Miss Fielding did not think the countenances of the other two
indicated that their conversation could be prolonged with benefit to
themselves; for she came forward almost immediately, and suggesting
that luncheon must be ready, led the way to the dining-room.

The carriage was ordered round, as soon as the meal was concluded, and
Hilary, who had been on a mental rack, while obliged to undergo the
pointed civilities, and the overpowering assiduities of both cousins,
began to breathe more freely, in the hope of escaping to a more genial
atmosphere, and putting a continually increasing space between the
soft voice and half-reproachful dark eyes which now followed her so
tenderly.

It had required all her self-command, and her regard to duty rather
than impulse, to avoid showing in her manner how exceedingly she had
been annoyed by what had passed, or how entirely she was at “the
Ferns” against her will. Her sense of what was due to herself, as well
as her hosts, had compelled her to be courteous, and the recollection
of what she owed to Charles Huyton, increased her resolution to
endure. Victoria knew she had come unwillingly; she could assure Mr.
Huyton of the fact; and now she hoped the penance would soon be over,
and the painful struggle between gratitude and dislike, or something
very near it, might be put away at least for a time.

Greatly, therefore, was her annoyance increased, when she heard
Charles say, that having some papers to take to Mr. Barham, he should
accompany them, and would order his horse at the same time.

“Do so, by all means,” remarked Victoria, “if you prefer riding; but
otherwise, you know, you could just as well come with us in the
carriage. However, perhaps you like being independent.”

“What does Miss Duncan say?” said Charles, looking at her.

“Miss Duncan can have no choice,” replied Hilary, trying to look
indifferent; “since both carriage and horses belong to Mr. Huyton, no
one can dictate to him which he shall use.”

“But perhaps you have secrets to discuss with Victoria,” said he,
playfully, “and then I should be sadly in the way. Is not that the
case?”

“No, I have no secrets with her!”

“Then, since the right of choice is mine, and you will say nothing to
direct me, I choose your company, ladies; and if I choose wrong, the
consequences be on you, who refused me your advice and counsel.”

Hilary wished she had only had the courage to say that he had better
ride!

The drive to the Abbey would have been pleasant after all, could she
have forgotten both the past and the future. Mr. Huyton was not
disagreeable; on the contrary, he was once more in one of those moods
which made her doubt whether her former fears had not been the mere
illusions of vanity. Kind and just quietly attentive to her, to
Victoria he devoted all his gallantry, and pretty nearly all his
conversation. They were both in good spirits, and without being
particularly clever or witty, they were exceedingly amusing and
pleasant. But the painful uncertainty which these abrupt variations of
manner occasioned, was not to be allayed by an hour’s calm, or by a
temporary remission of his attentions. She was uneasy and anxious
still, doubting the wisdom of her own decision in accepting Victoria’s
invitations, and only succeeding in putting away harassing and useless
perplexities, that they might give place to other feelings at least as
painful. Dora and Maurice! their difficulties and distresses were too
real and too new not to deserve undivided attention, and she felt as
if she were even unkindly selfish, as she reverted to them, in having
allowed thoughts for herself to occupy her mind.

Fast as the four horses swept along, they hardly went quick enough for
her impatience at last, when she remembered the grief and anxiety from
which her brother was suffering at home. She tried to still herself,
and be patient and quiet, knowing well that eagerness and impetuosity
were not the qualities wanted on this occasion to carry her point.
But, with all her efforts, every nerve was thrilling, and every pulse
seemed beating through her frame, as they drove up to the Abbey; and
engrossed in her own thoughts now, far away from recollections of
herself, she was unconscious of her abstracted and very pensive air,
and quite unaware of the glances cast on her, and the meaning looks
interchanged by her companions.

Charles and Victoria were very far indeed, from guessing what was the
subject which occupied her mind; as far as Hilary herself was from
supposing that they attributed her nervous and uneasy expression to
pique at his manner, or jealousy of Miss Fielding.

He left them in the hall, to go to Mr. Barham’s library, while the
young ladies were shown into Isabel’s morning-room, where she and Lady
Margaret were sitting together. Miss Barham’s reception was a very
warm one; she was delighted to find Hilary was equal to the exertion,
and for some minutes her delight prevented her taking any real notice
of how unwell her friend appeared. The paleness of her cheeks, and
anxiety of her manner, did at last strike Isabel; and Hilary, who had
been nervously waiting for a pause, in which she might find time to
inquire for Dora, was prevented from doing it at all by an
exclamation――

“After all, you look very tired and exhausted, Hilary, dear; I shall
forbid you mixing in conversation, and insist on quiet and repose for
you. Suppose you were to go to Dora’s room. It would not excite you
too much, and you do not look as if you would overwhelm her.”

Hilary gladly assented, and after telling Victoria to send for her
when she was ready to go, she followed Isabel from the saloon. In her
pleasant dressing-room, with windows open and jalousies closed, making
a cool and grateful twilight, Dora was stretched listlessly on a sofa;
her beautiful long hair all tumbled about her pretty face, and her
whole appearance, and even her attitude, betokening a restless and
miserable impatience. Isabel had put Hilary in at the door without
speaking, and then herself retreated; and, on hearing a noise, poor
Dora did not raise her head, but only asked who was there. Her friend
did not answer, advancing gently to the sofa, but uncertain how to
announce herself. Dora then removed the hand which covered her weary
eyes, and raised her head. With one little shriek of satisfaction, up
she sprang, and Hilary was clasped in her arms, with warm kisses
rained on her cheeks and lips, and tender embraces, and choking sobs,
and smiling, tearful words of endearment and welcome, and blushes
which ran up quick and hot to her temples, and even dyed her finger
tips with pink, so deep they were.

Poor Dora! hers was the sorrow and the emotion of a child.

They sat down together on the sofa; Dora with her arm round Hilary’s
waist, and nestling in close to her, as if there she might find peace,
or at least support.

“How are you all at home, Hilary? and who is there?” were her first
coherent words, and down went her looks upon the carpet, and up came,
redder than ever, the blushes to her cheeks.

“Well――all well――and Maurice has not left us yet!”

There was a little start, and the fingers which held Hilary’s hand
were pressed more closely than before; there was a fluttered pause,
and then the trembling girl said――

“Do you know, Hilary?――has he told you?”――and the eyes asked even more
eloquently than the words.

“Yes, Dora, he has. I came here on that account.”

Dora threw herself upon her companion’s neck. “Good, dear, sweet
Hilary! what do you think of me? are you shocked? oh, don’t say I am
wicked to love him. Is it, can it be wrong? I could not help it
Hilary; indeed, I could not!”

“Do you think _I_ could blame you for loving my brother?” said Hilary,
tenderly.

“Ah, dearest Hilary! how good you are. Then you do not think me wrong;
oh, what a comfort. If _you_ say I am right, then I feel sure indeed
that I am.”

Miss Duncan’s eyes were cast down, and there came a graver expression
over her face, which Dora immediately remarked.

“What is it, Hilary?” eagerly inquired she; “what is wrong? Why do you
look so? If you do not blame me for loving Maurice, what do you mean?”

“It is not for loving Maurice,” replied Hilary, hesitating, and
pressing Dora’s fingers closer. Their eyes met, and then bursting into
a passion of tears, Dora once more hid her face; but this time it was
with her hands, away from her friend, and she faltered out, between
her passionate sobs, “I know――I know――but oh, Hilary! I dare
not――_dare_ not! You do not know what I should have to bear. I knew, I
thought you would say this――but I can not――can not.”

Hilary again kissed and soothed her, and spoke soft words of sisterly
tenderness, and did not try to argue or persuade, until Dora’s own
vehemence exhausted itself, and she became calm. Then Hilary spoke of
openness and truth, firmness and endurance, and tried to show her that
there was no hope but in candor; and to convince her that her
cowardice was wearing out her own feelings, and throwing away the
happiness of one she said she loved so well. And her father, too, how
could she reconcile her conduct with her duty to him? and how could he
bear it, when he learned that his young daughter had given away her
affections to one whom she dared not own――had done what she was
ashamed to acknowledge――had listened willingly to words she blushed
that she should hear? could this be right?

Dora threw herself upon the sofa, burying her face in the cushions,
and lay there in powerless grief, her very attitude and air telling of
the prostration of her mind, of her entire helplessness and
irresolution.

“Oh, if I could――if I dared――if I were you――had your strength,
Hilary――but you do not know what coldness and unkindness are――you
never felt my father’s frown. Any thing but that I could bear. I could
die for Maurice――I shall die for him, I know. I do not wish to live
without him; but I dare not tell myself――I dare not own it all.”

“Then you are quite resolved, Dora, to conquer your affection――to give
him up entirely? You can never see him again; and, I may tell him you
have determined on this course――that you sincerely renounce his love,
and bid him forget you if he can.”

“No, no! cruel Hilary, don’t talk so! in all my grief, to know he
loves me, is my only comfort: give it up indeed! but he will not――he
can not――he never can forget me.”

“Nay, Dora, for both your sakes he must, and he will, too. Maurice
will do his duty at any hazard, and the love he may not own, he will
not nourish. He would endure any thing for you, and your good; and
even that, the greatest suffering of all, the crushing of all hope,
the renunciation of all claim on you, the extinction of his affection,
he will bravely battle for, because he knows that all this is better
for you; more truly, lastingly good for you, than the growth of a
secret, a clandestine, and, therefore, a disgraceful attachment. He
will fight, and he will conquer, too; though the victory may be won
only by the sacrifice of youth’s brightest, dearest hopes.”

Dora’s sobs were her only answer.

“He loves you better than you love him, Dora,” continued Hilary. “He
would do and suffer any thing rather than renounce you, except what he
knows to be wrong.”

“Then he will never speak of giving me up,” said Dora, with decision.

“He will never seek to see you again, until your father knows all,”
said Hilary, firmly. “Never――he said so; and why, dear Dora, why not
speak?” added she again, in tones of most winning tenderness; “you can
have no other hope.”

“Then I can have none! for my father’s anger I will not brave. Maurice
I shall love to my dying day; but if he will leave me, and will never
see me more, be it so; if he would only wait――only trust for the
future, something might arise, some sudden turn or change; but if he
is impatient, let him go.”

It was no use arguing with Dora; she felt she was wrong, but she would
not dare to do right; nor was it till with tearful eyes and trembling
lips, that Hilary attempted to say farewell, that her temporary
indignation died away, or she softened into regret. But when she saw
her friend’s deep, unspoken emotion, pride again was banished by
tenderness, and springing up, she clasped her arms round Hilary’s
waist, and faltered out a loving, sad adieu.

“Yes, tell Maurice I am entirely unworthy of him――tell him to forget
me――but for me, I will lie down and think of him forever. My heart is
crushed, broken, Hilary; and to part from you, the last tie to him――it
is agony. I am going away very soon. They think change will do me
good: well, well, I do not care. Leave me now, Hilary.”

And the little weeping, petulant beauty threw herself once more upon
her couch. Hilary lingered still, and then Dora, looking up, said――

“You blame me, I know, but do you think I shall be happier than he?
Will wealth, or jewels, or the empty pleasures heaped on me, or the
whispered nonsense of those who seek my fortune, or the idle life I
lead, will all those make my heart lighter? Compare our fates, and
tell me which is most to be pitied. I know, though mine may be bright
to look at, it will be all sorrow and misery within.”

“But Dora, dearest Dora, why must this be? All this misery might be
spared if you would but speak, or let Maurice speak. There need be no
hidden grief then, and even if your father disapproved (which he might
not), at least you would have done right, and then trustful patience,
and resignation, and brighter hopes might come again. And peace can
only be won by walking straight on to it. Believe me, Dora, you can
have none unless you take this course.”

“Go, go,” cried Dora, impatiently; and Hilary, hoping that her absence
might do what her presence had failed to effect, prepared to withdraw.
She met Miss Barham’s French maid at the door, who informed her that
Mademoiselle Fielding desired her not to hurry, but she was quite
ready to go; whereupon Miss Duncan immediately descended.

Charles Huyton and Mr. Barham were in the room, but she soon
discovered that the former was engaged to stay and dine at the Abbey,
and Victoria, evidently weary of her visit, was pleasantly bent on
hurrying away. Hilary left Mr. Huyton apparently in earnest
conversation with Isabel, though, to own the truth, the conversation
was all supplied by the young lady; but this, Miss Duncan did not
remain to notice; and it was a satisfaction that they were spared his
company on their return to Hurstdene. Victoria announcing that her
friend was too tired to talk, desired her, laughingly, to be silent,
on pain of her high displeasure; and herself taking up a book, their
return home was accomplished with scarcely another sentence uttered by
either.

Weary and dis-spirited Hilary was in the extreme; she had over-tasked
her body, over-excited her mind, and had failed of securing the object
which alone had tempted her to set aside her own feelings, and do what
she so very much disliked. Now that disappointment was added to
weakness and fatigue, she was inclined to take a most unfavorable view
of her own conduct and to doubt whether even success would have
justified her in her own eyes, in the step she had taken. At all
events, she resolved that nothing but absolute necessity should induce
her in future to incur any obligation to either of the cousins; and
whatever their wishes or motives might be, she determined that her own
rule must, for the future, be strict and invariable. She would neither
be betrayed nor tricked into giving the appearance of encouragement to
one she never could love.

A shake of the head, and a little glance of concern, was her first
intimation to Maurice of her want of success; nor was there time or
opportunity for more definite explanation, until late in the evening.
When the rest of the family had retired, Maurice drew a large chair
toward the moon-lit window, and placing Hilary there, he sat down
beside her, and silently kissed her cheek. She laid her head upon his
shoulder, and the pent up feelings which had been struggling all the
evening for expression, found a channel in a shower of tears.

Silently the sister wept, and silently the brother smoothed her hair,
and kissed her forehead, and clasped her closer and closer to him. She
was the first to speak.

“Oh! Maurice, I could do nothing, I am so sorry.”

“Did you see her?” was his first question.

She repeated, as far as she could, the particulars of her visit while
he, drawing a little away from her, leaned his head on his hand, and
so concealed his face in the deep shadow which the fingers made in the
moonbeams. She could not read the expression of pain, of
disappointment in his eyes; he did not mean she should――she had
suffered enough for him without that; but she _knew_ what he was
feeling, by the innate sympathy which love and experience give, and
she grieved afresh. He was silent for a while, when she ceased
speaking, and they sat together that calm summer night, as still and
grave as two carved figures, except when the soft night breeze,
blowing through the open window, rustled in her dress, or lifted the
long brown curl from her neck.

“Oh, Hilary! why did I ever know her?” was at last his exclamation.
“Only to make her unhappy! dear, darling Dora!”

“And what will be the end?” whispered Hilary; “what will you do?”

“Hope! hope! hope! love on and love ever, while she remains single. We
may not meet, but who knows what patience, perseverance, time, love,
constancy, fortune may do! who can foresee what may happen? No, I will
never despair, while there is room to hope!”

“Dear Maurice!” was at once her most eloquent and consolatory
interjection.

“And, Hilary, if I sacrifice love to duty, if I deny myself now every
opportunity of intercourse, every gratification of my affection until
I may ask it fairly, honorably, justly, surely I may hope for brighter
and better times. Only if Dora did not suffer!”

He fell into a reverie, which he ended by abruptly exclaiming,

“You do not love Charles Huyton, Hilary?”

“No, and never shall. Would you wish it, Maurice?”

“I don’t know; no, I think not, I would rather――”

“What?” exclaimed she, looking eagerly at him.

“Never mind!”

“What makes you talk of it, Maurice?” said she, after a moment’s
reflection.

“He told me himself, the day of your accident; he spoke then of his
love for you. I wondered I had never seen it before; but I had fancied
him engaged to Miss Fielding. It is natural he should love, more than
that you should not. Are you sure of that?”

“Perfectly so, and so is he. If he persists in loving me, it is at his
own cost; it never will be returned. I have long wished him to give it
up; and like you, once thought it was going away. Till Sunday, I
believed him engaged to Victoria! Did he really tell you he had not
changed?”

“Yes, and he was most emphatic in his expressions!” replied Maurice.

“I am sure Mr. Barham wishes him for a son-in-law; and Isabel would
suit him so perfectly. I wish he would think so too,” continued
Hilary, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “I wish he would; I should
be so glad.”

“And do you still mean never to marry, Hilary?” said her brother,
turning and looking gravely in her eyes. “Do you keep unchanged?”

“Leave the future, Maurice,” was her quiet answer. “I never mean to
marry Mr. Huyton, nor will I leave my father for any man now living.”

The brother and sister parted for the night, after lingering long; for
Hilary, tired as she was, could scarcely bear to shorten the few hours
which they might yet have to spend together.

And the morrow’s post brought the dreaded, the expected change; the
summons to duty, which, for his sake, Hilary welcomed with a smile, a
cheerful tone, an energetic kindness. But when the parting was over,
all her strength gave way, physical weakness asserted its supremacy,
and she was forced to allow depression and pain to take their course.
She could not raise her head from the sofa all that day, and when
Charles Huyton called, she was too ill to see him. There was some
comfort in that; it partly paid her for her nervous languor, for her
aching head, and fevered frame; she was able to be invisible, without
a fear of ingratitude.

The strong stimulus withdrawn, the occupation ended, the anxious
suspense for Maurice terminated, her own thoughts would turn to her
own affairs. It was a week, only a week, since the memorable Thursday,
the day when she had last seen Captain Hepburn; how long it seemed;
double that time, at least. She had to tell herself it was only a
week, to suppress the rising impatience, to quell the incipient
murmur. Duty with him must be first; public before private duty;
patriotism before feeling; honor before love; his country before his
friends. This she knew right well; and she ought not to feel herself
neglected, or fear herself forgotten, merely because a week had passed
without direct intercourse. No, not if vanity did not mislead her, not
if she had understood him rightly, and read his character correctly.
He did love her! that she believed, but there were other doubts more
harassing than to doubt his love. Her present torment was to doubt
what her duty should be.

Had she not resolved, promised, bound herself to sacrifice her whole
time, care, and affection to her father and sisters? this had been her
most solemn determination. How had she kept it? By yielding to the
first impulse of affection; by allowing her mind, her fancy, and her
feelings to be engrossed by another; by one who, a fortnight ago, was
an entire stranger to her; by one who had never told her that he loved
her; by one whose professional duties might make an engagement to him,
even if he offered it, incompatible with her own domestic ties. What
was she wishing to do? where were her resolutions, her promises, her
intentions of self-devotion and self-forgetfulness? Forgotten at the
very moment when they were put to the test. Thoughts such as these,
self-torturing and reproachful thoughts, were not of a nature to still
her throbbing pulses, or cool her aching brow; they were hardly more
medicinal than the hot tears which the parting with her brother cost
her.

Her sisters watched her with affectionate care, and forced her to take
such bodily repose as her actual weakness required; playfully
declaring, if she attempted to exert herself again, they would tell
her father of her pale cheeks and heavy eyes; so she felt it her duty
to lie still, although stillness of mind was for some time quite
unattainable.

But quiet and repose brought strength of body, and with it came back
more command of her spirit also. She saw her way, she understood her
duty, and right well she knew that duty was truly the safest,
smoothest path that she could tread. To put away thoughts of the past,
to bend her attention to her domestic cares, to control her memory and
curb her fancy, this she resolved, Heaven helping her, to do. Could
she not? Yes; the events of the last ten days had not surely robbed
her of the mastery of her mind. She could govern it still! What else
had she been learning all her life? and should she now give up the
attempt because the task was less easy than heretofore? should the
charioteer drop the reins because the road was narrow and rough; or
the pilot abandon the helm, just when the vessel came amid the shoals
and breakers?

So argued Hilary; and if the expectation of a happy result, as men say
it does, aids greatly in the performance of a difficult task, that,
perhaps, was one source of the success which now attended her efforts.

Her strength slowly returned, her equanimity came with it, and
although she was somewhat paler and more languid than formerly,
although she still had struggles against depression, and fits of
painful recollection, they were not apparent to her companions, who
only saw that she was more easily tired than formerly, rather more
silent, and a good deal less excited when Maurice’s letters arrived.

It was a very quiet week which followed. The Barhams left the Abbey,
the master of “the Ferns” was also absent. He had accompanied his aunt
and cousin to London, from whence, Victoria told Sybil when she called
to take leave, the ladies were going on to the sea-side, perhaps, or
possibly to the north of England, and it was by no means unlikely that
Charles would go with them.

Hilary did not see any of them again before they left; but when she
was certain that event had taken place, she felt an unspeakable relief
come over her, which made her troubles seem easier to bear.

She was able now to leave her room, and stroll about the garden,
wander on the green, or rest on her favorite seat by the
chancel-window, without fear of meeting any one whom she would rather
avoid. The calm summer air under the shady trees always did her good;
and an afternoon spent in solitary reflection, or in quiet,
half-cheerful, half-grave chat with her father, was a mental tonic
which never lost its power.

The liveliness of the family party depended on the younger ones; they
were untamed by sorrow yet, and soon recovered parting from Maurice.
To their view, life was like the beautiful vistas in their own wild
forest, across which the sloping sunbeams played between the shady
trees, turning all they touched to gold.




CHAPTER XIV.

  “You ‘never loved me!’――No, you never knew――
  You with youth’s dews yet glittering on your soul――
  What ’tis to _love_. Slow, drop by drop, to pour
  Our life’s whole essence perfumed through and through,
  With all the best we have, or can control,
  For the libation! cast it down before
  Your feet――then lift the goblet dry for evermore!”
                                                        ANONYMOUS.


One afternoon, Mr. Duncan and two of his daughters had gone over to
Primrose Bank, Hilary being left with only Nest as her companion. The
child had been reading to her sister until she was tired, and then
leaving her to reflection and silence on the green bank of the
terrace, she strayed away to the garden-gate. She looked across the
green, with no very particular expectation of seeing any object worth
her attention, but with a vague childish curiosity, which was always
prepared for a marvel or a pleasure. She saw some one approaching; a
gentleman, a tall man; perhaps it was Mr. Huyton, perhaps Mr. Paine,
or may be, thought she, it is Maurice: she was too young to consider
probabilities, or understand the troublesome restraints of propriety
and decorum; and too well known, and too much petted generally in the
parish, to have any fear of a repulse, or dread of a rebuff. The gate
was unlatched; out she ran, and skipped across the turf to meet the
individual in question. After advancing a hundred yards, however, she
saw that she was mistaken; Maurice it was not: no, nor Mr. Huyton――it
was a fuller figure, a firmer step; she slackened her pace one minute,
and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at him attentively. It
was!――yes――it was one of whom her sister had spoken much! one to whom
her father had told her she owed her life; one whose name had been
joined with those of her own family in her prayers for blessings on
his head. It was Captain Hepburn himself! She rushed on joyfully; and
breathless with her race, eager, excited, with flashing eyes and
crimson cheeks, she reached him, caught his outstretched hand in her
little fat fingers, and covered it with grateful kisses.

“Dear Nest!” said he, raising the child in his arms, and looking at
her glittering eyes, “how are you? how are your sisters――all?”

“Oh! Captain Hepburn, I am so glad to see you; now I can thank you,”
was her only reply: and she threw her arms round his neck and laid her
cheek close to his.

“For what, dear child?” said he. His thoughts were of Hilary, and he
hardly remembered that Nest had any thing to be grateful for.

“For picking me out of that horrid black water,” said she, in a
whisper. “I have so wanted to see you since; but you know you went
away without saying good-by to me or Hilary.”

“Do you remember that day, Nest?” said he, walking slowly on, with her
in his arms.

“Oh, yes! so well; my slipping down, and the bubbling water, and the
cold, and the choking feeling here in my throat and head, and such a
pain, oh, dear! I dream sometimes now, at night, of the bank, and the
gurgle of the waves, and wake with such a start. I did not like to
wash my face for some days afterward. But is it not odd, Captain
Hepburn?――I can remember nothing about you taking me out. I should not
have known you did, if they had not told me so!”

“Who told you?”

“Papa and the others?”

“Hilary?”

“No,” replied Nest, gravely; “they will not let me talk to her about
it. Sybil told me not; and she never has spoken about it at all, since
she has been ill.”

“She is well now?” said he, inquiringly.

“Better, but not well. She can not walk much. She is in the garden.”

“Will she see me, do you think?” said he, stopping at the porch, and
setting Nest on one of the benches.

“I don’t know,” replied the little girl, gravely. “She has seen nobody
but Mr. Paine, for days. She could not see Mr. Huyton, when he came
last, though he sent me to ask her; and you know he pulled her out of
the water, as you did me. She said she was too ill.”

“But she is better now,” said he, earnestly; “perhaps she will not
mind me. Is your papa in?”

“No, only Hilary, and she is in the garden. I will go and ask her, if
you like; or you will come, and she must see you then.”

He hardly thought such a surprise desirable, and suggested that Nest
should go on first. But Hilary, who had missed her sister, had risen
to look for her, and met the child the moment after she turned the
corner of the house; so that the gentleman had the opportunity of
ascertaining that he might, so far as an abrupt introduction was
concerned, almost as well have presented himself at first.

“Oh, Hilary! will you see Captain Hepburn?” was her exclamation.

“Nest, what do you mean?” he heard in a hurried, fluttered accent, and
he was sure she had stopped short in her approach.

“Don’t be pale, Hilary――don’t be frightened,” said Nest, coaxingly.
“You have not seen him since that horrid day, I know; and when I saw
him it made me remember all, and made me feel funny, I do not know
how; but it goes off, and now I am only glad.”

“But, Nest,” he heard her saying, and there was a catching in her
voice, which, to his anxious ear, told of a struggle with excitement
and surprise, perhaps of deeper feeling too, “have you seen him?”

He could stand still no longer. Advancing from the porch, he met her
on the lawn. She was stooping over her sister when he turned the
corner of the house, but she raised her head at the sound of his feet,
and stood still. She really could not take one step toward him, and
had not her hand rested on little Nest’s shoulder, perhaps she could
hardly even have stood at all. There was a beating at her heart, a
throbbing in every pulse, which seemed to suffocate her; there was a
mist and confusion before her eyes which, for a moment, blended sky
and earth, trees, shadows, and Captain Hepburn, in one wavering cloud
of darkness. She had no thought or feeling, except a wish to stand
upright, and a sensation that to speak was impossible. How they met
she did not know. The warm clasp of his hand on hers was the first
thing of which she was quite aware; he was by her, he was looking at
her, but he was silent as herself.

The first words he spoke were not those of greeting, but as if they
formed a part of a long preceding conversation, and in a tone that
implied a whole world of tenderness and anxiety.

“Come in now and sit down; I grieve to see you are still so weak!”

He drew her hand within his arm and led her toward the porch, while
she revived to the comforting conclusion that perhaps he thought her
agitation was the effect alone of bodily, not mental weakness. She
yielded to his guidance, wishing heartily that she could speak, but
doubting her power too much to make the effort.

When he saw her safe in a large easy chair, he sat down by her, and
said, in a quiet voice:

“I left Maurice quite well yesterday, very busy and enthusiastic about
his ship.”

“Happy, too,” ejaculated Hilary, her thoughts instantly reverting to
her brother’s cares and troubles, and forgetting at once all her own
embarrassments. “How are his spirits?”

“Variable, perhaps; at least I fancied so, when he was not actually
employed; but better than at first.”

She looked at him, anxious to try and ascertain what he knew or
suspected of Maurice’s feelings; but meeting his grave, dark eyes, she
was recalled to a recollection of herself and him; she colored again,
hesitated, and broke off a half-uttered word abruptly.

He waited to allow her time to recover, then finding she was silent,
he said:――“Were you going to ask how long we should be fitting out? I
think in three weeks more we shall report ourselves ready for sea!”

The easiest thing for her to do was to repeat his words, “Three
weeks!”

“Come here, Nest,” said the Captain, “Maurice sent you his love, and a
great many kisses. Shall I give them to you?”

“Did Maurice give them to _you_ first?” inquired Miss Nest, with a
look half coquettish, half demure, and holding back from him.

Even Hilary smiled at the idea, but he went on.

“He wants you to send him some of those double violets which grow in
your garden. You are to put them in a letter which is to go by post.”

“I will go and gather some,” screamed she, in an ecstasy of delight at
the idea, and darted away.

He turned to his other companion.

“Do you remember?” said he, bending a look on her she could not meet.

“What?” in a low, trembling whisper, was all she could say.

“These, and what preceded them!” and he drew out and opened a paper,
and showed her the contents.

She did remember; she saw the withered flowers, the white ribbon tied
in a peculiar knot. They recalled all: the whispered words, the gay
festival, the alarm, the accident, the agony of fear, the rescue, and
the parting look. Embarrassment and personal feeling were merged in
one sentiment, stronger still, gratitude! Clasping her hands, and
raising to him a look of trustful earnest, tender gratitude, she
exclaimed: “And I have never thanked you; let me now. Oh, Captain
Hepburn! you who risked your life for Nest and me, what do we not owe
you?” Her tearful eyes said more, far more than her words.

“The risk was nothing,” said he, hastily; “do not speak of that; and
the prize was all that I hold dearest on earth!” He had said it at
last; she had almost intuitively known what was coming, and she did
know what must follow now. She gave him one shy glance, and then
hiding her face upon her clasped hands, she tried to conceal the
blushes which burnt upon her cheeks.

“Yes, Hilary, it is the truth! the world does not hold another object
so dear to me as you. Are you displeased with me for saying so? For
you, for your happiness, your welfare, your peace, there is not the
thing which I would not dare or suffer myself; and to win your love!
if I only knew how to do that!”――

He stopped and made a gentle effort to take her hand; it was yielding
unresistingly. He ventured to draw a little nearer, and said: “Will
you not give me one look, one word, at least, to show me that you are
not displeased with my presumption?”

She looked up at him; there was an earnest expression in his eyes, a
deeply-anxious tone in his voice, a humility, a self-mistrust in his
whole air and manner, which told that it was no set form of
self-depreciating words without meaning, no assumption of suspense to
conceal real assurance and hope; he was at that moment truly suffering
from struggling doubts and fears; he was putting his happiness to the
test, to win or lose it all.

The look she did give him was not discouraging: it was not likely to
be, with her feelings. Fears as to the past, doubts for the future,
present anxieties, weakness, uncertainty, were all swept away in the
rush of gratified feelings and tender satisfaction. He loved her; he,
the good, the wise, the brave, the courageous man; he who could
deliberately and unflinchingly face danger, and confront death, not
only in the tumult of excitement, amid the plaudits of the multitude,
but also in the chamber of sickness, by the bed of infection, in the
stillness of the hospital, where none but true courage or dull apathy
could remain unmoved by fear; he was now waiting, in trembling
suspense, for her decision, and deprecating her displeasure with a
humility he would hardly have shown to a monarch.

She saw the immense power which she had over him, and she saw it with
delight. Not the delight of gratified vanity, the satisfaction of the
coquette who rejoices in giving pain; but the pleasure of a loving and
grateful heart, exulting in the discovery that it has the means to
confer happiness where it has felt deep obligation, and the gentle
triumph of maiden modesty, at last assured that it has not bestowed
affection unauthorized and unwished for.

She owed him her life, and her sister’s also; and she had that in her
power which he said would repay the benefit. He had placed his
happiness with his heart at her disposal, and she could reward the
generous gift by a single word.

With an air of the most betwitching modesty and confidence, she raised
her head, she held out both her hands, and said, “Captain Hepburn, you
have made me happy by the assurance of your love;” then fearing she
had said too much, she would have drawn back, but she was not allowed;
his thanks and raptures were too warm, too energetic to be
interrupted.

“I could not leave England,” he said, presently, “without explaining
my mind, small as my hope of such an answer was; I trusted, that
perhaps you would think of me, let me try to deserve you, let me
endeavor to win your love. I feared that silence and absence might
lead to misconstructions, might make you doubt my sincerity, blame and
mistrust me. Believe me, I dared not flatter myself that you felt more
than a friendly interest; what have I to tempt you, Hilary, that you
should condescend to love me? It is only your own goodness, your
sweetness, which inclines you to listen to me favorably. If you knew
me better, I fear you would value me less.”

She shook her head a little, and with downcast eyes, and lips just
parting into a smile, she said, “I do not _love_ all those whom I have
known much longer.”

He knew it well; for he knew he had a rival, and she might almost have
seen that he did so, had she been able to look at him.

“Hilary, I know you will be true to me, while I am at sea; I feel that
I may trust you once and forever; and when I return, you will become
my wife.”

“I will never leave my father, Captain Hepburn; I will form no
engagement――plight no promise, which can in the least interfere with
his comfort, or my attention to him. His claims first, and then yours
may be considered. You think me right, do you not?” added she,
anxiously, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in his face,
where she fancied she saw a shadow gather. On that question she felt
all her happiness depended.

“Right, Hilary, in your estimation of your duty; only wrong in your
estimation of me. Do you think I would tempt you away? or that I could
look for happiness with you, if it was bought at the price of
neglecting your first duty? I hoped you knew me better.”

Her answer was to lay her head upon his shoulder, and whisper gently,
“Had I thought so, you would not be what you are to me, Captain
Hepburn. I trust you entirely; and promise, one day, to be yours.
When, we can not tell.”

“And hear me, dearest, renew the vow I once made, never to ask you to
give me your hand, unless our marriage can be compatible with your
father’s comfort. I will wait――I will be patient――I will consider only
your happiness and your peace. Since you have condescended to promise
me your faith, I feel that no sacrifice on my part can be too great to
repay you. It is so good of you to love me. I have no better home, no
fortune, no worldly station, or importance to offer you. I have so
little to tempt you. Ardent, devoted love, and a share in an
unblemished name, that is nearly all; and if you condescend to accept
this, shall I not agree to your terms, and consult your pleasure?
Indeed, it seems to me such a wonder that you should love me, that I
feel tempted to ask again, are you sure you do? What have I done to
deserve such happiness?”

“Done! if I were not afraid of spoiling you by praise,” replied
Hilary, smiling, then stopping; she added, after a minute’s pause, and
in a tone of emotion, “done! who saved me, by saving Nest? who dared
what others hesitated to do? do I not know you brave, and prompt, and
energetic?――no, do not interrupt me, many _might_ have done as much,
perhaps; but who saved Maurice? whose watchful care preserved my
brother? who sat by him when others feared infection, or shrank from
the terrors of delirium? You may have known me only for a fortnight, I
have known and valued you, Captain Hepburn, for many, many weeks――for
months, indeed.”

“It shall ever be my humble prayer, it shall be my most earnest
endeavor, Hilary, not to disappoint your trusting love; and Heaven
helping me, I hope to repay it in kindness, in affection, in guarding
you from evil all your life long.” He spoke very gravely; he was much
moved by her warmth. “Words are too poor to paint my gratitude to you
for the honor you do me. And so they are to describe my implicit trust
in your truth, your constancy, your prudence, and your affection. That
I have to ask you to wait, that I am forced to leave you to the
anxiety and trouble which I fear our separation may cause you, gives
me great pain and grief for your sake; I would gladly spare you every
shadow of care, I would gladly devote my life to you from this time. I
grieve, but I trust you entirely. Will you believe as fully in my
constancy as I do in yours, sweetest Hilary?”

“Yes.”

That single word satisfied him completely.

When Nest came back from the garden, and the clergyman and his
daughter from Primrose Bank, they interrupted a very happy
conversation; one full of all the sweetness which confidence and
affection, hope and gratitude, can inspire.

It may be easily believed that after this explanation Hilary recovered
both strength and spirits with a rapidity which surprised and
delighted her sisters and friends: it may be readily imagined, that
young ladies of Sybil’s and Gwyneth’s ages entertained their own
theories, and formed their own opinions, when they found Captain
Hepburn once more at the Vicarage; opinions and guesses which proved
to have been surprisingly near the truth, when we consider their age
and education. Mr. Huyton’s acquaintance had existed so long, and his
friendship had been so diffused in the family, that they had never
thought of him as a suitor to their sister; but, from the first, they
had settled between themselves, that Captain Hepburn must fall in love
with her. There was every thing to recommend such an arrangement in
their eyes. He was grave and quiet, the nearest approach they could
hope for to a mysterious and suspicious character; while, on the
contrary, Charles was so lively and talkative, that they could imagine
neither concealment nor reserve in his case. Then, too, their favorite
hero was comparatively poor, and had a profession which would be
attended by possible danger as well as renown, would certainly
occasion long absences, and might give rise to romantic incidents,
doubts, distresses, and heroic difficulties. All this was a charming
contrast with Charles Huyton’s fortune and station in life; who
besides, as they thought, not caring for Hilary, could only, had he
wished to marry her, have offered her a matter-of-fact, readymade, and
every-day sort of home; it would have been an engagement, presenting
no difficulties except that of getting her wedding-clothes properly
made, and offering no romance, except their first meeting, now nearly
forgotten.

Not that the girls wished their sister any harm, or had the slightest
dislike to seeing her happy; but at their age the quiet monotony of a
prosperous life seems dull in prospect, and they had no idea that
misery and misfortune, anxiety, suspense, and sorrow were not the most
pleasant accompaniments of life, when occasioned by sufficiently
romantic and poetic causes. They did not know how reality strips
suffering of romance, not only to the individual who grieves, but to
the spectators who witness it: and that mourners who go about the
daily affairs of life, hiding a broken heart under an outward
calmness, may be extremely interesting to read of, but hardly excite
so much actual sympathy and compassion, as one who has to walk through
the world with a wooden leg.

But all this these two girls had yet to learn; and in the mean time
they were greatly rejoiced when they understood how rightly they had
guessed, and learned that the evident and marked devotion with which
Captain Hepburn had listened to Hilary, watched her footsteps,
conversed with her, and finally saved her life (for they always gave
him the whole credit of that adventure, and were, perhaps, for his
sake, a little unjust to Charles), when they learned that this was
finally to be rewarded with her love and faith. In short, the
engagement gave them perfect satisfaction.

Mr. Duncan was very well pleased; yet he certainly would have
preferred the richer _parti_: he liked Charles, perhaps, a little
better than he did the other; and there could be no doubt as to which,
in common language, was the best match. If Hilary was happy, there was
nothing more to be required; but he would certainly have wished either
that Captain Hepburn had been in Charles Huyton’s place as regarded
position, or that Charles Huyton had been the accepted suitor.

But if Hilary was happy, that was enough. And she was happy,
exquisitely happy; for the five days that her lover was able to
remain, she was as joyful and blithe as a bird. She recovered her
health, of course; she went about her daily tasks singing and smiling,
making every body near her partakers in her gayety. She felt she had
one to trust to now, on whom she should have a claim; she looked
forward with pleasure, and saw the future very bright. In the happy
hours they spent together, she found one to whom she could express her
past difficulties, her bygone sorrows and trials, one whose firmness
strengthened, and whose tenderness comforted her. Oh! what delightful
seasons of confidence these were; dearly prized at the time――more
dearly still in memory.

Maurice had told his friend his troubles and sorrows; so Hilary could
discuss his prospects with her lover; and though perhaps a little
shocked at the depreciating view he took of Dora’s conduct, the
earnestness with which he hoped that Maurice would recover from his
attachment, and the certainty with which he predicted that the lady
would probably forsake him, she would not have been a true woman had
she not speedily adopted his opinions, and become a convert to his
views even before she had quite done combatting them. One subject
there was on which they did not touch; one topic on which Hilary,
supposing him to be ignorant, herself preserved silence, and on which
he, aware of her reserve, respected her feelings of delicacy too much
to intrude.

The knowledge that Charles Huyton had been perseveringly repulsed,
that wealth and station, abilities, personal charms, flattery and
importunity, had failed to gain the heart which was now his own, was
very sweet. If there is the man in the world whose pleasure in his own
success would not be enhanced by such considerations, let him triumph
in his conscious stoicism. I do not believe that there is; some might
plume themselves on their own superior fascinations, some might
rejoice in the lady’s disinterested love; some might value
themselves――some her the more for such knowledge, but satisfaction of
one kind or other, I imagine, every one would feel. For the present,
however, Captain Hepburn concealed this source of satisfaction with as
much scrupulous care as Hilary herself; and, but for an occurrence
which even on this topic broke down their reserve, they would,
probably, have parted when his leave of absence called him away,
without any allusion to the matter.

Captain Hepburn had letters of business to write; and Hilary, taking
advantage of the opportunity, set off to pay some visits in the
village. The night had been stormy, but the morning was fair and
bright, and Hilary, walking briskly, was soon at a cottage about half
a mile on the road toward “the Ferns,” whose inmates it was convenient
for her to visit alone. The food, the clothes, and the advice all
given, she was just issuing from the garden gate when she was
addressed by Charles, who, throwing himself from his horse, advanced
quickly to greet her. She was surprised, for she had believed him
still absent from the country; and a mixture of other feelings, which
his sight recalled, gave her an air of emotion, sensibility, and
bashfulness, which he readily interpreted in the way most flattering
to himself. Had he known whom she had left writing letters at her
little table at home, he would perhaps have been as anxious to avoid
the interview as herself; but ignorant of what had passed since they
last met, he very joyfully took his horse’s reins upon his arm, and
walked himself by her side. The usual form of questioning about
friends and relations, recent occupations, his journey and his return,
was gone through, and was followed by a silence of some duration. This
was broken by Hilary, who, casting an anxious look at the clouds now
gathering ominously overhead, observed, that she was afraid there was
going to be a storm. She had hardly said the words when down came the
rain in large drops, rapidly increasing in number every moment. There
was a sawyer’s pit at a short distance with a shed beside it, and as
this seemed the only shelter within reach, and the rain appeared
likely to be violent, they quickly agreed to take refuge there; hoping
that the shower would be as brief as it was sudden. She was most
anxious to get on home; perhaps Captain Hepburn would have done work,
and would miss her; perhaps her father might want her. So she thought,
as she stood for a minute or two at the entrance to the shed, looking
wistfully up at the clouds, and watching those flitting gleams of
brighter sky which occasionally seemed to promise a clearing up. Still
the rain went on, and as drops began to penetrate through the slight
roof where she stood, he said,

“Come further in, Miss Duncan; it will not clear the quicker for your
watching; and here is a nice block of wood, which will form a seat for
you, where it is quite dry.”

The easiest thing to do was to comply; she sat down accordingly, and
he placed himself beside her. Then a sudden conviction came over her
that something was to follow; and with a sort of desperate hope of
stopping him, of avoiding a renewal of what was so painful, she began
to talk of other things, the season, the harvest, the people, any
thing for a subject. He listened in silence; his eyes were fixed on
the open doorway; he might have been counting the drops which fell
from the eaves, so steadily did he gaze that way. Her ideas,
unsupported by any help from him, necessarily came to an end; and when
she paused, it was his turn to speak.

“Hilary, tell me, once more let me speak; has my changeless devotion
no influence on you?”

She shook her head.

“None! yet of late you have seemed to encourage me; you have
accepted――at least you have not repelled――my attentions; you have
allowed me to distinguish you as my first object; you have permitted
those advances from my family which were intended to show how they
would welcome you as one of themselves; you have graced my _fête_ with
your presence; your name has already been whispered round the
neighborhood as the object, as the recipient of my vows: has not all
this given me a right to hope; does all this go for nothing, for
unmeaning form with you?”

“I do not understand your language, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, in
great suprise; “your tone and manner are alike new and unpleasant. May
I ask you to drop this subject while we are compelled to remain
together here!”

“You would ask in vain; my happiness, my welfare in life, every hope
here and hereafter is bound up in the thoughts of you, in the wish to
make you my wife!”

She tried to stop him as he spoke, but her gentle interruption was
quite unheeded as he poured out his vehement declarations.

“Why have you refused to see me, shut yourself up, and banished me
from your house? What makes you, one so tender, loving, gentle as you,
what makes you so hard, so unpersuadable to me? What have I done that
you will not love me? What is there in me, about me, belonging to me,
that makes me disagreeable? And why this coquetry; at one time readily
listening, calmly permitting, if not encouraging, my devotion, then
denying me all interest, all concern; repulsing me entirely? Is this
fair! just! right! Hilary! Do you think those who witnessed your
peril, and your rescue, in my park, doubted the motives which nerved
my arm and warmed my heart? Do you think their plaudits were valued
for any thing besides the worth they might give me in your eyes? And,
Hilary, is my reward to be ever the no! no! no! which dooms me to
misery, despair, and heartless solitude?”

Mr. Huyton rose as he spoke, and stood before her in magnificent
desperation. She looked at him amazed; he was strangely altered. He
was no longer the humble suppliant; he seemed to think he had earned a
right other, that she was his in equity.

“Mr. Huyton, you are unjust, and such language as this is strangely
unpleasant to hear. I do not know what claim you have to speak so. I
have never intentionally done any thing to give you hopes that I
should change as you wish. Again, I must ask you to be silent, or I
shall leave this shelter; I would rather encounter the storm without,
than listen to such words.”

“You do not know my claim? It is the claim of love, constant,
unchanging love, the love of years. Not the feeble growth of a week’s
intercourse; the every-day admiration, which at one moment
distinguishes its object, the next leaves it without a sigh or a
struggle; it is the passionate glowing devotion which rises beyond
every earthly consideration, which sets neither honor nor duty above
it――which knows no honor, owns no duty except that of loving
unchangeably and deeply. This is my claim, who can produce a better?
who has striven harder, longer, more devotedly, to make this love
apparent?”

“I will neither listen to, nor answer such language,” replied she,
decidedly; “let me pass.”

“I will not,” said he, placing himself in the door-way; “do you
suppose I would allow you to go out in this storm, expose yourself to
such risk? Sit still.”

“Then,” said Hilary, reseating herself, “as you are a man and a
gentleman, be silent.”

“You were not always so sternly resolute, Hilary!”

“Nor you so――” she stopped.

“So what? speak out, say what you mean at once,” said he, advancing
close to her.

“No, I shall not,” replied she, more gently; “I am sure that you do
not wish to give me pain, and that this unpleasant topic will be
dropped henceforth.”

“But do you not pity me?” ejaculated he, seating himself again by her
side, and clasping her hand so firmly that she could not withdraw it.

“Yes.”

“And nothing more, Hilary? esteem, regard, kindly feelings, are all
these gone, or did you never entertain them toward me?”

“You did not ask for these, Mr. Huyton; you asked for love, which
alone I could not give.”

“Are you sure?” said he, gazing intently at her. “Are you certain that
it is not pride of consistency, or ignorance of your own feelings
which misleads you? Do you know what love is, Hilary?”

“I do,” said she, in desperation, resolved, even at the risk of
raising an indignant jealousy, which she instinctively dreaded, to end
his painful importunity. “I know what love is, and that I do not feel
it for you.”

“Hilary! Hilary!” cried he, in the wildest excitement, and more firmly
than ever grasping her hand; “do you mean!――what am I to understand by
that avowal?”

“That I have no love to give you, Mr. Huyton――my hand and my heart are
another’s.” Her blushes confirmed her words.

“And who has dared to step between me and my object?” said he, slowly,
while his face grew dark with rising passion and jealousy. “Is it, can
it be Captain Hepburn?――there is no other.”

“It is,” she tried to say, but the words hardly passed her lips; she
was frightened by his look and tone.

“Has _he_ dared!――what, when he was warned, when he knew my wishes, my
intentions; ah, he did not know _me_! Did he think I would be balked
of my object? Does he think it is safe to come between me and my aim?
Hilary, dearly shall you rue the day that you give your hand to that
beggarly sailor. Bitterly shall you repent the deed! While you are
still Hilary Duncan, you are unspeakably dear to me, and for love’s
sake, while there is hope, I will be whatever you may wish; but once
destroy that hope, once take from me all possibility of winning you,
and I tell you, you will wish rather that a demon had crossed your
path, than that you had thwarted me.”

Indignant and offended, she raised her eyes to bid him leave her
instantly, and they fell on the figure of Captain Hepburn himself,
whose step on the wet turf had been inaudible, but who now stood in
the door-way looking at them. Her start and exclamation made Charles
release her hand and turn round too; and Hilary, profiting by her
freedom, sprang toward her lover, and clasped his arm as if to claim
his protection.

“Take me away,” she whispered, in an agitated voice.

Silently and gravely, he threw round her a cloak which he carried, and
carefully wrapping her in it, he drew her hand under his arm, and
prepared to leave the shed.

She gave one glance at Charles; he was standing with his arms crossed,
and a look of haughty indifference, which she believed to be affected.
In another moment they had turned away, and were taking the path
homeward; but before they had gone a hundred yards, they heard the
sound of his horse’s hoofs at a sharp gallop, dashing along the road
to “the Ferns.” The sounds died in the distance, and Hilary, relieved
and overpowered at once, very nearly burst into tears.

The storm was passing away, the rain had not quite ceased, but the
sunbeams were struggling through the clouds, and every tree and shrub
was fringed with glittering drops of light, while the effect of the
flitting shadows chasing each other over the distant landscape was
beautiful to see.

“There is no hurry,” said Captain Hepburn, gently checking the
impetuous steps with which Hilary had at first proceeded. “Do not
agitate yourself, we are quite safe. The storm is all but over now,
and you may walk quietly. It is pleasant to be together here, Hilary.”

A gentle pressure of the arm on which she leaned, was her only answer,
she had not quite self-command enough to speak.

“I wish I had come a little sooner to look for you,” added he; “had
you been long there?”

“I don’t know; it seemed long, it was so disagreeable,” and her voice
was checked by a sob. But recovering by an effort, she added
immediately: “However, it is over now, and we need not refer to it.”

He did not answer for a little while, but at last he said, very
gently, but with a manner which seemed to indicate that his mind was
made up on the point. “Hilary, I do not think that is right, either by
me or yourself, in our relative situations. If I were to remain with
you, to protect and watch over you, I would not ask your confidence on
that point. I could act for myself and you too. But since I must leave
you so soon, and in the neighborhood of that man, whose bad passions
are all raised by your refusal of his addresses, at least let me know
all. Let me understand exactly what has passed, that I may form some
idea of what there is to dread. Indistinctness of outline always
magnifies objects. Let us view the matter calmly and clearly.”

“How much do you know?” said she, looking up at him. “I never told you
that.”

“You did not, dear, but Miss Fielding told me at ‘the Ferns,’ that her
cousin had been in love with you for years, had been refused by you
once, but that he still hoped to win your love; and that the _fête_
which so nearly cost you your life, was devised and carried out as a
compliment to yourself.”

“Had I suspected that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “do you think any
persuasion would have induced me to go there? Oh, no!”

“I thought that at the time, dear Hilary; and but for the abrupt
conclusion to your share in the amusements, I should have taken the
opportunity that afternoon, there in the very midst of my rival’s
splendor and all the riches and temptations which he displayed to
bribe or buy your love, to offer you my hand, and a share in my humble
fortunes.”

“What consummate vanity!” said Hilary, smiling up at him with eyes
that told a very different tale from her words; “could not your
triumph in forcing me to like you be complete without the glory of
such a contrast?”

“Presumption I would plead guilty to; but if you knew the doubt and
hesitation with which I contemplated the effort, you would not think
it was the easy feeling of satisfied vanity, Hilary. To plunge after
you into the lake was a trifle, compared to the plunge I meditated at
the moment. But now I will not be baffled by smiles; tell me, if you
love me, all that passed between Mr. Huyton and you just now.”

With crimson cheeks, she repeated as well as she could the dialogue in
the shed, until he stopped her by saying, “His last speech I heard! I
never liked him or his cousin; there was a something of intrigue and
manœuver in her which shocked me; and for _him_――perhaps I was unjust,
however. But his unmanly violence to you now, is hard to forgive. Is
that what he calls love? or can he suppose affection is won by
threats? Dear Hilary! for your own sake, I am glad you did not love
him.”

“There never was any danger that I should,” said she, calmly.

“Yes, there was great danger; young, simple-minded, and inexperienced
as you are; too pure to suspect evil, too ignorant to know it, there
was the greatest danger that this man, handsome, clever, rich, ardent,
devoted, with every advantage which seclusion and leisure, time and
place could supply, should have won your heart before you could
rightly read his character. That your affections should have continued
disengaged until I had gained them appears to me a wonder, and a thing
to fill me with gratitude. Dearest Hilary! how can I be thankful
enough?”

“You can not imagine,” said Hilary, after a pause of gratified
feeling, “how great a shock it has been to me to find that he has
shown himself what he is; I never could have loved him, but I did
esteem and like him. I thought well of him in many respects, and to
find that he is so desperate, so self-willed, so violent, has really
given me great pain. Oh, I hope he will leave the country now, that we
shall never meet again!”

“It was ungoverned temper, Hilary, made him speak as he did; a
disposition quite unaccustomed to be checked or thwarted. It will wear
off. When he really sees that it is hopeless, I do not think he will
continue to vex himself about it. The quick, fiery passions which
explode so vehemently are not those which are the most lasting and
effectual in their results. Do not vex yourself, dearest, about it.
Time will smooth down his asperity, perhaps. At any rate, he can do
you no harm, he can not alter my trust in you, nor, I should hope,
shake your confidence in me.”

Hilary’s smile showed how entirely she agreed with her lover’s
opinion, which accordingly they continued to discuss, with great
satisfaction, till they reached home.




CHAPTER XV.

  “When I was young, my lover stole
          One of my ringlets fair;
  I wept, ‘Ah no, those always part,
  Who, having once changed heart for heart,
          Change also locks of hair.’”
                                           ANONYMOUS.


The next thing that Hilary heard of Charles Huyton was, that he had
quitted “the Ferns,” having dismissed his establishment, shut up the
house, and intimated an intention of not returning for many months.
This information was obtained by Captain Hepburn, and was received
with great satisfaction, not only by Hilary, but by the reporter
himself. He was very glad, as he was forced to leave her in so
unprotected a situation, to feel that so violent and determined a
lover as Mr. Huyton threatened to be should have removed himself from
her immediate vicinity.

His leave of absence, prolonged to the last possible moment, ended, of
course, much too soon, and the parting was naturally painful; but
Hilary’s cheerful and affectionate disposition supported her. She was
certain of his love, and that was happiness enough to supply
resignation and hope. Of the misery of protracted suspense, the pain
of an uncertain engagement, the long anguish of patience, she knew
nothing. She felt unlimited trust in her lover’s constancy, as well as
his character, and a calm dependence upon that merciful Providence to
whose care she committed her future prospects. She was thankful,
deeply thankful that she had been saved from being captivated by the
very engaging qualities of one whose principles she could not trust,
and that another to whom she could look as a guardian, a director, and
a guide, had been brought within the circle of her acquaintance. If
there was happiness to be found in this world she believed it would be
in his society; and beyond, far beyond this world, there was that sure
and certain hope which could support through the most stormy scenes of
life, by pointing onward to a bright and peaceful “forever” together.
So she parted from Captain Hepburn with sorrow, yet with hope, and the
tears which the former caused to overflow were checked by the whispers
of the latter; and neither her grief nor her love made her a more
careless daughter, or a less kind sister, nor occasioned any visible
want of consideration for the feelings or wishes of others.

How often, in her leisure moments, the short, black curl which lay in
a small gold locket, his parting gift, was contemplated or kissed, it
is not necessary now to say; nor is there any means of ascertaining
whether it received more attention than did the long shining, wavy
lock with which she parted in exchange, and which accompanied a pretty
water-colored likeness of herself, originally done by Mrs. Paine for
Maurice, back to the _Pandanus_. One thing was certain, that Maurice
was very good-natured and obliging, and allowed the picture which had
been intended to ornament his cabin to hang in the Captain’s instead,
where it may be supposed to have served as a public avowal that the
owner was indeed an engaged man.

Months rolled on, and brought no apparent change to the family at
Hurtsdene Vicarage. Nothing more was heard of Charles Huyton, except
that he was incidentally mentioned in Isabel Barham’s letters to her
cousin, Mrs. Paine, as much in their society in London; then as
accompanying them on a trip to Paris; then as having taken a moor in
Scotland near one of her father’s estates: and of their expectations
of seeing him during their autumnal residence in Argyleshire.

The younger girls lamented his desertion of “the Ferns” and the loss
of his library; but to Hilary these months were days of peace and
happiness compared with preceding excitement; and she tried hard to
persuade her sisters that Mr. Paine had as many books as they could
read, and more than they could remember.

One other slight diversion they had, namely, the reappearance of Mr.
Farrington, who came down for part of the long vacation, and took
lodgings in the forest. He was an old acquaintance and friend of Mrs.
Paine’s, and was a great deal with them at Primrose Bank, and
consequently often in the society of the sisters at the Vicarage. Not
quite so often, perhaps, as he could wish; for Hilary, grown wiser by
experience, began to suspect that young men did not seek the society
of girls entirely without an object, and became shy of encouraging a
kind of intercourse, which, within her knowledge, had more often ended
disastrously than otherwise. She could not help seeing that the young
barrister admired Sybil exceedingly; but she knew, that though her
sister was womanly in manners and appearance, she was childlike in
disposition and character. Not quite sixteen, she was too young to
think of matrimony; and while she continued indifferent to Mr.
Farrington and quite careless about his attentions, Hilary did not
wish him to become more demonstrative.

Mrs. Paine agreed with her, indeed this caution originated with that
lady; and one day she took on herself to communicate to the gentleman
the extreme youth of the object of his admiration. This brought on a
confidential conversation between the lady and the gentleman, in which
he informed her that he was quite willing to wait a year or two, but
that he was bent on making Sybil Duncan his wife hereafter. Then, if
his business continued to flourish as it had done lately, he should by
that time have a fair income to offer her, so he implored Mrs. Paine
in the mean while, to give him a good character to that discreet,
matronly, elder sister, who now looked as suspiciously on his attempt
to be agreeable as if she had to defend from desperate fortune-hunters
an heiress of ten thousand a year.

Mrs. Paine laughed, and promised to speak pretty well of him; and when
the vacation ended, Mr. Farrington was obliged to return to London,
where, in spite of his love for Sybil, there seems no reason to think
he was either miserable or morose.

So passed the autumn and early winter. Christmas brought the Barhams
to the Abbey, and Hilary was thinking with much interest and much
curiosity of Dora and her feelings, for it was some weeks since she
had heard from her; when a servant from the Abbey brought over a note
to ask Mr. Duncan and his eldest daughter to pay them a visit, with a
promise of the carriage to fetch them one day, and to take them back
the next.

Hilary felt doubtful about accepting the invitation, anxious as she
was to see Dora; but a little postscript to Isabel’s note, not at
first discovered, compelled them to decide in favor of going; it was
to the effect that Mr. Barham desired to see Mr. Duncan on business,
which could not be discussed in a morning visit; so an answer was
written, agreeing to the proposal. Her sisters all declared it was
nonsense of Hilary being so unwilling to go; it would be very
pleasant; the Abbey was, probably, full of pleasant people, besides
Isabel and Dora, and Mr. and Mrs. Paine, who, it was known, had gone
over on Monday, and were to stay till Saturday. What more could she
want to be sure of an agreeable visit?

She could only repeat that she had preferred their society to any the
Abbey could promise, and that home was pleasanter than any other
place; at which her sisters only laughed, and said “Let her try.”

To the Abbey they went, arriving there, by particular desire, in time
for the two o’clock luncheon; and there they found assembled, besides
Mr. Barham and his two daughters, only the Paines and another
gentleman, a young clergyman, whose personal appearance immediately
attracted Hilary’s notice; he being the first individual of a peculiar
class with whom she had as yet met. There was something odd in the
arrangement of his hair, in the appearance of his neck-cloth, and in
the shape of his coat-collar, which gave an idea of singularity rather
than sanctity, and made her more inclined to wonder at than admire
him.

She had not much time, however, to form conjectures relative to this
gentleman, for the young ladies almost entirely engrossed her. Each,
in her different way, appeared delighted to see her again, and really
Isabel’s more measured accents, and stately welcomes, were hardly less
kind and cordial than the _mine caressante_ and endearing words of
Dora, who scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry at meeting, and could
not express her affection and joy with sufficient emphasis to please
herself.

The afternoon was fine, although it was mid-winter, and the ladies,
having seen the four gentlemen adjourn to Mr. Barham’s private
sitting-room, determined to go out for a refreshing walk. The sun was
just setting in a clear green and amber sky, the air was sharp and
frosty, with scarcely a cloud visible over-head to dim the beautiful
half-moon hanging in the eastern heaven; there was no wind to make it
feel cold, and the ladies soon walked themselves into warmth and
spirits, such as can only be known to those who are blessed with
health and strength to enable them to enjoy active exercise in the
free air.

“Now, Hilary,” said Dora, as they turned their faces homeward, and
slackened their walk into a comfortable strolling pace, “have you the
least idea why papa sent for you?”

“Some kind of business with my father, I know,” replied Miss Duncan,
quietly; while Isabel exclaimed,

“Dora, how you talk! I wanted to see you, Hilary.”

“So did I,” replied Dora, “but not a bit would that have availed, had
not papa had business; it is about that Mr. Ufford, you know!”

“Dora, how can you interfere! do, Fanny, tell all about it, for really
Dora ought not,” again exclaimed Isabel, a little impatiently.

“I did not mean to say any thing at present,” replied Mrs. Paine;
“but, as Dora has said so much, I will explain. Hilary, dear, we are
going to leave you!”

“Leave us!” said Hilary, amazed; “dear Mrs. Paine, what do you mean?”

“The Rector of Copseley is dead, and you know my husband had the
promise of the living.”

“Oh! I remember; I am very sorry; that is, I am glad for you, but
sorry for us, for my father, for all: it will be hard to part;” and
the tears came into her eyes as she spoke.

“Do not trouble yourself to be glad,” said Mrs. Paine, affectionately,
“I shall be most truly sorry when the time comes to part; but it will
not be yet; we shall not move till the spring, I believe.”

“That is a comfort,” said Hilary; “what has Mr. Ufford to do with it?”

“Nothing at present,” said Isabel, quickly, as if to prevent Dora from
answering. “That depends on your father, of course. But if Mr. Duncan
could like him for a successor to Mr. Paine, we should be very glad!”

“Oh!” was Hilary’s answer. On such a point she had little to say. She
knew that Mr. Paine’s opinion would have great influence with her
father; and she thought his judgment might be trusted. If he approved
of Mr. Ufford, all would be right; and this she should soon learn from
his wife.

“Mr. Ufford is a man of very good family,” said Isabel, presently. “He
is the third son of Lord Dunsmore; and though his fortune is small for
his rank, I think you would find him an acquisition at Hurstdene. He
is very pleasant, and really a good clergyman.”

Perhaps the thought how little either fortune or rank had to do with
this latter recommendation which passed through Miss Duncan’s mind,
prevented her answering this rather complicated speech. She felt sure
also that Mr. Barham must have some private motive for interesting
himself in the curate of Hurstdene; so she resolved to wait before she
gave any opinion relative to her own feelings on the subject. It was
one which too nearly concerned their own domestic comfort to be
lightly treated, had there been no higher motives, or more important
objects connected with it.

The road to the Abbey led them up a thick avenue, where the leafless
branches of the trees threw a most perplexing checker-work of darkness
across the white moonbeams as they lay on the ground, or fell on the
figures of the ladies. Suddenly they saw a gentleman approaching them.
Isabel uttered a little exclamation, indicative of very pleased
surprise, before her companions recognized the new comer; but the next
moment Hilary saw with a mixture of uncomfortable feelings that it was
Mr. Huyton himself. The dread of meeting him had been one motive for
her unwillingness to go to the Abbey, and great had been her relief on
learning, soon after her arrival, that he was not at all expected. By
what unlucky accident he chanced to come at the very time when it was
least desirable, she did not know; but she saw from the manners of
Miss Barham, that though very welcome, he was yet quite an
unlooked-for guest.

It was impossible in such a light, to mark any expression of features
or changes of complexion, so Hilary’s varying color was safe from
notice. How they should meet she could not guess; but nothing was left
to her decision. Mr. Huyton advanced, took Isabel’s proffered hand,
made his excuses with grace, spoke easily to Dora and Mrs. Paine; and
added, as he turned to her,

“And I have the pleasure, too, of seeing Miss Duncan. I hope you are
quite well, and all your family.”

If ever Hilary was surprised in her life, it was at the composure and
calmness with which her hand was taken, and these words were said. She
would gladly have avoided shaking hands, but that was impossible; he
went through the ceremony with such perfect grace and self-possession,
as prevented it being awkward even to her, but with an air of
indifference which amazed her when she thought of the past. As they
returned to the house along the moon-lighted terrace, she could catch
indistinct glimpses of his face, while he conversed gayly and
courteously with her companions; and there was neither look nor tone
which could convey the impression that her presence was a matter of
the smallest consequence to him. Could he have quite recovered from
the infatuation of past years! had he learned to regulate his
affections and govern his feelings, to acquiesce in her decisions and
participate in her indifference? Might they associate on an easy
footing, as friendly acquaintance, without awkwardness or reluctance?
She would have gladly believed this to be the case; but she feared to
trust too entirely to appearances, when she remembered that more than
once before she had been misled by his assumed calmness, to believe in
the extinction of feelings, which seemed to have been only the fiercer
for suppression.

No, she could never be comfortable with him again; she dared not trust
him, so long as he continued single. If he would but marry some other
woman, what a blessing she would esteem it. As she walked along musing
thus, she only heard the sound of his voice mingling with the tones of
her companions; she did not understand a word they said; her memory
was away in the sawyer’s hut in the forest, and to her imagination,
she was again listening to his threatening accents, or again clinging
to that dear arm, which so tenderly supported her from the unpleasant
scene. She was so engrossed in these thoughts, that when Mr. Huyton
turned to her, and observed that he had seen Mr. Duncan in the house,
and was glad to find him well, she really, at first, hardly knew what
he was talking of, and her answers betrayed her wandering thoughts so
clearly, as to make Dora and Isabel both laugh at her absence of mind.

It was late enough when they reached the Abbey porch to make it quite
allowable that the young ladies should retire to their several
toilettes; and then Mrs. Paine begged Hilary’s company at hers for a
moment, to explain some circumstances which she could not so well
speak of before their hostess. It appeared that the intelligence that
the living of Copseley was vacant, had reached the Paines the day
after they arrived at the Abbey, and that Mr. Barham, on learning it,
immediately expressed a strong wish to secure the future curacy of
Hurstdene for Mr. Ufford. Why he was so anxious about it, or what
particular inducement there was to place that gentleman in so retired
a position, Mr. Barham did not mention; but this was avowedly his
object in sending for Mr. Duncan. He wanted to settle it all
immediately. That he had some ulterior motive, nobody who knew Mr.
Barham could doubt, and Mrs. Paine had her own ideas on that point;
but she did not think it right to mention mere conjectures; so she
said she should leave Hilary to guess for herself. As to Mr. Ufford,
she saw no harm in him, he seemed to be zealous, and talked well; but
she was rather doubtful of his sincerity; he had a way of not speaking
his opinions frankly, which made her uncomfortable, and she
half-suspected him of extreme views, which might lead to injudicious
innovations. But she was not sure of her own opinions, and most people
were captivated by him; even Mr. Paine thought him a most excellent
young man; so that it was, perhaps, bold in her to say that she did
not quite like him.

“But he strikes me,” continued she, “as having an _idée fixe_ of his
own extreme personal importance and dignity; and you know, Hilary,
that even very good men do often go very much astray, and become
exceedingly inconsistent and strange, from having an ill-balanced
character; from allowing one notion to overgrow their mind, and so
warp or conceal other estimable qualities.”

“Very probably,” said Hilary; “but you say Mr. Paine likes him, and I
expect my father will be guided by him. Oh! how I shall miss you! Mr.
Ufford can never be what your husband has been to us; and there will
be no compensation at all for the loss of you! Well, it is no use
thinking of it; there are still three months left, I will not make
them unhappy by anticipating the evil day; time enough when it comes.
How do you think Dora is now? She looks very well.”

“I do not know that she is otherwise; they thought her delicate in the
summer, but I fancy she quite recovered both health and spirits before
she joined her family in Scotland, and she has not been ailing since.”

Hilary thought that this account did not agree with certain little
notes she had received from time to time from Dora, speaking of a
general disgust of life, an extreme want of spirits, and an inevitable
tendency to a heart-broken death. But it was quite in accordance with
her personal appearance, and her air of health and cheerfulness.

Dinner at the Abbey was always a grand and stately affair. The guests
felt they were assisting at an important and solemn ceremony, a
guaranty of the respectability of the ancient house of Barham; a
remnant of the feudal times and the pomps of former days, when
baronial ancestors had been served by squires and pages themselves of
noble birth. Clinging to almost the last remnant of those by-gone
days, Mr. Barham was particular about his livery-servants: they were
many, they were well-trained, and their costume was as handsome as
good taste could make it. In that gorgeously lighted room, contrasting
as completely as wealth and elegance could suggest, with the ancient
refectory, or the convivial board of olden times, it was impossible to
find a shadow of concealment; a screen of any kind, to preserve
blushing cheeks or troubled eyes from the glance of the curious, or
the inspection of the sharp-sighted. So Hilary found to her cost; the
round table brought every one in sight of each other, and made every
observation audible to the group.

It was at this particular time that Mr. Huyton addressed her with a
question regarding Maurice; he hoped he was well?

She replied in the affirmative, trusting that no one in the circle
would care enough for her brother, or so little for herself, as to
pursue the subject. She was mistaken. Mr. Huyton forced her to tell
him what was the name of his ship, and where she then was, which she
could hardly do without naming Captain Hepburn, although to speak
before him of her lover was peculiarly distressing. On this, Mr.
Barham took up the subject, by asking if he had not seen the young man
at “the Ferns;” a talk, dark man, about thirty; older a good deal than
Miss Duncan? Hilary, blushing exceedingly, and conscious that more
eyes were fixed on her than she liked to meet, said _that_ was not her
brother; he was young and fair.

On this Isabel, smiling graciously, observed that she thought papa was
thinking of Mr. Duncan’s captain, not himself; to which Mr. Barham
observed, with his usual majesty, that it was by no means improbable:
who might his captain be?

Hilary gave an imploring look at Isabel, but for some occult reason
she did not choose to speak. Mrs. Paine’s attention at the moment was
not directed that way, nor, indeed, had she been disengaged, instead
of listening to a remark of Mr. Ufford’s, could she have interposed
without awkwardness. Dora’s eyes were on her china plate, which she
was minutely examining, and Mr. Barham was looking at Miss Duncan for
an answer. How she wished her father had been present to have answered
for her, but he did not dine with them, as he had a nervous dread of
being troublesome or unpleasant from his infirmity. She felt she must
reply; indeed, it was but a moment that she hesitated; a moment was
enough to feel a great deal of embarrassment; another, to resolve to
brave it all; and although conscious that Charles Huyton’s eyes were
reading her countenance with a deliberate intentness, which she
thought quite cruel, she answered her host’s question with sufficient
distinctness, that his captain’s name was Hepburn.

“Hepburn! Hepburn! that’s a good name, an old family name, Miss
Duncan, one long distinguished in Scotch history,” observed Mr.
Barham. “Did we not meet somebody of that name in Scotland, Isabel?
You who are such a genealogist and historian, you must remember, I am
sure.”

Isabel did remember accurately the whole genealogical table of the
gentleman in question; and while she was relating some interesting
historical anecdotes connected with the family, Hilary’s cheeks had
time to cool, and she trusted the name of her lover would not again be
forced from her.

But when Isabel had finished her graceful little narrations, her
father again turned to Miss Duncan with a question as to whether she
knew if her brother’s captain belonged to this ancient house. It was
important, perhaps, for Mr. Barham’s comfort, since he had done
Captain Hepburn the honor of recollecting him, that he should be
proved worthy of so great a compliment, by possessing the lineage of a
gentleman. Hilary replied briefly, that she believed so.

To her very great astonishment, Charles Huyton spoke.

“Whether Captain Hepburn can prove his descent from honorable
ancestors or not by genealogical records, he certainly does by his
chivalrous conduct and noble bearing, if honor and courage are the
attributes of high birth. He is as brave and gallant a man as I have
ever seen.”

Hilary gave one quick, grateful glance at her _vis-à-vis_, as he spoke
these words, which was not thrown away. She knew better than any one
else the effort it must cost him.

“Ah! I know to what you allude,” said Isabel, with a sweet smile; “but
if I remember rightly, Captain Hepburn was not the only one who
displayed courage and daring on that occasion. Even Hilary must admit
that there was another strong arm and bold heart then and there. The
spectators at least saw both performers, although the immediate actors
in the scene were, perhaps, only conscious of a part of what passed.”

Hilary again looked up timidly at Mr. Huyton. She felt that thus
appealed to, she ought to make some response; but she hardly knew what
it would be safe to say. There was a shade on his brow, a sort of
frown, as if Isabel’s words called up some bitter thought――as if he
were struggling with painful feelings.

“You are quite right, Isabel, it was an occasion when it would be
invidious to draw comparisons, or to do any thing but give equal
thanks to the one who saved my sister, and to the one who saved
myself.”

Hilary’s voice trembled slightly as she spoke.

“If that had been the only occasion on which Captain Hepburn had shown
his courage and dauntless spirit,” replied Charles, “I should still
say that he was first in honor, for he led the way; I did but follow
his example. But I know this is not the case; I know that it is only
one of several such instances. I have heard that he has dared a leap
into a wild tossing sea, in a dark and stormy day, to save a helpless
fellow-creature. Is not that the fact, Miss Duncan?”

With glowing cheeks and quivering eyelids, Hilary assented.

“Perhaps,” said Isabel, “there are braver acts done quietly and almost
unnoticed even than that, heroic as it seems. Acts which require a
more generous heart and noble nature than the human courage which
would lead a sailor to dare the storm, to help a shipmate in
distress.”

Mr. Huyton rather looked than asked for an explanation. Isabel went
on.

“To throw oneself from the pedestal of glory in order to place another
there, to refuse the honorable distinction due to courage that it may
be transferred to a companion in exertion, is a quiet heroism, a
generous self-devotion, which requires a firmer and braver heart than
the mere defiance of bodily danger.”

Mr. Huyton bent down his eyes upon the damask table-cloth, and only
showed, by the silence that followed, that he understood the lady’s
meaning. Hilary could not avoid looking at him; she knew better than
Isabel the extent of generosity which could induce him to praise a
successful rival. No words which he could have spoken could have so
moved her heart toward him as this commendation of one whom she had
supposed him to dislike. It was noble, candid, high-minded; she had
not given him credit for such feelings; she had been unjust to him in
her imagination; she wished to make amends. She gave him a look which
expressed some part of her feeling; and while with lips trembling with
emotion, and eyes sparkling with pleasure, she glanced at him, he
suddenly raised his own eyes, met hers, and read her heart.

Isabel Barham little suspected the hidden emotions of the man to whom
she was carefully studying to be agreeable. If she had at one time,
for a short period, feared the influence of Hilary, such fears were
entirely dissipated by the intelligence which had reached her, of her
friend’s engagement. She little dreamed how often the Vicar’s daughter
had refused the hand to which she was so willing to reach out her own;
or that the affections she would so gladly have won, had long been
passionately and hopelessly devoted to another.

The heiress of the Abbey would not have deigned to stoop for a heart
which her inferior rival had refused to accept; she would have scorned
the acquisition had she really understood the position of affairs. Had
she _loved_ Mr. Huyton, her feelings would have been different; but
love had nothing to do with the matter; it was a desirable connection,
that was all. She might be capable of loving, perhaps, if she had the
temptation; but as yet it had never occurred, and Charles Huyton was
not the man to captivate her nature. The vagaries of affections are
incomprehensible, and unaccountable by any rule; but the effects of
ambition, love of importance, and worldly position, are much more easy
to calculate. By these, at the present moment, Miss Barham was
governed.

The dinner was over at last, and Hilary, released from the position
_vis-à-vis_ to Mr. Huyton, rejoiced to devote her attention to her
father, who was waiting for them in the drawing-room. The rest of the
evening went by without emotion of any trying nature. Mr. Huyton had a
good deal of conversation with Mr. Duncan, during which Hilary escaped
to the other end of the room; she had no wish to throw herself in the
way of the young man, although she was pleased that he should show
attentive deference to her father. Isabel Barham was also carefully
kind to the clergyman, and it was a pretty contrast to see her
standing beside his chair, with her graceful figure, and queenly air,
talking with elegant animation, reading in the best-modulated voice in
the world short passages from some new book she was discussing, and
raising her head occasionally, to put back the long, dark ringlets
which swept her well-turned shoulders, and would fall over her cheeks,
as she stooped to refer to the work before her.

Mr. Ufford joined Hilary at the table where she was standing, turning
over a book of prints, and entered into conversation on the topic of
Hurstdene, its village, population, schools, church, and such
particulars as might naturally be considered interesting to him. She
found him, as Mrs. Paine had said, pleasing and gentle in manners,
with a peculiar way of winning from those he conversed with their
opinions; while he seldom committed himself by stating his own. It did
not strike her at the time so much, but when she subsequently came to
reflect upon their conversation, she found that she literally knew
nothing more of his tastes, habits, opinions, and inclinations, than
might be gathered from the courtesy with which he had listened to
hers. It rather seemed, on review, as if he had been judging her, and
for that purpose had succeeded in inducing her to develop her own
views and feelings. She was not sure that she liked him; she hardly
thought this fair, and she resolved, if they met again, to preserve
greater equality in their steps toward a friendly acquaintance.

They kept rather late hours at the Abbey; it was midnight before the
party broke up, although there was nothing particular doing to
entertain them. When, however, the ladies did retire, Hilary watched,
with an indescribable interest, the greeting between Isabel and
Charles Huyton; she could not keep her fancy from speculating on, and
her heart from seriously wishing for their union, and she half hoped
that the long conversation which had engrossed them both, after Mr.
Duncan had left the drawing-room at his usual hour, might be
indicative of an approach to the sentiments which she desired.

His last words to her were spoken as easily, and in as disengaged a
tone, as to Mrs. Paine herself, and Hilary went to her room, with a
persuasion that the meeting was less uncomfortable than she could have
expected. She drew a low chair to the fire, and sat down to think; but
her reverie was soon interrupted by a light tap at the door she had
not previously noticed, which, on opening, disclosed Dora Barham in
her dressing-gown, with her long hair all hanging about her shoulders.

“Our rooms adjoin, you see, dear Hilary,” said she, closing the door,
and coming up to her friend. “I have sent my maid to bed, and now let
me talk to you.”

She threw herself on the carpet at her feet, laid her arm in Hilary’s
lap, and looked up in her face with a wistful expression.

“Oh, I am so unhappy! I do not the least know what to do. What ought I
to do?――do tell me?”

“My dearest Dora! how can I?” replied Miss Duncan, caressing the soft
round cheek, and lovingly putting back the glossy hair which spread
over her knee.

“Oh, you do know a great deal. They want me to marry, and I can not,
will not; you know why. But they do so want me to marry.”

“Who do?”

“Papa and Isabel, and Lady Margaret. Oh, it’s dreadful; you do not
know what I have gone through these six months.”

“To marry!” said Hilary; “what, to marry in a general way, or is there
some one in particular? You talk vaguely.”

“Oh, one man in particular: Mr. Ufford!”

“What, this clergyman?”

“Oh, no, his elder brother, a much older man, a widower, too, with one
little girl; think of wanting to make me a step-mother.”

“And do you not like this gentleman?”

“No, not much, pretty well; he is pleasant, and good, and kind. I like
him better than his brother here; he is much more open and generous;
only if he would have been so obliging as not to fancy himself in love
with me, I should have liked him much better.”

“And now, where is he? is he still wanting to marry you?”

“He says, of course, if I am so averse, he will not press his suit;
but he shall and must love me to the end of time; and papa says I am a
silly child, and do not know my own mind. And oh, Hilary, he
said――‘Dora, if you loved another, I would not have pressed you to
accept this offer; but since your heart is disengaged, there is no
reason that you should not marry a man of such a character and such a
position as Mr. Ufford!’”

“And what did you say, Dora?”

Dora hid her face and sobbed, then said――

“I complained of his age, his daughter, my youth, my indifference, but
I got no pity. They would not admit these to be objections.”

“Then you could not plead that your affections were pre-engaged,
Dora?”

Again the face was hidden, and there was silence.

“Dora!” said Hilary, stooping and kissing her, “do not be ashamed to
say so, if you are indifferent to _him_; I shall not blame you, if you
have conquered an imprudent inclination; speak to me, say is that the
case?”

“No,” cried she, with vehemence, and raising her flushed face
suddenly, “I have not. I love your brother better than ever; absence,
time, separation, make no difference. I love him now, and I shall love
him forever!”

“Then why not tell your father? had you owned it then, you would have
been able to explain all.”

“I was going to. I intended to have told him; I was only thinking how
to begin, when he silenced me by adding, ‘I say this, Dora, because I
feel assured any daughter of mine would be incapable of forming or
owning to an unworthy passion; of encouraging an affection beneath
her, of consulting wild and childish fancies, rather than the claims
of her family, the advancement of her best interests, and the
maintenance of that elevated position in society, in which she has
been placed by her birth and fortune.’ What could I say after that,
Hilary? Own that I loved a poor lieutenant! I dared not.”

There followed a long silence. To urge on her friend measures which,
if they did not altogether embroil her with her father, would be so
much more advantageous to Maurice than to Dora, was impossible for
Hilary. She had given her opinion of right and wrong, she could do no
more; so the two girls sat together, looking at the fire, and each
plunged in thought.

“What must I do?” at last sighed Dora. “I sometimes think of going
into a convent; if I were only a Roman Catholic, I would.”

“My dear Dora!”

“Then,” continued the willful little penitent, “I think of telling Mr.
Ufford that I love another, and so getting him to give me up. What do
you think of that?”

“I do not know.”

“Hilary, would you, for all the riches and titles in the world, marry
any other than Captain Hepburn? tell me.”

“Certainly not; I could not.”

“Nor will I than Maurice; our cases are exactly similar.”

“Not quite.”

“Yes, they are; we each love one, and that feeling makes it wrong to
engage ourselves to another. There is no difference.”

“A little. I have my father’s consent to my affection and engagement.
If I had not, I should try to obtain it.”

“And if you could not?”

“I should try to conquer my affection.”

“What! and leave your lover to suppose you faithless, changeable,
treacherous? I will not.”

“Yes. If it is not right to love, it matters little what he thinks of
you, in comparison of doing right. Your duty is to conquer an
improper, unauthorized affection, and the sooner the better.”

“But it is not improper; it is right to love as I do.”

“Then tell your father, Dora.”

“I dare not――_he_ will not think it right.”

“Nay, then it is wrong.”

“Cruel, cruel Hilary!”

“I am sorry to seem so, dear Dora; but it appears to me so plain.
There are but two things to do. Own your attachment and abide by the
consequences; or conquer it, and give Maurice up entirely.”

“I have nothing to give up; I am not bound to him, nor he to me,
except in unalterable affection. That is all.”

“A most unhappy affection. How much better for you both, if you could
renounce it entirely. Continued as it is, it can only make you
discontented, miserable, unable to adopt any path in life. If you
could but overcome and forget it!”

“And marry Mr. Ufford? Never!”

Hilary was silent again.

“I never thought to hear such words from you, Hilary,” continued Dora.
“Have you no regard for honor and principle, that you advise me to
marry without love? have you no affection left for Maurice that you
bid me abandon him? none for me, that you desire me to perjure myself?
Oh, shame, shame on you, Hilary! You do not deserve to be Maurice’s
sister.”

“I do not deserve such reproaches,” replied Miss Duncan steadily,
looking at her friend’s glowing face, as she started to her feet
before her. “I never proposed, or prompted such ideas.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“That you should really and honestly try to conquer your unfortunate
predilection for my brother. Surely there is no virtue in obstinate
constancy; the passion denominated love, has no such merit in itself,
that it should be clung to at the expense of all other good qualities;
that candor, and filial affection, and self-denial, and self-control,
are all to be sacrificed to it. What is it, after all, but often a
merely selfish inclination, a determined perseverance in our own way,
this constancy which is so much praised and extolled? And as to making
one happy, what can be a greater delusion! It seems to me that
persisting in an unfortunate attachment, is very like persisting in
entertaining some wearing illness, which makes you uncomfortable in
yourself, and uneasy to those around you.”

“But, Hilary, one can not help these things; love may be a disease,
but it is an incurable one――at least, in cases where the infection is
really taken.”

“I do not believe that, Dora. We are not sent into this world to be
the sport of our passions; and I am convinced that our natural
affections need no more be fatal to us, than our necessary acts, such
as eating and drinking. We may, by mismanagement, bring our bodies or
our minds into such a state, that the things which should conduce to
our health and happiness, may produce fatal consequences; but then who
is to blame? Consider the end and object of this life; to prepare for
a better, a peaceful, blissful state, where darkness, doubt, and
distress can not come; where tears shall disappear forever: and can
you suppose that we are necessary victims to deplorable passions which
must so entirely interfere with this great object? that love, which is
intended to assist us onward, can of its own nature be ungovernable
and incurable? Oh, no; we may learn to command every passion, even the
strongest, if we seek aright.”

“You are just talking enigmas to me; you know very well I never
learned any thing about self-control; and Maurice loves me as I am. I
shall go and take the first opportunity of telling Mr. Ufford I love
another; for I never could bear to be step-mother to a girl of twelve
years old. It is too absurd of papa to expect it at all.”

She quitted the room, leaving Hilary to meditate at leisure on what
had passed; to grieve over the mutual infatuation of her brother and
her friend, and to comfort herself that at least Dora’s pettish
injustice would not last, for she could not bear to quarrel with her.




CHAPTER XVI.

  “Her moods, good lack! they pass like show’rs.
  But yesternight, and she would be
  As pale and still as wither’d flow’rs;
  And now to-night she laughs and speaks,
  And has a color in her cheeks――――”
                                                ISEULT.


Hilary knew Dora better than this wayward little thing knew herself.
She came back very penitent and humble, before she could sleep; and
after a great deal of kissing and crying for her crossness, she ended
by insisting on sleeping with Hilary, and taking that opportunity of
keeping her friend awake half the night, talking alternately of
Captain Hepburn and Maurice.

The morning hours after breakfast passed rather heavily away. The
ladies were together in their sitting-room, the gentlemen were all
invisible, nobody exactly knew where. Isabel was grave, Dora was
languid, and Hilary was thoughtful.

“Where’s Mr. Huyton?” yawned Dora; “how stupid of him not to come and
talk to us! I am so tired. What’s become of him, Isabel?”

“Really I do not know; perhaps he is in the library.”

“No, I went in there, just now, and Mr. Ufford was all alone, reading
St. Augustine, I believe, and making extracts. You may guess I did not
disturb him. Where is your father, Hilary?”

“He and Mr. Paine are together,” said Miss Duncan.

“Oh, how tired I am,” said Dora, laying a very pale cheek against the
crimson back of her easy chair.

“Mr. Huyton never goes away in general, where can he be?”

“I should not wonder if he has gone to ‘the Ferns,’” observed Mrs.
Paine.

Isabel looked up. “What makes you think so, Fanny?” asked she.

“I heard him order his horse to be ready immediately after breakfast,
and you know he left the table early.”

“Ah, I dare say he had business, and that brought him down into the
country,” said Miss Barham, quietly; “he feels so much at home here,
that as his own house is not habitable at present, he naturally
resorts to ours, when he wants a brief habitation.”

From all which Hilary gathered, that when with the Barhams, either at
the Abbey or elsewhere, he was accustomed generally to make himself
agreeable.

“I wish something would happen!” said Dora, presently, with another
yawn.

“What?” inquired Mrs. Paine.

“Oh, any thing, an event! something to rouse and excite one; to give
one a fillip. I do not quite want an earthquake, but I should like
something!”

“Poor child!” said Mrs. Paine, laughing; “it wants a new toy, or a
nice cake.”

“No, it is sick of cakes, and tired of toys,” said Dora; “it wants
good wholesome food, and a little work instead of play. I should like
to lose my fortune, and have to work for my bread. I think I could be
happy then.”

“Pretty work you would make of it!” said Isabel; “I wonder how you
would begin.”

“Why, really, that is a problem worth solving,” replied Dora; “I
wonder too. What part of my education do you suppose was intended to
fit me for the storms of adversity? which branch of the distorted and
grotesque plant, which forms my small portion of the Tree of
Knowledge, would be of the slightest use to me in distress? I think I
might, perhaps, be capable of engaging as a ballet-dancer; but as to
any thing else, I am sure I can not guess.”

“How can you talk so?” exclaimed her sister; “it is quite improper.
You have had a very good education for a lady!”

“Well, I happened to see one of the maids cleaning the grate to-day in
my room, and she looked so busy, so happy, and was chirrupping so
cheerfully to herself, that I could not help stopping her to ask her
what made her so merry; and she said in a frightened voice, as if
excessively ashamed of herself, that she had no time to be unhappy, so
she could not help it; for she had so much to do, that really, if she
had a mind to fret, she should not have a minute to spare, for she was
quite an underhousemaid, you see, and had to do the work, while the
others looked after her. I told her I envied her.”

“You ought not to put such ideas into their heads, Dora; it is
republican and leveling.”

“I do not think what I said will do any harm, Isabel. Hilary, if you
had to work for your bread, what would you do? Should you not like
it?”

“I believe I do it pretty much now,” replied Miss Duncan; “and I do
not particularly wish for a change.”

“Well, I do,” said Dora, closing her eyes, and sinking into profound
silence.

The morning past, the luncheon hour arrived, and not till after that
did Mr. Huyton make his appearance, nor did he publicly account for
his absence, or at all explain where, or how he had spent the three or
four hours during which he had disappeared. The Duncans were to return
home after luncheon, and as Hilary was proceeding up the long stairs
to her room, to prepare for her departure, she encountered him at the
top of them.

He stood back a little, as if to let her pass, but turned and joined
her in the gallery.

“Are you going?” said he, wistfully looking at her.

“Yes, presently; you have been riding, have you not?”

“I have been to Hurstdene.”

Hilary looked surprised.

“Yes, I spent the morning there; I longed, with an inexpressible
longing, to see those scenes again, to tread those walks, look at
those walls once more. You were here, my presence at the Vicarage
could not disturb _you_; could excite no anger in you; I ventured to
gratify my wishes. To take one more view of the place I dearly loved,
where I was once welcomed as a constant, and only too happy guest.”

“Did you see my sisters?” asked Hilary, embarrassed and pained.

“Yes, they were as kind as ever. I have at least one thing to thank
you for――you have kept my secret well. Dear girls! they little knew,
when they playfully reproached me for my long absence, whose wish it
was it should be so! It is noble of you, Miss Duncan, to allow me to
retain their good will; not to teach them to view me with aversion;
not to inspire them with the cold dislike you entertain toward me
yourself.”

“Indeed, you do me injustice, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, gently, and
pausing, in the gallery through which they were passing; “it is not
aversion that I feel for you.”

“And when we met yesterday by moonlight, could I not even then read
the expression of your face? the chilling indifference of which it
spoke, haunted me all night; and your hand, too, did it not tell the
same tale? those fingers which once used to return the pressure of
mine, now coldly suffer me to touch them, passively submitting to a
form which is demanded by good manners, not expressive of sympathy. Do
you suppose I am insensible, or indifferent to the change? Would to
Heaven that I could annihilate the last eighteen months, and stand
once more by your side the friend I once claimed to be!”

“Would that we could, Mr. Huyton, so far as you are concerned,”
replied she, gravely; “but the wish is idle and vain! we are what we
have made ourselves, and feelings, words, actions, can never, _never_
be recalled. Would that it were possible to begin anew our
acquaintance!”

“I would still be your friend, Hilary,” said he, in a more gentle
voice; “may I not be that, may I not sometimes see you on these
terms?”

“I believe you would; I know you are generous and noble; I can not
forget your words last night, and I can honor the feeling that
dictated them.”

A flash of joy passed across his face at these words, and fixing his
eyes on her, he said:

“And may I hope that you will still see me, receive me as a
friend――let me sometimes visit your father, sometimes converse with
you?”

She shook her head. “Not now; not under present circumstances.”

“Not for your father’s sake? he loves me, you know,” said he,
persuasively.

“I dare not.”

“Dare not! which then is it that you will not trust, my honor or
yours, Hilary?” There was a shadow gathering on his brow.

“Why should we peril either,” replied she; “mine, yours, or that of
another who is far away? You know my faith is pledged to him, to what
end then _our_ meeting, until you too have chosen another object for
the love you have so unfortunately misplaced? Then we _may_ meet
perhaps as friends. Till then, let us part as friends.”

“You have nothing more to fear from me, from my love,” replied he,
bending down his eyes to conceal their expression. “But neither has
any one aught to hope from it! For me to love again is impossible. Let
it be enough that I resolve to extinguish a vain, hopeless passion. I
ask now to be trusted as a friend only. Can you not believe me so far
as that?”

“It is wisest not to try,” said she, slowly.

“What makes you so mistrustful?” questioned he, looking earnestly at
her.

“Experience!” was her answer; while the color deepened on her cheeks,
as she thought of past scenes.

“Are you quite candid now, Miss Duncan? is it not, rather, the
injunction, the wish, perhaps, I should say, of _him_, of Captain
Hepburn? Did not he bid you shun me? It can not be your own nature to
be so newly suspicious; tell me it is his.”

“No, indeed, he laid no restriction on me: he trusted entirely to my
prudence, and I will show I deserved it.”

“I would rather it had been his wish; I could have borne his
suspicions better,” said Charles, sadly. “But surely, could he see me
now, he would not fear me. I only aspire to be your friend, I only ask
for calm and quiet intercourse; I have no pretensions now which could
create jealousy, or make him suppose me a rival. I own his
superiority, I admire, I esteem him; my own hopes being gone, I may at
least rejoice that one worthy of you has won you; I am resigned to my
loss; why should you make it more bitter than necessity requires?”

She was silent, but she drew back when he tried to take her hand.

“If he did not mistrust me, why should you? _He_, at least, knows us
both better, does more justice both to you and me. Why should you
hesitate? It is such a small favor I ask. For your father’s sake, let
me come sometimes and see him.”

“No, Mr. Huyton, I can not. Unlimited trust deserves unwavering
prudence. Do not ask again, it is decided. At Hurstdene, and on
purpose, I will not meet you. Let me say now, farewell. It is hard to
refuse one to whom I owe so much; it is hard to seem ungrateful; but
it is best. But you shall always have my best wishes, my earnest
prayers for your happiness; I will never forget that the hand I hold
assisted to save my life.”

“Would that I had perished then and there!” cried he, losing
self-control for a moment. “Would that the water had closed upon us
both――that I had gone down with you in my arms, rather than――” he
stopped abruptly; footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, he was
recalled to a thought of where he was; he only stayed one moment to
press her hand in both of his, to kiss it with a warmth, a passionate
ardor, which did not speak of cold friendship; to give her one sad,
reproachful look, and then he rushed toward his own dressing-room,
which was in an adjoining corridor, leaving Hilary to enter her
apartment, near the door of which they had been standing, and there to
conceal her excitement and her fears.

She had proceeded but a little way in her preparations for departure,
when Dora rushed into the room, her bonnet in one hand, and her cloak
in the other.

“I am going with you, Hilary, for the drive,” cried she; “the horses
must stop there to rest; for I have made papa agree that it was more
civil I should go home with you.”

She seemed in great spirits, and danced about at intervals, while she
was pretending to dress.

“You are awake now, Dora,” said her friend, smiling; but her voice
betrayed at once that her own tears were not far off.

“What is the matter?” exclaimed Dora, stopping to look anxiously at
her friend; “what have you been crying about, Hilary, tell me?”

“Nothing worth talking of――my own folly,” replied Miss Duncan, turning
away, and stooping to look at the lock of a carpet bag.

“I have long known,” said Dora, gravely, “that you were a very foolish
child, always crying about nonsense and trifles; so I can easily
believe you. No doubt you hurt your foot against a step, or pricked
your finger with your brooch, and that made you cry.”

Hilary laughed a little, and did not answer otherwise.

“I want to come and stay with you at the Vicarage for some days,”
continued Dora, in another voice. “Do ask me, I should so like it.
Tell papa you want me.”

“I am afraid Mr. Barham would think I was taking too great a liberty
in asking you, Dora.”

“Oh, no, he would not mind; you ask me, and he will let me go. You do
want me, do you not?”

“Very much,” said Miss Duncan, kindly; “it would give me great
pleasure indeed to have you there, but I hardly think you are likely
to be permitted.”

“Oh, we will see,” said Dora; “now I am ready; are you? then come
down.”

Mr. Huyton was down stairs with the other visitors when the girls
descended; calm, self-possessed, and courteous; listening gracefully
to Isabel, who was discussing a question on political economy with Mr.
Ufford; while Mr. Barham sat by with a look of paternal pride.

Hilary ventured to make the request dictated by Dora; it was
graciously received, treated as a very great kindness and honor, and
if Miss Duncan liked to trouble herself with such a wild, thoughtless
little child as Dora, he should be very happy at some future time;
they would think of it.

“Mrs. Paine returns to Primrose Bank on Saturday,” suggested Dora,
“let me go then to the Vicarage; it would suit Hilary very well, I
know.”

Dora settled it all her own way; Isabel did not disapprove; it was
true that Mr. Ufford was to leave them also in company with the
Paines, but Mr. Huyton had promised to remain some time longer, and
she was just as well pleased that her sister should _not_ be there
during this visit; for so carefully did Charles balance his
attentions, and so strictly impartial was he to both sisters, that the
eldest never actually felt sure whether she was or was not the one
preferred.

Very glad indeed was Hilary to be back in her own home, and away from
the grandeur and restraints of Drewhurst Abbey. She never felt so much
at ease with Mr. Barham as with any one else, and the sight of Charles
Huyton made her unhappy. The great surprise which her sisters expected
to afford her, turned out a failure; for she had already heard of
their visitor; but it was news to Dora, who had not guessed where he
had been, and who did not fail on her return home to charge him with
it.

Saturday came, and brought the younger Miss Barham to take up her
abode at the Vicarage, as she had promised, much to the delight of the
sisters there, who could not make enough of her. She was in great
spirits, laughing and chatting rather wildly, and making them all
laugh, too, with her nonsense. Her grief and anxiety sat lightly
indeed on her. The Paines and Mr. Ufford accompanied her, the latter
to be introduced to the Vicarage; he was to preach the next morning.
Mr. Duncan appeared extremely pleased with him, and there was every
prospect that Mr. Barham’s plans would be carried out.

Two or three days passed; Dora was still at the Vicarage, very happy
and amusing, when, one morning, Hilary returning to the drawing-room,
after a brief absence, found two visitors there, one of whom was a
stranger. However, from his resemblance to his companion, she guessed
him to be the elder Mr. Ufford, before Dora, with some blushes and
embarrassment, introduced him as such.

He was a pleasing and sensible-looking man, with an air of elegance
becoming his birth, but with nothing in the slightest degree affected,
or wearing the appearance of dandyism. He was simply in the best sense
a gentleman, and a very good-looking one, too. Hilary liked him very
much. Neither was he so immensely old, as Dora had represented him; to
look at him, you could hardly believe him eight-and-twenty; and but
for the certainty of his having a daughter, she would never have given
him credit for a greater age. Possibly the representations of Dora had
overstepped the facts, and this obnoxious child might not be quite so
much as twelve years old.

Mr. James Ufford, the clergyman, was the bearer of a message from Mrs.
Paine, who was desirous to see Miss Duncan on some parochial matters,
but was detained at home by cold and headache: he had, accordingly,
set off to bring this message; and on the way had been overtaken by
his brother, who had ridden over from Drewhurst Abbey that morning. It
was proposed, partly on Dora’s suggestion, that they should all walk
over to Primrose Bank together, and accordingly they presently set
out, Hilary and Gwyneth with Mr. Ufford, junior; Dora under the care
of the elder brother.

These two did not attempt to keep up with the others, and Hilary soon
lost sight of them. Perhaps, concern for her brother made her
quick-sighted, but she could not help fancying that, in spite of her
assertions, Dora was by no means unwilling to receive the admiration
or permit the attentions of her companion, and she could not
anticipate any other conclusion to the affair than what Captain
Hepburn had predicted as most probable.

She was so much engrossed by these considerations as to afford but
indifferent company to Mr. James Ufford, who, in consequence, devoted
himself to Gwyneth, and succeeded in convincing that young lady that
he was, without exception, the most delightful man in the world, even
before they reached Primrose Bank.

Hilary went straight in-doors, and sought Mrs. Paine, who was in her
own room; but the other two, tempted by the fineness of the day,
lingered on the little lawn, looking at the blossoms of the
laurustinus bushes, and planning imaginary changes in the flower-beds,
until they were rejoined by the others, who loitered behind.

Mrs. Paine and Miss Duncan having finished their business, came down
stairs together, when they found the drawing-room full. Besides those
for whose presence they were prepared, Charles Huyton was there, whose
visit was unexpected by either; he had, however, come over from the
Abbey in company with George Ufford, and while the latter had followed
his brother, he had been wandering about with Mr. Paine, inspecting
the outhouses, which wanted some alterations, and planning other
improvements in the place.

He was now gayly conversing with Dora Barham, and even after he had
advanced to greet the two ladies, he again returned to her side; while
she, with more coquetry than Hilary had suspected her of feeling,
seemed encouraging him, either from actual preference, or to pique
George Ufford; it was not easy to decide which. Miss Duncan made up
her mind that day, that constancy and earnestness were not a part of
Dora’s nature; that her conduct depended on her feelings; while her
feelings appeared entirely under the influence of chance or accident
varying at every turn.

Perhaps Dora was afraid of her friend’s reproaches, for after their
return home, where they were escorted by James Ufford alone, the other
gentlemen being obliged to ride back to the Abbey, she carefully
avoided any occasion of having a confidential discussion of the past.
In a very few more days she was to return home, and Hilary hoped
sincerely they might part without any further reference to her
personal affairs. But this was not the case. Miss Duncan discovered
accidentally that in a letter Gwyneth had been writing to Maurice,
Dora had persuaded her to insert so many messages, so much of
reminiscence and kindness, as must tend to delude Maurice, as it
perhaps deluded herself, into the idea that she was still constant to
him in her affections, and unchangeably bent on loving him alone.

Hilary felt obliged to remonstrate.

“Please don’t, Dora, another time. It is not right to any one; to
Gwyneth, or to Maurice, or yourself, or your father; if I had known it
in time, I should have stopped the letter.”

Dora looked half-vexed and half-foolish.

“You are so precise, Hilary; you are not like any body else.”

“Perhaps not; but we are not talking of myself, but of Maurice and
you.”

“I quite wonder you consider it correct to put us in the same
sentence, when you seem so determined to keep us apart,” continued
Dora.

“Now, please, dear Dora, do be reasonable,” said Hilary, imploringly;
“can I ask you to come here that you may carry on a clandestine
correspondence with my brother? What would your father say?”

“My dear Hilary, every body has their peculiarities; yours is to be
haunted with the idea that every body is doing something improper,
unless they will proclaim their deeds at the market cross.”

“What is clandestine must be wrong,” said Hilary, decidedly.

“But can you not comprehend, my dear young friend, that there is a
difference between secrecy and improper concealment? It is not
necessary to publish every thing one knows, neither is it wrong to
avoid some topics. Even to a father there may be things which it is
better not to repeat; there may be subjects concealed from the best of
motives.”

“This is all very true, perhaps, but the difference between discretion
and dissimulation is positive, Dora. If you feel sure that when he
knows your conduct he will approve it, and consider your secrecy was
justifiable and proper, you may venture to practice it, I suppose,
without fear.”

Dora was silent.

“Neither is it fair to Maurice,” continued Hilary; “you are misleading
him; I do not blame you for learning to prefer another, but――”

“No,” interrupted Dora, “you could hardly do that, at least with
justice, since it is not the case.”

“Dora, you deceive yourself, surely; your manners to Mr. Ufford――”

“Dear Hilary, don’t tell me my manners encourage _him_,” cried she,
rather alarmed; “I assure you I do not mean it in the least; but what
can I do? He is so gentle and amiable, I can not be cross to him, and
you would not have me rude, I am sure; so then I turn round and flirt
with Mr. Huyton to get rid of the other, and you look at me with such
fault-finding eyes: are you jealous, Hilary, it is that? I believe Mr.
Huyton loves you all the time. Oh, Hilary! what a blush, my dear girl!
you are jealous, then: what will Captain Hepburn say?”

“If I did not know that you were talking all this nonsense merely to
get rid of my remonstrances, I should be seriously displeased with
such foolish language, Dora; as it is――”

“As it is, Hilary, you must bear with me! I love Maurice, and Maurice
only, but Mr. Huyton amuses me when I am dying of _ennui_; he is
pleasant and clever, and I know well that he has no heart to bestow,
to have any dread of entangling it. Do you think I have not seen how
he loves you! how he follows you with his eyes, listens to your voice,
even while he is talking to others; worships your shadow, and haunts
your footsteps? I never could make out why you did not like him; for
although I do not myself, I think you might suit him, and he you.”

“All this has nothing to do with what I was talking of, Dora; you know
Mr. Huyton is nothing to me; but while I retain any regard for you
(and that must be always), I can not help wishing to prevent your
doing wrong, and deceiving yourself and Maurice.”

“Well, I will not deceive Mr. Ufford; I will tell him plainly my
opinion the very first opportunity!”

“Are you quite sure what your opinion is? are you certain that when
you send him away, you shall not regret what you have done? Do you
really wish to give him up?”

“I would give up twenty such men for Maurice.”

“Consider, Dora, if you were to marry my brother, you would become the
wife of a poor man, one who must immediately curtail all the luxuries
and indulgence which have become habit to you. Are you seriously bent
on this――prepared for it?”

“I should like poverty――riches and luxury disgust me; I am weary of
indulgence.”

“But think what it would be to lose your place in society, which you
must do when you ceased to be Miss Barham, of Drewhurst Abbey, to step
down into retirement and neglect; to lay aside your elegant style of
toilette, to give up your horses, your carriages, your journeys here
and there at pleasure; your multitude of attendants, your luxurious
rooms. To have to wait on yourself, order your own dinners, put up
with indifferent and awkward servants, consider before you spent even
five shillings, calculate which joint of meat is most economical, and
how to make it last longest and go furthest; perhaps even to repair
your own wardrobe, certainly to walk about on foot; and to live in
small rooms, with the certainty of not being able to travel for change
or diversion. Could you patiently put up with all this, and smile away
difficulties and _ennui_ in such circumstances?”

“I suppose I could as well as another woman, unless you mean to infer
that your brother and his wife must be unhappy; I do not see that I
should be more so than any other.”

“You might, because you would have so much to renounce; while all
these things would be natural, and therefore easy, to one brought up
as I have been. You say you would like poverty, Dora; try. Allow
yourself the gratification of no whim, deny yourself every superfluity
which arrests your fancy, rise early, live plainly, do some useful
work; for instance, make a flannel petticoat for a poor woman, or a
cotton frock for a baby, and try for a month, or a fortnight even, how
you like such a life. It would be sad to make a mistake, and find it
out too late.”

“But it would be quite different, Hilary, to play at being poor
myself, or to be really so with Maurice.”

“I admit that; you could go back at any time to riches; the step would
not be inevitable.”

“And so it would be unreal, and therefore could do no good. The motive
would be wanting.”

“I do not see that; the motive would be to try whether you could
manage without riches; to understand yourself, and form a right
judgment of the value you set on wealth. If you could not do without
indulgence to this modified extent, and for so short a time, you would
have no right to engage in such a situation for life.”

“Besides,” said Dora, “I do not believe it can be necessary; for
though Maurice is not rich, I should have my own fortune, which will,
probably, be large. Papa told me he would give me handsome settlements
if I married Mr. Ufford.”

“And how much would he give you if you married Mr. Duncan?” inquired
Hilary, significantly.

“Oh, I don’t know! The same I suppose! why not?”

Hilary looked doubtful. Dora went on.

“And then, after all, nobody in my station really is poor; it is all a
romance of your imagination. I dare say Maurice would contrive as
other people do, to get along and keep up a respectable appearance. I
need not have bad servants, I would hire good ones; and I would manage
my ménage so that it should be no trouble, and I should rather like
the pleasure of ordering dinner, and contriving nice little surprises
for him in the way of eating. I am sure I could be happy.”

“Of one thing, Dora, we are quite sure; without your father’s consent,
you will never try the experiment; and if he wishes you to marry Mr.
Ufford, he is not likely to approve of your engaging yourself to
Maurice.”

“You dreadfully matter-of-fact girl! how you knock down all my
delightful castles. Oh! Hilary, I wish you had been crossed in love,
and then you would have had some pity for me.”

And so the discussion ended. Hilary had not learned as yet, that to
contradict a youthful passion, to argue against it, to overwhelm it
with unanswerable reasons, and endeavor to extinguish it with detailed
proofs of its absurdity or unfitness, is certain to strengthen and
increase its power; so red-hot iron is hardened into tempered steel by
plunging it suddenly into cold water.




CHAPTER XVII.

  “In the woods where the gleams play
  On the grass under the trees,
  Passing the long summer’s day
  Idly as a mossy stone,
  In the forest depths.”
                                     TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.


Time passed on, as time will do. Eighteen more months went by; Hilary
hardly knew whether to say they went fast or slowly. Fast, very fast,
it seemed, when she thought of the changes it had brought. It was only
two years since they had first seen Mr. Farrington, and Sybil was now
his wife. The child had grown up and loved, and married, and left her
father’s house; and yet how short a time it seemed since she was yet a
child, dependent on Hilary’s care. Now she was in another home, the
center of her own system. She was very happy; so, though her absence
caused a gap, it was not to be lamented. Very fast, too, time seemed
to move with her father; how rapidly he had aged, how infirm he had
grown in these two years. It saddened Hilary’s heart to look at him;
he had always been old for his age, he might have been eighty in
appearance now; and fear whispered to the daughter, that she could
not, must not, hope for lengthened days for him. She dared not look
forward, so she turned away her eyes.

But slowly, slowly it seemed to move, the time which was to bring her
lover home. Two years of his absence had gone, perhaps more than
another might have to pass ere his return. She began now to understand
what was meant by hope deferred; she knew what waiting was now. Now
and then her bright hopes seemed to fail her, and she was ready to
murmur that he should still delay. But better feelings usually
prevailed; he was doing his duty; he was acting right; he was denying
his strongest inclinations, and should _she_ give way, she who had
neither storm, nor danger, nor anxious responsibility, nor thwarting
cares nor vexatious counteractions, nor any other difficulty to
contend with? She could stay with those she loved in her sheltered
home, and pray for him in the parish church, knowing so little
trouble, feeling no doubt of her duty. Shame on her false heart, her
feeble trust, her fainting patience, if they failed her at such a
time.

The other changes besides those mentioned were slight. The Paines
indeed had gone, and Mr. Ufford now filled the office of curate. He
had much more absolute power than Mr. Paine had exercised. Mr. Duncan
was incapable of doing much, so Mr. Ufford ruled supreme, and, except
that he had contrived to offend many of the farmers’ wives, and
quarrel with their husbands, had driven away the old schoolmistress,
and considerably diminished the school, had scattered the congregation
and half-emptied the church, every thing might be considered to do
very well. Hilary saw much of this with sorrow, Gwyneth with wondering
indignation; not at the clergyman, however, but at the people who
disagreed with him. What any one could find to quarrel with in him,
she could not imagine. So good, so quiet, so full of plans for the
good of every one; it was wonderful that every one would not submit to
be led as she was, and would not on every occasion give up will, wish,
and reason to the control of Mr. Ufford.

She could not understand why, but certainly Mr. Ufford had an
unfortunate faculty, both for giving and taking offense, for finding
himself injured, and feeling himself neglected, which did not smooth
his way in the parish. It is foreign to my story, to relate how he
quarreled with the village choir about the Psalms, and the
church-wardens about the poor-box; how pews became a lively subject of
discussion, and churchings a source of dissent. He had Mr. Duncan’s
ear, and could persuade him to what he pleased; and he was so
plausible in his statements, so well-intentioned in his theories,
that, of course, it was impossible he should contradict him.

Nothing could exceed the almost paternal kindness with which he had
been welcomed and treated by the vicar; and Hilary, conscious that her
engagement was known to him, fearing no evil, and thinking no harm,
had received him nearly as a brother, and done every thing she could
to smooth his way with the people. Such influence as he had, he owed
to the Duncans.

As to Gwyneth, ever since their first interview, she had given him
credit for every virtue under the sun, and invariably believed him to
be perfectly right, let who would differ from or disagree with him.
She was the confidante, consequently, of all his theories for the
improvement of his people, of all his wishes that they were very
different from what they were, and of all his doubts of ever making
them any better. His theories certainly were beautiful: it was
unfortunate that they should be based on the most ideal foundations,
and so be generally impracticable. It was unfortunate, too, that those
changes which he did introduce did not work well. For instance, as I
said before, his attempt to re-model the school ended in the secession
of the schoolmistress; but as his plans were never sufficiently fixed
to be acted on, the new schoolmaster fell into his own ways, and the
routine became rather more inefficient than before, while Mr. Ufford,
in disgust, pretty well ceased to visit it.

And so it was in every thing else; things did not suit his fancy, were
imperfect, or inappropriate; he made violent changes, was opposed, was
determined, carried his point, made enemies, gradually grew
indifferent, and gave up his object, contenting himself with strolling
about the Vicarage garden, detailing impracticable schemes to Gwyneth,
and drawing imaginary pictures of what might be.

He was one of those people who never have time for any thing, and who,
from want of _reality_, do nothing in the end, although avowedly
always busy. What could be effected by others in his plans, was well
done; what depended on himself alone, was well talked of. Yet he was a
great favorite with many, especially with recent acquaintance, and his
friends always formed the highest estimate of his powers, and the
liveliest expectations of their results.

Hilary was most anxious to think well of him. She discovered in time
that he was expecting to succeed her father in the living; and this
created a strong source of interest in him, and a most ardent wish
that he should prove all that he was supposed to be. She shut her eyes
to his deficiencies, excused any mistakes or neglects, labored to
supply the care and zeal which were occasionally wanting, and to
reconcile all apparent inconsistencies or short-comings. She had often
hard work, and did sometimes feel as if she were endeavoring to make
ropes of sand, although she laid all the blame of failure on her own
mal-adroitness and ignorance.

Left as Hilary was almost entirely to her own discretion, it was not
surprising that she sometimes made mistakes of conduct, acting on an
innocence and ignorance of the world beyond her own village, which
made her singularly unsuspicious of evil, and blind to imprudence. It
certainly was a mistake to allow such unlimited and unreserved
intercourse between Mr. Ufford and her own family; or rather, perhaps,
the mistake was in those who placed so young a man in a situation
where such intercourse was unavoidable. She herself heartily wished he
were married; she missed Mrs. Paine more every month of their
separation, and especially after Sybil had left Hurstdene; for Gwyneth
was so much more reserved and silent than her sister, besides being
younger, that she could not entirely fill her place; and her feelings
were so enthusiastic, and so little regulated by reason, when she did
express them, that Hilary had some trouble in guiding her at all.

Of course, Miss Duncan’s bright spot in the future was the _Pandanus_;
for however unremitting and unreserved a correspondence might be, it
was impossible for the letters of a lover in the West Indies to supply
all the daily counsel, the prudence, and the judgment which she needed
to guide her; and what could possibly stand instead of the charm of
his personal presence?

Mr. Ufford’s father had died about a year after that gentleman had
settled at Hurstdene, and his elder brother, after some occasional and
rather lengthy visits to the village, had just gone abroad, partly for
his own health, which was precarious, still more for his daughter’s,
which was decidedly delicate. Their mother had died of consumption,
the second son, too, had shared the same fate, and many people thought
the present Lord Dunsmoor had inherited the same weakness. James
Ufford appeared the most robust of the family, and there seemed
considerable probability that the title would eventually devolve on
him.

Not that this idea had ever occurred to the sisters at the Vicarage,
who, from seeing him every day, observing his simple habits, and
quiet, gentlemanlike indolence, quite forgot that he belonged by birth
to another sphere than themselves, and might some day rise to a circle
where they could not hope to reach.

Meanwhile the Barhams had been sometimes at the Abbey as usual, and
sometimes absent for months. It was evident Lord Dunsmoor avoided
them, and Dora, in confidence, told Hilary, she had let him know that
her heart was engaged elsewhere. Charles Huyton, too, was often there.
Hilary met him too often. He was a great friend of James Ufford’s, and
frequently at Primrose Bank; of course, Hilary could not prevent that:
she could not help, either, falling in with him in her walks and
visits, but it was always painful. He was ever the same. Humble,
gentle, only begging for friendship, entreating for tolerance,
pleading for simple intercourse, if she remonstrated at these
meetings; if she took them quietly, and tried to treat them as things
of no consequence, he would use the opportunity to say or do something
to oblige her. Papers which contained any intelligence of the
_Pandanus_ were always forwarded to her, and she knew the hand which
directed them: news was obtained through the Admiralty of every change
of the vessel’s destination, and transmitted through James Ufford for
her information. It was impossible to show more disinterested desire
to please her; more anxious concern to win her confidence, and prove
himself her friend. It was hard to repulse his attentions, and to seem
unjustly suspicious; yet she could not trust him, she feared him too
much, to be at ease――she was never sure of his sincerity.

Victoria Fielding had not since been seen in the neighborhood; she had
married and settled in Cheshire, as had been intended. Charles often
went there to visit her, and messages of friendship from her to Miss
Duncan were not unfrequently the excuse for some interview.

It was summer again, and every thing was sparkling in a brilliant
morning sun. Miss Duncan was in the garden before breakfast, cutting
some flowers, stooping over a rose-tree, to select the blossoms which
could best be spared; Gwyneth was making the tea in the parlor, while
Nest was demurely talking to papa, occupied meanwhile in needle-work
of the first importance.

“Hilary!” said a voice behind her which made her start. Down went the
basket, the flowers, the scissors, all disregarded, forgotten. She was
in another moment gently, tenderly clasped in Captain Hepburn’s arms.
Surprise was swallowed up in delight, she could not even ask how he
came, she was so happy to see him there.

When the first excitement had passed away and explanations were
demanded, it appeared that the machinery of the _Pandanus_ having been
found defective, she had been ordered home to refit, and having
arrived after an unusually rapid voyage, the captain had obtained
forty-eight hours’ leave, and traveled down in all haste to spend the
time with his affianced, bringing the first news of his own arrival in
England, as both he and Maurice, it appeared, had been too busy to
write to announce it.

Maurice, too, was in England then; he was well, but could not leave
the ship for more than twenty-four hours, so for the present he must
content himself with seeing Sybil in London. It was possible that the
steamer might be paid off; “and if so,” said Captain Hepburn, “I
should be free for the present; perhaps it might be months before I
should be employed again, perhaps years, and in that case, Hilary――”
his eyes finished the sentence which his words left incomplete, as he
stooped his head to take a view of the pretty blushing face, which was
trying to conceal the feelings it could not suppress, and drooping so
gracefully close beside him.

“You all seem very glad to have the captain with you again,” said Mr.
Ufford, laughingly to Gwyneth, during his usual forenoon visit. Hilary
was in the garden with her lover. “He is a great favorite, apparently.
I affronted Miss Nest just now grievously by saying that I did not
think him the nicest man in the world; not so pleasant for instance as
Charles Huyton.”

“Nest loves him dearly,” replied Gwyneth, “and it is natural she
should, for you know he saved her life in the water.”

“If that sort of obligation were always productive of dear love,”
replied he, “my friend Huyton would occupy the place just now filled
by Captain Hepburn there.”

“Perhaps he might have, had he wished it,” said Gwyneth, innocently.
“But Hilary was not likely to bestow it even from gratitude, if he did
not ask for it himself.”

“_If!_” exclaimed Mr. Ufford, amazed. “Is it possible that you, Miss
Gwyneth, can be ignorant of his wishes, and his disappointment? I
thought those sort of triumphs were always boasted of between young
ladies with peculiar delight.”

“I can imagine no delight in disappointing an amiable man, nor any
triumph in pleasing a bad one,” was Gwyneth’s answer. “So in any case
there could be nothing to boast of.”

“And did she never tell you?” added he, curiously looking at her.

“No! and if there was any thing to tell, the same delicacy which
prevented her naming it must prevent me from discussing it. At the
same time I think it must long have ceased if there ever was any
attachment. Hilary has been engaged these two years, and Mr. Huyton
apparently has attached himself to Miss Barham since that!”

“Miss Barham!” repeated Mr. Ufford, with a curl of his lip; but he did
not finish the sentence.

The next morning, when Mr. Ufford as usual walked over to the
Vicarage, he was accompanied by Charles Huyton himself. There was a
little embarrassment and hesitation in his manner as he presented
himself, indicative, perhaps, of uncertainty as to his reception, but
which was quite unusual with him. But with Captain Hepburn beside her,
Hilary could venture to be frank and friendly; and the kindly
inclination shown by this visit toward one who had been his rival won
him a smile and a gentle glance, such as he had not met for a long
while. Charles came to congratulate them on the safe return of the
_Pandanus_ to England, to express his good wishes, and to shake hands
with Captain Hepburn once more. So he said; and he did give a
prolonged and friendly grasp to his rival’s hand, such as no true
English heart could give or receive if a shade of evil feeling
remained behind. It seemed to speak of deep heartfelt congratulations,
and an earnest, trusting commendation to his care of the fair being
whom they both had loved, and one had loved so hopelessly though
truly. So Captain Hepburn interpreted the action, and gave him credit
for generosity and submission, and true nobleness of mind.

They were wandering about in the garden, when Captain Hepburn noticed
some changes which had been made there. Hilary said they had been
suggested by Mr. Ufford, and principally effected by Gwyneth, who had
adopted the ideas; for herself, she liked the old way best.

“So do I, Miss Duncan,” said Charles, gravely. “The old garden had
great charms for me; do you know, Captain Hepburn, I have only once
been in this garden since you left England.”

“Indeed!” replied the sailor; “whose doing was that then?”

“It was this lady’s wish,” said Charles, “but I thought it hard. Will
you not make interest with her, that I may not be excluded in future?
Trust me a little.”

“I can not interfere with Miss Duncan’s rules or regulations as to her
visitors,” replied Captain Hepburn, in a tone that might pass for jest
or earnest. “If I had any power I might exercise it in your favor: at
present, you know, I am only a visitor myself, and can say nothing.”

“Papa wants you, Hilary,” said Nest, just then running up; and she,
taking her little sister’s hand, returned to the house, rather glad at
that moment to escape.

The gentlemen remained together looking after her, as they stood under
the old lime tree on the lawn.

Mr. Huyton was the first to speak.

“We have been rivals, Captain Hepburn, but we need not be enemies; I
would gladly prove myself not only your friend, but the friend also of
the woman whom I may not love.”

His companion thanked him for his professions.

“While you have been gone, it has been my wish still to watch over her
happiness, and to guard her in every way. She can tell you that from
the day I learned how your success had forever deprived me of hope, I
have never breathed a word, nor done a single action which has spoken
of any sentiment of which you could disapprove.”

“I have no doubt of it,” replied Captain Hepburn, frankly; “and allow
me to thank you for your many acts of kindness. But you must also
permit me to say, that it is for the sake of your own happiness alone,
I can form any wishes regarding the extinction of your attachment to
Miss Duncan. No doubt it is better for you that it should sink into
friendly feeling; otherwise your sentiments toward her, though they
may interest, could not disturb me. Her manner of receiving them is
all that concerns me, and that has my most entire approval!”

Charles Huyton colored deeply, and bit his lip in silence.

“Excuse my frankness,” continued the sailor, “I do not intend to hurt
your feelings; I only want to assure you, that I entertain no jealousy
or mistrust, and can feel none, while she continues what she is. But
you must understand, that my confidence does not arise from your
refraining to seek her love, but from her own rectitude and delicacy.
Your honorable intentions I have no right to doubt; but my happiness
is not dependent on your honor, nor on that of any other man. If she
could not guard her own, your forbearance and generosity would avail
me little.”

“Of course! of course!” said Charles, eagerly, having recovered his
composure and complexion; “in her you must have perfect confidence; I
hope you may have the same in me. You may, perhaps, be leaving her
again; her father’s health is failing fast; in the event of his
decease the daughters must leave their present home, and I shudder to
think of the distress which will befall them. Give me permission at
such a time, or in any other moment of trouble, to watch over them
with a brother’s regard, and extend to them a brother’s care. Let me
plead your authority for interesting myself in their welfare, and
doing whatever may be within my power to comfort and protect them.”

“Thank you,” said Captain Hepburn, quietly, in reply to Mr. Huyton’s
earnest enthusiasm. “I am obliged to acknowledge the same thing. Mr.
Duncan’s health is, I fear, failing rapidly; and sorrow is probably in
store for them on that account. She will suffer greatly.”

“And will you authorize me to do what I wish; the little that is in my
power to protect or shield them in trouble, to comfort and befriend
them?”

“You can hardly need my authority, Mr. Huyton, to enable you to act
the part of a friend, so far as the usages of society allow. Beyond
this, of course, you can not wish to go. Where the world has placed
its ban on incurring obligation, or accepting favors, there it is not
only prudent but proper not to trespass.”

“Oh, my dear sir, the usages of society are narrow and restricted; the
ban of the world is cold and cruel; they are invented to excuse
selfish indolence, and silence the claims of the helpless and
dependent. I would wish to set these aside, and act on my own
judgment, as true friendship and kindness may require, regardless of
what others may think.”

“Excuse me, sir, but the injunction to ‘Provide things honest in the
sight of all men,’ requires that friendship and kindness should regard
what may be said of others. The usages of society are founded on a
long experience of facts and results; and though they may only aim at
controlling appearances, they are not safely to be trampled on;
neither is the world in general so very strict in its requisitions as
to make it too difficult to comply with them. Depend upon it, they are
founded on right principles, although only in themselves the very
shell of what is fair and good.”

“All I ask is to be trusted; to act as the adopted brother and sincere
friend of Miss Duncan and her sisters, in case of trouble.”

“So far as Miss Duncan herself will authorize you, I can make no
objection, Mr. Huyton: but nominal adoption and confidential
friendship between individuals situated as you are, are mere
delusions, and have been most judiciously placed in the category of
unsafe and unadvisable things, although they may not be actually
considered incorrect.”

“The fact is,” said Charles, with a slightly bitter politeness, “you
are afraid to trust me. Well, so be it. If your suspicions interfere
to prevent Miss Duncan having a friend in need, I can at least assure
you she shall have my best wishes; that is all I can give her.”

Hilary returned at this juncture and Mr. Huyton felt himself obliged
to take leave, although it was evidently with reluctance that he went.

Fast flew the hours, bright and fast, which Captain Hepburn might
spend at Hurstdene; his professional duties too soon forced him away;
but he was leaving with the hopes of speedily returning, perhaps for a
longer time, perhaps to remain entirely, so the separation could be
bravely borne.

“My dearest Hilary,” said he, the evening he was to start, for he
saved time by traveling all night, “do you know what you are doing by
allowing that young man to be so constantly here?”

He looked toward James Ufford, who was loitering as usual on the lawn
with Gwyneth and Nest.

“No! What?” was her answer.

“Do you not see that Gwyneth has fallen in love with the curate?”

“No,” said Hilary, coloring crimson, “has she?”

“So it appears to me.”

“Well, and what then? How could I help it? What must I do? Why should
it signify?”

“Signify! do you think Mr. Ufford intended it?”

“I do not know. I am sure Gwyneth has not such an idea in her head;
perhaps they are both unconscious; but don’t you like him?”

“Not much. I do not think he is _real_. He should talk less, and act
more. He may be half in love himself with Gwyneth; but it is in that
aimless, purposeless way, which will never grow to any good end. He
likes to keep her to himself; he likes to talk to her; but while he
can amuse himself as he does, enjoying her admiration and devotion,
and feeling sure of her preference, he will not ever care to exert
himself for more.”

“But what can I do?” said Hilary, distressed.

“Now a clever, active, manœuvering mother might fix him directly. Any
one, in fact, who would condescend to use the requisite arts and
exertions. There is a tact in managing these affairs, which few girls
possess. They are sincere, ardent, yet shy, modest, undemonstrative;
they can do nothing but waste their own affections. It never succeeds
with a character like Mr. Ufford’s, compounded of much good, alloyed
by selfish and self-indulgent vanity.”

“But, Captain Hepburn, would you have me manœuver to secure a wavering
heart for my sister? I can not stoop to that.”

“No, Hilary, I would not have you different from what you are: but I
wish Mr. Ufford went further off. I have no confidence in him. It is a
pity that you admitted him to such constant intercourse.”

“I am very sorry,” said she, humbly: “it was my imprudence. I did not
know better. I am so ignorant; but perhaps you do not understand
Gwyneth aright. She is enthusiastic and ardent in her fancies, but
they do not always endure. What could I do now to prevent an
intercourse which has grown up so naturally out of our relative
situations?”

“That is exactly the question that I have asked myself again and
again, without seeming to be at all nearer finding an answer. I am
afraid it is one of those imprudences which are irretrievable: which,
in fact, are only proved to be so by the result. You know there are
steps which once taken, can not be retraced, and actions of which we
can not choose but bear the consequences. This is poor comfort for
you, dear Hilary; but do not distress yourself so, my love; perhaps
the effects on Gwyneth may not be evil. I may have imputed too much to
her.”

“She is so young,” said Hilary; “oh, I hope I have not helped to make
her unhappy.”

“Yes, she is very young; young enough to recover from an infatuation
of the kind, should she find her idol is only made of clay, and to be
better and wiser for the experiment.”

“I do believe her admiration is the result of religious feeling; she
would think little of him if he were not our clergyman. It was that
attracted her.”

“These two feelings are constantly acting and reacting on each other,
in rather a confusing way in women. Personal regard for the minister
is either the origin or the result of attention to his doctrines; and
one is constantly increased by the other.”

“It seems so natural, so unavoidable, to care for one who teaches us
our highest duties; instructs us in our dearest interests,” interposed
she, apologetically.

“Yes, it is essentially the nature of woman’s religion, to seek to
expand itself, pour itself out on some visible object. Hence has
sprung the influence which, in every system, the clergy attained over
the female world. It matters little whether it is the priest in the
confessional, or the Presbyterian minister in his congregation. The
degree of power may differ occasionally, but its source is the same;
and where weak heads and lively feelings meet, the result is
perpetually an effervescing enthusiasm, often troublesome and
unsatisfactory at the time, and liable to wear itself out, leaving
deadness and flatness behind it.”

“You are hard upon us.”

“Am I? I do not mean to be unjust: and though I admit there is a great
deal of folly exhibited by those who are guilty of this idolatry, I
respect it in comparison with what I feel toward those idols who
consciously encourage the worship. I should not choose to express my
opinion of those men, who, taking advantage of this feminine
peculiarity gratify their vanity, or indulge their love of excitement,
by winning, under the cover of religious instruction, affections which
they never intended to justify. My words would shock you!”

“Are such things done, out of books and plays? in real life?”

“Are they not? but you, dearest, can but little answer such a
question; and the flagrant examples which come beneath one’s own
knowledge, are not what one can quote or repeat. Suppose you were to
call Gwyneth in at this moment. Can you not make an excuse for
interrupting that eternal wandering under the trees?”

“Oh, yes, I really want her, and I, too, am wasting my time here;
there are some things to be looked out for Maurice, which you ought to
have to pack up. Would you tell her, please?”

Accordingly, Gwyneth was summoned into the house, and Captain Hepburn
joined the young clergyman on the lawn.

“How beautiful this place looks under a setting sun,” observed the
former, gazing round.

“Yes――pretty well. I shall make a great change, though, if ever it is
mine. Many of these trees must come down, and the flower-garden must
be modernized; it is in wretched taste.”

“It seems to me to suit well with the house; are you a gardener!”
inquired Captain Hepburn.

“Not personally in the least; but I like to have things nice, only
somebody must do the work for me; I know nothing of details,” replied
Mr. Ufford.

“I always think a practical knowledge and love of gardening, give a
certain reality and sincerity to a man’s character, which is
singularly useful; especially in your profession, Mr. Ufford.”

“It would be a curious speculation,” replied the other, “whether facts
bear out your idea. I will take it into consideration, whether the
best gardeners of my acquaintance are the best clergymen, and the most
practical men. Would not a love of construction save a man’s
character? I have a great fancy for building, I own; and I expect some
day to realize my plans on the Vicarage. That old house must come
down. I could not live in it.”

“I have received so much kindness here,” replied his companion, “that
I can not contemplate such a change without regret. It is a comfort,
however, to think that when an event so trying to the Vicar’s
daughters arrives, as that which will make you master here, they will
have a friend, and not a stranger, to deal with.”

“Poor things! I am really sorry for them,” said the curate; “it will
be a sad trouble. I think an Elizabethan house would look best here;
would suit the place and country. Don’t you?” eyeing the old Vicarage
as he spoke with an air of consideration.

“I have not thought about it at all,” replied Captain Hepburn, with
internal disgust. “I fear they will be sadly forlorn and unprotected;
their brother away, perhaps, and they so young and ignorant of the
world.”

“You are unnecessarily anxious about them, Captain Hepburn; they will
find friends, depend on it. I can understand your feelings of
interest, however, although I can take more cheerful views of their
prospects. Believe me, nothing on my part shall be wanting. I have
strong motives to influence me――my sincere gratitude――remembrance of
kindness received――regard, honor; in short, make yourself easy. Their
comfort and happiness shall be my first object. I pledge myself to
that. Pray trust me!”

Roused out of his selfish dreams, Mr. Ufford spoke what he felt at the
time, and meant all that he said. Captain Hepburn could understand his
words and tones to have but one meaning; his admiration for Gwyneth
was sincere, and his purposes settled. If he had not the steadfast,
straightforward strength of will, which the sailor possessed, he might
yet have sufficient firmness of character to secure his own
respectability, and Gwyneth’s happiness. One must not quarrel with a
man because he is more cautious in his movements, or more slow in his
decision, then one’s self. Captain Hepburn hoped the best from him,
and while he trusted his warning to Hilary might not be useless, he
flattered himself that his fears might be entirely unfounded.

“I shall trust implicitly to such an assurance, satisfied that they
will have a friend in you. They have their brother-in-law in London,
to take care of them in case of need,” continued Captain Hepburn; “I
have a great respect for Mr. Farrington; from what I have heard of
him, he must be a very well-judging man.”

“I must be going,” said Mr. Ufford; “if the young ladies are busy, I
dare say they will not care to see me just now; pray make my excuses
to them. I wish you a good journey;” and he went accordingly.

Two hours afterward, Captain Hepburn was also on his road to London,
speculating a little on whether he had done more good than harm, by
what he had ventured to say about Mr. Ufford. The first result of his
observations was, that after a great deal of indecision, Hilary took
courage to hint to Gwyneth, that now she had really grown up, and was
neither in years nor person a child, she should be careful to behave
as became a young woman, and that it might be as well, perhaps, to
adopt a little more reserve toward Mr. Ufford, and not spend quite so
much time in his society. Gwyneth heard her quietly, took in her
meaning, and secretly deduced from it the assurance, that Hilary
probably thought the curate was falling in love with her, a notion
which had not before crossed her mind. Hitherto her admiration had
been, so far as she knew, purely of a spiritual nature; but this
observation gave it another turn, and from considering Mr. Ufford in
the light of a superior being, raised above human weaknesses, and only
to be admired at an humble distance, she suddenly discovered that he
was a gentleman, an unmarried man, and a young man, and one whose
affections and future intentions might be subjects for speculation and
doubt.

That he was heir-presumptive to a barony, and might look for rank and
fortune in his wife, if he chose to have one, occurred to her at the
same time with a sudden chill, which depressed her spirits to a
painful extent; it was little likely that he would stoop to a
portionless and undistinguished girl like herself, unless――and the
thought gave her peculiar pleasure――he should really have fallen in
love with her, as he told her Mr. Huyton had done with Hilary. The
contrast between herself and the clergyman was not greater than
between this other couple; and if love had been so strong in one case,
why not in another?

So she reasoned with herself, and concealed her feelings, and resolved
to wait and watch his conduct. Apparently, Mr. Ufford was anxious to
justify his promises, and prove his friendship to the Vicar’s
daughters. His visits were for the next two days quite in the usual
style, quietly walking in just when it suited him. Hilary, however,
was more watchful, and allowed no more of those unrestricted rambles
which had latterly been so greatly extended. Gwyneth had more
occupation at home, and was obliged to be quiet and useful.

The third day brought an entirely new set of ideas. A letter came from
Captain Hepburn, which was of some importance to their plans. The
first page of this letter, though, no doubt, gratifying to the
receiver, need not be transcribed; what relates to my narrative ran as
follows:

“The result of the survey is that the boilers are found in a very bad
state, and need so much repair, that in the mean time the whole ship’s
company are to be turned over to the _Erratic_, a sister-ship, just
getting ready for sea. This alters my plans, and puts an end to all
hopes of a few months’ rest on shore. We shall probably be off again
in less than a month, and for who knows how long! no prospect of
another leave long enough to reach Hurstdene; I could almost regret
the change of ship, and do heartily wish she had not been in so
advanced a state. However, it would be foolish, as well as wrong, to
murmur at what most men would consider a singular piece of good
fortune. But, my darling, shall I not see you again? can you not all
come to London? We talked it all over, Sybil, Maurice, and I,
yesterday, for I got your sister and her husband to come down and look
at the steamer, and she is delighted at the plan. They can take you
all in, she says, and she, of course, would be gratified by a visit
from her father. It is almost your only chance now of seeing Maurice.
Do arrange and come immediately.”

There was a letter from Sybil to the same effect, and a most pressing
one from Maurice, urging the proposal most warmly.

There was no room for hesitation, and no time for delay. Arrangements
were made in haste, and the evening of the next day saw the family
domiciled for the present at Mr. Farrington’s.

Maurice was there to receive them; the captain had sacrificed his own
pleasure, and allowed the leave to his first lieutenant, which they
could not both have at once.

It is not my intention to narrate minutely all the events which
occurred in London; the interviews between the lovers, the excursions
to Woolwich, to inspect the _Erratic_, and many other particulars not
directly bearing on the result to Hilary. Days passed rapidly, and
except for the parting in prospect, would have been very happy. There
was a charming uncertainty about the chances of meeting, which
increased the pleasure; and besides, there was enough of novelty in
the great change to three girls from the forest, to excite and
interest them.

Mr. Duncan never would allow his inability to accompany them on many
excursions to interfere with their enjoyments; he had his own share,
he said, in the different accounts they brought back to him, and it
would be a positive loss to him, if either of his daughters were to
shut herself up on his account; he had long ago learned to read by
himself, and although he had never attained the fluency and ease which
some blind persons acquire, perhaps from beginning so late in life, he
was yet independent in some respects, and able to occupy his lonely
hours by the study now dearer to him than any other, of the Book of
Life, which had been his consolation and support in all his trials.

“Shall I, or my rival, have the pleasure of your society to-morrow?”
said Hilary, laughingly, to her lover, one evening. His visits were
generally made after the hours of work in the dockyard were over.

“Are you jealous of the wandering lady at Woolwich, Hilary?” was his
answer.

“Perhaps I might be, if I did not know that, as you deserted her
predecessor, and transferred your attentions to her, so you would be
equally ready to forsake your present favorite on detecting some
defect in her constitution or her powers.”

“A sad specimen of inconstancy,” said he, playfully.

“No, not inconstancy,” replied she, “because the feeling remains the
same; it is devotion to your profession which actuates you, and the
ship, though well-beloved for a time, is cared for only as an
embodiment; a visible symbol of this feeling. It is your profession
which is really my rival.”

“You are wrong, love; to which did I devote myself first?”

“Ah! you mean that I am the rival,” said she, looking up, with a
smile.

“My profession is my duty, Hilary,” said he, gravely; “would you rival
that? I hope not.”

“Never!” was her energetic answer. “And yet, am I only your
plaything?” it was spoken with hesitation.

“That depends on yourself, Hilary!”

She looked as if to ask how; but pondered in silence.

“You may be, I trust you will be, my good angel! my better self! to
inspirit, cheer, guide me in the path of honor; not the weight to draw
me back, the bait to allure me to forget the grand object of life.”

“That is not professional honor!” said she, doubtingly.

“No, it is to do my duty in the state of life to which it has pleased
God to call me,” was his quiet answer. “And, Hilary, professional
honor is only dear to me, I trust, in so far as it may reflect light
on a profession dearer still――that of a Christian warrior.”

“Ah! I felt that was the foundation of your zeal.”

“The only sure foundation, love; the feeling, or rather the principle,
which will carry one unflinchingly through danger, difficulty, trouble
of every kind. Life to every one is full of deep mystic meaning; the
life of a sailor above all. The troubled waves, the wearying calm, the
changeful winds, the uncertain currents, the dangerous rocks and
shoals, the tedious length of voyage, the joyous arrival at home, all
realities to us, are figures appropriated to mystic subjects. Then we
have the lonely watch, the strict discipline, the hardships and
self-denial, the temperance, the necessary obedience to superiors;
ought not each one of these to remind the Christian of the duties of
his calling? each in itself a religious duty exemplified!”

“Like the chivalrous devoirs of the knightly warriors of old,” said
Hilary; “an actual realization in deed of the intangible theories of
the Christian faith.”

“Yes! the whole of a sailor’s life is an allegory; an acted picture of
things unseen. But that is not what I meant to speak of when alluding
to a possible rivalry between duty and you. Hilary, while health and
strength are granted to me, they must be at my country’s service when
required; and no domestic tie, not even that of a wife, dear as it may
be, may interfere. Not from the old heathen pride in patriotism which
made one’s country’s glory the idol of life, but for the higher,
holier reason, the belief that my path has been appointed by my
Heavenly Father; and that to follow it with all my might, is but doing
my duty in its simplest form. Do you not think me right? Life itself,
were I called on to lay it down on service, would be gladly devoted;
not to win the praise of men here, but to testify to the truth and
sincerity of my profession!”

Hilary’s eyes filled; and as she sat silently thinking on his words,
almost unconsciously her fingers pressed the ring which he had placed
there as a sign of their betrothal. He watched her countenance
anxiously.

“You are not satisfied,” continued he; “your look asks where you come
in my estimation of life. Is not that it?”

“Am I selfish? I did think that.”

“First of this world’s objects; reward of labor and peril here in
hours of rest; companion for ever in that life where duty will involve
no sacrifice, and love will bring no pain or tears.”

She could not answer, except by the quivering lip and drooping eyelid,
which spoke of strong, but suppressed, emotion.

“I had not loved thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more!”
continued he, taking her hands in his, and speaking in a voice of
ineffable tenderness.

“I believe it! I feel it!” she answered, eagerly. “I know that while
Heaven has the first place in your heart, I am sure of retaining my
rightful portion there. I am not, indeed, I am not jealous of your
devotion to what is so high and holy――only――”

“Only what?” inquired he, as she hesitated.

“Only I would rather you should serve your country, mankind, and above
all, the cause of religion, by living, and not――” her words failed her
again.

“To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late,” was his
reply; “and, Hilary, ever since I can remember, it has been my dream,
my wish, my hope to devote my life――I do not mean to _live_, but to
_die_――in some great, high, holy cause, something which may show that
a Christian, with the hope of salvation and the promise of Heaven, is
not afraid to do and dare all that a heathen warrior might have done
with the poor promise of an earthly glory. But to no other ear than
your own would I breathe this aspiration; who else would understand my
feelings? In confiding to you the deepest passion of my soul, Hilary,
I prove to you how I have merged my life in yours. To ordinary
companions such thoughts do not find words to express them.”

“They do better,” said she, with a glowing cheek and sparkling eye;
“they find actions. You have proved your sincerity again and again in
your dauntless defiance of danger. Yes, and I will not draw you back;
woman though I am I will not weaken you, nor bid you pause for my
sake: rather let the thought of me nerve you in the hour of danger,
make you stronger, braver, more intrepid in a worthy cause. And should
our hope be fulfilled――ah! believe me, I will try to follow your
example, and bear the agony for your sake, that you may wear a
martyr’s crown!”

“My own, true-hearted love!” was his only answer.




CHAPTER XVIII.

  “Love, I feel thy bitter smart
  Wildly throbbing through my heart,
  Waking, sleeping,
  Smiling, weeping,
  Still I think of thee!”


Mr. Barham and his daughters were in London at this time, and a few
days after the Duncans’ arrival, Hilary and Sybil went together to
call on them. The girls were very cordial and glad to meet, especially
Dora, who had ascertained that the _Pandanus_ had arrived in England,
and was, in consequence, in a desperate state of internal anxiety to
hear some news of Maurice.

While they were chatting together, Mr. Barham himself walked in, very
gracefully gracious when he discovered who the visitors were; quite
surprised to learn that they were visiting Sybil, and in London,
without his knowledge, and taking some civil interest in the present
object of their chief concern.

“I do not know any thing about these new steamers,” observed he, “I
have never had an opportunity of studying these subjects; yet it is an
important one, one which deserves the attention of those who hold a
large stake in their country’s welfare; being a subject which must
strongly affect the interest of a great naval power. I must take the
matter into consideration.”

“I am sure my brother would be happy to show you his new ship, if you
would honor the _Erratic_ with a visit,” observed Sybil, very proud of
Maurice and his steamer also.

“Well, Mrs. Farrington, that would be a good idea; what do you say,
Isabel? suppose we were to make an excursion to Woolwich!” observed
he.

“It really would be worth while,” said Miss Barham; “as you say, sir,
one ought to know something about the great means of defense for our
nation. I think it would be a proper thing to do; and as we know both
the captain and lieutenant a little we could not have a better
opportunity than now.”

“Be it so, then,” was his answer. “How shall we arrange about time? it
might be we should go at an inconvenient hour, without some previous
arrangement. How can you communicate with your brother, Mrs.
Farrington?”

“He will be up with us this afternoon, I expect,” replied Sybil;
“shall I send him to you if he comes? That would be simple.”

“Exactly! that would simplify the matter, as you say. Isabel, the
gentleman might dine with us, I think. The table will not be too
full.”

Hilary listened and said not a word; Dora, too, sat in silence, but
her deep interest in the subject could not be concealed from one who
suspected its existence. Finally, it was settled without her
intervention, that Maurice should be there for a seven o’clock dinner,
and if he liked, Miss Barham added, to accompany them to the opera
afterward, they would be very much honored. Would not Hilary join
their party? They would be nearly alone, only Mr. Huyton would be with
them.

It was fortunate she mentioned him, or the temptation to accompany
Maurice would have been irresistible; but that name was enough. Hilary
decidedly declined, and wondering much what the result would be, the
ladies took leave, and returned home.

“I can not go, Hilary,” said Maurice, when he heard the invitation;
“must I?” He looked exceedingly disturbed. Sybil, perfectly unaware of
any private reasons, pressed it warmly. He must, it would be so rude
if he had no reason to give; and then it did not matter, however dull
it might be to go, he could not escape this visit to the ship, and it
would be much better to be civil, and they were always kind, even
though Mr. Barham was tiresome; and he would like to meet Mr. Huyton,
who was to be there, and really the two young ladies were worth
seeing, they were so pretty!

Maurice laughed off his embarrassment, by declaring Sybil’s arguments
were exemplary _non-sequiturs_; but at the same time suffered himself
to be persuaded into what he wished above all things.

His ideas of time that evening before setting out, were somewhat wild,
and the pains that he took at his toilette were not to be told. He
succeeded in reaching the house rather early, and found, as he had
perhaps guessed by intuition that he should, Dora alone in her
drawing-room! Their meeting had all the flutter and emotion of
forbidden pleasure; time had not changed his feelings in the least,
and although hers had by no means been so invariably constant, she
fancied that they had, and told him so, and that did pretty nearly as
well. The sight of the handsome lieutenant, with his pleasant smile,
and captivating manner, revived her somewhat declining affections, and
the conviction that during two years of absence, she had yet retained
all her former power over him, gratified her vanity, as well as her
tenderness toward him.

Their interview was short; another knock at the door warned them of
intruders, and sent Dora hastily from the room, while Maurice turned
round to greet Charles Huyton, whose entrance he had been prepared to
expect. Dora did not reappear until the moment dinner was announced,
just in time to be consigned by her father to Mr. Duncan’s protection,
and she had pretty well recovered her complexion and her serenity when
they took their places at table.

How delightfully the evening went, need not be told; the delicious
little momentary interviews, while cloaking the ladies for the Opera,
the whispered words, the meeting of hands with a thrilling emotion,
the pleasure of sitting beside each other in the carriage, the
intervals when other persons claimed Isabel’s attention, and allowed
Maurice leisure to devote himself to Dora; the stolen glances, the
intelligent, and yet hidden smiles, in fact, all the dear and
dangerous sweets of a clandestine affection, need not be dwelt on.
Then there was the grand, crowning hope of another meeting, the plan
for the excursion to Woolwich, which was fixed for the ensuing
Tuesday, when it was settled that a large party should unite to
inspect the _Erratic_; affording Mr. Barham and Isabel, and such
patriots as were concerned for the good of the nation, an opportunity
of improving their knowledge on an important subject, and providing
for others who were satisfied with more personal and less
philanthropic views, an occasion of a pleasant social meeting, and an
agreeable refreshment. The Duncans, of course, were to join the party,
and Mr. Farrington, if he could steal a day from briefs and business.
Charles Huyton was to be there also. Isabel asked him; they were to go
down by water, and the point of rendezvous, the hour, and the various
other particulars were all settled with accuracy by Mr. Barham
himself.

It was not destined, however, to take place quite so soon. A slight
indisposition on Mr. Barham’s part obliged him to defer the
engagement; for however anxious he might be to benefit the nation at
large, by his practical knowledge regarding screw steamers, yet he
believed himself to be conferring a still more important advantage on
society, in taking care of his own health; at least, this was the
reason assigned for the change of plan, which considerably
disappointed some of the party concerned.

Be his reason good or bad, the excursion was put off for a week, and
in the mean time, each day that Maurice happened to be in town, he
considered it his positive duty to go and call in Eaton-place, to
learn how the invalid was, and when it would suit him to fulfill his
promise. Once or twice too, it happened, through some contrivance of
Mr. Huyton’s and Dora’s, the families met in excursions for other
objects, and Hilary was occasionally thrown into company with Charles;
but as there was never any thing in his behavior to distress her, she
was beginning to feel hardened regarding such meetings, and to view
them with much indifference.

Indeed, her feelings were too deeply engrossed by other matters to
have much thought to bestow on her former lover. Dora and Maurice made
her very uncomfortable; they seemed perfectly infatuated now; were
more desperately in love than ever; and Hilary could not help
expecting that some grand discovery and consequent domestic
disturbance would be the result. She wondered neither Isabel nor Mr.
Barham appeared to notice it. That Charles Huyton had, she knew, for
he had hinted it to her, with a significance and expression not to be
mistaken. But it was not really so evident as her fears and
consciousness made her imagine; Charles discovered it partly by former
observations of his own, but more now, by watching her eyes, and
reading their anxious and troubled looks.

But the hour of parting was drawing near: the _Erratic_ was almost
ready for sea; the crew were on board, and she was reported fit to
sail in four days more. Now then must be the Woolwich party, or never.
Mr. Barham was well――agreed to the plan once more――the weather was
fine――the day and hour came, and they started. It was not to be
expected that Mr. Barham would expose his daughters to the
contaminating mixture of society to be met with in an ordinary river
steamer; they had one hired expressly for the occasion, and every
thing was in as first-rate a style as possible.

Fair shone the sun on the river Thames, as they steamed down its
waters, so famous as a channel of commerce and a subject of indignant
complaint to the citizens of London; and merrily the party were dashed
along, while Mr. Barham descanted learnedly on the subject of trade
and landholders, Britain’s position, privileges, and duties, and the
grand part which a resident proprietor, and one who did his duty to
his country, filled in the vast affairs of the nation; while Isabel
leaned on his arm and approved, and Charles Huyton cast anxious
glances at Hilary, and longed to place himself beside her; and the
others moved about, and talked nonsense at random, and with great
enjoyment.

They reached their destination at last, landed, and were met, as had
been agreed on, by the captain of the _Erratic_, who conducted them
forthwith to the dock where the steamer still lay. The happy first
lieutenant received them at the gangway, authorized by every
circumstance to take Dora under his peculiar care, even as her elder
sister was the natural charge, for the time being, of the captain.

To the quarter-deck they went first, where they all remained to chat
and discuss their voyage, to peep over the bulwarks, and ask questions
about the vessels lying alongside; or to gaze up with admiration and
wonder at the complicated ropes and spars towering overhead.

The Barhams were quite new to such a scene, and Isabel was rather more
ignorant of the realities of sailor-life than Dora, who was supposed
never to know any thing at all, so that Captain Hepburn had his time
and attention fully occupied by the questions and observations of Miss
Barham and her father, and could only contemplate Hilary from a
distance. Maurice had lost nothing in personal appearance by his
uniform, which Dora, for the first time, saw him wear; his crisp brown
hair looked particularly fascinating, curling out from under the
gold-laced cap which sat so gracefully, she thought, upon his head.
Hilary, too, looked at her lover with feelings of admiration; but it
was not merely for his personal charms; she loved to watch the quick
motion of those fine dark eyes, the intelligence and kindness they
conveyed, agreeing so well with the firm, yet sweet expression of the
mouth; she loved, best of all, to see those eyes settle on her with a
deep, grave look, and to know that it was concern for her interest,
and anxiety for her happiness, which filled them with such unutterable
tenderness; a tenderness that would have prompted him, she knew, to
sacrifice any thing of this world, any pleasure, any advantage, any
hope to secure her happiness and welfare.

Admiration for Maurice’s handsome face had much to do with Dora’s
love, but Hilary’s admiration was rather the result than the source of
hers.

A summons to luncheon in the captain’s cabin called them to the first
serious concern for their visit; and when the repast was concluded, it
was judged appropriate to perambulate the whole ship, and inspect
every thing worth seeing. This ceremony concluded, the party landed,
determined to walk round the dock-yard, and see some of the works
carried on there.

Out of his own vessel, Captain Hepburn by no means considered that
duty any longer attached him to Miss Barham, and by a little skillful
arrangement, and judicious patience, he succeeded, for the first time,
in securing Hilary as his own companion. Sybil was tired, and wished
to sit down, while the greater part of the visitors continued their
investigations; and her elder sister was not unwilling to remain with
her under the special guardianship of Captain Hepburn, whose uniform
was a certain protection against the inquiries and suspicions of
correct policemen, anxious to secure her Majesty’s dockyard from the
possible evil designs of unknown ladies and civilians.

“Now, Hilary, I have one thing to say, one request to make, which, had
I time to spare, I would either omit, or produce with a proper
preface; but I can not do either.”

So began he, as soon as the others were out of hearing. Hilary raised
her eyes to his face with a look of questioning anxiety.

“Sybil, I trust you will support my petition,” continued he, “so I
shall speak before you without hesitation; Hilary, my prayer is, that
you will become my wife before I leave England.”

“Captain Hepburn!” ejaculated she, coloring.

“Why not? you have already promised one day to be so; why not fulfill
that promise at once, and let me know you irrevocably mine before I
leave you?”

“Do you doubt me, then? do you mistrust my faith?” asked she,
hesitatingly.

“If I did, Hilary, I should never have urged such a request; if _I_
thought you would change, I should have small wish to make you my
wife. No, it is no selfish desire to secure any good to myself, or to
gratify a jealous and mistrustful affection, dearest; it is your own
comfort and welfare which occupy my mind.”

“I believe it,” said she, frankly, placing her hand in his; “and as I
have promised to be one day your wife, I will make no foolish and idle
objections. But――”

“But what, love?”

“I do not see the reason, the occasion, the propriety of this step; so
sudden――I had not thought of it.”

“I am aware that there are objections, but they seem to me slight
compared with the advantages of the measure,” said he, gravely. “What
say you, Sybil, does it shock you so much?”

“No, indeed!” cried she, speaking with all the enthusiasm of a happy
young wife, “I think there would be no harm, if there is time.”

“We could manage that, unless Hilary is very particular about her gown
and bonnet,” said he, smiling; “and even such things can be got in
London, on the shortest notice, if she wants them.”

“Ah, no, I do not care for that,” said Hilary; “but tell me what you
ask, and why, and give me time to think and breathe; if I were to――to
do this――I can not leave my father, even to follow you, Captain
Hepburn.”

“No, that is not what I mean; don’t be so frightened, and look so
pale, dear Hilary; we move out of dock and drop down the river on
Saturday, probably about the middle of the day; what I ask is, that
early on that morning, you would meet me at the church here, and
become my wife; the business part I will arrange. Your whole party
could come with you to Woolwich, your father and all; and Maurice
would be there too; surely that would secure respectability enough!
and then when I leave you, you shall be as much your own mistress with
regard to your movements as ever. Hurstdene can be your home during
your father’s life, Hilary; but should you lose that, before I return,
you would have at least the additional protection which the name of a
married woman can confer; and in this country that is of no small
importance. And, Hilary, then you would be forever safe from the
intrusions, the attentions, the insidious friendship of Mr. Huyton.”

“Do you fear him?” said she, looking up.

“I mistrust him; as to _fear_, that is not the word. Once my wife, and
you will be safe, there will be nothing for him to hope more, and,
perhaps his passion will really expire; but till then, I am certain he
will continue to haunt you, and his disposition makes me tremble.”

“You judge him hardly,” said Sybil; “you are a prejudiced rival.”

“Not a jealous one, at least, Sybil: but I watched him to-day; I saw
his face darken and his very lips grow pale, as his eyes fell on the
portrait of Hilary, in my cabin. I saw a world of evil and envious
passions pass over his brow as he stood and gazed at it. He said the
truth when he declared in the hut in the forest, that while you
continued single he would never cease trying to win you. Let me place
one insurmountable barrier between you and him, and let us extinguish
the last faint hope of your changing. He will then leave you in
peace.”

Hilary paused, pondered, and hesitated. “It is so soon,” was all that
she could say in objection, there really seemed no other to urge.

“However long you defer it, if your wedding day is ever to come at
all, we shall eventually come within four days of it,” observed he,
smiling a little.

“So sudden!” ejaculated she again.

“I thought you had been contemplating it these two years past――I am
sure I have,” was his answer.

This time she could not forbear smiling a little herself, and the day
was won by her lover.

“Really,” observed Sybil, “I think you are quite right, nobody can
call it sudden after an engagement of two years; and if the next three
days allow all necessary arrangements to be made, the time is as good
as a month or two.”

“I do not suppose many people will concern themselves about our
wedding,” replied he; “and those who do, may have facts explained to
them.”

It was agreed to before the rest of the party rejoined them, and the
thanks and gratitude of the gentleman were also sufficiently
expressed.

It made Hilary very grave and thoughtful for the whole way home,
although Captain Hepburn was by her side, and trying to cheer her. She
was reviewing what she had undertaken; yet it was by no means
alarming. There was no new anxiety or responsibility thrown on her at
present; nothing which need break in on her quiet course of life, or
disturb her care for her father and sisters. His absence would not be
more painful, nor occasion greater uneasiness, and she should at least
bear his dear name, have an open, acknowledged claim to care for him,
an avowed interest in his welfare and prosperity. And at some future
time, she might hope for protection, support, assistance from him, to
guard and guide her through life’s troubles when they came. Such were
her thoughts, as she leaned upon his arm, and spent the time in a
dream which left her no notice to bestow on those around her.

When the plan was announced in the family party that evening, it was
highly approved by all; even Mr. Farrington gave his opinion in favor
of the arrangement, especially after he had some private conversation
with Captain Hepburn respecting settlements and such lawyer-like
affairs. To arrange these matters effectually before Saturday, was
impossible; but the lover had no intention of profiting by the haste
he urged in a pecuniary way.

Hilary’s portion, being her share of her mother’s fortune, was five
thousand pounds; and the whole of this, with an addition that nearly
doubled it from himself, he promised to settle on her, empowering his
future brother-in-law to see the business arranged, and granting him
such legal authority as he recommended, to proceed about it. But of
these matters Hilary knew nothing, and she never gave the subject a
thought; whether she would be richer or poorer for the marriage, she
did not know; the wealth of love and protection she was acquiring
satisfying her for the present.

Had there been no peculiar necessity for haste, in the conclusion of
the marriage, nothing would have been further from Miss Duncan’s wish
than to have a public wedding. A cortège of bridesmaids, a splendid
breakfast, a grand assembly of fine bonnets, and fine dresses, seemed
to her simple and youthful mind altogether inconsistent with a solemn
religious ceremony, although perfectly befitting the more worldly view
in which this engagement is too often considered. Quietness,
simplicity, and solemnity, would have been her objects, such as would
neither invite criticism, call for observation, nor serve as a display
for vanity and pomp. She would have been the last to desire to publish
their intentions, or to call on her neighbors for congratulations or
envy. But the same delicacy which would have made her shrink from
display now acted somewhat differently, in producing a fear that a
clandestine appearance might be the result of this haste. There were
few, indeed, who would concern themselves about her or her
proceedings; but it was these very few whose opinions she valued, or
whose censure she wished to avoid. It was this feeling which induced
her to impart her intended marriage to Miss Barham and her sister when
they met on the Thursday afternoon. The young ladies were extremely
interested in the narration, and expressed a great desire to be
present at the ceremony themselves. Dora first started this idea, but
Isabel was pleased with it, and finally it was settled that if their
father did not object they should join the wedding party; although
Gwyneth and Sybil both laughingly declared they would never be able to
rise early enough.

“Rather than not do that,” exclaimed Dora, “I would sit up all night!”

Hilary thought she understood the secret of Dora’s extreme anxiety,
and hardly knew whether to be most sorry or glad that Maurice and she
should have the dangerous pleasure of another meeting. It seemed to
her to be only laying up additional stores of sorrowful remembrance
and hopeless regret. But the company of the sisters was offered and
pressed in such a way as to leave little real choice to her on the
occasion. Yet, why Isabel Barham should so wish to be present, as to
propose taking the trouble of rising much earlier than usual, and
driving all the way to Woolwich before ten o’clock, was a little
incomprehensible. Sybil said privately that Isabel liked a freak as
well as any body where it did not compromise her dignity, and that
this little exertion had a degree of novelty about it which made it
irresistible to one weary with the platitudes of polite society and
elegant decorums. Even Isabel had her portion of romance in her
character, and though she would never do any thing incorrect herself,
she yet enjoyed the sort of secrecy and mystery which naturally
attended the present affair.

Mr. Barham made no objection to his daughters’ plans, and according to
the latest arrangements, the carriage from Eaton-place brought the two
young ladies over to Mrs. Farrington’s in very good time to take an
early, though rather hurried breakfast, with the bridal party, before
starting on their long drive to Woolwich.

It all seemed unreal and strange to Hilary, as she sat by her father’s
side during that drive. Her thoughts were very busy, and yet would not
settle on any thing steadily. The purpose of the present meeting, the
engagement she was about to contract, occupied her less than the
parting which must immediately follow. Happiness was very far from her
heart; patience and hope were what she needed. The most unwavering
confidence, the most perfect dependence and trust prevented her having
any misgivings as to the step she was taking. She had no hesitation in
bestowing her hand where her heart had long preceded it. Up to that
point her path was easy and bright, and could he but have remained
with her she would not have had a shadow to dim her serenity. But that
inevitable absence, what a chasm, what a dark, impenetrable abyss it
seemed; what an abrupt termination to the sunshiny road she had been
lately treading; how uncertain its length and its depth? All she knew
of it was that it was dark and dreary in prospect, and that she must
pass it as best she could, bridging it over with hope, and faith, and
patience, and an earnest steady perseverance in daily duties. These
would bring her to that other side, which now seemed so dim, so
uncertain, so distant, and yet which appeared to the fancy, through
all the mists of futurity, fair and pleasant in prospect.

So her mind wandered away while her eyes were fixed on the passing
houses and the flying trees, to scenes where all would be certainty,
and enjoyment, and peace; and as she looked upward at the clear, blue
sky; unsullied by the smoke, and undisturbed by the noise and bustle
of the vast city, whose long suburbs they were traversing, she thought
of that future which alone may be depended on, that love which never
wearies or grows cold, that protecting care which can not err nor
cease. She remembered that her lover and herself had alike anchored
their hearts there, with the sure anchor of Hope, her restless fears
dispersed, and her heart grew calm and quiet.

There was no hinderance, no delay; the drive to Woolwich had been so
accurately calculated, that they reached the church within two minutes
of the time appointed; the gentlemen were ready, waiting their
arrival, and after a very brief interval more, the couple stood side
by side, and hand in hand, to answer those words which bound them for
life to each other.

Concentrating every feeling in the present moment, giving her whole
heart and soul to the words she was repeating, and the prayers in
which she was called on to join, the bride forgot all that was
immediately to follow, and went through with a calm, grave,
self-possession her part in the short and yet impressive ceremony.

And they were pronounced to be man and wife; and it was over, and the
party gathered in the vestry to sign the register, and whisper a few
subdued words of good wishes (for who could talk of congratulations or
joy at that moment?) and Hilary awoke to a consciousness that it was
all real. She leaned against the end of the table, while her husband
held her hand in silent, speechless, subdued emotion; as if nerving
his whole frame, gathering all his strength of mind for the great
trial before them. It needed not words to tell her how he felt; she
knew it in the close and tender clasp of those fingers on her own; she
read it in the grave, sad look of his eyes, in the lines of emotion
about his mouth, which his utmost efforts could not conceal.

However, the parting need not be immediately, there was yet an hour of
reprieve; the tide would not serve till afternoon for the steamer to
leave the dock, and it had been before arranged, that the wedding
guests should all go to the hotel, where a second breakfast, most
acceptable to those who had left London so early, was prepared for
them by the bridegroom’s orders; as in the _Erratic_, in her present
state, it was not convenient to receive such a party. But what was the
use of lingering at such a time? true, every minute was precious, and
yet every minute was pain. Little mirth and little conversation was
there at that board, where even yet the time, though dull, went all
too fast.

They rose from the table, and, as if by one consent, the guests betook
themselves to the balcony overlooking the river, that the parting
between the husband and wife might at least be undisturbed. None
remained with them, save the blind father, who was sitting, as if in a
reverie, in a large arm-chair.

Hilary hung on her husband’s neck in speechless grief; ah! this was a
different thing from parting two years ago; and yet why? now that he
was all her own, why did it make it so infinitely harder to let him
leave her?

“My wife, my own dear wife! we shall meet again!”

She tried to smile a “yes,” but tongue and lips alike disobeyed, and
tears alone answered her best efforts to be calm.

“Hilary, your brother-in-law will tell you about settlements, what, as
my wife, your income will be; I can not speak of money now; only I am
thankful that I can assure you an independence, which to your moderate
wishes will be comfort, and almost wealth. Now farewell, my own, my
best-beloved, my darling! GOD guide and bless you――once, and once
more! and now farewell!”

He placed her on a sofa, hurried to the balcony to see his other
friends, whispered to Sybil to take care of her precious sister, and
wrung the hands of all the bridesmaids in silent sorrow and repressed
feeling; then he returned to the parlor. Hilary sat as he had left
her, absorbed in an endeavor to conquer her despairing grief, by
thoughts of hope and aspirations for patience. She heard her father
call Captain Hepburn to him. She heard the warmest blessings invoked
upon his head; she listened almost as if in a dream, as if it
concerned some other than herself; but when her husband’s step again
approached her, she roused herself at once; with a short exclamation,
speaking of unutterable struggles within, she sprang up, threw herself
into his arms, held him for one moment in silence, and then
withdrawing calmly from his embrace, she said, with energy――

“Now go! I will never be a hinderance to you in the path of duty. Go,
we shall meet again in happier times, and then!――”

“And then: ah, Hilary!――”

Eyes and lips finished the sentence, but not with words, and he was
gone!

Maurice must go next; there had been but little intercourse between
him and Dora; he had seemed to shun her, and to devote himself to his
younger sisters. This was very natural, perhaps, certainly very
prudent; for Dora’s share of self-control was small, and she would
easily have been betrayed into exhibitions of feeling, equally unwise
and unsafe. But Dora could not reason calmly, and was as unwilling to
allow that others had higher claims on Maurice than herself, as she
would have been to admit her influence was declining. Foolish and
excitable, she felt angry and ill-used, that he should shun her, or
that when she had taken that early drive for his sake, he should have
either looks or thoughts for his sisters in preference to herself.

What right had he to be more cautious than herself? why should he draw
back when she advanced? In her desperation at the idea of parting, she
had rather wished that their secret should be discovered; though she
had not dared to tell it, she would have liked that it should be found
out; and now he was, all of a sudden, so careful, so reserved, so
cold. Ah! she would be cold too. She tried, but not very successfully;
she could not assume the tone of indifference she wished; then she
grew angry; vexed with herself and her feelings, which she fancied so
much warmer than his; she became careless, flighty, and wild in
manner; she laughed and talked one moment in an idle way, the next she
was silent and dull; to him she was absolutely cross, and very nearly
rude; yet he was calm and unmoved, as she thought, only turning with a
graver, lower, more subdued tone toward his sisters, or his father,
and decidedly avoiding her. What he was really suffering, the various
emotions and changeful feelings which were torturing his heart, she
did not know: she gave him no credit for an endurance which was little
short of martyrdom; and was indignant at a self-control assumed almost
entirely for her own sake. Not to compromise her any further was his
object, and although he greatly feared that she was displeased, he had
resolved that before the eyes of Isabel, no demonstration on his part
should betray a secret she had but recently enjoined him to keep at
all hazards.

The very last time they had met, he had again ventured to urge an
explanation with her father, fearful from a chance remark of Charles
Huyton’s, that their secret might otherwise be betrayed to him; but
this she had again forbidden; and his earnest prayers and
expostulations had been silenced and set aside. He had been
disappointed, and though forced to yield, he had warned her that evil
would come of it. It was this which had made her so eager to go to the
wedding, and it was this which so bitterly affronted her, when she
found him coldly reserved. She thought him sullen, but he was only
firm, and thus they parted; she with her girlish heart swelling with
pride and mortified feeling, a sense of wrong on her own part,
unavowed to herself, and therefore rankling deeply; a wounded
conscience, to which she would not attempt to apply the only balm that
could have cured her. He with pain and grief, doubled and trebled as
he calculated all the circumstances; a pain greater than quitting his
sisters, severer than saying a long farewell to his father; the pain
of a noble mind, feeling it has done wrong, and condemned to suffer
and repent in silence. He saw she was angry, and he writhed under the
notion, but what could he do? she had forbidden him the step which
could alone make reparation for his conduct; the alternative to
renounce all claim on her he had fairly stated, and although she had
denied the necessity of so doing, she could not alter his
determination.

So they parted, with formal phrases of courtesy from him, with averted
eyes, and unwillingly extended hand, and tones of coldest civility
from her; and he dashed away, to busy himself in professional duties,
while she drove back to Eaton-place, with a flushed cheek, and an
aching brow, and a heart wildly throbbing with a strange mixture of
remorse, anger, and regret.




CHAPTER XIX.

  “There stood a wretch prepared to change
  His soul’s redemption for revenge.”
                                          ROKEBY.


The day after the excursion to Woolwich, Charles Huyton had left
London for a short time. Perhaps had he been still in town, Isabel
Barham would not have so readily engaged to attend the ceremony. For
the last two years it had been the secret object of her life to make
herself Mr. Huyton’s wife; yet she was often obliged to confess with
regret, that she seemed no nearer to it than before. She managed well,
too, with much prudence and discretion and perhaps had not the heart
she besieged been pre-engaged, she might have been successful. But
such a pursuit could not elevate the tone of her mind, improve her
good feelings, or increase her susceptibility to generous emotions.
There was no heart in it; it was simply a mercantile transaction.

The unconscious worship which Gwyneth bestowed on an idea, embodied to
her fancy in the person of Mr. Ufford, was a far more ennobling
sensation. She was admiring, sincerely admiring virtue and worth; and
though deluding herself in supposing that these were inherent in an
extraordinary degree in her idol’s character, she was perfectly
unselfish and true in her feelings. When her time came to be
undeceived, she would not, at least, have to confess that she had been
mean and mercenary, that she deserved to be disappointed, and had no
right to complain. Not so Isabel Barham; she was entangling herself,
in her own endeavors to catch another; for if she escaped with
feelings uninjured by love, she had, at least, a mind debased by
cunning efforts, a heart soiled and profaned by being bent on mean
objects――worldly pomp and worldly riches. Disappointment was impending
over her. Disappointment of the bitterest kind!

Mr. Huyton came back to London rather earlier than had been expected;
and soon after walked up from his lodgings to Eaton-place, where, as
we have already noticed, he spent much of his time. Mr. Barham was
within, and after some discussion of political questions, in which he
had of late been trying to interest Charles Huyton, the elder
gentleman observed casually――

“Miss Barham and her sister are gone down to Woolwich!”

“Indeed, again! not to the _Erratic_, I suppose,” said Charles,
carelessly.

“Not exactly; but connected with the steamer, I believe their
engagement is.”

“There must have been some strong attraction there, to draw the young
ladies out so early.”

“Why, yes. I understand that one of Miss Barham’s young friends was to
be married this morning to an officer at Woolwich; and as a graceful
compliment to one whom she esteems as rightly occupying her proper
station in society, my daughter consented to attend as bridesmaid.”

“_Who_ is the bride?” inquired Charles, with quickness; a strange,
wild thrill of anger, pain, and bitter jealousy shooting across his
heart: something forewarned him whose name he should hear; it was with
difficulty he could control himself.

“A young lady you know, I believe; the daughter of the Vicar of
Hurstdene: a most respectable man he is, and one whose connection with
our family entitles him to more consideration from _us_, than it is
exactly requisite to show to others in the same station.”

“Ah!” cried Mr. Huyton, suddenly starting up. “I am sorry I have
forgotten――I have an engagement――I must hurry away, or I shall be too
late!”

“Shall we see you again to-day? my daughters will be sorry to miss
you,” said Mr. Barham, looking with a sort of speculative wonder at
Charles’s countenance. It was not surprising, that his face should
catch the attention of even the egotistical and self-centered man.
There was something so wild and strange in the expression.

“I don’t know! perhaps, if I can――; may be I shall leave town,” was
the incoherent reply, in a low, changed, husky voice.

“You are ill, I fear,” said the other, frightened, and laying a hand
on his arm; “let me ring for something.”

“No! no! only hurried, my dear sir,” said Charles, with a painful
smile. “Good-day.”

He hastened away. There was war in his heart; anger, jealousy,
outraged feeling, hopeless love; sickening pain, a burning desire of
revenge; a vindictive determination to do――he knew not what; any
thing, every thing, however miserable to himself, so that he might
return agony for agony; that he might make those suffer who had
injured him. Unconscious of external objects, he gained his own
apartments, and there locked in and safe from interruption, for hours
he gave way to his fiery passions. Words could hardly describe the
convulsive vehemence of the feelings that tore and shook his soul. The
old Greek fables of men possessed by the furies, seemed realized in
him. He was mad with rage; frantic with disappointed love; frenzied by
a wild jealousy――cruel, insatiable, dark, pitiless as the grave
itself. Whatever of hope he had hitherto entertained now rose to his
mind, but to torture him more; his very plans and expectations, built
on the uncertainty of his rival’s profession, and his chances of
supplanting him during a prolonged absence, now recurred to his memory
as a mockery and a torment. Lost! all lost! every chance, every hope,
every deep-laid scheme, swept away before the flood of his hated
rival’s success. Baffled, outwitted, triumphed over, scorned; such, no
doubt, he was. The sailor had understood his projects, seen through
his offers of friendship, and now laughed at them, having made sure of
his bride.

And was there nothing left for him yet; no hope! no revenge? Was he
helplessly the object of contempt; the disappointed, the rejected
lover; could he do nothing? Ah! the cold heart he had failed to touch
with love, might yet be bent by sorrow; and though he could not make
it his prize, he could, perchance, make it his victim!

He could wound her through another; and he would. No matter what it
cost him, no one should say he was the mourning lover, victim to an
unrequited affection. No! he would dash aside his love for her, forget
it, trample on it if needs must; but he would have revenge. If there
was one sentiment in the mind of Hilary, one affection which could
rival her attachment to her husband, he knew it was her love for her
brother; nay, he believed that it was the strongest, the deepest of
the two. It had been planted by nature, nursed by tenderness and
sympathy through every year of her life; it was one with which no
contemporary love could interfere, with which no past friendship could
compare, which no future regard could in the least degree replace.

The happiness of her brother was Hilary’s greatest joy; his
disappointment and sorrow would be her most bitter grief. And this he
had in his power, or, at least, he might have if he chose. He had made
himself master of Maurice’s secret, he had seen and understood his
passion for Dora, and he believed that to defeat him there, would
indeed be a bitter blow.

He could do this! he was convinced that he had only to speak, and Mr.
Barham would most gladly close with his offer; and as to Dora, he
thought too lightly of her affections to suppose them invariable.
Opposition he might meet with at first, but this would not daunt him;
the support of her father he might rely on, and time and perseverance
would do the rest. He did not doubt of ultimate success!

As to the result to himself, the securing a wife whom he neither loved
nor esteemed, he did not stop to calculate that; he saw nothing in his
mental visions but the feelings of others; he considered nothing but
the suffering he was preparing for those who had offended him. By a
strange misappreciation of the character of the woman whom he had
loved so long, and ought to have known so well, he even fancied that
an ambitious desire to see her brother united to the daughter of the
rich Mr. Barham, had influence with her: that she who had been unmoved
by the temptation of wealth and station for herself, had yet been open
to covetous desires for her brother’s advancement in life; and that
regret and mortification for the loss of the heiress, would help to
embitter the grief which a lover’s affection must occasion.

His plans determined on, his mind made up, and his spirits calmed by
resolution and despair, he returned to Eaton-place to dine with the
Barhams; and for the first time since the commencement of his long
intimacy with the family, he made a most marked difference in his
treatment of the two sisters. His manners to Dora were expressive of a
desire to please, such as he had never betrayed before, and such as
excited some surprise and disappointment in Isabel’s mind, which
required both spirit and good breeding to conceal.

How Dora herself received this change of manner might be gathered from
Isabel’s speech to her as they stood in the drawing-room afterward.

“Well, Dora, I really think you are the greatest and most relentless
flirt I ever saw.”

“Am I?” said the younger sister, languidly throwing herself on a sofa,
and turning away her face; “what have I been doing now?”

“Flirting to a degree beyond good manners with Mr. Huyton,” said Miss
Barham, looking at her own deepening carnation in a pier-glass
opposite to her.

“I was only paying him in kind,” replied Dora, undauntedly; “if he
meant nothing, nor did I; if he was in earnest, I have no objection.”

“You don’t mean to say that if Charles Huyton were to propose to you,
you would accept him?” said Isabel, turning full on her sister.

“Would not you, Isabel?” was Dora’s reply.

“Our tastes are not usually so similar that that should be any
answer,” said Isabel.

“Well,” said Dora, starting up, “I mean what I say; I was not flirting
with Mr. Huyton more than he was with me.”

“And if he were to ask you to marry him, you know you would say no, as
you did to Lord Dunsmore!”

“No, I would accept him on the spot,” cried Dora, giving way to a
desperate fit of pique and mortified feeling. “You need not look so
scornful, Isabel; I mean what I say.”

“Luckily you are not likely to be put to the test,” replied Miss
Barham. “But we must go and dress, or the countess will be here before
we are ready to go with her.”

Dora, however, did not follow her sister’s example; but when the other
quitted the room, she remained reclining on the sofa. Her head ached,
her heart ached still more; affection wounded, vanity and pride alike
outraged; sorrow, real sorrow, a sense of injustice in herself, and of
having been all through in the wrong, made her bosom throb, and
flushed her cheek, and really rendered her quite unfit for society.

She was still sitting languidly thinking, when her father and his
guest entered the room.

“What is the matter with you, Dora?” said the former, in a voice of
unusual kindness; “what makes you look so pensive?”

“I am very tired, papa.”

“And where is Isabel?”

“Dressing to go out.”

“And you,” said Charles, approaching her, and standing beside her sofa
with looks of devotion, “are you going?”

“No, I am tired.”

“That expedition to Woolwich was too much for you,” observed her
father.

“I believe it was,” said she, with tears, half sorrow, half anger,
starting to her eyes.

“Ah, we will have no more such freaks, little Dora,” said Mr. Barham,
“will we, Mr. Huyton? we must take more care of you, my child, in
future.”

The unusual kindness of her father’s tone went to Dora’s heart. Would
he only have been always so, she would have been saved from how much
unhappiness; she felt choking, and could make no answer, only laying
down her burning cheek upon the pillow.

Mr. Huyton drew a chair close beside the end of the sofa, and leaning
over toward her, was in the act of whispering some gentle sentiment in
her ear, when Isabel entered.

“What, Dora, you not dressed! and Lady Fitzurse has been announced as
waiting for us.”

“Never mind Dora, my love,” said Mr. Barham; “she is not going out
to-night; she is over-tired, and had much better stay at home. I shall
remain with her. How well you look, Isabel.”

So Miss Barham was forced to depart alone, and with rather a
rebellious heart, at leaving Dora and Mr. Huyton in such strange
proximity. There is sometimes an intuitive perception of what is about
to happen, which, against our will, seizes on the heart and forewarns
us of evil or disappointment. Isabel, in spite of every wish to the
contrary, felt at that moment that Charles Huyton was lost to her: and
Dora, with a tumult of emotion she could not attempt to understand,
perceived that his intentions were more serious than she had supposed.

Anger against Maurice for being more conscientious than herself;
regret for her own share in the past; gratified female vanity; a
desire of retaliation, disguised under a pretense of repentance, all
urged her on at this moment; and she allowed the advances of her new
lover with a graceful and encouraging simplicity, which at once
surprised him, and pleased her father.

“Mr. Barham,” said the visitor, after awhile, “I am going into the
library to look for that book you promised me; I know exactly where to
find it, I believe.”

He went, and the father taking immediate advantage of his absence,
with no small degree of gratified pride and ambition, which he mistook
entirely for parental affection, proceeded forthwith to detail to his
daughter the pleasing intelligence that Mr. Huyton had that very
evening made proposals for her hand; that nothing could be more
agreeable than such an alliance; it was a noble offer, and made in a
noble spirit; the settlements would be every thing that could be
desired; and as to the gentleman himself, there could not be two
opinions as to his character, or two sentiments as to his good
qualities.

Dora listened in profound silence, with rosy cheeks and downcast eyes,
and fingers nervously playing with the tassel of the sofa cushion;
but, in spite of her external quietness, there was the fiercest war in
her heart. Love, anger, remorse, ambition, fear, doubt, vanity, all
struggled there. To refuse at once, and without a reason, a suitor
whom but just now she had visibly encouraged, was, she fancied,
impossible; to assign the real cause of the reluctance, she could not
but feel was more so still; better, she thought, it would be to
temporize, to adopt half measures, to conceal what she dared not own,
to brave what she could hardly endure to contemplate; to secure peace
and tranquillity for the present at least, come what would of the
future. To say yes, now, was not to bind herself irrevocably; to
accept Mr. Huyton as a suitor, by no means made it inevitable that she
should become his wife; circumstances might occur, unforeseen,
incalculable, to release her from an engagement; and meantime, perhaps
Maurice would regret his conduct, would wish he had not refused the
promise she had offered to make, would――she hardly knew what she
wished or expected, except the single desire to alarm him and arouse
his jealousy, by making him fear to lose her.

With these ideas floating in her mind, she at length brought herself
to the point of speaking, and when her father closed his harangue, she
looked up and said:

“Please, papa, tell Mr. Huyton I am much honored and happy, and――and
all that sort of thing.”

“You need not agitate yourself so, my dear little Dora,” said he,
smiling graciously, for Dora ended by a fit of tears; “there is no
occasion to be unhappy, I am sure; you do quite right to accept Mr.
Huyton’s proposal; but although I am ready to be your messenger, we
must not forget propriety and honor in the message. Desirable as the
connection is, we need not rush at it, as if we thought ourselves
receiving, and not bestowing a compliment. You must allow me to alter
the words, although not the meaning of your answer.”

“As you please, sir,” said Dora, faintly; rebellious recollections
were rising in her heart; and she had a struggle at that moment not to
shriek out a negative.

“I shall go and speak to Mr. Huyton,” said the father, quite
unconscious of his daughter’s agitation.

She was left alone, and burying her face in the cushions, she gave way
to the bitterest tears.

She was insensible to outward objects; memory had gone back to the
sunny days at Hurstdene, or tortured her with the happy hours so
recently spent on board the _Erratic_; she sobbed and trembled
violently, then thought again of the past, and thought was followed by
fresh agitation. In this state she was lying when her hand was touched
by some one, and starting up, she saw Charles Huyton beside her.

She felt guilty, and hurriedly tried to hide her emotion and drive
away her tears; could she have seen into his heart, she would have
discovered that these accompaniments to their betrothal were but too
suitable and fitting. She did glance at his face, and saw how little
his eyes wore the expression she thought that love should wear. They
were gloomy, sad, full rather of harsh resolve than joyful hopes. An
idea struck her suddenly. This abrupt proposal, this unhappy
appearance, whence did they spring? Had he loved her long, did he
really love her now? Was not Hilary the real object of his affections?
Had this new resolve any thing to do with her marriage? It rushed
through her mind that it was despair, not love, which prompted him,
and that though she might now accept his hand, he would himself, when
the moment of pique was over, be the first to regret this step, and,
perhaps, would not only be ready to cancel the engagement, but would
be glad to resign her to another.

She dried her eyes; he cleared his brow; he spoke of love, esteem,
honor; she listened, blushing, and faltered out an acquiescence, which
he read her too correctly not to see was half reluctant. But the
reluctance neither surprised nor distressed him. He knew he had a
rival to supplant, and it would have been but half a triumph to have
had her accept him readily. More decided opposition would have been
not unwelcome. But he knew her to be light and volatile; her
sailor-lover’s feelings were of a firmer texture, and so were his
sister’s also, and these were the hearts he sought to wound.

So the farce of that engagement was played out. He made love, and she
listened and assented; and when Mr. Barham rejoined them they had
exchanged promises of love and faith, while the heart of each, in
secret, entirely belied these spoken words.

It had been settled that the family party from Hurstdene should return
home on the Monday after Hilary’s marriage; and the girls having taken
leave of their friends, the young ladies of Eaton-place did not expect
to meet them again. Captain Hepburn had privately urged on Hilary the
advantage of inducing Gwyneth to remain some time longer with her
sister in London, and Sybil was extremely anxious to detain her; but
no persuasion or argument had the slightest effect upon Gwyneth
herself, who, having her own reasons for wishing to return, was not to
be induced to change her determination by any thing which could be
urged by the others. She said very little in reply to the suggestions
or wishes of the family, but calmly and passively persisted in her own
way; and, much to Hilary’s disappointment, they all returned together
as they had gone. The same evening saw Gwyneth once more strolling on
the green terrace with Mr. Ufford by her side, detailing to him all
the events which had occurred in London, and hearing in return most
pleasant assurances of how much they had been missed, and how glad he
was to have them home again. Gwyneth was very glad then that she had
not staid in London.

Hilary would not have minded being left to do all the necessary
arrangements, consequent on resettling at home, without help, if her
sister had been employed in a way which had been less questionable in
its utility; but she could not prevent it now; for though she sent
Nest to beg Gwyneth’s assistance, the young lady only promised to come
directly, and then apparently forgot all about the request.

“Poor Mr. Ufford!” said she to Hilary, when the curate having taken
leave, she had time to rejoin her sister, “he is in great distress!”

“Indeed,” said the elder sister, “what is the matter?”

“He has had such bad news from Italy; his little niece is certainly
dying, and her father, his eldest brother, seems very nearly as bad.
He has a great mind to go to them.”

“He should talk to my father about that, not to you, Gwyneth,” said
Hilary, gravely; “but why does he not? I am sure he had much better,
if Lord Dunsmore wishes it.”

“I told him if he could get help in the parish I was sure papa would
agree most readily,” continued Gwyneth; “and I think he means to
propose it. There is some idea of a college friend of his taking the
curacy, if papa approves, just to allow him time to go abroad.”

The next morning Mr. Ufford called again, and this time he mentioned
to the Vicar his half-formed scheme of going to Italy. Of course Mr.
Duncan could make no objection, but entered kindly and warmly into the
young man’s anxieties.

It required a great deal of talking, however, before Mr. Ufford could
decide on any plan. He came to the Vicar with only a great mind to
act, and he left him, having arrived no nearer to forming a definite
intention, or seeming to Hilary to have any serious idea of acting as
he talked! She felt a little annoyed at his indecision; it would form
an indisputable excuse for many visits, and much dawdling, and a
reason for putting off some useful plans regarding village
improvements, and deferring some alterations and amendments in the
church, which had been projected, and for which Lord Dunsmore himself
had contributed funds. She longed to put a little energy or decision
into his mind and actions; she wished she could make him resolve
either to go or stay, or that at any rate she could enlighten his
understanding sufficiently to make him comprehend his own desires, and
not pass the time for action in lingering between duty and her sister
Gwyneth.

The sort of expectations to which his conduct gave rise in the village
was more than once significantly hinted to Mrs. Hepburn, when
receiving the congratulations and good wishes of the many attached
parishioners who had known her from a child. The fear perpetually
expressed that her marriage would remove her from the neighborhood, as
Miss Sybil’s had done, was pretty generally followed by a more or less
broadly-worded hint that Miss Gwyneth’s choice would be a better one
for them, and that they hoped one of their young ladies at least would
never leave them; for young as Miss Gwyneth was, she was quite womanly
in her way and look, and was as well fitted to be mistress at the
Vicarage as young Mrs. Hepburn herself. And a remark which closed one
of these commentaries the first time they met her taught her what
accurate and penetrating notice those apparently indifferent
spectators took of their superior’s ways and proceedings.

“But bless you, miss,” said one old woman, “it would have been far
better for us had you taken the young ’Squire at ‘the Ferns,’ instead
of this captain from foreign parts. And they do say he will be fit to
hang himself, whensoever he comes to hear of your being married to
another.”

Hilary tried to look unconcerned, and to speak on some other subject.

News travels fast, and it soon became known to the village gossips
that Mr. Huyton did not intend to commit suicide on the occasion of
Hilary’s marriage.

But the first intelligence which reached the Vicarage of his plans
came directly from himself, in a letter to Mr. Duncan, which the
writer knew well must be read by Hilary herself.

     “DEAR MR. DUNCAN,

     “Although I am just on the point of leaving England for some
     weeks on most important business, I must steal a few moments
     to write to you, lest indifferent and gossiping tongues
     should convey to you the report of what I wish to be the
     first to communicate. Former friendship and bygone events
     convince me that this intelligence will be received with
     some degree of interest by the family at the Vicarage. I am
     about to marry; it is no use seeking for elegant turns of
     language to announce it; that is the plain fact. The lady,
     who is already well known to you, has particularly
     commissioned me to give you the information; and when I tell
     you that she is no other than Miss Dora Barham, you may form
     some idea of the happiness which gilds my future prospects.
     I believe the ceremony will be celebrated immediately on my
     return from Germany, or as soon after as can be conveniently
     arranged. You can imagine the pleasure with which I
     contemplate settling quietly at ‘the Ferns’ once more, with
     such a companion and friend; and I trust her anticipations
     are as pleasant and vivid as my own. Among these must, of
     course, rank very highly the opportunity it will afford of
     carrying on the friendly intercourse with your family, which
     has already been so conducive to our happiness in past
     years, and which it will be equally desirable and delightful
     to establish on a permanent footing for the future.

          “With kind regards to your family circle,
               “Believe me ever,
                    “Yours faithfully,
                         “CHARLES HUYTON.”

It was well for Mr. Duncan’s peace and comfort, that loss of sight had
prevented his cognizance of many things which must else have come to
his knowledge: it was well, too, that he could not see his daughter’s
face as she read this letter. The bitter irony of those words was
concealed from him, but she felt it to her heart.

“Going to marry Dora!” said Mr. Duncan; “I am surprised. I thought he
would have taken Isabel.”

She was silent; she could not speak; the effort to read through these
words in an unbroken voice had been almost too great for her; she was
now recovering herself as well as she could.

Mr. Duncan thought a little, and presently observed――

“Well, I am glad he has resolved to marry at last; and to have your
young friend settled at ‘the Ferns’ will be pleasant for you, Hilary,
as long as you stay in the neighborhood. You must write him an answer
by-and-by, and we will tell him of your marriage, my child.”

“Do you want me just now, my dear father?” said she, compelling
herself to speak; “if not――”

“No――no, not at all at present; let Nest come to me in half-an-hour.”

Hilary escaped to her own room, carrying the cruel letter with her.

Engaged to Dora Barham! incredible! monstrous! could he ask her? could
she accept him? it seemed impossible: where was Dora’s love for
Maurice? where Charles Huyton’s knowledge of that love? Till this
moment she had not known how much she had depended on her constancy;
how completely she had built her hopes for her brother’s happiness on
some fortunate turn to their affairs. Well she knew how deep, how
true, how tender were her brother’s feelings, how entirely he had
surrendered his heart to this hapless affection; and though aware that
no engagement had passed between them, it seemed to her that their
recent intercourse in London had increased their mutual attachment.
Oh! what could Dora mean then by thus abruptly abandoning him! What
would Maurice feel when he learned her inconstancy! If she had been
sincere to him, if her sentiments had been real, where was her faith
to Mr. Huyton! by what name could an engagement with him be
designated? and if she had been all this time trifling with Maurice!
if she had been gratifying her own vanity at the expense of his
happiness――but that was impossible! Dora was volatile, thoughtless,
imprudent, but she was not deceitful, she was not heartless, she was
not wicked. Hilary could not endure to think ill of her; there must be
something unexplained; there was some secret which had not reached her
yet. Perhaps compulsion had won from her an unwilling assent; moral
force, parental authority, persecution, might have been employed; she
knew Dora was weak, possibly she had not the strength of will to
withstand such influence; she might rather deserve pity than blame.

But for Mr. Huyton himself, what excuse could be urged! Maurice had
been his chosen friend; a hundred times had he made professions of
regard, or declarations of esteem for him; and he knew, or, at least,
he was strongly suspicious of this esteemed friend’s attachment to
Dora Barham! It was not a violent affection which misled him, and
blinded his eyes; Hilary believed him at the best, indifferent,
regarding Dora; he had always rather despised her intellect, and
slighted her charms; no! love for her was not his excuse: there was no
love in that cruel letter which Hilary now held in her hands. As her
eyes slowly perused the words again, her fancy presented to her mind
the terrible expression of his face when he had first heard of her own
engagement. It seemed to ring in her ear once more, the bitter tone in
which he had exclaimed, “You will wish rather that a demon had crossed
your path than that you had thwarted me;” and as she remembered this,
she felt that it was revenge he sought; a revenge for his slighted
affection, which she could not choose but feel deeply.

The happiness of Maurice and Dora was sacrificed, perhaps, to her own;
it was her hasty marriage which had brought this impending grief on
her darling brother!

“Oh, Maurice! Maurice!” sobbed she, as she buried her face in her
hands, “why am I to be a source of misery and disappointment to you?
Oh! brother, you who have never done any thing but comfort and love
me, are your hopes now to be blighted for my sake? Why did you love so
truly and so well? Why did you surrender that generous heart to one
who dared not own the affection she had created! Was it a crime to
love, that she should blush to be claimed by you! Oh! weak, foolish
Dora, your idle, childish terrors have caused all this.”

Very bitter the blow was, and rendered more so by the insulting tone
in which the news had been announced. Could this be Charles Huyton,
the man whom she had known so well, who had seemed so amiable, who had
professed such love for her! She shuddered as she contemplated such a
character, and tried to persuade herself that she had fancied more
than the truth. But yet in her secret soul there was something which
told her otherwise, which impressed on her the conviction that it was
a bad, unholy feeling now actuating her former lover, and that misery
must be the result to those concerned.

Oh! how she longed at that moment for the comfort of her husband’s
sympathy and love; how her heart ached to pour out its fears and
sorrows to him, knowing that there they would be understood and borne
with, and perhaps reasoned away, but this intense longing must be
checked, put aside, kept under, or it would soon grow up into an
overpowering cloud, darkening her hopes, numbing her feelings,
paralyzing her actions, and obscuring from her the bright sunshine of
trust and cheerful faith.

She turned her thoughts once more to Maurice and Dora; but what could
she do for them? Nothing but pray for them; and sinking on her knees
she did pray, long and earnestly, that if sorrow must come on her
beloved brother it might be borne with patience, and so bring a
blessing with it; and for the others, too, she prayed, that the angry
feelings might be softened, and the unkind intention converted into a
better mood; that the weak might be strengthened, the erring restored;
that they might both be saved from sinful weakness and sinful
passions; and that if their own willful ways brought suffering on
them, that suffering might be sanctified to a happy result.

Little thought the angry and vindictive man for whom she prayed, of
the only return she made to his unkindness; and little deemed he that
if his cruel letter had given her pain, it had also afforded her the
occasion of exercising faith, meekness, and charity; that her soul
rose the stronger for the blow which he had hoped would prostrate it.

She forgave him the injury he had, perchance, intended; and to forgive
from the heart is alone the blessed gift of that Spirit whose presence
brings peace and consolation.




CHAPTER XX.

  “Let her have her proud dark eyes,
  And her petulant, quick replies;
  Let her sweep her dazzling hand,
  With its gesture of command,
  And shake back her raven hair,
  With the old imperious air.”
                                    TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.


“So Charles Huyton is really going to marry Miss Dora Barham,” said
Mr. Ufford to the party at the Vicarage. “I wonder whether she is
satisfied now.”

“How did you hear that?” was Hilary’s reply.

“Oh! I had a letter from Huyton this morning, announcing his good
fortune; hoping my poor brother would not take it amiss that he had
succeeded where George had failed. I own I am more surprised, however,
at Huyton’s proposal than at the young lady’s answer.”

“You have not heard any thing more from Italy, I suppose?” inquired
Hilary, to whom the other subject was distasteful.

“I heard this morning that Lord and Lady Rupert, that is Dunsmore’s
sister-in-law and her husband, have left Florence, and must now be at
Naples with my brother.”

“I am glad of that,” said Gwyneth, eagerly, “it will be a relief to
our mind to know he has some one with him; and you like Lady Rupert, I
think.”

“Yes, I do not feel it so necessary to start immediately, and as
George was so very anxious to hear that his projects are put _en
train_, perhaps it would be better to make some definite arrangements
regarding the church and school, at least before I go.”

Accordingly papers were produced, plans and estimates looked over,
calculations made, and statistics gone into. In the midst of all,
while Gwyneth was busy noting down for Mr. Ufford some important
calculations, and Hilary was explaining to her father the plan
ultimately decided on, Gwyneth suddenly observed,

“I wonder Dora is going to marry before Isabel; I am so surprised that
she should remain so long single. What do you suppose is the reason?”

“I really do not think such things are worth speculating about,”
observed Mrs. Hepburn, who particularly wished to avoid the subject.

“Miss Barham’s position is peculiar,” said Mr. Ufford, “and so is her
character. She is too proud to marry a mean man; too rich to marry a
poor one; too great for a humble man; too clever for a foolish one;
too independent for a mercenary man; and too good for a bad one.”

“Well, that only proves that she must have a wise, clever, rich, and
noble husband,” said Gwyneth, laughing a little; “and I suppose with
so many claims, aided by the addition of grace and beauty, the
probability that she might meet such a one is not very small.”

“Perhaps! but then, this wise, good, clever, rich noble man may not
perhaps submit to be governed by his wife; and I have a notion that
Miss Barham has been too long accustomed to be her own mistress, to
like to give up the privilege, or to be at all ready to lay down her
scepter.”

“Oh, you do not do her justice!” cried Gwyneth; “besides, any woman
who loved, would resign all her prerogatives readily to one who
deserved them.”

“Gwyneth, my love! have you finished those extracts?” said her father.

Gwyneth went on with her work in silence.

“There’s the Abbey carriage crossing the green,” observed Mr. Ufford
presently, he having sauntered away to the window, while the young
ladies managed the details of business.

Hilary changed color; she felt reluctant to meet Dora. “I had no idea
they were in the country!” she observed, in a voice of discomfort.

“Only Miss Barham is,” replied Mr. Ufford, looking with a little
curiosity at Mrs. Hepburn’s face. “Miss Dora is gone to visit some
friends in Northampton, I believe with her aunt, Lady Margaret, while
the happy Huyton is in Germany. The carriage is coming here.”

It did come, and Isabel entered the Vicarage exactly the same as ever
in appearance; her sister’s engagement had made no outward change in
her. It had been a disappointment, but she was too well-bred to show
it; and, except in a hasty abandonment of London, there was no
perceptible effect of the news. However, Dora herself could not be
much more unwilling to discuss the affair than Isabel was, so it was a
mutual accommodation that the sisters should part for the present.
Miss Barham found herself suddenly weary of the London season, and
much in want of rest and fresh air; to face Hilary, to see Hurstdene,
to exist even at home, Dora felt impossible; and she arranged a hasty
plan for accompanying her aunt into Northamptonshire, hoping that
change of place and entire novelty would smother the thoughts which
were burning in her heart, and diminish her regret, despair, and
self-reproach.

Miss Barham was immediately interested in the details of the business
which had just been occupying the others; and both touched and grieved
by the account of the precarious state of the first projector of the
alterations. She had a right, she said, to be interested in any
improvements of a church, which had so long formed part of their
family property, and she insisted on having it all detailed to her.
Mr. Ufford accordingly went through the plans, while she listened with
a most graceful and marked attention. Then she asked, in a pretty,
injured tone, why her father had not been consulted; and was hardly
appeased by the assurance that Mr. Barham having done so much for the
chancel a few years ago, nothing more was required at present, nor
could they feel justified in calling on him for assistance in a matter
of ornament which was purely the wish of Lord Dunsmore.

“Was nothing more really wanted?” inquired Isabel; she should like to
see the church, and judge for herself. She asked Gwyneth to walk down
to it with her; Mr. Ufford, of course, accompanied them. They
sauntered about there for a long time. Isabel was very enthusiastic,
suggesting all sorts of expensive plans for ornament and effect; Mr.
Ufford himself was quite carried away by her zeal, entering into her
ideas with almost equal warmth. It was a subject that exactly suited
him; ideal, imaginative, combining beauty, poetry, and all the unreal,
sentimental, religious feeling, in which his spirit always delighted.
He could arrange a symbolical device, and revel in an illustration of
some fanciful theory, much better than he could go through a dry
detail, or endure a self-denying, sober perseverance against
ill-success.

Isabel was mistress of the elements of her subject; she was acquainted
with the fashionable theories and modern language of church
architecture; she could discourse elegantly on stringcourse, and
reredos, lecterns, open-sittings, equality of ranks, chants, and
responses: galleries and parish clerks were her aversion, and a choral
service her delight. Gwyneth could think and feel, but Isabel could
talk; while the continued references to Mr. Ufford, to his taste,
opinion, wish, decision, not only compelled him to listen, but were so
very flattering to his own self-love, as to convince him that hitherto
he had greatly undervalued Miss Barham’s good qualities.

They lingered long together, and when he had handed her into her
carriage, and watched her drive off, he said a hasty farewell to the
family at the Vicarage, and walked home, leaving the young ladies to
put away his papers at their leisure.

Gwyneth was thoughtful and silent the rest of the day.

The curate came the next morning to the Vicarage soon after breakfast;
but hardly had poor Gwyneth time to be glad to see him, when her joy
was dissipated by his words.

“Oh, Mrs. Hepburn, will you give me those plans and sketches for the
new buildings? Mr. Barham wants to see them, and I am going over to
the Abbey this morning to consult about them with him; and shall
probably not come back till to-morrow.”

He went, and for some little time there was occasionally a change in
his tone and manner toward Gwyneth Duncan; his words were often few,
and hurried; there was no more loitering on the terrace, or dreaming
over books of religious poetry with her. He did not absent himself
from the Vicarage, but she was no longer always his object, even in
the undecided and indolent way in which she had formerly been. His
whole mind seemed engrossed in the decorations of the church, and
things connected with it, including Miss Barham. Isabel promised a
great deal toward providing funds; the chancel was, of course, her
peculiar care: and deeply interested as she was, it was natural that
she should be constantly driving over, to see how the work progressed.
There was scarcely a day in which it was not necessary that the curate
and the lady should meet; either at Hurstdene to consult on the spot,
or in the library at the Abbey, to examine books on decorative art, or
illuminations copied from old MSS.

Hilary saw it all, and watched them with a careful eye. She often felt
hurt at the proceedings, on her father’s account, whose tastes and
wishes were perpetually over-ruled; he did not like the idea of these
new decorations, he feared that the quiet gray church, so dear to him
in its serene simplicity, might assume too fanciful an appearance
under their plans. The coloring of the walls and ceiling, talked of by
them, he thought unsuitable. But he loved peace and hated dissension;
and when Mr. Ufford argued on one hand, and Isabel coaxed on the
other, he could not resist, but gave them their way.

As yet, however, the greater part of the decorations were only
existing in idea, much repair was needed first of a substantial and
important character, and it appeared probable that the autumn and
winter must pass before Fancy could exercise her power on the colored
decorations and ornamental scrolls. Meanwhile, Isabel drew patterns,
and Mr. Ufford applauded.

Gwyneth Duncan had at first noticed this unexpected coalition with
considerable uneasiness; the fear she felt of Isabel as a rival,
showed her how much her own feelings were interested in Mr. Ufford’s.
She wondered that nothing more was said of the journey to Italy, and
wished most heartily that the curate had set out before Miss Duncan’s
return to the country. By degrees, however, she became more easy; he
resumed much of his old manner to her; when Miss Barham was not by, he
sought her opinion, claimed her services, and courted her approval
almost as much as formerly; and she began to hope that, however he
might admire Miss Barham, or be flattered by her condescending notice,
that his real preference was confined to her. She was very quiet, and
more reserved than ever; not even her sister could penetrate her
secret; she never became demonstrative, least of all to him.

Anxiety for Gwyneth’s happiness, and concern for Mr. Ufford’s
uncertain conduct, were not the only sources of trouble to Hilary’s
mind at that time. Her thoughts would follow her absent sailors. Love
would make the heart tremble, although faith whispered of patience and
hope, and her husband’s spirit, his devotion to the cause of duty, his
calm courage and high aspirations, inspired her too: but yet they
could not always check the intruding chills which woman’s weakness
threw over her. Generally, however, she was calm and trustful,
although the blank of his absence was a sorrow which constant
exertion, and devotion to the good of others, could alone alleviate.
But for Maurice, poor Maurice, there was more painful thoughts still.
His first letter was at once longed for, dreaded, and received with a
mixture of feelings which it would be difficult to analyze.

The _Erratic_ had remained some days at Plymouth, quite long enough
for Hilary’s letters, with the news of Dora’s engagement, to reach
her brother. She had written with the tenderest concern, the
most sympathizing sorrow, and yet, fearful of augmenting his
disappointment, she had hardly dared to express what she really felt.
To her husband she could confide all; but to Maurice, it seemed to
her, that either to pity or to blame, to question Dora’s past or her
present feelings, to suppose her faithless or deceitful, untrue either
to him or his rival, would be equally inappropriate, unkind, or
unwise. She dared hardly do more than state facts, and express anxiety
regarding his feelings. Then came his letter, like himself, generous,
warm-hearted, high-minded, loving. He had, he said, no right to
complain, she had broken no faith to him; he had asked for none; they
had parted on the understanding that she was free, disengaged. He had
never deserved her, and it would be unjust, then, to claim a place in
her memory as any thing beyond a friend; he had no wish to make her
unhappy, and since their union appeared to her impossible, she was at
perfect liberty to act as she had done. It was like herself, too, if
she had endeavored to please her father; it was an engagement which
he, no doubt, would perfectly approve; and there was much offered by
it to influence and tempt her beyond common inducements. That she
would not marry for the sake of rank or fortune alone, she had already
proved; beyond a doubt, she had good reasons for her conduct. His most
earnest wishes for her happiness, his constant prayers for her, were
all he could now give; these she should have. He charged Hilary not to
allow her to suppose he felt ill-used, or that he judged her harshly,
or blamed her; nor need her affectionate heart grieve for him; she had
done him no injustice, no wrong; and the inevitable evils of life he
hoped he could bear. A sailor must expect storms in his voyage, and
should know what to do under them. A sudden tornado had come down on
him, catching him, perhaps, with too much canvas spread, going on too
gayly before a light breeze; but should he therefore give up all for
lost, and allow the hurricane to overwhelm him without an effort? No,
he would shorten sail at once, and trust, by vigorous and timely
exertion, to remedy the danger to which incautiousness in fair weather
had exposed him.

“Not that I can ever forget her,” continued he, in conclusion, “or am
at all likely to find one to fill her place. Her memory will live in
mine, as we think of one dead; and her name will ever have a charm for
me beyond all other feminine appellations. But do not fret on my
account, dear Hilary; you have enough care, without taking another
load on your shoulders for my sake.”

But Captain Hepburn told his wife how great was the struggle in the
mind of Maurice, how severe the shock had been, and how glad he should
be when they had left England, as this weary detention from day to
day, kept them all in an irritating state of idle uncertainty. Hilary
knew Maurice must feel, yet his letter was a comfort too. If he could
so bravely face his disappointment, the severity of the blow would be
greatly lessened. If no angry feelings were lurking there, he would
escape the bitterest portion of disappointed love; and perhaps, after
all, the abandoned lover might be less an object of pity than his
successful rival.

Affairs went on at home, for some weeks, much as has been described.
Isabel Barham was the most devoted friend to Gwyneth; constantly at
the Vicarage, to talk over the building plans, or consult about the
embroidery she was occupied with for the church. Penelope’s web hardly
gave rise to more discussion and anxiety than did the cushions which
Isabel thought she was working. They traveled backward and forward,
several times a week, between the Abbey and the Vicarage, in Miss
Barham’s britchska; that young lady always expecting to find time to
set a few stitches during her visit, and generally proving mistaken in
the result; so that the only progress the work made was when Gwyneth
sometimes herself took it in hand; indeed, the cushions might be said
to live chiefly on the road, if they had actually any other existence
than in the imagination of their projectors.

The curate was not excluded from the cabinet councils held on these
topics, and he rarely absented himself. None of the lookers-on could
at all make out the meaning of the several parties; even Hilary
doubted what were Mr. Ufford’s views and intentions; and as to Miss
Barham, when at Hurstdene, she seemed to care little for any thing but
the vicar’s daughter. The accounts from Naples, meanwhile, were most
unfavorable; there seemed scarcely a hope of Lord Dunsmore’s life,
which faded and flickered apparently like a dying lamp; but as his
sister-in-law and her husband were devoted to him, his brother was
content to remain in England.

It was a wild and stormy day, such as not unfrequently breaks up the
fine weather at the commencement of August; the curate had not
presented himself the whole morning at the Vicarage, and the family
supposed him confined to his house by the tempest.

The church bell began to toll, and its long, mournful vibrations
seemed to come sadly and awfully, with a warning sound, across the
furious blast; sometimes swelling loud in a transient lull, sometimes
almost swept away by the violence of the roaring gale.

“That is old Martha Blake’s funeral,” observed Hilary; “what a day for
the poor people.”

“Yes; and Mr. Ufford, too,” observed Gwyneth.

The bell tolled on, and by-and-by Nest, who was watching from the
window, remarked that the party had just appeared. Slowly, and with
difficulty, the black group made their way across the green, the wind
violently opposing their progress, and threatening at every moment to
overpower their feeble and tottering steps. Gwyneth’s eyes were fixed
on the procession as it wound its way along; she expected to see Mr.
Ufford issue from the church to meet the mourners; but they paused at
the Lychgate, set down the corpse, and sheltered themselves as well as
they could beneath the walls. It was evident the clergyman had not yet
arrived. Five minutes passed; ten, a quarter of an hour; still the
bell tolled on; and still the mourners stood huddled together by the
gate of the dead.

“How wrong to keep those poor people waiting there,” said Hilary, a
little indignantly.

“I dare say there is some mistake about time,” replied Gwyneth; “and I
am sure they have often kept Mr. Ufford for an hour or more.”

Still time went on; at length, after a long hour, a messenger came to
the Vicarage, to ask what should be done; they had sent to Primrose
Bank, but the clergyman was out, and had left word that he need not be
expected back.

“Then I must go and bury my old parishioner,” said the vicar, rising
up. “Hilary, my hat and coat, please, love; old Martin will guide me
down to the church; so do not disturb yourself.”

Hilary was thunderstruck; for her father to go out in such weather
might be fatal; he had not been so well as usual for some days. She
knew not what to do; ah, could she but have exposed herself for him!
Vain wish; she watched him preparing with a sad presentiment, then
resolutely threw on her own black cloak, and determined to accompany
him. The storm which he must encounter, she too would brave; perhaps
she might assist, or shelter him from its fury.

With many sorrowful charges from her to Gwyneth to have a fire
lighted, and dry, warm clothes in readiness, the couple took their way
together, although the father earnestly remonstrated against Hilary’s
exposing herself to such needless inconvenience. It was vain to
attempt to hold an umbrella; petticoats flapped wildly in the wind,
and caught the dashing torrents of rain as they fell; but under the
churchyard wall, there was a little shelter, and rain alone
comparatively inconvenienced them, during the out-of-door service.

When it was over, Hilary, bidding the poor women, all so wet and
draggled, to come up to the Vicarage to dry and warm themselves,
hurried her father home as fast as infirmity and tempest would allow
him; and wet, breathless, exhausted by the contest with the elements,
they reached the house at last. But the struggle had almost
overpowered him, and on his arrival, he was attacked with a sort of
faintness which greatly alarmed his daughters. He revived after a
short time, and smiled at their solicitude; but although he seemed to
rally, he complained once or twice in the evening of extreme
chilliness, and before night it was quite evident he had caught a
violent cold.

Morning did not bring the comfort which he had endeavored to persuade
his daughters would accompany it; sore throat and fever were apparent,
and Hilary, in great alarm, dispatched a hurried messenger for the
doctor. Gwyneth was most miserable; her father’s illness overpowered
her feelings, and that it should be caused by the apparent neglect of
Mr. Ufford, aggravated her distress. She wearied herself in inventing
unsatisfactory excuses for his absence, each one of which was
abandoned as unlikely, after being entertained for a short period; and
the conviction that he would call that morning to excuse his absence,
was so strong, that every moment she fancied she heard the latch of
the wicket-gate.

The doctor came, prescribed for his patient, shook his head, and
avoided giving a definite opinion; contenting himself with observing,
he had taken a chill, and they must make him better if they could.
Hilary kept her own thoughts to herself, unwilling prematurely to
alarm her sisters; but she wrote to Sybil. The vacation was so near,
that she thought Mrs. Farrington would easily arrange to hurry her
departure, even if she were obliged to leave her husband behind for a
few days.

The day passed heavily away; the storm had ceased, but the sky was
dull, and the earth damp and dreary; and the exterior dullness was
well answered by the blank within. All there was dull indeed.

Many parishioners came toward evening to make anxious inquiries for
their pastor, and Gwyneth had to see and answer them; and many and
deep, though not loud, were the murmurs that his reverence, who never
spared himself, should have been forced out in such a storm, through
the inattention of one, who――Gwyneth had to stop them abruptly, to
charge them not to judge hastily, to make excuses, and invent possible
reasons for the mistake; which sometimes brought her such an answer
as,

“Ah, well, miss, I dare say you doant like to hear ’um blamed, but
’ees not like his reverence, and will never fill his shoes.”

An observation which brought the color into her cheeks more than once.

“Belike, miss, ye doant know Mr. Ufford was gone over to the Abbey
yesterday?” said one old gossip to her; to which Gwyneth replied, with
as much unconcern as possible, she did not: but there was something in
the tone and manner which startled her.

The second morning of Mr. Duncan’s illness brought Gwyneth a note from
Isabel. She was sitting with Hilary beside her father’s bed, when it
was placed in her hand. She opened and read it; then silently laying
it down before her sister, she left the room.

Mrs. Hepburn hurriedly perused it. It was to announce, in most
graceful and well-chosen words, the fact that she was engaged to Mr.
Ufford. She was sure the intelligence would interest her friends at
the Vicarage.

Hilary had hardly time to understand this announcement, and none at
all to calculate its effects on Gwyneth, when her attention was called
to her father. He awoke suddenly, in such intense pain, that every
thought had to be given to his relief. She was obliged to summon more
help, and Gwyneth, hearing the subdued bustle, came out of her room.
Her countenance was white as marble, and almost as composed as a
statue; there was no other sign of emotion than the shadow under her
eyes; her whole attention was devoted to her father; and her energy
was astonishing. The alarm of the daughters was great, though
intensely quiet; and an urgent message was sent to the apothecary to
come immediately. Much to their relief, he was met near the house, and
hurried forward. Every application which skill could devise, or care
employ, was made use of to relieve the patient; but for hours the
sisters, though working with untiring energy, saw no beneficial
result. At length, however, there came a cessation of pain, followed
by sleep.

Now Gwyneth insisted Hilary should rest. She had been up the whole of
the preceding night; she must take repose. Gwyneth’s black eyes burned
with a fever fire as she spoke; her cheeks were white, but her hand
did not tremble, nor her lip falter.

“And you, Gwyneth,” said Hilary, kissing her, as she listened to her
low, yet impressive whispers; “do you not want rest?”

“No, not now, not yet; when I am tired I will rest, but it would be
useless to try now, and I would rather be doing something.”

“There are carriage wheels,” said Hilary, listening. Gwyneth’s face
flushed for one moment, but the color died away as her sister said:
“It must be Sybil!”

It was Sybil, not alone either; she was accompanied by her husband’s
uncle, a physician whom she had brought with her from London, a
gentleman they all knew and liked exceedingly. The relief which the
sight of the travelers afforded was very great; but as the patient was
sleeping quietly, there was nothing else to be done but to welcome and
refresh them.

Mr. Wild, the apothecary, was to call again in an hour or two; he had
already hinted at the propriety of calling in more advice, and would,
no doubt, be glad to have Dr. Symons to share his responsibility.

The sisters clustered together round the drawing-room fire, for the
evening was so chilly that the travelers were glad of its warmth, and
spoke in low, anxious tones of their hopes and fears. Sybil’s
indignation at the cause of this illness was less suppressed than her
sisters; and murmurs of “careless,” “thoughtless,” “unpardonable,”
crossed her lips.

Then came Mr. Wild again, and a consultation between him and the
physician; and then the sinking spirits with which they listened to
the faint encouragements and doubtful words of the doctors. However,
it was no time to give way; feeling and fear must be crushed down into
the smallest possible space, anticipation must be prohibited, action
and energy were what were now required. Gwyneth took the watch; her
sisters were to sleep, and they could sleep all the more quietly,
knowing that Dr. Symons was within call, if necessary.

There was scarce a shadow of amendment the next day, to cheer them;
but there were no worse symptoms in the sick man; he slept much and
heavily in the night, but when awake, pain was lessened, and
consciousness more alive. The day passed in slow hours, marked by the
changes in the sick room, as one sister after the other took her seat
beside the bed. Gwyneth’s restlessness increased hourly, when not
stationed there; nothing else seemed to afford her a moment’s quiet.
Whatever of active exertion was required, she was the doer of it; she
never tired, except of being unemployed, and her quickness of eye,
readiness of thought, and lightness of finger, were much praised by
Dr. Symons, who little guessed the source whence this unfailing
activity sprung.

It was on the afternoon of Saturday, the third of Mr. Duncan’s
illness, when, as Gwyneth was crossing the vestibule, the pleasant
sunshine streaming in at the open door, tempted her for a short space
to pause in the porch. She lingered a minute, the next, as she turned
away, a step caught her ear; it was Mr. Ufford. Her first inclination
was to draw back, her next, and the governing one, was to advance
composedly with extended hand.

There was, perhaps, a little confusion in his countenance as he looked
at her; a little surprise at the deadly whiteness of her cheeks, the
strange glance of her dark eyes, as he greeted her.

“You have been long coming,” said she gravely; “my father has asked
for you several times.”

“I am sorry; I am but just returned from the Abbey. I will go to him
now,” he said, in great confusion and haste.

“No, you can not, he is asleep, now; Sybil just told me so; and Dr.
Symons would not have him disturbed for the world.” She spoke with an
effort; she dared scarcely allow her breath to come, lest it should
overpower her self-command. Each nerve was stretched, each muscle
rigid in the exertion to seem calm.

“Asleep――Dr. Symons! Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired he,
startled into forgetting his own concerns, and really thinking of her
words.

“Do you not know?” she paused. “Walk in, I will tell you when I can!”
Another pause, during which she tried to strangle some heaving sobs,
she overpowered some rebellious flutterings. “I think I will call
Hilary!” she added, quickly, as a last resource, and hurried away from
the room door. He entered. Nest was there alone. She rose, but would
hardly speak or come forward.

“What is the matter, Nest?” exclaimed he, abruptly.

“Papa is no better,” replied the child, looking down; “no better at
all; and Dr. Symons, who came here yesterday, does not know how to
make him better, and Sybil says, Mr. Ufford, it is all your fault!”

“My fault!” cried he; “how in the world? what have I to do with it?”

“Your being away, and obliging him to go out on Wednesday to the
funeral, in all that storm; nobody knew where to find you, so poor
papa had to do it himself.”

A very unpleasant conviction accompanied the light which his
understanding received by Nest’s plain speaking. He colored, sat down,
and was silent for some minutes.

“How long has he been ill?” said he, at last.

“Ever since Wednesday evening, when he caught cold; but here is
Hilary.”

Mr. Ufford rose, feeling singularly uncomfortable and embarrassed.

“I can not tell you how shocked I have been, Mrs. Hepburn, to hear of
Mr. Duncan’s sudden illness,” said he; “I had no idea of it!”

“Did you not receive a message from me? we sent yesterday to beg you
would come as soon as you could, as my father asked for you several
times.”

“I am but just returned from the Abbey!”

Hilary was silent and grave. Her looks were more of a reproach than
any words she could have uttered; they spoke so plainly of grief,
anxiety, and patience. He felt obliged to say something in excuse or
apology; and with ever-increasing embarrassment, he said:

“I am so sorry it should have happened; but I quite forgot the notice,
and all about the funeral――it was most unfortunate!”

Still Mrs. Hepburn was silent.

“My housekeeper ought to have reminded me, when I told her I was going
out,” continued he; “it was excessively careless of her to forget; I
shall speak to her about it.”

“If you usually depend upon her for those sort of things――” began
Hilary, and then stopped suddenly.

“Besides, who could ever have supposed that people would be so mad as
to go out in such weather at all?” added he, determined to be angry
with somebody. “These old women have no more sense than a post; it was
irrational, and I really think they must have intended to vex and
annoy me.”

“I think they are hardly to blame for keeping an appointment,” said
she; “they could not tell you would not be there, and, perhaps, were
as much inconvenienced by the weather as you could have been, had you
been present.”

“I don’t know that; they are used to rough it; and there is a sad
spirit of spite and ill-will prevalent among them; a more selfish,
ungrateful, thankless, obstinate set, I never met with. They are
equally devoid of sense and affection.”

“You do them injustice, I am sure; you would not doubt their
affectionate feeling, if you heard their anxiety for my father. But I
can not stay with you now. Can you wait here on the chance of my
father’s waking, or will you call in again by-and-by?”

Mr. Ufford was too glad to make his escape at that moment, and
promising to call again in an hour’s time, he walked off, trying to
drown his own sense of wrong, by throwing the blame on every body in
the parish except himself.

Mr. Duncan’s attack proved an influenza of a most dangerous nature;
and no skill or care from physicians or nurses, could arrest its
progress or prevent its effects. He lingered on for nearly three
weeks, and then darkness and silence fell on the Vicarage, sorrow and
tears filled the village dwellings, for the father was taken from his
children, and the pastor from his people, and the place that had known
him would know him no more.

The sisters sat together in the gloomy rooms during those long summer
days which intervened between the death and the funeral, each,
perhaps, going over in silence in her own mind the scenes of childhood
so deeply impressed on memory; the happy hours, the kindly-given
lesson, the birth-day treat, the pleasant surprise, all coming from
him who was now gone from them; each one a joy that never could recur
again, but which, although now receding into the shadowy regions of
the past, was yet even in recollection a thing to be valued and to be
grateful for.

They had some great comforts also. Mr. Paine and his wife contrived to
come to them, and he was dearly welcomed, both as friend and priest,
and she was an unspeakable solace to Hilary. Their brother-in-law had
joined them the week after Sybil came, and his presence relieved them
of the painful intrusions which funeral arrangements gave rise to.

Hilary knew that support and comfort would come alone from a higher
source than earthly friendship, or domestic affection; but the gift of
these latter was received as a favor to deserve gratitude, a token
that He who provided even for temporal blessings, would not forsake
his children, nor withdraw from them the necessary help.

Her greatest anxiety was for Gwyneth now; and, perhaps, her bitterest
sorrow was caused by Mr. Ufford.

The latter, indeed, had deeply disappointed her by the coldness and
reserve which, like a damp, wrapping mist, had crept over him. His
visits had been few and hurried, except when absolutely sent for; his
words cold, stiff, and unwillingly given. His time was principally
devoted to riding over to the Abbey, which swallowed up most days in
the week. His own prospects, of course, chiefly occupied him, and, no
doubt, the visits at the Vicarage were painful for more than one
reason; yet, when they remembered the past, their father’s kindness to
him, his previous conduct, and friendly professions, and his
connection with their sad loss, they all felt that something more was
due from him than they received; perhaps he, too, was conscious of
ingratitude, which made the sight of former friends unpleasant;
perhaps he was simply self-engrossed, and thoughtless regarding the
sorrows which did not touch him.

But Gwyneth was a nearer, deeper trouble, and Hilary could not look at
her without fear. The same stony composure wrapped her still. Ever
since her father’s death she had shed no tear; but her dark eyes
looked blacker than ever by contrast with her white cheeks; she spoke
little, never of her feelings; she rested little; but with a strange,
untiring energy, she seemed always engrossed by some object for the
good of others. An ordinary observer would never have guessed the
amount of agony and endurance that pallid brow concealed; but Hilary
read it in her silence, in her downcast eyes, and in the burning touch
of her fevered fingers, and she read it with fear; for such unnatural
suppression of feeling, such intense and over-wrought calmness must,
she knew, break down at last: and what would be the end of it?




CHAPTER XXI.

  “Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce walks are drear,
  Madcap, what jest was this to meet me here!
  Were feet like those made for so wild a way?
  The southern chamber had been, by my fay,
  More fitting trysting-place for us to-day!”
                                                 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.


Mrs. Hepburn’s fears for her sister were not immediately realized; for
weeks there was no symptom of the reaction she had dreaded. Gwyneth
threw herself with a passionate energy into all the preparations, the
business, and the distressing bustle which must follow the decease of
a clergyman. The necessity of leaving the home of their whole life,
the doubts where to go; the troublesome technicalities of
dilapidations, and other matters of the same kind; the anxiety
regarding what Maurice would wish done in his absence; the misery of
parting with all the treasured relics which a family mansion contains,
of knowing that all they had loved and valued must pass into other and
careless hands, painful as they were, did not daunt her spirit. Her
one wish was to leave the place; her answer, when Hilary begged her
not to overtire herself, was generally, “I can not rest at Hurstdene.”

No, she could not rest there, now she knew that she must, eventually,
leave it; now that her pleasant visions had been so rudely overthrown;
that her day-dreams had proved more evanescent than the sunset glory
on the tree-tops; rest in _his_ house, she could not; knowing, as she
did, that he only waited for their quitting it to pull down the whole,
from ridge-tile to door-sill. Rest there! where he, who was now
whispering soft things to another, had once said and looked such
words, such meanings to herself, as she dared not now recall. She was
incessantly urgent to be gone; but nothing would persuade her to go
first; she would not yield so far as to seem unable to remain. Sybil
took Nest back to London with her, Gwyneth remained with Hilary.

The marriage of Mr. Barham’s daughters was approaching; one ceremony
was to unite the two couples, and the country round re-echoed with
gossip on the subject. The owner of “the Ferns” was at home, Dora,
too, had returned to Drewhurst Abbey; all there looked as bright and
gay, to outward seeming, as the affairs at the Vicarage showed dull
and sad. The black crape of the mourners, and the orange wreaths of
the young brides, were but the symbols of the apparent contrast
between their present prospects.

Yet, perhaps, all was not as it seemed; there might be throbbing
hearts and wrung feelings under the folds of the richest brocades;
there might be bitter tears in secret, shed over the elegant baubles
which custom dedicates as fitting presents for a wedding; there might
be a shadow upon the mental vision, through whose thick gloom the
bridal finery might appear but as a ghastly mockery, more fearful,
more dismal, than a funeral pall.

And there are consolations for unselfish mourners, which bear up the
heart, and support the drooping spirit, and make the feeble strong;
sweet thoughts of peace, which fill the void that death occasions, and
make even memory a comfort and a blessing, though it calls up scenes
never to be repeated here. No, the parting which a hopeful death
occasions, is not the darkest shadow in this world of sorrow!

Isabel Barham in due time paid a visit of condolence to her friends at
the Vicarage. Hilary met her alone, Gwyneth was busy, and did not
appear. Miss Barham seemed really touched as she saw Mrs. Hepburn’s
pale cheeks and black garments; perhaps the contrast of their present
situations struck her, perhaps she remembered how much of pain and
sorrow had followed Hilary, since the time when she had been a bride.

She spoke kindly and affectionately, and inquired with great interest
as to their intentions.

“We shall leave this next week,” said Hilary. “Maurice and Captain
Hepburn are both desirous we should be nearer the southern coast, and
we think of a house not very far from Southampton. Mr. Farrington has
a sister settled there, and though we should not like to live in a
town, it would not be convenient to be very far from one.”

“Then we shall lose you quite, I fear; I was half in hopes we should
have had you settled in this neighborhood still. I was talking to Mr.
Huyton about Primrose Bank for you, but he did not seem much to like
it.”

“Thank you for thinking of us; but to have us within an easy distance
of either London or Portsmouth is my husband’s object, and Southampton
unites both. He and my brother are my sister’s guardians, and we
shall, I hope, always continue to live together.”

“That will be very nice; and Hilary, you will not mind my asking as a
friend, you will be comfortable as to circumstances――income I mean?”

“Yes, we shall do very well; we have never been accustomed to luxury,
and we shall not have much to resign of that kind.”

“I see you have been packing up,” said Isabel, looking round.

“Yes, such things as we take with us; Maurice would like us to keep
all, but there is much that it would not be worth while to move. He
has left it entirely to my discretion.”

“And this will be my farewell visit then; I am afraid I shall be too
much occupied to come again. By-the-by, Dora told me to ask if you
would see her; I wanted her to come with me, but she had some
scruples, I could not understand what, and only sent a message.”

“Yes, I should,” said Hilary, with warmth, “I should indeed like to
see her, pray tell her so. How is Lord Dunsmore now; have you better
accounts of him?”

A shade passed over Isabel’s face.

“Why, the accounts lately have spoken of his being better; he has
seemed to rally a little since the death of his child, but those sort
of partial revivals are not uncommon in pulmonary complaints, and I
can not imagine that, ill as he has been, he has any real chance of
recovery.”

“I thought,” observed Hilary, “that it was doubtful whether his was a
pulmonary attack.”

“I believe one or two physicians pretended to doubt it,” replied
Isabel, a little impatiently; “but the most eminent declared it
hopeless, and no one could see him, I should suppose, and question his
having every appearance of a victim to consumption.”

“Can I not see Gwyneth?” continued Isabel, after a pause.

“I will try to find her if you will excuse me for a few minutes.”

Hilary had no little difficulty in persuading her sister to appear;
she made some excuses about business and unfitness of dress, but
finally yielded, with the air of one who resigns herself to walking to
the stake. Her heart revolted from meeting her successful rival, and
when she remembered the visits of former days, when her company had
been assiduously sought as a screen and an excuse for other
interviews, when she had been made so unconsciously to administer to
her rival’s objects, and her own disappointment, it did require no
small share of resolute fortitude to go through the ordeal before her.

It was borne, however, as many other trials had been borne, by putting
away thought and feeling, by avoiding to scan her own sensations, and
simply taking pains to do the present duty rightly; as a traveler
among precipices, on a narrow path, refuses to look down into the
unguarded gulf below him, and keeps his faculties steady, by engaging
every one in the task of setting the next footstep safely.

The next day, as Hilary was busily engrossed in writing, she thought
she heard a step behind her, and looking round, saw, to her surprise,
Dora Barham standing there alone.

Apparently she had just ridden over from the Abbey, but her hat was
thrown off, and her long hair was hanging somewhat disordered down her
pale cheeks, while she stood, with parted lips and fixed eye, and
hands half raised, as if hesitating whether to speak, or to retire.

“Dora, dear Dora!” said Hilary, holding out her hands. In another
moment Dora was in her arms, hiding her face upon her shoulder, and
sobbing out incoherent words of tenderness, sorrow, and self-reproach.
Her friend did not speak, but caressed her softly, and waited until
this ecstacy was over, well knowing, from experience, that Dora’s
moods were somewhat changeable.

At length she raised her head, and with downcast eyes, and tears
trembling on the lashes, she asked, in an agitated voice, “Oh, Hilary!
what do you think of me?”

“That you are very kind to come and see me, dear,” replied Mrs.
Hepburn, smiling gently.

“Ah, well! perhaps it is wisest to say nothing of the past, we will
talk of something else. This dear old place, this happy, happy room,
that beloved garden. Oh, Hilary, Hilary! my heart will break.”

“It is very painful to leave it,” replied Hilary; “it is always hard
to give up scenes to which the heart clings, and I understand Mr.
Ufford means to pull it all down, and build a new and larger vicarage.
He can hardly make it grand enough for your sister’s habits, without
making it too grand for the living.”

“I dare say not,” said Dora, abstractedly. “You have removed the
pictures?” Her eye had sought for one portrait which used to hang in
that room.

“Yes, most things are packed up, ready for removal: we go ourselves
very soon.”

“Ah, me! ah, me! and how is――how are your sailor friends?” Her cheeks
varied from red to white.

“Well, quite well.”

“Hilary!”

“Well, dear, what?”

“Tell me! oh, tell me!――in another week I may not ask, or even think
of him――tell me now in mercy――” she put her hand to her head.

“Yes, but what am I to tell you, Dora? he is well, quite well.”

“Tell me what he thinks of me; tell me or I shall go mad! Does he hate
me, despise me, as an idle, giddy, trifling coquette, a heartless,
ambitious girl, content to sell my hand and person? Does he not loath
me from his heart? He must, he can not help it.”

“No, indeed.”

“Has he mentioned my name to you? What did he say? What _could_ he say
but words of contempt and scorn!”

“No, neither contempt nor scorn; far from it he says. I will read you
what he says;” and turning to her desk, Hilary presently produced the
letter containing the allusions to Dora’s marriage. She read his
message, while Dora, listening, held her breath as if afraid to lose a
word.

“Good, noble, honorable Maurice, too good, too kind,” said she at
length, “happy, happy for you that you are not bound to so worthless,
so feeble a creature as I am! Ah! I am glad, glad, most glad that you
are not miserable. Read it again, Hilary, once more; or no, let me see
for once, only once, his blessed writing.” She caught the letter from
her friend, and began to read it herself. Mrs. Hepburn remonstrated,
but Dora held the letter with both hands, and read, eagerly devouring
the words with her eyes, and totally deaf to her companion’s voice.
Then, when she had done, she passionately kissed the paper, pressed it
to her heart, looked at it again; and again, with streaming eyes, put
her lips to the signature.

“Wretch, wretch that I am!” she cried, frantically; “oh, Hilary! I
shall die, my heart will break, I know I shall! I often have a burning
pain here in my bosom, or my head, which can not last; iron, flint,
granite, breaks or pulverizes; surely human life is not harder, not
more tenacious than those. Tell me, shall I not die?”

“Yes, Dora, one day; we must all die once: but death is a solemn
thing, not to be met unprepared; and these wild and passionate
expressions are not a fitting preparation for this great reality. Give
me back that letter.”

“No, let me keep it; it is mine, for me, concerns me most.”

“You must not, Dora; remember, you are to be another man’s wife next
week.”

“Next week! ah! when I am, I will send it to you; let me keep it now.”

“To keep it now ought not to be any object to you. Give it me back. If
you value it, you must not retain it; if you do not, you will not wish
to keep it.”

“Till the last――till my――my wedding-day!” said she with a ghastly
smile.

“If you wish for happiness, if you value peace, return it!”

“Happiness! Peace! we have long parted company――I lost them when the
_Erratic_ sailed; happiness, as the wife of a man who does not care
for me――for whom I have no regard; peace with a husband who weds me
while his heart is another’s, knowing, too, that mine is pre-engaged;
who seeks me from pique; whom I have accepted from cowardice. Yes,
ours will be a home of happiness and peace, the hearth of domestic
felicity, the very center of all true and happy virtues.”

“Dora! Dora! how can you talk so!” cried Hilary, shocked and dismayed.

“Talk! ask me how I can act so! what does talking signify! ah me!”

“But, Dora, is it possible that with such sentiments, such feelings,
you can be really going to marry? oh, think before you take an
irrevocable step; before you deceive yourself and him, too far!”

“I am not deceiving him, Hilary; he knows what he is about; come, I
will tell you all, only listen.”

She threw herself on the ground at her friend’s feet, her favorite
attitude, and poured out her story.

“We parted coldly, I was offended, vain, foolish thing! I
misunderstood the very devotion of his heart; then came Charles
Huyton, tempting me with wily words. I knew he did not love me. I knew
it was you he worshiped; I saw through his motive, and trusting that
he would himself weary of so unsuitable a union, I said yes! I was
mad――provoked; but I did not mean it, I thought I should have escaped.
But I knew not his resolution in evil; his stern purpose, his dark
determination; day after day have the toils closed round me; the net
in which I wound myself has entangled me more. I can not shake myself
free; he _will_ marry me; and I can not, dare not, say _no_. Oh,
Hilary! do you know his dark expression, did you ever see how his eyes
can glow and sparkle with gloomy fire? Once I did not dislike him; now
I dread him beyond measure, and compared with Maurice! don’t tell him
how miserable I am, it would make him sad; at least, not till it is
over! when I am dead, then, then, tell him that my heart was broken.
Ah, Hilary!”

“Dear Dora! what can I say to you? do not go on with this; not for
Maurice, not for his sake, but for your own. For your conscience, your
honor, your virtue, do not risk all by such a fatal step. Think,
pray――pray for strength, for light, for guidance, and stop before it
is too late.”

“Pray! what, when about to do what is so wrong?” murmured Dora; “would
such prayers be heard?”

“Yes; prayer to do better, to have grace to repent! prayer is always
heard.”

“Nay, then, I will pray for death! that would be the greatest boon to
me.”

“Dora, if you had stood as I so recently did by a death-bed, if you
had witnessed how solemn a thing it is to prepare to render up the
soul, how the weakness of the body prostrates the powers of the mind,
and how even the humblest, truest faith, does not exclude bitter
penitence for failings long past and errors known besides only to the
Great Creator, you would not, you could not, wish to rush unprepared
to such a solemn work as dying. Think, Dora, if after such a life as
my father’s, there was so much regret for misspent moments, such
humble acknowledgment of unfulfilled duties, think what it would be to
face our end, because we are too weak to suffer for the truth; what
madness to call on death to save us from earthly fears, and dare to
face our Judge, because we will not do our duty here, from dread of a
fellow-creature’s censure! oh, Dora, consider!”

“Tell me about your father, Hilary,” said Dora, in a broken voice, and
hiding her eyes against her friend’s knees; and Mrs. Hepburn thinking
that, perhaps, to turn her thoughts from herself might be useful,
related such particulars of Mr. Duncan’s death-bed as she believed
might soothe and interest her auditor. She was seriously alarmed for
Dora’s state of mind. There was a restlessness in her eyes, a nervous
twitching of her muscles, a variation in her complexion, and other
similar symptoms, which she thought indicated extreme mental
excitement; and her wildly variable manner, her sudden changes of
subject in conversation, and her extraordinary tones, confirmed these
fears. She appeared, so far as Hilary could judge, like one on the
brink of a violent fever; and the thought passed through her mind,
that, perhaps, the marriage she so deeply deprecated, might, after
all, be arrested by causes over which even Mr. Huyton had no control.

Dora sat for some time profoundly silent, and, except for the
occasional deep heaving of her breast, quite composed outwardly. At
length, when Mrs. Hepburn ceased speaking, she slowly rose, and after
kissing her two or three times, she walked away to the window, and
stood there looking out in silence. Then she said, but without turning
round:

“Hilary, if there is one person whose influence could induce Charles
Huyton to break off this hateful marriage, one who could soften his
heart, and lead him to have pity on me, on Maurice, on himself, it is
_you_. If you would intercede for us!”

“Dora,” said Hilary, hurriedly interrupting her, “you mistake; you are
not thinking of what you are saying. I can have no such power as you
suppose; and for me to interfere in any way with him, would be alike
useless and impossible. I can do you no good.”

“Ah, you do not know――his former feeling for you is still――”

“Hush, Dora; if former feeling for me exists, it is an insult and a
wrong to hear of it; an insult to me, a wrong to my husband. What
influence could the wife of Captain Hepburn exercise over the mind of
Mr. Huyton, in such a cause?”

“It might not be a wrong influence; I meant no harm! I know that,
though angry at your marriage, he still looks up to you, respects you,
esteems you above all other women; and a word from you, such as you
have spoken just now to me, would, perhaps, awaken him to a sense of
right and wrong, might arouse some remorse and repentance before it is
too late.”

“Dear Dora, I believe you to be most entirely mistaken; and even could
I with propriety speak, the opportunity may never occur, and your
conduct, your decision, ought not to depend upon the chance of my
speaking, or the possibility of my influencing him. Act for yourself;
follow your own sense of duty, and dare to be true even at last.”

Dora sighed heavily, and turned away. More Hilary said to the same
purpose, but in vain; Miss Barham continued uncertain and miserably
undecided, and when at length she quitted the Vicarage, it was with no
assurance that she would not, after all, pursue the dangerous road
that she was treading.

Her last words were:

“Oh, Hilary, why did you not love and marry him, then we might all
have been happy!”

The sisters’ residence at the Vicarage was rapidly drawing to a close.
A long farewell had been said to every well-known forest nook and
glade, each beloved haunt of bygone days; a sad leave had been taken
of each parishioner, each lowly friend and affectionate well-wisher,
many parting tokens had been humbly but kindly offered, from those who
had known them from childhood, or begged as precious memorials of the
late Vicar and his daughters, by the sorrowful parishioners, who still
grieved for their best friend. The last Sunday came, and they knelt
for the last time on the spot where for years their devotions had been
offered up. Every look was now a pain, every action almost caused a
pang, and both sisters ardently wished the time were come which should
put an end to the sorrowful dream in which they now seemed to move.
There was no outward demonstration of their grief, it wore the calm,
grave, torpid aspect, that a dull November day presents, when the sky
is all shrouded in a somber vail of gray, and the distant hills wear
the same heavy tint; while no wind moves through the half-bare trees,
or wakens the waters to life. Over such a scene silence and stillness
brood, the silence of death-like sleep, made only more apparent as the
soft rustle of a falling leaf catches the ear, or the eye is attracted
by its movement, as it calmly floats to the dull earth beneath.

The afternoon of Monday, the last afternoon they were to spend in
their old home, Hilary walked down alone to visit for the last time
the graves of those so dear to her, and look once more on the favorite
spot where many a peaceful hour had been spent.

She walked slowly and softly all round the western end of the church,
scanning its gray tower, and casting loving glances at each well-known
window. The workmen had not been there for several days, but their
poles and scaffolding encumbered the place, and spoke of decay and
change, of old things being replaced by new, of all passing away and
being forgotten in turn. Her mind went off to scenes where change is
unknown――where rust and moth do not invade――where decay comes
not――where, blessed thought! distance is not, separation can not
grieve, where there is no more sea! Her thoughts were with her husband
then, as she must, at least in idea, share all gentle, happy thoughts
with him; but her hopes were not bounded by earth; they had gone on
into futurity, and time seemed but an atom in space, while she gazed
on the vast prospect of eternity.

Slowly and softly she trod over the grass, among the graves of
hundreds who had loved, and suffered, and wept as she had, and then
lain down to sleep and be forgotten. She passed the northern transept,
and turning the corner, came forward, with inaudible footsteps, to the
eastern end. She was startled suddenly from her reveries, for there,
under the old lime-tree, whose yellow leaves now thickly strewed the
ground, stood one whom she little thought to see there at such a time;
Charles Huyton stood beside her father’s grave.

Roused by her footsteps, he looked up suddenly, and starting as he saw
her, he raised his hat, with an air of almost haughty defiance, but
stood still.

Old memories flashed thick and fast on each, as they stood there once
more together, and their eyes wandered away to the church-wall, and to
the Virginian creeper, whose long sprays still showed some crimson
leaves clinging to their parent stem, waiting their turn to fall to
rest. Then their looks met, and they each aroused themselves to speak.

“Mr. Huyton,” said she, advancing a step, “we are both changed since
we stood here once before; and after all that has passed, there is,
perhaps, no spot on earth so appropriate as this for us to part. Here,
by the grave of one who loved you, and whom I know you must have
esteemed and valued in return, let us bury all that may have caused
pain to either, and exchange a farewell and forgiveness together.”

“I do not agree with you,” replied he, coldly, and making no offer to
receive her hand; “it does not appear to me that any two people on
this earth can have less reason to wish to speak, or that a spot so
unfortunate for a meeting could be found.”

She was silenced for a time; he stood gloomily looking at her; at
length she said, very gently:

“We leave this place to-morrow morning, and I am come now to pay a
last, a final visit, to this solemn spot. Need I say more, or need I
ask you, as a gentleman, not to intrude on a seclusion so sacred; not
to persecute me here with unkind and unholy emotions!”

“Have I wronged you, Mrs. Hepburn, that you talk of forgiveness?” said
he, sternly.

“If _your_ conscience can acquit you, Mr. Huyton, it is not necessary
for me to recall unpleasant recollections. Do not let us discuss the
subject.”

“Forgiveness implies a sense of injury,” persisted he; “I have a right
to know how I have incurred the charge.”

“When we last parted,” said she, after a pause, looking at him with
gentle eyes, “you asked earnestly and urgently to be considered as my
friend. What have I done since, to cause this change in you; that now,
when we are parting, perhaps for ever, you will not say one kindly
word; will not bid me good speed, nor let me give you my good wishes?”

“If my memory serves me rightly, you refused those urgent entreaties,
you declined decidedly, the friendship which I offered. Am I to
conclude that your refusal was insincere, and that you wished to keep
me at your feet, even while you affected to repulse me?”

“You are cruelly unjust, Mr. Huyton,” was her answer; “I told you that
intercourse between us must cease, until――I am sure you must remember
the condition――nor have I even now, when that condition is about to be
fulfilled, the slightest wish to carry on the acquaintance; I only
asked for an exchange of parting words; and my only wish now is, that
you should leave me in peace. At least do not profane this spot with
bitter words. I pray Heaven to bless you, and lead you to true
happiness here and hereafter.”

“Yes, the condition _is_ about to be fulfilled,” repeated he, as if in
a dream; then starting, he said, with more animation; “and the
fulfillment of this condition then meets your entire approbation?”

He fixed his eyes on her with a piercing glance, under which she
shrank and colored. “The choice you would not make yourself, you
approve of for your friend, do you?”

“If you think you can make Dora happy, Mr. Huyton, if that is your
wish, your determination, all your friends and hers must approve of
your choice.”

“Happy!” repeated he, scornfully, “oh, yes! very happy; as happy as
she deserves, and you know how much that is. Tell me now truly,”
coming a step closer to her, “would you rather see the object of your
idolatry, of your passionate devotion, happy with another, forgetful
of your affection; or know her miserable, but constant at heart?”

“Real, devoted affection must wish its object to be happy; it is a
very selfish love which can endure no pleasure which it does not
share,” said she, gravely.

He seemed to be pondering her words, then answered: “That may be
woman’s love; a man’s is different. I do not believe the man exists
who would make such a choice.”

“I know you are mistaken,” she said, and her looks told him where her
thoughts had flown.

“Answer me one other question,” said he; “I know you can not choose
but answer sincerely. Tell me has my intended marriage occasioned you
either pain or pleasure?”

She hesitated. Dora’s wild words crossed her mind. Would her answer
have any influence on her friend’s fate? could it be that he regretted
the grief he had occasioned, and would repair it even now?

“Speak, I implore you,” added he, as she waited to consider.

“Would my reply make any difference in the result? would the knowledge
of my opinion influence your conduct?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Try,” said he; but it was with an expression of eye she did not like.

“No, I will not. I see no good could come of the answer!”

“Thank you, that is enough!” said he, with a bitter smile; “I know
that could Hilary Duncan have expressed any pleasure or even
unconcern, she would have done so at once; and I do not suppose Hilary
Hepburn is less sincere.”

She colored again, and after a momentary hesitation, she said: “I
believe you may be right in your inference, but the cause of the pain
must be unknown to you.”

“Is it? do not fear that I should attribute it to piqued feminine
vanity, or disappointment of selfish triumph, which would gladly
retain the love it does not return. I know you better than that. I
know that thoughts of self did not mingle with your pain; the
disappointment Dora’s marriage cost you, has but little to do with
mine.”

“Much of the disappointment I have felt, arises from regret, Mr.
Huyton; regret to see a mind formed for better things and nobler,
holier tempers, a mind which can appreciate the beautiful, the true,
the good, perverted by an unwise and ungoverned passion, till it could
stoop to malicious retaliation and mean revenge, for imaginary
injuries; to deception and hypocrisy to carry out its objects.
Whatever other sorrow I may have felt, my keenest has been to lose the
power of esteeming one whom I had known so long.” Tears started into
her eyes as she spoke, and she looked at him with an expression of
pity he found it hard to withstand. She thought she saw a wavering,
uncertain glance, and she hoped that, perhaps, even now he might
relent. She ventured to speak again.

“Forgive me for uttering what may seem harsh; my words were, perhaps,
too strong; but let me say one thing more. In three days you are, they
say, to give your hand to Dora Barham, and with your hand to promise
your love! Is it affection for her that actuates you? and shall you be
sincere in the vows you plight her? If not, what hope of happiness is
there for you or for her?”

“I neither know nor care,” replied he, hastily; “all I know is, that
Thursday I will wed Dora, and that no persuasion, no argument of
yours, shall move me from my purpose. No, Hilary! you were deaf to my
prayers, cold to my earnest love, you turned from me with
indifference, again and again. Now――” He did not finish his sentence,
but raising his hat from his forehead, he bowed low, and then strode
hastily away. Hilary sat down on the bench under the lime-tree, and
wept bitterly. It was long before she raised her head from her hands;
when she did, and looked round, twilight had fallen on the earth, and
her last day at Hurstdene had closed in.

Startled to find how late it was, she rose to return home, and with a
lingering glance at the swelling turf and white tombstones, she walked
toward the church-yard stile, her heart full of deep and holy
thoughts, of heavenly aspirations and hopes. Her mind was brought back
to present things by one of those rude contrasts which jar so
painfully at such a time, while they recall the sad reality of sin in
its coarsest aspect.

Lolling upon the stile over which she had to pass, she saw through the
gloom the figure of a man who, as well as she could judge, appeared to
be a stranger, perhaps a traveling peddler, for his pack was on the
wall beside him. He did not move as she approached, but seeing her, he
said, in a voice which betrayed that he had been drinking,

“A pleasant evening, my dear!”

Hilary felt alarmed for a moment; but she had the courage of a brave
woman, which, though it does not make her insensible to danger, even
in the moment of alarm leaves her the calm possession of her
faculties. She believed that to seem gravely self-possessed was the
best check to vulgar insolence; and remembering that there were
cottages close at hand, whose inmates she could summon by a cry, she
said, in a calm voice, which would have influenced a sober man
immediately――

“I will trouble you to allow me to pass, my good man.”

The ruffian, however, was insensible to the tone and manner of her
appeal, and only quitted his position to grasp her arm, swearing that
he always made a pretty girl pay toll.

Hilary started back, and raising her voice, called by name upon the
inhabitants of the nearest dwelling for assistance; but hardly had she
uttered a single cry when a strong arm was thrown round her waist, and
so powerful a blow at the same moment was discharged in the face of
her assailant, as leveled him to the ground. Half-lifted,
half-voluntarily springing over the stile, she found herself safe upon
the green, while Charles Huyton, whose arm had so opportunely defended
her, supported her in silence toward her home. At the same time other
steps were heard approaching, and the cottager on whom she had called,
hurried up to demand whether any thing were the matter.

Hilary paused, and though with some difficulty commanding her voice,
she replied,

“There is a man in the church-yard who has had a fall, Martin; go and
see if he is seriously hurt.”

“And tell him,” added Mr. Huyton, “that if he does not instantly
decamp, I will send a constable after him to-morrow, and punish him
for his conduct. The atrocious ruffian!” added he, in a lower voice,
which yet trembled with passion, “to dare to insult you with his
vulgar insolence. Thank Heaven that I was there to save you!”

Hilary could not answer for a little while; her nerves were unstrung,
and tears were following each other down her cheeks, choking her
voice, and agitating her whole person. They walked on for some yards
in silence; but by resolute efforts she so far conquered her emotion
as to be able to speak.

“I am much obliged to you; I need not detain you longer, I am quite
safe now!”

She would have drawn away her hand from under his arm, but he retained
it still, and finding he was resolved to accompany her, she seized the
opportunity to make one effort more.

“Mr. Huyton you are indignant at the man who, in his stupid,
half-insensible brutality, has just alarmed me by his coarseness; but
is it more inexcusable than the refined and considerate cruelty which
tortures the feelings and wrings the hearts of those who having never
offended, are yet sacrificed to the revengeful determination of
another?”

He made no answer at all; but she fancied, from the motion of the arm
on which she rested, that he was contending with suppressed agitation.
It was too dark to see his features distinctly.

“I know,” she continued, softly, “that you have good and noble
sentiments left in your heart; your interference for my rescue shows
that; your evil angel may whisper dark thoughts to you, but the
promptings of a better spirit are still heard; oh! listen, and yield
to it; and, not for my sake, but for your own, your happiness now, and
your welfare in eternity, banish revengeful thoughts; forgive _me_ for
the fancied injury which you resent, and make poor Dora happy!”

They had reached the wicket gate. She paused, and held out her hand.

“Say one kind farewell, and let us part as friends!”

He grasped her hand so firmly as almost to cause unbearable pain,
hesitated, and then said in a wild tone,

“No――no, I have sworn, and will not falter from my word;” and throwing
her hand from him, he rushed rapidly away.




CHAPTER XXII.

  “Or perchance has her young heart
  Felt already some deeper smart
  Of those that in secret her heart-strings rive,
  Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair.”
                                                 ISEULT OF BRITTANY.


Wearied in body, and exhausted in mind, Hilary entered the house with
slow and lingering steps. Gwyneth met her in the vestibule with an
exclamation of――

“How late you are, Hilary!”

“Yes,” replied the latter, looking fixedly at her sister. “What is the
matter, dear?”

She saw, by the glow in Gwyneth’s eyes, and the deadly whiteness of
her cheeks, which looked like marble by lamplight, that something had
occurred to stir her feelings. Gwyneth laid her finger on her lips,
and then whispered, as she motioned to the drawing-room door,

“Mr. Ufford has been waiting for a long time to say good-by.”

They entered the sitting-room together. Mr. Ufford was standing by the
chimney in a fit of abstraction apparently, turning over the leaves of
a small prayer-book belonging to Miss Duncan, which he had found on
the table. They had, as I have said, seen but little of each other
since the late vicar’s death. He was devoted to his visits at the
Abbey, which every week had seemed to engross him more and more, while
the curate, whom he had engaged as soon as he had the power to do so,
had taken almost the entire charge of the parish. Excepting chance
meetings, therefore, their interviews had been few and short; but now
he had called to say a last farewell.

Rousing himself when he saw the sisters enter, he tried to say
something kind and friendly, but his words came stiffly and
unwillingly; and his sentences, instead of flowing with their usual
ready freedom, broke down generally in the middle. Hilary was sorry
for him; more so, perhaps, than he deserved, but she did not study to
suit her commisseration exactly to his merits; she helped him all she
could, by ready politeness, and a free, disengaged air; turning the
conversation, so far as was in her power, to safe topics, unconnected
with sentiment or feeling. She told him that they had already engaged
a house near Southampton, situated, as they understood, on the borders
of some forest land; that Mrs. Lawrence, Sybil’s sister-in-law, had
been most kind in superintending the arrangements; that Sybil herself
had been down there to see that all was ready, and that they expected,
therefore, to find the house perfectly habitable on their arrival.

Mr. Ufford expressed the warmest satisfaction at this intelligence. He
was delighted to think that they would have friends in their new home.
Then he looked round the room, where he had spent so many hours, and
inquired if they were not going to have a sale of the furniture.

It was, perhaps, fortunate for the composure of the sisters, if not
creditable to the feelings of the gentleman, that this question was
put in so matter-of-fact a way. It had been a sore trial to them, only
to think of parting with the loved old furniture, companions of
childhood, witnesses of their former life, bound to their affections
by so many ties of association. Scarcely a chair but was filled by the
shadowy memory of some well-known form, or a table but was connected
with some of their daily habits. It had been a struggle to resolve to
part with any thing; but prudence and justice prevailed over
inclination. Much of it, such as side-boards, cabinets, and
book-cases, were extremely heavy, and though old-fashioned, was
valuable from the beauty of the time-stained wood. All these had been
readily purchased by a cabinet-maker of the next town; and as Maurice
had given the whole furniture to his two youngest sisters, the value
of these articles made no inconsiderable addition to their very
moderate portions. Still it was a painful subject, especially to
Gwyneth, and perhaps, had the visitor evinced a shadow of sympathy in
his tone, her composure would at that moment have given way.

He spoke, however, in a voice as indifferent as if he had been merely
discussing the renunciation of a worn-out garment, and his companions
felt at the moment almost surprised at caring so much for what ought
to be so easy, and nearly convinced that it was the simplest affair in
the world to break off half the ties and reminiscences of a life-time.

Hilary answered that the sale was to take place next week; whereupon
he observed that he should then probably be at Paris, as he and Miss
Barham had agreed to pass through France, intending to go by way of
Marseilles to Italy, and to spend great part of the winter at Naples,
with Lord Dunsmore. Accounts from him continued very variable, and it
was his uncertain state that made them desirous to have the wedding a
quiet one.

Hilary was surprised. “A quiet wedding!” thought she; “I wonder what
they would have had.” She had heard of guests to the number nearly of
a hundred expected at church: she had heard of feasting of the
tenantry, and ale and bonfires, garlands, and flower-strewing,
processions of children in new frocks and bonnets, and other gayeties,
which Isabel seemed indefatigable in planning in the most poetical
style, and arranging in the most symmetrical manner. It seemed very
right and suitable for those in the rank and station of Mr. Barham’s
daughters; perfectly consistent with their future expectations also,
for they were co-heiresses of a large property, and held a leading
position among the county society. Mrs. Hepburn had not a word to say
against the facts, but it amazed her to hear such proceedings styled
“quietness;” so she contented herself with observing that she had no
doubt but that it would all be extremely elegant, and kept her other
opinions to herself.

Mr. Ufford seemed to take for granted that his auditors felt a strong
interest in his proceedings, and accordingly conversed for some time
with fluency on his bride’s various plans; but at length, remembering
that he must go home, he took leave, with sundry good wishes for their
welfare, and a kindness of manner which would have been very pleasing,
had there been no private unacknowledged feelings to turn it into
pain.

Gwyneth, whose face looked in a white heat, perfectly intelligible to
those who knew her well, watched him out of the room, and listened for
the closing of the house-door, then turning away, she murmured, with a
sigh of relief, “To-morrow.”

The morrow came, and early in the dull morning the sisters,
accompanied by one attached domestic, who had lived with them from
girlhood, when she waited on Hilary’s mother, and was now an active
and respectable woman, a little above forty, set off on their journey
to meet some branch of the complicated iron framework which ramifies
so widely through our land, and which, after a due number of changes,
a sufficient degree of waiting at some stations, hurry at others, and
misunderstanding at all, of trouble, of anxiety, and of delay, landed
them safely within as short a distance of their future home as they
could hope to attain.

Mrs. Lawrence kindly met them at the station, and her carriage
conveyed the somewhat dispirited and weary travelers from thence to
their new abode. It had been a mournful day, and one which required
every support that trusting love and humble faith could afford, not to
overpower composure. After catching the last glimpse of those dear old
trees, Gwyneth had drawn down her thick crape vail, and long after
that time no unnecessary word had passed her lips; but whether she
were crying or not her sister could not tell.

Hilary had so many important trifles to attend to that she could not
give her mind wholly to thought or feeling, and for some time she
scarcely realized what had occurred. Still, in those periods of
tranquillity which intervened, when she could think composedly, there
was ever a light rising up clear and pure, although distant far, which
brightened the gloom of her prospects, and prevented her being
overwhelmed with sorrow. Hurstdene was not to her the whole world, as
it was to Gwyneth; and though tender remembrances and buried
affections must hover round the graves of the dear ones lying there,
her heart was not at the Vicarage now: the tie that had bound her was
broken, and another and a stronger bore her on in hope. It was her
husband’s wish she was fulfilling, and she felt as if, now that she
was brought more entirely to depend on him, they were more closely
united than ever. She might now give him the first claim on her
thoughts, which before had been shared with her father; and though
hardly yet accustomed to the void which their recent and great loss
had occasioned, she had hope and tender love to fill it up. Every step
seemed to bring her nearer to her husband, since every step was in
obedience to him, and although the parting from her old home had been
a bitter effort, she was able to throw her mind forward, with some
degree of cheerfulness, to the future.

And more than all the earthly love which brightened her path was that
high and holy, that deeply reverent affection, of which conjugal union
is but a type and an emblem; that trust and simple faith which can
always support the most lonely, and soothe the most sad.

“Yes,” thought she, “if it is so easy to do my husband’s bidding, and
follow his guidance, how much more easy, how infinitely more sweet
ought it to be to submit to the Hand which can not err, to trust to
the Eye which never closes, to obey the Will which has surely promised
good to those who humbly wait on it; only let me stay myself on that
great support, and all will be, all must be well at last.”

And so she charmed to rest her mournful thoughts, and took readily and
thankfully the good which still surrounded her. In imagination, she
scanned what her future occupation might be, and half wondered what
work would arise to fill the place of those happy labors which had
formerly engaged her. The education of her youngest sister would, of
course, be her principal occupation, that would supply employment for
many hours; but there must be other duties also to be discovered and
followed up; doubtless they would show themselves in time; and though
her work might not be so obviously laid before her as in her own home
and former situation, she believed that if she faithfully followed the
most apparent duty, and did her best in that, others would present
themselves in time, and make good their claim on her attention, even
as you may reach the extremity of the longest chain, if you have once
secured the first link.

It was from meditations such as these that she was roused by their
arrival at their destination; and she was able to come back from them
with cheerfulness, to greet the kind and thoughtful stranger who had
taken such pains to show them friendly feeling and good will. Mrs.
Lawrence did not enter with them their new residence; she judged that
the sisters would be glad to rest, without feeling constrained to
exercise civility; she therefore left them at the door, with a promise
to see them to-morrow, and trusting they would find all right, she
departed. Hilary took Gwyneth under the arm, and they walked in
together, leaving the two maids to arrange the trunks, while they took
the first view of their new home.

Small it was, but very comfortable, and the furniture had been
arranged by tasteful and loving hands. On the table stood the
tea-service just ready for the weary travelers, and on the cheerful
fire bubbled and hissed the little kettle. Flowers were in the vases
too, and the sofa was wheeled up exactly at the most comfortable
angle, while their books, and some well-known drawings of Sybil’s own,
prettily framed, completed the pleasant aspect of their room, and
spoke audibly of love and remembrance.

Gwyneth looked round for a moment, then, with a sigh, she threw off
her bonnet and cloak, and sinking on the sofa, buried her face in the
cushions. Hilary took in at a glance all that it was intended she
should read there, the gentle thoughts, the sisterly zeal, the
kindly-meant attention, and refreshed and strengthened as she drank in
such pleasant feelings, she turned her eyes on Gwyneth.

There was that in her attitude which told of utter prostration, both
bodily and mental, which showed that the spring which had moved her
hitherto had lost its power, and that her energies were now suffering
a collapse as entire as their former strained motions had been
unnatural. Hilary went round to the back of the sofa, and stooping,
kissed her cheek with gentle love. That soft touch overpowered
Gwyneth; her resolution to conceal her emotions at all hazards gave
way; her customary reserve thawed, and she burst into an agony of
tears, startling and alarming from their vehemence.

But Hilary felt that even this storm was better than the smothered
fire which had for weeks past been burning up her sister’s heart, and
consuming her life by a slow torture, so she rather encouraged than
attempted to stop its progress; by kind caresses and gentle words of
endearment, she increased the flow of feeling for a time, that so the
source of grief being dried by exhaustion, a real and permanent calm
might be the result.

Gwyneth wept till she had no power to shed tears; and when her
mourning hushed itself into a quiet, low sob at intervals, and she was
able to listen, her sister spoke.

“Dear Gwyneth! this is my fault; your sorrow comes of me, my
carelessness; ah, how ill I have fulfilled my charge.”

“Your fault!” cried Gwyneth, “how? you are not to blame for the fickle
temper and the hollow friendship which have cost me so dear. I shall
be better now; this is the last moment I shall give to regret;
to-morrow I will begin a new life.”

“Then I hope that will in part consist, dear Gwyneth, in letting me
know and share your feelings. Do not fear that I shall encourage you
to weak expressions of regret for the inevitable past, only do not
shut yourself up in that frozen reserve.”

“Am I reserved? am I cold to you, Hilary? I did not mean it. But to
talk of the past can do no good. I would rather forget it altogether.”

“If you can: whatever leads to discontent, you ought to forget.”

“So I will: Hilary, I was deceived in him and in her. She has been
treacherous, and he was――ah, I can not tell you what he was to me. I
thought him all but perfect, and now――” she hid her face again.

“He has much which might have been good in him,” said Hilary, gravely;
“much which steady principle would have brought to rich fruit; but his
character is marred by his visionary turn of mind; his want of
practical, hard-working earnestness, and, too, his high thoughts of
himself. He spends his life in dreams of good, and disgust at the
faults of others. But he does nothing to remedy the evils which
disturb him.”

“You have been disappointed in him, too, Hilary; I have seen it long.”

“I have. I doubt whether Isabel will make him happy; but it is his own
choice.”

“No, it is hers, Hilary; she had set her mind on it. I have been their
plaything, but I will not be their victim. He will never know what he
has cost me.”

“You must not dwell on thoughts of injury or unkindness done you,
Gwyneth. Second causes must be forgotten, if you wish to forgive. I
was highly imprudent in allowing so much intercourse, and shall not
cease to blame myself as the cause of your sorrow.”

“No, you have done nothing to blame yourself for, dear Hilary. The
past is gone――let it go. Hope for this world, and love, with its
bright fancies, and all the youthful visions in which I once indulged,
have been dissipated forever. Henceforth my life will be one of quiet
devotion, and charitable exertion, and such other occupation as may
suit a calm and contemplative existence. To marriage and all its
attendant joys and sorrows, I have said farewell forever. For you and
Nest, all my cares shall be; and my hopes shall be fixed on an
immovable futurity. We will never mention this subject again.”

But Gwyneth’s frame was not equal to her resolution; Nature would have
its way, and the long-continued exertion, followed by a sudden
relaxation of the strain, told now in a severe attack of nervous
fever, which prostrated her for many weeks.

Hilary’s first work in her new home was that of sick nurse to her
sister.

Languid and restless, too weak for exertion, and too excited for
repose, Gwyneth saw the day arrive which she knew was to unite her
cold-hearted and successful rival to the man she once believed
attached to herself. She could not turn her thoughts from what she
supposed to be then taking place at Drewhurst, and her imagination,
morbidly active from her illness, presented to her mind the whole
scene. She saw the picturesque park, with its ancient avenues and
groves, glowing in the sunshine of a fine autumnal day; every leaf
tinted by the early frost, which had changed the hue of the foliage
while yet thick, and given the most glorious shades of orange, gold,
and pale lemon, to the majestic oaks and beeches.

So had looked her native woods, as they last met her gaze, and the
picture dwelt in her mind. Then she fancied the assembled friends, the
gay groups of patrician beauty, the humbler concourse of tenantry and
laborers; she seemed to see the broadly-smiling faces of the merry
throng, to hear their joyful shouts, their clamorous good-wishes for
their young ladies’ welfare. She pictured those two fair girls, in all
their bridal splendor, flushed with triumph, or coloring with bashful
feeling; she saw the bridegrooms standing by their side, she heard the
words pronounced which decided their future life’s history; she
followed in imagination to the banquet, she listened to the speeches
of congratulation; she saw Isabel’s proud bearing, and unwavering
self-possession, as she passed from her father’s halls, amid admiring
guests and shouting dependants; she saw her enter the carriage, whose
four noble horses stood prancing at the door, half startled by the
bustling throng; she saw her wave a graceful farewell to the
crowd――and then she started with a sigh, to awake to the consciousness
of her own quiet room, its simple furniture and cheerful aspect, and
Hilary’s soft voice and tender hand, presenting to her the draught
which it was needful she should take.

Yet when her head was again laid upon the pillow, the same vision
returned, still the sound of wedding bells seemed to float in her
ears, the shouts of the crowd seemed to ring around her, and the
flutter of bridal robes and bridal vails seemed ever wavering before
her eyes. She did not know that they were the idle visions of a fever
which so distressed her; but in her weak and nervous state, she almost
fancied herself endowed with some preternatural sense; she believed
herself the victim of some strange power of _clairvoyance_, and could
not distinguish, in her languid condition, truth from error, reality
from fancy.

Several days passed, and Hilary felt half inclined to wonder that she
had not heard from Dora. Her friend still had possession of the letter
from Maurice, on which she had so resolutely seized, but she had
repeatedly promised to return it on her wedding-day, and the arrival
of that letter had been looked for as a token that the sacrifice was
complete. Why did it not come? Had her resolution failed her at last,
and was she weakly unwilling to resign a memento which she had now no
right to retain? Or had any circumstance occurred to delay or prevent
this unwilling and unpropitious union? The former seemed most
probable, and Hilary blamed herself again and again, for having done
what she really could not help, but which she felt now as if she ought
to have prevented.

One morning, it was at least a week after the day fixed on for the
double wedding, the letter arrived; but it was not Dora’s hand which
had directed the envelop, and there was also a note inclosed for
herself: she read it hastily.

     “MY DEAR MRS. HEPBURN,

     “You have, no doubt, heard of the strange and unexpected
     calamity with which it has pleased Providence to visit my
     household. Great as the trial is, I am thankful to say my
     daughter Isabel is supported under it wonderfully, and the
     poor sufferer herself is making slow progress to bodily
     health. The inclosed portion of a letter, I imagine, belongs
     to you: as there was no address, I had no idea, until
     perusing it, what it was; though it appeared to have much
     mysterious connection with the sad event I have referred to.
     It has, however, furnished some clew to the melancholy
     catastrophe; but permit a most unfortunate parent to express
     his regret that it should have come into her hands; and in
     addition to say, that though highly applauding your
     brother’s fine sense of honor, I must consider it most
     lamentable that he should have scrupled to make known his
     views and wishes to me, now that the result has been so
     disastrous; it is evident that the struggle between duty and
     feeling has been too much for my daughter’s tender frame;
     had I been aware how the case stood, or at all foreseen such
     a conclusion, my conduct would have been (as that indeed, of
     any affectionate father would be) extremely different.
     Trusting that you and your family are in good health, in
     which wishes my eldest daughter joins,

          “Believe me,” etc. etc.

Hilary’s astonishment and alarm at the receipt of this letter were
very great, almost overpowering her self-command. What awful event,
what terrible catastrophe had occurred to Dora, so to humble Mr.
Barham’s tone, so to affect his mind, as that he would have preferred
encouraging Maurice’s suit could he have foreseen the result? The most
fearful ideas entered her mind, and she could hardly sufficiently
abstract her thoughts from this perplexing and agitating subject, to
attend to the wants of her sister, whose state of weakness required
the most incessant care.

Had the marriage really taken place; why was Isabel still then at the
Abbey? where was Mr. Huyton or Mr. Ufford? what had Dora done? it was
all perplexity, darkness, and fear. Her only resource was to answer
Mr. Barham’s letter by a simple acknowledgment that she had heard
nothing of the events at Drewhurst Abbey, and would be grateful for
intelligence concerning her friends. “I have deeply regretted,” she
continued, “that my brother’s letter accidentally met your daughter’s
sight. The difference in rank and fortune between him and a Miss
Barham, in his opinion, placed an almost insuperable barrier between
them; the attachment which he could not avoid feeling, he endeavored
to subdue or control; and as she refused to allow him to refer the
matter to you, they parted with no expectation on his side of meeting
again. His own present happiness has been sacrificed to a purely
unselfish desire for her best good; and if he has been mistaken, I am
sure it will increase to an inexpressible amount the sorrow he has
already experienced.”

So wrote Hilary, anxious to state the truth, fearful of compromising
Dora, ignorant of what had happened, and thoroughly alarmed and
distressed by what she dreaded to hear.

Isabel replied to her letter, and gave all the explanation in her
power. Hilary knew the rest, better even than her correspondent did!

Very different, in truth, had been the scene at the Abbey, from what
Gwyneth’s imagination had depicted. The ceremony had, indeed, been
gone through, and Isabel herself did not seem more composed and calm
than her younger sister; Dora’s pretty face was white as her vail and
robe, but scarcely an eyelash quivered, and her voice, though low, was
steady. Kisses and congratulations she bore with perfect
self-possession, she graced the breakfast-table with her presence, and
went through its ceremonies as if they concerned her not; but when the
moment came for rising from the feast, she trembled visibly, uttered
one piercing scream, and pressing her hand to her head, she sank down
insensible. Her husband caught and supported the death-like figure,
and would not resign the charge. She was carried by him to her room;
no one dared to dispute a right to attend her, which he fiercely
asserted; he continued by her side, and when she opened her eyes they
fell immediately on his gloomy countenance. The effect was
unfortunate; she was attacked at once by terrible hysterical
convulsions, repulsing him with evident horror, raving at intervals,
wildly and incoherently, of strange and alarming topics, and calling
for Hilary Hepburn, in piercing tones.

The greatest fear was entertained by the doctor, who was summoned, of
the result; he declared that unless she could be calmed, reason, if
not life, might be the forfeit, and insisted upon every thing in the
slightest degree connected with the late ceremony, being removed from
her sight. Gradually her fits subsided, and she sank into a state of
torpor, supposed by her attendants to be sleep.

This alarming event, of course, delayed the departure of Mrs. Ufford,
who could not quit the house, with her sister in that state; and while
the rest of the guests took a sorrowful leave, Mr. Barham, his
daughter, and son-in-law, endeavored to console each other in their
mournful terror.

Charles Huyton, yielding to the solicitations of the doctors, agreed
to banish himself to “the Ferns” for the present, lest some unlucky
circumstance should reveal his presence to his distracted bride, and
so bring on a relapse.

“When Mrs. Ufford entered her sister’s apartment the next morning, the
attendant told her, in a whisper, that the patient slept. Then, in an
unadvised moment, she added:

“We found this letter yesterday, in the bosom of Mrs. Huyton’s gown;
had you not better take care of it, madam?”

It was an unfortunate whisper; Dora was not sleeping, only lying in a
half-unconscious, dreamy state of exhaustion; but the mention of her
hated name, the allusion to that too-dearly valued letter, roused
every emotion again, and a terrible scene ensued. Her fearful screams
brought her father and the medical attendants, but it was too late,
the sudden shock had quite overset her reason; and from that time she
had continued for several days, alternately raving wildly of the
letter and of Maurice, or bewailing distractedly over her broken
faith. That she was in the worst access of a terrible brain fever was
their only hope; it was possible that could that be subdued all would
yet be well.

The unfortunate letter had been placed in Mr. Barham’s hands, and he
began to examine it, under the idea that it had been addressed to Dora
herself. He had previously entertained occasional misgivings as to his
daughter’s feelings; he had once or twice fancied she entertained a
preference for the young lieutenant; but pride would not listen to the
notion, and her ready acceptance of Mr. Huyton’s addresses had, for a
time, relieved him from alarm. On Dora’s return home, however, still
graver doubts had risen; her manners to Mr. Huyton were of a kind
which spoke of indifference, if not dislike; and there was so entire
an absence of confidence between the two, such coldness in the
gentleman, such waywardness in the lady, so little interest or concern
for each other, that he had often feared a violent and complete
rupture would be the result. Mr. Barham had thought himself a happy
man when, the marriage writings having been signed, the young couple
had turned away from church united for life. Such is happiness based
on a worldly fabric; such are human calculations, human foresight.

Now he would have given any thing to cancel the ceremony, could he by
that means have recalled his daughter’s reason, and insured her life.
Now he fancied that had he known of her prior attachment, he would
gladly have gratified it; and struggled to believe that he would have
really bestowed her hand and fortune on Mr. Duncan, had he been aware
how deeply her happiness was concerned. Vain self-delusion; indulged
in only to palliate, to his own reproachful conscience, the fact that
he had never consulted her feelings, or really considered her
happiness. It was easy to say what he would have done under
circumstances which had not happened, and not very difficult to
persuade himself that had Maurice made formal proposals for his
daughter’s hand, he would have been listened to with ready
acquiescence, and not rejected with polite contempt.

Days rolled heavily on, and brought no change for the better. The
fever gradually subsiding, left the unhappy bride weak as an infant,
in body, and little stronger in mind. Her intellect seemed lost
entirely, and it became an anxious question, whether returning
strength would bring back memory and reason, or whether every faculty
of the mind had been for ever annihilated in the struggle she had
undergone.

Hilary’s sorrow was intense when she heard this sad narrative. Oh! the
misery that pride and passion, that weakness and want of principle,
that sin, in short, brings into this world. What a wreck had Charles
Huyton’s wicked vehemence occasioned! How mournful that such suffering
should be brought on others by the willful folly and self-love of one.
No doubt good would arise in some inexplicable way from all this
fearful train of sorrow and pain: no doubt, to those who received it
humbly and faithfully, even this terrible event might prove a
blessing. Still it was awful and almost overpowering, filling all
those concerned with sadness and distress; and turning to bitter
mourning an event which had been expected to make them glad.

Oh! how she thanked Heaven that Gwyneth’s sufferings were of a lighter
kind, that her illness was so far more hopeful; that her mind was so
humbled and purified by her trial.

“I do not deserve to be so waited on,” said Gwyneth, in return for her
sister’s care. “I am not worthy of giving so much trouble; you are too
good to me, dear Hilary!” And her only care then seemed to be to
lessen her sister’s fatigue, and repress all symptoms of suffering
which might distress her. And days increased to weeks, and she began
gradually to amend; her strength slowly returned; her appetite, her
spirits improved. She had laid down her disappointment and regret on
her sick bed: she did not resume them when her powers of mind
returned.

The autumn had found her a romantic and heart-broken girl; the spring
left her a sober, thoughtful, and yet cheerfully-active woman.

One day very early in the spring, before Gwyneth’s eyes had yet lost
their languor, her cheeks the pallid hue of sickness, and her
attenuated figure had acquired its former elasticity and vigor, they
had a visitor at their house, who, of all their former acquaintance,
they perhaps least expected to see again. This was no other than Lord
Dunsmore, who, instead of dying in Italy, as his friends had
anticipated, had entirely recovered and returned to England.

Those were right who said that his disease had nothing to do with the
lungs; his lordship was now in the enjoyment of good health, with no
other remains of his former illness than a slight degree of pallor
which suited well with the refined and aristocratic style of his
countenance; it gave him an interesting appearance, which
distinguished him at once among the many coarsely-colored complexions,
thick features, and dumpy figures, so prevalent among Englishmen of
plebeian birth.

How Mrs. James Ufford had borne the recovery of her husband’s elder
brother, the sisters did not know: people do not like to have their
predictions falsified, and Isabel had confidently expected that he
would die; but, as she had never even mentioned the subject of his
return to Hilary in a very recent letter, they were only able to draw
what conclusions they thought most probable from her silence.

Lord Dunsmore told them he was settled at Southampton for a few weeks,
for the accommodation of yachting, which he intended to pursue as soon
as the weather permitted, and he hoped during that time Mrs. Hepburn
would allow him occasionally to visit at her house. He looked with
great interest at the traces of recent illness on Gwyneth’s face, and
on her leaving the room he inquired with a degree of particularity as
to the commencement, the duration, and the cause of her loss of
health, that compelled Hilary to own it was sorrow and over-exertion
which had been the origin of her nervous attack.

Lord Dunsmore made no further comment on that topic; but observed,
that of all remedies for such complaints, sea-air was the most
efficacious; and he hoped Mrs. Hepburn and Miss Duncan would try what
effect a few excursions in his yacht would have toward bringing back
the color to her cheek, and the symmetry to her figure, which he had
once before so much admired. Hilary smiled at what she considered an
idle compliment, and let the matter drop.

With a little hesitation of manner, he then mentioned that he had been
to Hurstdene; he was almost afraid to enter on the topic; but Hilary
was not overpowered by the reference, and gladly questioned him of her
old home and neighborhood. He told her all by degrees.

The Vicarage had been entirely pulled down, and a modern house was now
erecting on the spot; why, Lord Dunsmore said he could not imagine, he
was sure his sister-in-law would never live there when it was built;
she would not like to give up the importance of being mistress of the
Abbey; which eventually would, in all probability, be her own
property.

He paused, and a shadow passed over his face. “Poor Dora!” sighed he,
presently. She looked up at him, and then averted her eyes; but he
read the glance.

“No, I do not need your pity, Mrs. Hepburn,” said he, with a half
smile, and then immediately resuming his grave and feeling air; “the
sentiments which would have given me a personal interest in her
melancholy fate, died out long ago. Before I went to Italy you must
have seen that I was cured of that complaint. No one with an ordinary
human heart can do otherwise than pity a creature so young, so fair,
so interesting, struck down by such a fearful blow; but I have no
regret for her which the wife of Charles Huyton might not justly
inspire.”

He went on to describe her condition as he had learned it from his
brother. She was usually calm and quiet, in tolerable health,
sometimes sunk in the profoundest melancholy, sometimes showing the
indifference and carelessness of a child; but memory seemed completely
gone; she was subject to the strangest vagaries of fancy, and though
generally gentle and obedient, occasionally betraying a violence at
contradiction which proved she was not to be trusted. They talked of
removing her in the spring, and trying the effect of traveling and
change of air; her husband, who was strictly prohibited her sight, was
gone abroad already; her maiden name alone was used to her, and not
the slightest allusion suffered to remind her of her marriage or
preceding history. Her favorite companion was the lady who had
formerly been her governess, in whose presence she seemed to feel
herself once more a happy child.

Hilary shed many tears over the melancholy fate of one whom she had so
greatly loved, and Lord Dunsmore himself could not detail the
particulars without emotion. He told her that Isabel was become an
object of extreme aversion to her sister, who was, however, very fond
of her father, and her aunt, Lady Margaret.

“And poor Mrs. Ufford must feel it so much,” observed Hilary.

“Isabel is so accustomed to hide her feelings, if she has any,” said
he, quietly, “that one can hardly tell. Mr. Huyton’s conduct surprises
me most.”

Mrs. Hepburn looked up quickly.

“He absolutely and most vehemently refused to have any measures taken
to pronounce the ceremony void, which, under the circumstances, the
father wished to adopt. He declares that the insanity is simply the
effect of fever ensuing after the marriage; that she was completely in
her right mind at the time; and that should she recover, of which he
professes to entertain the strongest hopes, she is still his wife. It
was with difficulty that her father persuaded him to leave her in his
keeping, but I believe every expense of her separate establishment is
defrayed by himself, and he seems wildly anxious to assert his title
as her husband, and proper guardian, wherever the opportunity offers.
Yet the physicians unanimously declare that in her present state, to
meet might be to hazard her life, and would, at least, in all human
probability bring on a hopeless relapse.”

Hilary was silent, but her features told of a strong mental emotion,
with difficulty subdued.

“For my part,” continued Lord Dunsmore, “I look on him as little less
insane than his unhappy wife, and can not help fearing but that some
day he will prove even more so.”

Hilary heard Gwyneth’s step on the stairs, and had only time to give
her companion a hasty caution to avoid the subject, when her two
sisters entered together.

Their visitor seemed so little anxious to go away, and altogether
remained so sociably with them, that Mrs. Hepburn could not avoid
asking him to join their early dinner; which he agreed to with an
alacrity that bespoke either a good disposition for their society, or
a good appetite for his meal. Nest had a hundred questions to ask him
about Hurstdene, when she learned he had been there recently; and his
replies were so interesting, that even Gwyneth was drawn into the
conversation, and found herself inquiring about old friends and old
haunts, although, theoretically, she would have concluded that it was
a subject she could not approach.

From that day Lord Dunsmore often was their guest; their little house
and modest establishment seemed to have peculiar attractions for him;
and he was continually doing something to show his concern for
Gwyneth’s delicate health, and to expedite her recovery.

He was most anxious that they should take advantage of his carriage,
horses, and servants, which he declared were idling away in
uselessness, as he never wanted them; he made his sister-in-law, Lady
Rupert, who was staying with him, call repeatedly to carry them out
for drives in the country; he induced them, as the weather grew
warmer, to make excursions in his yacht, and in many other ways
testified his friendly feeling toward them.

Best and most delightful of all, he one day brought them news of their
brother’s promotion, a circumstance which, as he was not appointed to
any ship, would probably bring him home in less than a month.

He did not say that it was his interest which had procured the step,
but the sisters felt that it was, and thought that they had good
reason to be grateful.




CHAPTER XXIII.

  “Hear the loud alarum bells――
          Brazen bells!
  What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
      In the startled ear of night,
      How they scream out their affright!
      Too much horrified to speak,
      They can only shriek, shriek,
          Out of tune,
  In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire――
  In a mad expostulation to the deaf and frantic fire;
  Leaping higher, higher, higher,
  With a desperate desire.”
                                                      EDGAR POE.


The long northern winter had nearly passed, and the breaking up of the
cold weather was daily expected at Halifax. To the fair Haligonians
themselves this season had been one of unusual enjoyment and gayety,
for more than one British ship had, during this time, visited them,
and the _Erratic_ had passed the whole period in their harbor. The
political disturbances which had made this arrangement advisable need
not here be detailed; they have nothing to do with my story, and did
not in the least interfere to stop the festive meetings, in which
those far-famed belles are said to delight, while they added to their
parties the unusual presence of merry young naval officers, always
eager to assist by their company in social amusements.

It was true that the captain of the _Erratic_ was married, and
therefore uninteresting; the first lieutenant, too, was so grave and
reserved, that, though interesting, he was inaccessible. It was
whispered that he had been crossed in love, and was not to be consoled
by any of the fair young beings, who, in their warm compassion, would
readily have undertaken that task. But though disconsolate, he was not
ill-natured; he was always ready to accommodate more happy individuals
by exchanging duties, or such other kindnesses as were required, so
that all agreed that Duncan was the best fellow in the world.

It was evening, a social party surrounded the Governor’s table, among
whom sat Captain Hepburn, who was a special favorite there. Suddenly
the alarm of fire in the town was raised, no uncommon event when
nearly the whole of the buildings were of wood. But there was on this
occasion apparently more danger, or more fear than usual; the sounds
of the uproar reached the dining-room, where Sir Charles was
entertaining his guests; and in a few minutes the table was deserted,
the whole party of gentlemen sallying forth to see what was going on.

There was reason for the outcry. The dark canopy of heavy smoke,
reddened up to the zenith by the reflection of the fire; the crackling
long tongues of fierce flames, which shot up high above the roofs, and
leaping madly off, like disembodied spirits for a moment visible,
ascended to the sky; the loud pealing of the startling alarum; the
cries and shouts; the rush of many feet; the heavy roll of the
fire-engines, tearing helter-skelter to the spot, all combined to show
that this was no common conflagration. One whole block of houses was
so completely in a blaze that to isolate the flame by pulling down
others, and cutting off communication, seemed the only thing left to
do. There were no lives in jeopardy, but property to a large amount
was in danger; the presence of the Governor gave a stimulus to
exertion, and all worked with a will; sailors, soldiers, firemen,
towns-people and strangers.

The scene was awfully grand, as scenes where fire has the mastery must
be. Other elements are majestic in their might, but none have such a
character as fire. The energy, self-will, malice, and cruel vigor of
this fearful power, give the beholders an idea of life which no other
can present. Yes, living fire is its fitting appellation. Living: a
life instinct with the spirit of mischief, such as nothing earth-born
can compare with. And while all worked as if for life and death, and
the enemy still rose and triumphed, seeming at once to invite and mock
their efforts――another alarm was raised of the same nature in a
quarter at some distance from the first.

Whether the fire had crept along the ground, or been carried by a
burning brand, or sprang up from some internal cause, could not be
known; it was too certain that there it was, and part of the crowd
moved off in that direction to ascertain the cause.

“For Heaven’s sake, Hepburn!” said Sir Charles, “go down and see what
new trouble is this. I will come in five minutes, if more help is
needed.”

At the word, Captain Hepburn disengaged himself from the press, and
hurried off. On his way he met a boat’s crew of his own “Erratics,”
who, headed by Maurice, were hastening to afford assistance, and who
now, with a joyous cheer, as they saw their captain, placed themselves
under his orders. They reached the spot; one house was on fire; a
large store belonging to three women, which had been but recently
built of brick, and now stood alone, the first of a new block.

Oh, horror! there were the forms of the wretched inmates at an upper
window, whither they had fled from the flames below; the stair-case
was consuming; their retreat was cut off. Already had a messenger been
sent for a ladder, and as the party of sailors came up, men were seen
approaching with one on their shoulders. But at this moment a cry was
raised, from whence it came they knew not, that there was powder in
the house, and the crowd shrank back in terror. “Better three women
than hundreds should perish,” was murmured round. The flames flashed
brighter, the black smoke curled thicker every moment. Captain Hepburn
sprang forward, and laid his hands upon the ladder which the dastards
who bore it had thrown to the earth in their hurried retreat.

“What, my men! ‘Erratics’ afraid of powder when a woman is in peril!
You have all had _mothers_!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” shouted the gallant fellows to a man, and assembled
round him. “We’ll heave up the ladder, sir,” said one noble seaman,
“if _you_ will keep out of danger; ay, and if needs be, go aloft
ourselves. ‘Erratics’ fear neither powder nor smoke;” and as he spoke,
the ladder was carried to the house, and in a second run up to the
roof, where the three terrified women had crept for safety from a
garret window.

Captain Hepburn stood at the foot to steady it; Maurice was by his
side. In a few, but peremptory words, he ordered all his men back; he
would remain alone: the instinct of obedience prevailed; slowly and
unwillingly the sailors retired, scarce condescending even then to
stand out of danger. The ladder was so frail that the least
experienced eye could see that it would not bear the weight of two
persons at once, and yet the women, even in their perilous position,
half hesitated to trust themselves to their only chance of escape.

“Down! down!” shouted the men, in an ecstasy of impatience, “every
moment you delay you risk the captain’s life.”

Captain Hepburn tried to speak words of encouragement, and at length
one, the boldest, ventured the attempt and descended in safety.

“Go, Maurice,” said Captain Hepburn to his brother-in-law, as they
together watched her progress; “go back with her; you are not wanted
here.”

“Never while you are in danger,” was the lieutenant’s resolute reply.

“Go,” repeated the other with more emphasis, “for Hilary’s sake; if I
perish, tell her I fell in duty――why should she lose us both?”

“Never!” was still the answer. “Go, you, dear Hepburn, for _her_ sake,
it matters nothing what becomes of me.”

By this time the second woman had nearly reached the ground; the
third, with feeble, tottering step, was commencing the descent,
seemingly more alarmed at this attempt than at the awful danger which
had menaced her. Another minute and all would be safe, when just then
a fiercer burst of flame issued from the window, as some new impulse
was given to its fury, and another shout arose amid the crowd, “The
powder! the powder!”

At the same time another form was seen, a man laden with a heavy box
issued from the garret window, and although the last woman had but
advanced a few steps, he began, with frantic haste, to descend the
ladder.

“Back! back!” was the word which swelled in a shout from the indignant
spectators; “wait for your turn, as you are a _man_!”

It was no use; even as the cry rose in the air, the ladder snapped
like a reed, and man and woman were hurled in one helpless writhing
heap upon the gallant officer who had tried to save their lives.
Maurice was unhurt. Another prolonged shriek echoed the voice of the
falling wretches, and then came the silence of horror, only broken by
the fierce crackling of the madly exulting flames. At the same moment
the governor arrived on the spot.

The sufferers were lifted from the ground and borne away; the
fractures or contusions of the two who were uppermost did not render
them wholly insensible, but the captain wore the appearance of a
corpse; hurriedly they carried him from further danger, and the next
moment, with a fearful explosion, the house blew up, the ruins of the
front wall covering the spot where the two bold men had so recently
stood. No more mischief was done.

“Would to God that I had been in his place!” sighed Maurice, as he
covered his insensible brother-in-law with some of the blankets
readily produced. He was lying on a door, which his men tore down to
carry him.

“He is not dead,” said a surgeon, as he felt the pulsations of that
heart which had beat so bravely. “Don’t smother him. Quick, with him
to the hospital. His best chance! I will go on, and get matters
ready.”

“Forward, men; steady, my boys!” and they bore their dearly-beloved
burden onward.

There were tears among his crew. Tears trickled down rugged,
weather-beaten cheeks; tears from eyes which could have confronted an
enemy’s battery without flinching; but good captains make good men;
and sailors, rough and hardy as they are, have often hearts within
soft as a woman’s.

He did not die then; he recovered his consciousness, and heard
unflinchingly from the surgeons the fate which would probably be his.

“Maurice, do you know what they say?” inquired he, as his
brother-in-law visited him. The lieutenant hesitated to answer.

“My professional career is over,” resumed he, calmly. “I may return to
Hilary, and die in peace.”

Maurice concealed his face.

“Yes, death may be slow, but it will be certain; so it is to all: only
I _feel_ his cold finger touching me. The spine is irrecoverably
injured, and I shall never stand on the quarter deck again.”

“Poor Hilary!”

“Yes, poor Hilary; she will suffer: it will be your duty to comfort
her when I am gone; but I trust I shall see her again. Maurice, you
need not pity me very much. One can not live on earth for ever, and to
die for duty has been my first wish.”

“Hepburn, I must go home with you.”

“Maurice, you must not! you can not! there is your profession!”

“I don’t care, I will renounce it――quit the service――give up any thing
to be of use to you.”

“Madness――think of your sisters; you know they look to you for
help――of your honor! your prospects in life! would you give up all,
and do me no good? I will not hear of it.”

“What steps shall you take?” said Maurice, resolved, yet unwilling to
dispute the topic.

“I shall apply for a survey in due form; there is not much question of
the incapacity of a man who can not stir a step, nor stand upright;
and go home next packet.”

“And the ship?”

“Ah, dear old _Erratic_. I have, I suppose, taken my last leave of
her. Thank my men, Duncan; thank them from me, for their zeal and
care. I fear I shall never see them again, nor hear their farewell
cheer as I go over the ship’s side for the last time.”

He turned his face a little more toward his pillow, and whispered
something about Hilary, which Maurice did not catch.

However things were ordered somewhat differently.

The next day, Maurice hurried to the hospital, with a face in which
various feelings contended strongly, though pleasure might be seen
flashing up amid pain.

“What has happened?” inquired the senior, as he saw his countenance.

“I shall go home with you, after all,” said Maurice; “I am promoted!”

“Ah! how glad I am, my dear fellow, I wish you joy; promoted! how?”

“From home; _how_ I don’t know! I have no interest, you know, and none
to care for me _now_.”

A shade came over his face, as he thought how his other step had been
gained.

“Well, you deserve it, Maurice, as much as any one; there is no need
of considering it the result of interest; your own merits have, no
doubt, been the cause; and it is come in time to reward your bravery
the other night; for your sake, _all_ your sakes, I am glad. How your
sisters will rejoice; dear Hilary! But I wish you had been appointed
to a ship out here, to have served your time at once.”

“I am sure I don’t. The best part of it is the being able to go home
with you. I should care little for it otherwise. But I must tell you
what the Admiral said. You know he came in yesterday about sunset; and
the mail arrived this morning.”

“Yes, I heard the salute yesterday evening. That will make it much
more easy to have the survey; I had been wondering how it would be
best to manage, there were so few of the right people. I should have
had to apply to the Governor.”

“Yes――well, this morning the Admiral landed, and then sent for me. He
asked me no end of questions about the fire, and said some very
handsome things about us both; then he added, ‘The Lords of the
Admiralty, with their usual discrimination in discovering merit, and
promptness in rewarding it, having moreover, no doubt, had penetration
enough to foresee what has just occurred, have sent out this as your
reward. Commander Duncan, I have great pleasure in presenting you with
your commission from their lordships, and beg to add your epaulettes
from myself as a mark of esteem!’ I thought he was joking, till I saw
the commission in my own hands. What a queer old fellow he is; and as
kind as he is odd.”

“And what did you say?” said Captain Hepburn, smiling.

“_I_ say? I am sure I don’t know. I felt ten thousand things at once;
I was choking with joy, and all sorts of feelings. Going home with you
was, I think, my first and last thought, though. He took my mutilated
thanks very civilly; but demurred to the idea of our going home in a
packet. Only think, the _Erratic_ is ordered home at once.”

“No! is she really; what for?” The color flashed up in Captain
Hepburn’s pale cheeks, and he made an effort to move his helpless
form. Maurice raised him tenderly, the tears standing in his eyes, as
he saw the utter prostration of that strong man’s strength. His arms
were free and living, but his lower limbs were as if dead.

After swallowing down his emotion, and arranging his brother-in-law
more comfortably on the pillows, no easy task, for there were many
contusions to be cared for, besides the great injury to the spine,
Maurice went on.

“The Admiral says you shall go home in your own ship, Hepburn; you
need not invalid until you reach England; you can command her from
your couch, and I will be your nurse and passenger.”

“But what is she going home for?”

“I did not hear; what do you say to his plan? He told me to mention
it, but he is coming here himself this afternoon; he and the Governor,
for the latter came in just before I left, and told me he meant to
come and see you. I must not repeat what he said to the Admiral about
it all; but he was very kind, and shook hands, and wished me joy of my
promotion; and talked as if I had done any thing at all.”

“You did as much as any body,” said Captain Hepburn, “except getting
your back broken; and I suppose may share equally in the merit,
whatever that may be. The result can not affect that!”

“But about the _Erratic_, you will keep the command?”

“I will answer the Admiral, Duncan!”

“Ah, then I know you mean to give up; well, perhaps it will be best;
if you do, he will put his nephew in with an acting order to take her
home; he is a nice, gentleman-like fellow, and the ship’s company will
get on with him. However, I should not wonder if they were paid off at
home, they have been out three years altogether!”

Captain Hepburn did not seem to be listening; he was considering some
other subject.

The Admiral and the Governor came together to visit the captain of the
_Erratic_.

“I am sorry to see you here, Captain Hepburn,” said the former, as he
shook him cordially by the hand. “Why must you go and do the firemen’s
work, and get into this pickle yourself?”

“Well, if there had been any one else, I would not have interfered,”
replied the young officer. “You see I must pay the penalty for
extra-professional zeal, by quitting her Majesty’s service.”

“Not quitting, I trust; a little rest and time will set you on your
legs again. Go home to your wife, and let her nurse you for six
months, and then you’ll be as well as I am.”

The sufferer shook his head.

“Never despair, never despair,” added the Admiral; “here is Sir
Charles here, was telling me how his cousin recovered from an accident
quite as bad as yours; so why should not you?”

“We shall see,” replied the other, quietly.

“That man who tumbled on you, ought to be run up to the yard-arm,”
pursued the admiral, warmly; “what are you going to do with him, Sir
Charles?”

“I believe he will be tried for burglary,” replied the governor, “as
soon as his arm is well. He was endeavoring to make off with stolen
goods, and must have broken into the house before the fire began.”

“Ah well, I hope he will be punished! but, Captain Hepburn, you need
not invalid; I’ll tell you what; those sagacious gentlemen at the
Admiralty have ordered me to send home the _Erratic_ at once, to take
his Excellency, Lord Somebody or other, to some court or kingdom; you
keep the command, at all events, till you reach Spithead; time enough
to invalid then, if you must. You might go to Haslar first, for six
weeks, and who knows what might happen!”

“You are very kind, sir, but I have really no chance of recovery; and
am so entirely incompetent for exertion, that I think I had better
keep to my first resolution.”

“Exertion――you need not exert yourself! leave that to the master and
first lieutenant. Why, what do half the captains do now-a-days, but
live on shore, and only go off to the ship when there is a man to be
flogged, or some other excitement!”

“There are such instances, but they are hardly the rule, sir.”

“And you must know your friend here too well, to expect him to follow
such exceptional courses,” said Sir Charles, smiling at the admiral.

“I don’t mean to say it’s right; but a captain with a head like
Hepburn’s, even though he had no legs, would be better than many a big
lubber all legs and arms, without any head to bless himself with. And
I know such on this very station; depending entirely on their first
lieutenant.”

“Still I would rather have my own way,” said the captain.

“Obstinate fellow! Think of the pay; you have a wife and family, have
you not?”

“A wife, sir; but I will not take pay for work I can not perform!”

“One of your absurd romances, Hepburn. I know you of old.”

“Not very absurd, I think: simply honest. And if a captain is of any
thing beyond nominal use, let the _Erratic_ have one for the voyage
who can move himself without help, either mental or personal.”

“Ah, well, I’m the gainer, you know; but what good will it do you at
the admiralty? will they thank you for your self-denial? Not they;
they don’t know what such fine feeling is. Boards are always
half-grained, tough, and intractable.”

“I am beyond caring for their praise or censure now, sir; my accounts
must soon be rendered at a higher tribunal.”

“Don’t be down-hearted, my dear fellow!” said the admiral, gulping
down something which seemed to stick in his throat. “I hope to have
you under my command again some day.”

“I am so glad Duncan has been promoted,” observed Captain Hepburn.

“Ay, there’s a piece of interest, depend on it. How does he manage to
get on? Not but what he is as fine a young fellow as need be; but then
_I_ know how things go. I would bet you any thing you please, Sir
Charles, that there is a lady at the bottom of that. I _know_ he got
his lieutenant’s commission because a little girl, having admired his
handsome face, got a great man to speak for him to the First Lord.
That’s the way the service goes on. Eh, Captain Hepburn!”

“You are not quite correct in one matter, sir; the young lady had
never seen Maurice Duncan; she did it out of love for his sister.”

The admiral laughed.

“His sister is my wife,” continued the captain.

“Ay! indeed! I was not aware of that!”

“He is a fine, intelligent, brave-hearted young man,” said Sir
Charles, “a credit to the service any how. His regret for your
accident, Hepburn, was touching the other night!”

“Well, I suppose the young lady has been to work again,” observed the
admiral; “for here’s his commission come out to-day.”

“She has had no hand in it this time, sir, at all events,” replied the
captain.

“Eh! how do you know that?”

“Poor thing! she is ill――married and ill――deranged, I believe, brain
fever, or something of the sort――at all events, quite out of the
question,” said Captain Hepburn, gravely.

“Ah, indeed, poor thing! I did not know that! Well, you are quite
determined to give up, and invalid, are you, Hepburn?”

“Quite, sir, thank you for your kindness and consideration. Thank you
very much. You have been my friend, and you too, Sir Charles; and if,
as you are pleased to say, you are satisfied with my conduct, all I
ask is, be friends to Duncan, if in your power. It is, perhaps, the
last professional favor I shall ask of any one.”

“Well, my dear fellow, I promise you,” said the admiral. “But, don’t
be down-hearted; you will soon be well. Good-by.”

“Poor fellow!” said the admiral to the governor, as they left the
hospital; “he’s booked for death as sure as fate. I am sorry for him;
and if he _is_ to die, he might as well have died within my command,
and I could have given the vacancy to my nephew.”

“We’ll hope he may get home alive,” said Sir Charles; and so he did.

Lord Dunsmore had been absent from Southampton for some days. He was
visiting at the admiral’s at Portsmouth, and the sisters did not at
all expect to see him, when one afternoon, a fly stopped at their
door, and he, issuing from it, was shown into the house. There was
something strange, excited, sad in his look, which startled both
ladies, and made them glance anxiously at him; yet he seemed trying to
speak as usual.

“We did not know you were come back,” said Hilary.

“I am but just arrived by train from Portsmouth. I wished――that is, I
undertook to bring you word”――he paused; she looked, but could not
speak. “The _Erratic_ arrived at Spithead at day-break.”

The beatings at Hilary’s heart choked her; she leaned back in her
chair, white as the cambric she held in her hands. She felt, she
_knew_ there was more; there was bad news behind. He started up.

“A glass of water, Gwyneth,” exclaimed he.

Mrs. Hepburn tasted the water, and then whispered――

“Go on.”

“I saw both your brother and your husband; here is a note for you!”

Hilary caught it; it was from Maurice, and she noted Lord Dunsmore
change color, nor did he tell her not to be alarmed; so there _was_
cause for fear! She forced herself, however, to look at the note.

     “DEAREST HILARY,

     “We are here; will you come to your husband? he wants
     nursing. Lord Dunsmore has promised to bring you by next
     train. Come at once. I will not leave H.

                          “Yours ever and ever,
                                               “MAURICE DUNCAN.”
     “Southsea Common.”

“I am ready,” said she, rising at once. “I will go directly.”

“There is a train leaves in an hour. I kept the fly; we should start
for the station in twenty minutes or less.”

“I will be ready,” said Hilary; she withdrew.

“Go and help her, Nest,” said Lord Dunsmore. “Please stay one moment,
Miss Duncan.”

“Call Sarah, Nest,” said Gwyneth; “tell her Mrs. Hepburn wants her.
Now, my lord.”

She turned to him for information. He threw himself on a chair, and
seemed to control his feelings with difficulty.

“You ought to know,” said he, hurriedly, “she will be long away,
perhaps. He is very ill; has had an accident; lost the use of both
legs――may be in great danger. Think what you will do in her absence.”

“Stay here,” said Gwyneth, decidedly.

“No, dear Miss Duncan, your brother mentioned it, approved my plan;
let Lady Rupert fetch you to-morrow. I will arrange it all.”

“Oh, what matters about us! it is for Hilary we must think; you go
back with her?”

“I will take charge of her to Portsmouth; will you not let me provide
for your comfort too?”

“You are very good to think of me! Now let me go to Hilary!”

Mrs. Hepburn looked bewildered, stunned; she was trying to dress for
her journey, while Sarah and Nest were packing a small carpet-bag.

“Law, ma’am, don’t take on so; I dare say it is not so bad. Why should
you expect the worst?”

“I do not know what I expect, Sarah; please make haste. What I do not
take, Gwyneth, you must send, if I want it. I don’t know now. Surely,
it is time to go.”

“Your shoes, Hilary, those slippers will not do for traveling,” said
the sharp-eyed Nest. “Give them to me that I may pack them up; here
are your boots!”

The exchange was made; in two minutes more she was in the fly with
Lord Dunsmore; than whom her own brother could not have been kinder or
more considerate.

They were just in time at the station, and were saved all the agony of
delay. Once in the train, Hilary began to ask some questions; and Lord
Dunsmore had to explain how he came to be connected with the affair.
The news had been telegraphed early that the _Erratic_ was at
Spithead, and then came the captain ashore in his gig――not the captain
whom Lord Dunsmore, remembering Hilary, expected to see, but another,
who brought the news that Captain Hepburn was sick, on the invalid
list; on this the admiral immediately offered his tender to bring him
on shore, and Lord Dunsmore had gone out in the vessel, partly from
anxiety for the invalid, to take him late news of his wife, and
partly, perhaps, from other motives.

He introduced himself to the two passengers, offered his services in
any way that would be of use, was most kindly received, and it was
soon settled among the gentlemen that, while Maurice attended his
brother-in-law to the lodgings in Southsea, which he had already sent
on shore to secure, this new friend should set off by the next train,
to bring back Hilary to the longing husband.

“Lodgings!” said Hilary. “Can he not be moved home!”

“I should hope he might eventually; but the first thing was to get him
safe on shore. The lodgings are only taken for a week!”

“And he――tell me――I can bear it now, what is the matter?”

Hilary’s face showed how she had, by a strong effort, brought her mind
to bear, and her lips to utter these words.

“It was an accident, I understood; he hurt himself, and can not, at
present, stand or walk; though I should not have known from his face
there was any thing the matter. He is helpless.”

This did not sound so very bad; Hilary’s imagination for a moment
suggested to her a variety of possible accidents, which might merely
disable him for a time; and for a little while her previous alarm
seemed unfounded. Then her memory again presented her companion’s
manner, the fixed gravity, the mournful glance, the utter absence of
all attempts at lessening her terror; he had never bid her hope, he
had never said she was too uneasy; he named no serious cause for
alarm, perhaps, but he felt it, and he meant her to feel it too. It
was what he did _not_ say, rather than what he did, which aroused
fear; and the cold, heavy weight of hopeless though undefined dread
sank on her heart and threatened to crush it quite.

But there was a Refuge to which she could flee, a Covert from the
tempest which now beat upon her head, a Rock on which she might safely
build her hopes. This thought it was that kept her calm; a feeling
rather than a thought. It was the impulse of her soul, a part of her
life, to trust and be still; she had trusted long; and confidence did
not forsake her now. That was her strength indeed.

“You were with him when he landed?” said she, presently, after sitting
for some little space with hands clasped and head bent down.

“I was! he bore it well; those things are easily managed by sailors.”

He did not tell her, for he could not trust himself, the scene on
board the _Erratic_, when he took his leave of the ship. He had been
carried out on the quarter-deck on his couch, to say farewell to his
men; there he had thanked them for their zealous services, their
obedience, their orderly conduct, during the three years they had been
together, and bade them all go on, though he was taken from them, to
serve their Queen and their country as nobly as before. Then, calling
up the crew of the second cutter, who had been with him on shore on
that eventful night at Halifax, he thanked each for his undaunted
bravery in the moment of danger which they had shared together; for
their concern for his safety, and their ardor for his rescue, saying,
that he believed it was to their promptness in assisting him that he
owed what little life was left him, as, perhaps, but for their ready
aid, he might have been buried under the ruins of the fire, and never
seen his country again. And now he charged them all to live sober,
steady, honorable lives, to strive to do their duty, and mind what the
chaplain taught them, “And so farewell, my lads; God bless you all!
and if we never meet again here, may we all reach the shores above,
where there is no more sea.”

They tried to give him the hearty cheers which he had once longed to
hear, but it would not do. The cheer broke down into one universal
sob; and brave, strong men, whose hearts might have been thought as
tough as the oak planks on which they trod, turned aside to conceal
their tears, or leaned against the bulwarks for support, as they wept
like children. They loved him well, those gallant fellows, and they
knew that he was going home to his young wife, from whom he had parted
on his wedding-day, only to die! and they mourned not only for him,
but for her, whose gentle beauty, in the short glimpses they had had
of her, had been strongly impressed on their romantic fancies.

“But if I am to be even a week at Southsea,” said Hilary, presently,
“what is to become of my sisters? they are too young to be left there
quite alone.”

“I thought of that,” said her companion, eagerly, “and so did your
brother; and we proposed――only perhaps, it would worry you to talk
about it now”――leaving off abruptly.

“Oh, no! indeed, their comfort is my first duty; I wish I could think
of any thing; my mind is not very steady; but it is not like our old
home now; it would have been nothing to leave them at the Vicarage.”

“Well, I thought, if you approved, might they not go to Lady Rupert’s;
I know she would like it; she is so fond of Gwy――of your sister.”

Hilary raised her eyes, and gave him one look, so penetrating, so
steady, that, had he not deserved her confidence, he could not have
met the glance.

“Are you in earnest, Lord Dunsmore?”

“Earnest, yes――perfectly so, from my heart! but I do not wonder you
ask, after what you saw in my brother!”

Hilary looked down.

“It seems hardly a time to speak of such things _now_,” continued he,
eagerly and rapidly, his pale countenance glowing with emotion; “but
yet, perhaps, after all, it might remove distrust and doubt, perhaps
lighten your anxiety in some respects, if I am open. Let me tell you,
then, my feelings, and see if you will trust _me_. I do love her, and
I do hope to win her. Even before I went to Italy, I preferred her;
but then I thought James did too; I thought he was in earnest, so I
left; but that as much as other things took me abroad; and when the
news reached me of his intended marriage, I own it was a relief which
greatly assisted my recovery. Now I hope some day to gain her
affections; and though I and you, and she, know I can not say she is
the first object of my love, and I am some years older, perhaps she
will not consider these as objections――perhaps I _may_ succeed in
time. Now after this, will you let her and Nest come to Lady Rupert’s
care?”

“I will talk to Maurice, and――and my husband!” her voice faltered.

“I have been, perhaps, abrupt, Mrs. Hepburn, but circumstances must be
my excuse,” added he.

“What will Lady Rupert say?”

“She is my kindest, best friend; she delights in your sister, and
would receive her as if she really stood in that relationship to
herself.”

“You have my best wishes,” said Hilary, holding out her hand with
tears in her eyes.

He thanked her warmly.

“James behaved very ill,” said he, presently; “though I hope to be the
gainer, I can not excuse him. He was very, very wrong, one way or
other. He was either too much or too little in earnest. Young as she
was, she was not such a child as to excuse his devotion or his
fickleness――and it has hurt his character too.”

“Please don’t. I would rather not talk of it now,” said Hilary,
gently.

“I beg your pardon; do you know we are almost at the terminus?”

“Yes;” she was looking very white, and seemed incapable of saying
more.

In a minute the train stopped――in a very few more the two were in a
fly, and driving hastily toward Southsea. She could not speak, she
could hardly breathe, as she saw walls and houses fly past them; her
heart seemed struggling to rush on faster, faster to that unknown spot
in which her husband waited for her.

They reached the house, they stopped, the door opened, Maurice
appeared; Hilary had hardly time to see his expression, as he hurried
to lift her from the carriage and support her inside the house. He
held her in his arms, her face was hidden on his shoulder, as she
whispered, between gasping sobs: “Where is he?”

He gently opened the door, and disengaging herself, she sprang in.

“Hilary, my darling!” said Captain Hepburn; and in another moment she
was on her knees, beside his couch, and her tears of joy and grief, of
anxiety and gratitude, and love, were poured out in her husband’s
bosom.




CHAPTER XXIV.

  “I’m wearing awa’, Jean,
  Like snow when it’s thaw, Jean,
  I’m wearing awa’ to the land of the leal.

  “There’s no sorrow there, Jean,
  There’s neither cold nor care, Jean,
  But days are all fair in the land of the leal.

                 ――――――

  “Then dry that tearful e’e, Jean,
  My soul langs to be free, Jean,
  And angels beckon me to the land of the leal.

  “Then fare thee well, my ain Jean,
  This world’s care is vain, Jean,
  We’ll meet, and ay be fain, in the land of the leal.”


The feelings which may be clothed in words of earth, and the love
which can be depicted by mortal language, must be shallow, light, and
transient at the best. Those to whom love is but a creature of the
imagination, and sorrow a pleasant fiction, may delight in dressing
their fancies in eloquent phrases, and in dwelling on scenes of ideal
distress. But the heart which has felt the deep-stirrings of true,
holy, devoted affection, and known all the sad and stern realities of
grief, which ever in this world must flow from feeling, shrinks from
portraying it as from sacrilege; and while it feels how vain and
unreal are the most eloquent descriptions, yet holds it a profanation
to lay such feelings bare to the public gaze. It was not the cry of
the _true_ mother in her grief, “Let it be neither mine nor thine, but
divide it!”

A week passed away; it seemed as if skill and tenderness and rest
might perchance prolong the precious life of the invalid officer. He
was certainly better; stronger, with less pain and weariness, and
there was no longer so much opposition on the part of the doctors to
the general wish of himself and his family to transport him to
Southampton.

Hilary longed to move him. The heat, the glare, the dust, the noise,
the weariness of a town, to her eyes were indescribable; and she could
not imagine the possibility of any one recovering their health without
the fresh air, the sunshine and shadows, the soft breezes, the
pleasant scents, and the soothing sounds of the country and the
forest.

Was not the whisper of trees more soothing than the angry dash or
mournful murmur of the waves? and yet this was their most agreeable
music, and was sweet compared to the sharp crack of musketry on the
common, the louder reports of the cannon from the shipping, the
wearisome notes of the bugle giving signals to the parties of soldiers
drilling or parading on the open ground, the wretched street organs
which haunted the vicinity, the cries of itinerant venders of oysters
and such like, the squabbling of children, or the rolling of carts and
drays in the back street, which shook the house to its center.

For herself, she would have borne it all with indifference or
patience――but for him, every jar thrilled through her frame, every
discordant sound made her shrink, and every disgusting odor made her
tremble for his comfort.

Oh! to have him but away in their quiet cottage, where the open
windows would admit only pure air, and pleasant, shadowy sunshine, and
refreshing scents, and songs of birds among the trees; where their
eyes could rest on green grass, and young foliage on the waving
boughs, and flowers unstained by smoke, unwithered by sea-breezes!

And by the end of the week it was done; Lord Dunsmore’s yacht conveyed
the whole party round to Southampton, and by his and Lady Rupert’s
care an invalid carriage was in waiting, which carried Captain Hepburn
to the quiet, pretty home of his wife and her sisters.

The back sitting-room, whose French windows opened on the little
flower-garden, was appropriated to his use, and had been previously
arranged, through the zeal of Gwyneth and Nest, and the kind activity
of their friends, in the way most suitable to his situation and
infirmities.

And so May and June crept by, and the birds sang, and the flowers
blossomed, and the bright tints of early spring deepened into the more
unvaried hue of summer; and Hilary nursed her husband with unwearied
care, and hoped still, and was patient and composed. There was nothing
which friendship or affection could supply, wanting to their outward
comfort; and nothing of cheerful resignation, trustful endurance,
hopeful fortitude, and devoted affection, failing to their mental
support.

Who could have guessed from Hilary’s calm brow, and sweet smile, and
steady voice, as she waited on, and read, or sung to her husband, that
she had the smallest foresight of the inevitable end? She seemed so
cheerful, so even happy while thus employed! and she was happy too.

Every day during which her precious charge was spared her, every hour
that she was permitted to spend by his side, every sentence of hopeful
aspiration, or gentle courage, which dropped from his lips, was
received as a heaven-sent boon, a favor, as unexpected as it was
precious.

“I almost think you like to have me ill,” said he, smilingly, one day
to her, “you take such delight in nursing me.”

“Can I ever be thankful enough that you are _here_?” was her reply;
“think what it would have been had your illness prevented you from
leaving Halifax. Had you been lingering there in the hospital.”

“Or buried under those walls, which I so narrowly escaped, Hilary.”

She shuddered, and then added,

“Or had I not been your wife; oh, how thankful I am every time I think
of that; how glad I am we married when we did.”

“Are you Hilary? _I_ ought to be, I know; but _you_! I sometimes think
that it was a cruel and selfish precaution on my part; I reproach
myself for having bound you to one, who, instead of being a protector
and support, is but a useless clog, a heavy burden, a sad incumbrance
upon you.”

“Ah! don’t talk so.”

“And sometimes, when I have felt a little stronger, and thought that
perhaps I might linger on for months or years, chained to this couch,
and making you a prisoner too, wearing out the best portion of your
life in this dull slavery, I have been tempted to repine, and wish the
deed undone which united us; I have longed to give you liberty again!
you might be happy but for me, Hilary!”

“What have I done, or said, or looked, or left undone, that you should
speak so, dearest? Could I be happy otherwise? or is there any thing
in this wide world which I could prefer to being near you, at least,
while I can be of any comfort or use?”

“I know there is not, love,” fondly stroking the head which was
nestled on his shoulder; “I know it, and I thank you every hour of the
day for the ineffable tenderness which makes me so happy. But, Hilary,
you always make a pleasure of your duty, it is your nature to throw
your whole soul into your pursuits, to do your very utmost in what you
feel to be right. It is this which impels you now, which makes you my
good angel, my too-devoted nurse. But were you not my wife, as I
should have had no claim, so you would have felt less inclination for
a task, whose charm to you is, I believe, that it is your duty.”

She gazed at him with her soft, loving eyes; put back the black curls
from his temples, and then answered, quietly,

“You know better than that; you know it is something more than duty
which influences me. A hired nurse might be actuated by duty; _my_
motive is beyond, above that.”

“You do not know yourself, Hilary: you love me well, I know it; but
you would not love me so much, were it not your duty. You would not
have twined all those warm feelings round me, had you not been my
wife; and you would not have had to suffer the grief which I feel it
will cost you, when that day, not very far distant, comes, which will
part us on earth.”

“Are you worse?” said she, the whiteness of her cheeks speaking her
sudden alarm.

“It is coming, Hilary; it came slowly, imperceptibly at first; now I
can feel its advances from day to day. Can you bear it, love?――we must
part!”

“For a time, only for a time,” she murmured.

“For a time, dear love! yes, that is the comfort, we shall meet again;
but you are young, my darling wife! you have perhaps a long life
before you, and I shall not trouble you many days. Do not be too
unhappy when I am gone; remember your promise long ago, to bear it
bravely, and when time has softened your grief, Hilary, do not think
that you will please me by remaining unprotected and forlorn. Do not
let your respect for my memory, fetter your will or your actions. Ah!
you do not like to hear me speak of it, but by-and-by, you will
remember what I have said. There, do not sob so; did you not know from
the very first, that we must part soon?”

“Ah, I thought――I hoped――a little, little longer――!”

“And I am glad I shall not linger to see your cheek grow pale with
care and watching, to keep you from rest night and day, as I do now;
ah, Hilary, you have made me happy, so happy! But would you wish the
deed undone which laid me here? I do not.”

“No, no,” cried she, with energy, “do not be unhappy about me. God,
who takes you from me, will give me strength to bear the loss. Do not
think of it. While you _are_ with me still, let me forget all but your
dear presence; we will not anticipate sorrow. To-day is ours;
to-morrow is in His hands, who will do all things right.”

They all saw now, the end was drawing near; Maurice, Gwyneth, Lord
Dunsmore, they all noticed the increasing weakness, the gradual
change; they left the sick chamber with anxiety, they returned with
trembling; they feared any hour would end it all. Gwyneth especially
was devoted to her sister; her unceasing cares and consideration could
not be excelled by Hilary’s attention to her patient; every household
duty was fulfilled, every wish almost forestalled by the thoughtful
girl; and yet she fancied she did nothing, and was surprised if fear
was expressed lest she should be tired.

Lord Dunsmore sometimes expressed this concern, during those short
intervals when Gwyneth allowed herself the relaxation of conversation
with him, a conversation of which Hilary was usually the topic.

“What have I to tire me?” said she; “you should see Hilary; what a
wife she is!”

“I admit as a wife she is unequaled,” replied he; “but I know one
woman who might compare with her.”

“Do you? I could hardly believe it,” said Gwyneth, innocently
surprised.

“That is her sister Gwyneth. Miss Duncan, if you felt for me one tithe
of the love I entertain for you, you would say yes, when I asked you
to be mine.”

“Should I?” replied she, wondering, and yet thoughtfully. “I do not
know.”

“Dearest, sweetest Gwyneth! will you not?”

“Oh, no, it would be too selfish, too cruel to think of such things
now! Hilary wants my whole time and thoughts, and you would ask them
for yourself!――I ought not――do not tempt me.”

“No, I would not engross them, I would only ask to share your
anxieties, and if I could, to lighten your sorrows and cares. I only
wish to have a right to joy and grieve with you. Could you not love
me, would you not be my wife, if all were well here!”

“All is not well,” replied she, blushing crimson, and turning away,
“why ask?”

But her manner was so little repulsive, that Lord Dunsmore persevered,
and before long, won from her an admission that she would rather he
should continue to frequent their society on the understanding that
she would try and like him, than that he should go away altogether
from the neighborhood.

“But I am so young,” said she, “I can not promise――ask Maurice.”

“I will!” said her suitor.

“I have still another guardian,” continued Gwyneth, with a sigh.

“You have; shall I refer to him?”

She assented softly, and he went immediately to Captain Hepburn.
Hilary, of course, was beside him; Maurice, too, was there.

“Dear Mrs. Hepburn,” said Lord Dunsmore, “do you remember the wish I
once ventured to express to you about your sister?”

“Gwyneth! oh, yes!” said Hilary, eagerly.

“And you do not retract?”

“No, no indeed!”

“And will you then plead my cause with these two?” looking from
Maurice to his brother-in-law; the latter lay with his fine eyes fixed
on him, listening, with the most lively interest, to the conversation,
but evidently without surprise; while the former evinced considerable
astonishment.

“Ask for yourself, Lord Dunsmore,” said Hilary.

“I will. Will you two guardians trust your ward to me? Give me
Gwyneth?”

“Ah, with pleasure!” said Maurice, “if she says _yes_ herself.”

“You have had my best wishes for these two months,” replied Captain
Hepburn; then turning to his wife, he added, “Do you think she would
come here, Hilary? ask her.”

“You would frighten her,” said the lover, anxiously; but Hilary went
to look for her at once.

“I am so glad,” said Captain Hepburn, “I hoped to see this settled; it
is my last concern on earth, and I shall leave her with confidence in
your charge, my lord. Hilary told me.”

It was an effort to him to speak, and his words were faint and slow.

Hilary found her gazing from the window, but her black eyes were dim
with tears, and at the sight of her sister, she threw herself into her
arms, with an entreaty that she would not think her cruel and selfish;
much as she liked Lord Dunsmore, she cared more a hundred times for
her.

Mrs. Hepburn smiled, and soothed and caressed her, and whispered her
own joy and congratulations, and led her to the other room; and there
the blushing and trembling Gwyneth had her hand placed in her suitor’s
by the feeble fingers of her brother-in-law, while in few, but
affectionate words, he assured her of his satisfaction, his good
wishes, and his fraternal regard for both.

Maurice too kissed and caressed her, but he said little; it was
impossible to feel otherwise than deeply touched by the strong
contrast between the look and the situation of those two sisters.

Gwyneth’s black eyes were bent down and bright drops trembled on the
long lashes; her color came and went like the flashes of the northern
lights in the clear winter sky. She was excited, hoping, fearing,
trembling between present pain and future joy; looking forward with a
shy gladness into the prospect just opening, and then hurriedly
calling back the glance, because to her dearest companions the hopeful
view was closed; she could scarcely welcome the possible happiness
which they might not share.

Hilary, on the contrary, stood by, with her calm, serene eyes fixed on
her sister with a quiet but heartfelt pleasure; a satisfaction
springing from the very depths of the soul, at the hope that Gwyneth
might, perchance, have one long, plentiful draught of that cup of
happiness of which her own short taste had been so sweet. She knew the
full luxury of loving and being beloved, and what was denied to
herself she rejoiced in anticipating for another. And when she had
gone over in her mind all the bright visions which the future
presented to Gwyneth, and joyed in her promised joy, she turned her
eyes once more on her husband, and the thought flashed across her how
great had been the blessings of her own lot, and how the privilege of
having been his friend, companion, and solace during the last two
months, was well worth the purchase, even though it were to be
followed by a long life of solitary bereavement.

She was happy: not the happiness of this world, not the happiness
which those of this world can understand; a happiness above all
selfish joy, such as words could vainly endeavor to depict,
unspeakable in its depth and purity: for in her earnest anticipation
of peace and rest for him, she forgot herself; she saw him to her
fancy encircled with the crown of martyrdom; and would she have robbed
him of one ray of that future glory for her own selfish indulgence, or
her transitory comfort? Oh no!

But to others, to the eyes of observers, her feelings were a mystery;
and to outward view she stood there, another proof of the fading
nature of all earthly happiness. Hers was the deepening gloom of
twilight, Gwyneth’s the rising of the glorious day-break. Life is full
of such sharp contrasts, ever telling of change and decay to such
thoughtful minds as can raise their eyes beyond their own footsteps.

Human feelings, indeed, afford but a quivering, changeful gleam, by
which to view the edifice of life; as pleasantly deceptive, as unreal
in their lights and shadows as moonbeams on a picturesque ruin; but
there is a Light which does not mislead, which brings out each object
in its true perspective, and decides the value of all earthly
possessions; and it was by this pure Light that Hilary was now gazing
on life; and so her heart failed not in that trying hour.

Gwyneth never forgot her sad betrothal; it was good for her to
remember it; and afterward, in gayer hours, when surrounded by
luxuries, and allured by the soul-engrossing littleness of rank and
wealth, the recollection of the trembling fingers, faint accents, and
calm, holy eyes, of her dying brother-in-law, hovered round her heart,
and his memory, like her guardian angel, still came between her and
temptations to cold selfishness and pride.

His approval spoken, and his blessing given, Captain Hepburn begged to
be left alone with Hilary; so Lord Dunsmore led his young betrothed to
the next room, and then there followed on his part, such an
out-pouring of long-cherished feelings, suppressed and concealed from
regard to his brother, as Gwyneth had little expected to hear; and
which she now listened to in wonder, as she thought of the girlish
infatuation which had made her blind to his merits, and had just
missed making a wreck of her happiness for life.

They talked till twilight came down upon them, and then remembering
the world beyond themselves, they wondered to hear no sound or
movement in the next room; but fearing to intrude, they waited
anxiously, till Maurice returning from a walk, ventured to enter that
quiet chamber. All there was still, profoundly still; for Hilary, with
her hand clasping the cold fingers of a stiffened corpse, was lying in
a death-like swoon beside her husband’s couch.

                      *     *     *     *     *

Three months passed away.

It was autumn again, a beautiful October morning, and the yellow
sunshine which fell on the green-sward between the boles of the old
trees, like bars of gold, streamed also gladly into the pretty chamber
where Hilary, in her widow’s dress, was attiring Gwyneth for her
bridal. It was Mrs. Hepburn’s earnest wish that it should not longer
be delayed; it had been her husband’s last act to join their hands,
and till the union was accomplished, she felt his will was but half
fulfilled. “Let it be then,” she said, “that autumn;” and so it was to
be; they could not have resisted her calm, sweet request, even had she
demanded a sacrifice of them; and when she only bade them be happy,
who could say no?

But it was really to be a very quiet wedding; Sybil and her husband
came to them; and Lord and Lady Rupert joined the party; that was all;
no pomp of gay bridesmaids, only little Nest――no grandeur, no display.
Hilary’s weeds were too deep to grace a wedding, too recent to be laid
aside even for a day; no one asked her to be present, no one thought
of it; but her absence was a blank; it toned down gay spirits, it was
the fennel-leaf in the cup, the skeleton at the feast, the thorn to
the rose of love, which else had blossomed so sweetly for the married
pair.

Maurice, anxious to remain with his sisters, had applied for an
appointment to the Coast Guard; and through the interest of Lord
Dunsmore and the Governor of Nova Scotia, just then in England, had
obtained his request; and immediately after the marriage, they were to
remove to his station, which was at a distance.

Mrs. Hepburn was very glad of the prospect of employment for him; he
needed something to occupy his time, and engross his mind; and active
as his duties would be, they would not take him from her, which was a
blessing. The solitude of their future home was no evil to her; and as
to Nest, when old enough to need society, she could go to her other
sisters for a time.

So Gwyneth was married; and it was, perhaps, no small increase to Mrs.
James Ufford’s matrimonial discomforts, to learn as she did, about
that time, how far her own manœuvers had contributed to place the late
Vicar’s daughter in the situation she now filled; for Mr. Ufford
affirmed, that but for her intervention he should have made Gwyneth
his wife. So he said, at least, and so he believed, whether truly or
falsely, who can venture to tell, when we reflect on the inconsistency
of human feelings.

It was a comfort to Lady Dunsmore’s womanly feelings at last, when she
heard from her husband’s lips, that her brother-in-law, when appealed
to on the subject by him, before the journey to Italy, had avowed an
intention of proposing to her; since it proved that the feelings of
girlish tenderness which she had wasted on him, had not been unsought,
although undeserved.

Indignation at James’s fickleness, and concern for Miss Duncan’s
feelings, heightened by very warm personal regard for herself, had
hurried Lord Dunsmore straight home from Italy to Hurstdene, to find
her; and the result was happy for both.

Mrs. James Ufford never forgave her brother-in-law for not having died
in Italy; but she knew that family quarrels were ungraceful and
unbecoming, so she abstained from them; and welcomed her dear Gwyneth
with a cordiality and affection which deceived every one except their
respective husbands.

In a house on the outskirts of a small town, on one of the most wildly
picturesque shores of the kingdom, Captain Duncan and his two sisters
soon settled themselves. There the days passed in the quiet but busy
monotony, which makes time fly so fast. Affection and unreserved
confidence were their solace; and Maurice, occupied daily, and often
nightly, by his situation, soon recovered the cheerful tone of mind
which, when springing from a right source, is one of life’s best
blessings.

As to Hilary, her resignation was calm, perfect, and even cheerful
too; and strangers little guessed the history of her feelings from her
face. They saw the surface only, and could not look into the depths of
her heart; and yet, even that surface told as clearly of the peace of
her mind as the waveless sea reflects the blue heaven which looks down
upon it.

Nest was the glancing sunbeam of their house, and to make her happy
was a sufficient object to excite the energy of both her affectionate
guardians.




CHAPTER XXV.

  “His long rambles by the shore
  On winter evenings when the roar
  Of the near waves came sadly grand
  Through the dark, up the drowned sand.
                                        TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.

  “And she is happy? does she see unmoved
  The days in which she might have lived and loved
  Slip without bringing bliss slowly away,
  One after one, to-morrow like to-day?”
                                         ISEULT OF BRITTANY.


“You heard from Gwyneth this morning, dear,” said Captain Duncan to
his sister one evening, as they sat together after tea. They had been
in their new home about two years.

“Yes, here is the letter.”

                                            “Hurstdene Vicarage.
     “DEAR HILARY,

     “You know how little I wished to come here, but George
     thought it right, and so we came; and the old place is so
     changed that it is not so very painful; only the date above
     looks like old times, and reminds me, more than any thing
     else, of the past. It is a fine large house, but I hope all
     future vicars will be rich, or I do not know what they will
     do. Isabel complains of it as cramped and small, however; it
     was too small to ask nurse and baby here, so my boy is at
     home. She considers it unhealthy too!

     “The church is finished quite. It would not have been, but
     for ‘my lord’s’ perseverance and purse; and as Isabel’s
     extravagant plans were abandoned, it looks very nice. The
     graves at the east end are fresh and well-cared for; that
     dear old spot! You may guess how I went there first; and the
     seat under the lime-tree is carefully painted, and a date
     cut on it, of the day before we left Hurstdene. Why?

     “I asked James who had done that? He did not know, but old
     Martin told me it was Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns’――again I ask
     why? He is still abroad, poor man! and oh! poor, _poor_
     Dora! she is much the same, yet they fancy there are
     dawnings of intellect sometimes. I have seen her companion,
     Miss Lightfoot; I am not allowed to see her. Lady Margaret,
     you know, lives at the Abbey. Poor Mr. Barham is so changed;
     he looks humbled and heart-broken.

     “After all, Hilary, real sorrow may be a great blessing; and
     can those who have never known grief――a grief they were not
     ashamed to feel and acknowledge, can they know how to feel
     for others? I think not.

     “Lord D. went round with me, and visited all the old people;
     they seemed quite glad to see me again, and asked, oh! so
     many questions about you all. The curate is very good and
     attentive; I don’t fancy they see much of the vicar; I
     wonder why I ever supposed him such a devoted clergyman; yet
     he seems always immersed in business, desperately occupied.
     I believe it is _system_ he wants; I am sure our parish at
     Ufford is much better managed; but then with two such heads
     as ‘my lord’s,’ and Mr. Barton’s, no wonder.

     “Things have certainly got wrong somehow. Isabel would have
     made a better wife to a peer than a priest, and there can
     not be a doubt but that George would have been a better
     clergyman than his brother; though to fill his own station
     better than Lord D. does would be quite impossible. I must
     not write any more, he is calling me to walk――”

Maurice listened in silence to this letter, and after some meditation,
he observed,

“How happy Gwyneth is!”

Just then Nest entered the room.

“How it blows,” she observed, as she sat down; “and it is so dark; I
looked out just now, to try and catch a glimpse of the sea, but every
thing was as black as pitch; and, oh, such a roar of waves!”

“Just the night for me to visit the South Point Station,” observed
Maurice, rising; “and it is time I was gone, too; but this pleasant
fire and good tea make one lazy, Nest.”

“Must you ride all along those cliffs to-night, Maurice?――it is such a
storm!” observed Hilary.

She had not yet become accustomed to the night-work, so as to see him
depart without anxiety.

“Oh, that’s nothing!” said he, as he put on his great pilot coat; “and
this is a fine night for smugglers: suppose I were to intercept a
cargo to-night.”

The horse was brought round, and his sisters both went to the door to
see him mount. They stood within the shelter of the porch, shading a
candle as well as they could from the draft, while its flickering
streams of light fell on exterior objects, forming grotesque shadows
and strange contrasts, and then losing themselves in the dark
back-ground.

Maurice kissed them both, and bade them go to bed, then mounted and
trotted off over the hill.

They listened till the horse-hoofs had died on the ear, then they
turned together to the house.

“Let me stay with you to-night, Hilary――do,” said Nest, coaxingly; “it
will be so melancholy for you to sit here all alone, and listen to the
great roar of the waves.”

Hilary smiled an assent, and they sat down together.

It was not quite nine o’clock when Maurice left them; but as they
could not expect him back for more than a couple of hours, Mrs.
Hepburn did not intend that her younger sister, who was now growing
into a tall girl of thirteen, somewhat delicate and fragile, should
remain watching till nearly midnight. It was true that she herself
felt unusually nervous and uncomfortable to-night, but these were
foolish tremors, to which it would not do to give way; and Nest’s
health must not be sacrificed to her own idle fancies; she resolved
that no persuasion should induce her to prolong their joint vigil.

The wildness of the night seemed to have affected even Nest’s spirits;
instead of chatting in her usual lively manner, she was almost silent,
only now and then exclaiming as a louder burst of wind seemed to roll
over the house, or a heavier wave dashed against the rocks below.
Hilary had learned to love the deep roar, the hollow murmur, and the
angry rush of the ocean-wave; they spoke to her of other times, in a
strange language which was intelligible only to the finer feelings.
What the connection was between their voices and the memory of the
lost one, she could not have explained; but she never heard the one
without musing on the other; and now her heart had traveled away to
by-gone hours, as she sat by the fire, until roused by the clock
striking ten, she begged Nest to go to bed.

But Nest still remonstrated, and entreated to stay; and to beguile the
time, began asking questions of their old home, and leading Hilary to
talk of her childhood; and so the minutes flew by, until it was really
time to look for Maurice home; and Hilary again urged Nest to retire;
Maurice would be vexed to find her up so late.

Still Nest said, no, he would not; he would not mind it for once; she
must let her sit up, and when he came home they would have a little
comfortable supper together.

While they were discussing this point, the younger, with a decided
disinclination to leave her sister, and the elder almost equally
unwilling to let her go, they heard, during a lull, the sound of a
horse approaching at a rapid pace.

“It is Maurice!” said Hilary.

“No, that is not his riding; he went out on Acorn, and he never
gallops him so hard,” replied Nest, listening.

Hilary looked uneasy; ever since the one great shock she had received,
her nerves were as easily agitated as a compass-needle, and though
like it, too equally balanced to be moved from the center of rest,
still they

  “Turned at the touch of joy or woe,
  And turning, trembled too.”

“It is perhaps some messenger come to fetch Maurice,” said the
quick-witted Nest, who saw that her sister was uneasy; “for he is
certainly coming here.”

As she spoke the sounds approached quite close, and in another minute
they had stopped at the gate. The sisters ran out, and threw open the
door; a stranger was there, who advanced, and touched his cap to the
ladies.

“Please, madam, I bring a note from the captain, and am to take back
an answer.”

“Nothing the matter?” asked Hilary, breathless, scanning the
messenger’s countenance, as she took the note.

“Nothing with the captain,” was the answer.

And Hilary, retreating to the light, opened the twisted paper and
read――

     “DEAR HILARY――

     “Don’t be frightened; I want some linen for a man who has
     been hurt here: some for _him_, some for his _bed_, he has
     nothing! the messenger can tell you about the facts. I must
     stay and take care of him to-night. I hope you will not
     mind.

                                            “Yours,       M. D.”


“I will get what Captain Duncan wants, immediately,” said Mrs.
Hepburn; “come in and sit down while I do it.” She put the note into
Nest’s hands, saying, “Ask for an explanation, dear,” and hurried up
stairs.

The man, while he gladly spread his hands to the parlor fire, and
refused to sit down on the chairs, which looked too refined for his
society, told Miss Duncan that a yacht had appeared off the coast in
the morning, and that the preventive men, after watching it for some
time, saw a boat put off for the shore, with only one person in her.
As there was a heavy ground-swell, and the landing was extremely
dangerous, although the sea at the time, a hundred yards from the
shore, was like glass, they signaled the boat not to approach. Whether
the signals were unseen or unintelligible, they could not tell; the
boat made for the beach, immediately below the preventive station. As
might be expected, no sooner did she come within the influence of the
rolling sea, than she was caught on the crest of a wave, thrown
violently on the shore, capsized, stove, and the gentleman, for such
he was, was dashed into the surf, from which he was with difficulty
rescued by the coast-guard men, half-drowned, with a broken arm, and
other terrible injuries to his head and person. He had been carried
into a small public-house hard by, and after some hours they had
succeeded in obtaining a doctor to dress his wounds; the remote part
of the coast making it a matter of great difficulty to procure help of
any kind, until the fortunate arrival of the captain, who had told
them what to do, and was now with the wounded man.

“And who is he?” exclaimed Nest.

“Nobody knows, miss; the yacht had been cruising about a while, but
when the gale rose so heavily, she was obliged to stand off, and was
out of sight before night-fall. The coast is so dangerous, you see,
miss, she would be obliged to run for shelter to some better harbor,
or keep out to sea for more room. It would never do to be knocking
about here in these long dark nights.”

“And you don’t think they were smugglers, then?” said Nest, whose
ideas of romance were all running in that line, and who was little
interested in a matter-of-fact gentleman.

He assured her they had no suspicions of the sort; and Hilary coming
down at the moment with the requisite articles, the man mounted, and
rode off without delay. Nest had been both right and wrong; it was her
brother’s horse, though he was not the rider.

The sisters agreed now to go to bed at once, as Maurice was not coming
home till morning; and when Nest had repeated the story she had heard,
in every variety of way which her fancy could suggest, she allowed her
sister to go to sleep.

As soon as breakfast was over, the next morning, as the day was fair,
Hilary resolved to drive over to the station at South Point, and see
whether any thing more was required for the sufferer there. Nest
begged to go too; full of excitement and interest on the occasion.

It was a very lonely place; the small public house, into which the
stranger had been carried, stood low down on the beach, beneath high,
beetling rocks, above which was the preventive station, and it seemed
only fit to be the resort of fishers, or men of the same class. Mrs.
Hepburn and her sister, on entering found only the hostess below, and
desiring Nest to remain with her, the elder made her way up the steep,
ladder-like steps to a room above, where her brother was nursing the
sick man.

The door and the window were both open, and the pleasant breeze
streamed in with the morning sunbeams, which fell on Hilary as she
stood contemplating the couple within the room. Her brother was
sitting beside the bed, holding the hand of his patient, but his back
was to the door.

Supported by pillows, and evidently laboring for breath, the sick man
lay with his face toward her; but as his eyes were closed, he was not
aware of her presence. The flush of fever was on his cheek, the
contraction of pain on his brow; his countenance seemed the home of
sad unquiet thoughts; a thick curled beard and moustache of dark
auburn concealed the lower part of his face, while a bandage across
his forehead gave a more ghastly expression to his sunken eyes. Yet
even in those worn and pain-struck features, she thought she
recognized a something familiar, a something which sent her memory
back to her girlhood and her forest-home. He slowly opened his eyes,
and said, in a low, feeble voice――

“Maurice, I should like to see――Hilary!” added he, in a tone of wild
surprise, starting from his pillows, as his eyes fell on her. The
effort was too much, he sank back, overpowered by weakness, while
shadows of agony and terror seemed to cross his face.

“My mind wanders,” said he, placing his hand over his brow; “Maurice,
I thought I saw your sister――just as she was in the forest――the first
time we met.”

No wonder he was thus deluded; for as she stood there, with the glow
on her cheek from the fresh morning air, with her brown hair smoothly
parted on her forehead, her simple bonnet, and plain black dress, she
looked so calm, so youthful, so like the Hilary of his happiest hours,
he could hardly suppose her a reality; could years have made so little
change in her, so much in himself?

She approached, and placed her fingers on the only hand he had at
liberty; the other lay helpless by his side.

“It is I, myself,” said she, in her low, gentle voice. “Do not be
disturbed, Mr. Huyton.”

She saw it all at once; it was the friend of his youth, the very man
who had so deeply injured him, that Maurice had been nursing all
night.

“Are _you_ come too?” said he, in a broken voice, as he fixed his
dark, glowing eyes on her; “are you come to see me die? Angel, whom I
have so deeply injured; whose sad path in life I have made still
sadder! Are you come to bless or to curse me with your presence? Can
you forgive me now?”

“Forgive! ah yes――as I would be forgiven――long, long ago I forgave!”

“What a wretch I have been; yet I thought I loved you! and it _was_
love, earnest, real love, till your rejection turned it into
bitterness. Oh, if I had but listened to your pleading; yielded to
your mild remonstrances. Maurice, tell her that I have repented.”

“Hilary will believe it, I am sure, Charles,” replied Maurice; “do not
exhaust yourself by emotion.”

“Let me talk, my end is near. Listen. I was wild, frantic with grief
and remorse; horror-stricken at the wreck I had made of Dora’s
happiness, vainly repenting when too late――when――ah Hilary! forgive
me――when, as you were once more free, I found myself fettered to
her――poor thing! Miserable, I wandered from country to country――till I
met with one who taught me better, a true minister of the Gospel, who
taught me better, and sent me home to my duty――too long neglected. I
intended to do right――I meant to try and remedy, so far as I could,
the miserable past; my first step was to see Maurice, and ask his
pardon. I came here, and now I am dying――it is the only thing which
can really repair my crimes. To hear him speak forgiveness has been my
best comfort. Now let me die!”

Hilary’s tears fell fast over the hand she held in hers.

“Must he die, Maurice?” whispered she.

Captain Duncan shook his head sadly.

Charles again opened his eyes, which he had closed as sharp pains shot
through him. The cold drops of agony which stood on his forehead his
friend wiped gently away.

“Yes, I must die,” whispered he again to Hilary; “I know it; this pain
will only cease when mortification begins. I must die; and I am
thankful for it. I do not deserve it; a long life of penitence and
sorrow would have been my fitting fate; I have no right even to ask
for a speedy release. But for you, for others, it is better I should
go; if I could only repair my mad folly, my savage wickedness; if I
could only, in giving Dora liberty, give her back the reason I
frightened away; oh, I would suffer twenty times more pain, could I
restore her to you, Maurice, as she was.”

“God’s will be done!” said Maurice, gravely; “He gave, He took away!
Since she has been your wife, Charles, she has ceased to be the Dora
of my fancy.”

“You are weeping for me Hilary――how many tears I have made you shed. I
do not deserve one gentle thought: it was in mercy, undeserved mercy,
you were sent here, that I might hear you say you forgive me.”

“I do, indeed, from my soul.”

“And if _you_ do, you, who might have felt resentment――a fellow
mortal――I hope――I trust――I believe the Most High will hear my
penitence――and for that dear love which died for us all――” his voice
failed him again, in a fit of agonizing pain, terrible to see.

The injuries had been principally internal, and during the hours which
had passed before medical aid was procured, inflammation had
commenced, which it was now evident must end in death.

“Leave me,” said he, when he again had power to speak; “leave me,
Hilary, I do not deserve to give you pain; you suffer in seeing me
suffer.”

“No, let me stay,” she said, calmly; “let me nurse you.”

“Leave me; I once loved you better than life, than duty, than Heaven;
but I have struggled with a passion, wrong in its excess, criminal in
the husband of another. I have learned to govern it――to subdue it; but
do not come between me and better thoughts, do not drag me back to
earthly feelings. Let me voluntarily renounce the dearest, sweetest
thing on earth; let me prove my sincerity to myself. Leave me!”

She rose, and though she longed to linger there, she passed from the
bed-side, after one soft pressure of his feverish fingers.

“Farewell, till we meet above,” said she, and went from the room. She
did not, however, leave the house; but as soon as she went down
stairs, she sent off Nest and the servant, who had driven them, over
to the town to find the parish priest, and beg him to visit the dying
man.

Whatever friendship could suggest to soothe his pain, or pastoral
prayer and counsel could afford to support and guide him aright, was
granted him. But it was not till toward the afternoon, that the fierce
pain subsided, and he became calm. Then they knew that death was
rapidly advancing.

In the gray twilight, Hilary and Maurice returned home together,
leaving the friend and companion of their youth a quiet corpse. After
years of disappointment, anger, remorse, and repentance, he slept in
peace.

Hilary cried quietly nearly the whole drive home; she could not help
it. It was not only painful regret, or sorrow for the dead; but old
thoughts had been revived, old feelings, buried happiness, vanished
hopes, the gay visions of youth, all seemed suddenly awakened at this
painful meeting. And it is an awful thing to stand by the bed of one
whose wild passions, ungoverned temper, and wasted youth, have brought
on disappointment and death, even though we may hope they have ended
in true penitence and faith. We may hope, but we must tremble too!

Mr. Barham was sitting one afternoon with his youngest daughter, who
was amusing herself, with childish pleasure, over some brilliant
flowers, when the second post came in, and brought him a letter from
Maurice.

Captain Duncan wrote him for directions as to the corpse of his
son-in-law. His yacht had come into harbor the day after the storm,
and the captain suggested that they should carry the deceased owner
round to Bristol, as to the nearest port to “the Ferns,” from whence
the corpse could be transferred, according to Mr. Barham’s pleasure.
They waited his orders, as the guardian of Charles Huyton’s widow.

The letter contained the detail of his sad and yet hopeful end. It
dropped from Mr. Barham’s hands after he had read it, and crossing his
arms on the desk before him, he laid down his head and groaned aloud.
The manly, feeling tone of the letter, and all the sad thoughts it had
called up, oppressed him deeply.

His daughter looking up and seeing his emotion, went close to his
chair, and stroking his head as a child might do, she said, in a
fondling voice:

“Poor papa! poor papa! what is the matter?”

This completely overpowered him, he sobbed like a boy.

“Don’t cry, papa――yes, do――I wish I could, too: I never cry now――I
have no tears left――if I could only cry, the great weight on my head
might go.”

Then, in her childish way, she took the letter he had dropped, and
said: “I think I will read it too.”

She did so, for her father was too much overwhelmed to think.

“Father,” said she, “I think――I remember――did I dream it, or was it
true, that I once married Charles Huyton――that I was called his wife?”

Her tone was altered, it was her own voice; her father raised his head
in amazement, and looked at her. Strange gleams of thought flitted
across her face, like lights and shadows on a still ocean; memory and
mind were struggling with the dull torpor of disease. Her brain was
awaking! she slowly read again the touching words of Maurice Duncan;
she looked on his name at the conclusion of the letter. She
thought――she felt――she remembered the past.

“He was my husband,” said she.

“He was, dear child,” replied her father, trembling.

“Why did he leave me?” said she, dreamily; he feared her intellect was
fading again.

“You have been ill, my darling, we have been nursing you long,” said
he, drawing her down toward him.

“Stop, let me think;” she put her hand to her forehead; “he is dead
they say――dead――poor Charles!――and did not see me first. I am his
widow then――” again her mind appeared in her working countenance. “Ah,
I remember all now; he did not love _me_, he loved Hilary Duncan, and
there was Maurice who loved me――and we parted! poor Maurice――and he
was with him when he died――oh, papa――”

She threw herself on the ground at his feet, and laying her head
against his knee, she shed the first tears she had wept for years. Her
father kissed and caressed her fondly, making her tears flow faster
and faster, until she had wept away the mist from her mind, the torpor
from her faculties, and was reasonable, rational, and quiet.

Extreme exhaustion ensued; but by incessant care, and the most
skillful treatment, her strength slowly returned, and with her
strength came perfect memory and command of her faculties.

Slowly she learned to appreciate her position, to interest herself in
her property, to assume her station as the mistress of “the Ferns,”
the widow of Charles Huyton; and when a year had passed away there
remained no traces of her illness, except the steadiness and gravity
which now marked her manners, in striking contrast with her girlish
habits.

                      *     *     *     *     *

“Hilary, dear,” said Dora Duncan one day to her sister-in-law, as they
strolled together under the old lime-trees at “the Ferns,” while Nest,
a tall, graceful young woman, was playing with her little nephew,
Maurice, “Hilary, why are you not happy?”

“Happy! I am, content, peaceful, happy, as one can be in this world,
dear Dora.”

“But you have none to love you _best_,” said Dora.

“I have enough: you, Maurice, my sisters, and the children; I am rich
in love, and loving hearts.”

“And do they satisfy you?”

“No, I should be sorry if they did. Nothing of this world can, in
itself: it is only as it partakes of the nature of Heaven, that it can
fill the soul. But, Dora, the one whom I loved best in this world is
at peace, his longing for perfection is satisfied, his hunger for
righteousness is filled now; no sorrow can touch him, no pain, no
trouble more; and I shall join him, I trust, at last. What else have I
to wish for now?”

“Still, Hilary, it seems sad.”

“Who, going through the vale of misery, use it for a well, and the
pools are filled with water,” continued Hilary; “do you remember what
follows, Dora? My best treasure is safe, and for the rest, though I
can joy and weep with you all, I can not attach my heart to earth
again. But does my gravity distress you?”

“Oh no, no, no! you are not sad to look at, you are all love, and
peace, and sympathy; what should we do without you?”

“That is my happiness, so far as earth is concerned, to love and to
serve here below, in the hope that in my home above I may serve and
love forever.”


THE END.




Transcriber’s Note

Words may have inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have
been left unchanged unless indicated below. Paragraphs end without
punctuation when followed by a quotation by the same character.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, reversed,
upside down, or partially printed letters, were corrected. Final
stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were
added. Duplicate words or letters at line endings or page breaks
were removed.

Added omitted words:

  “Hilary, [I] love you.
  whether he [had] done more good than harm

Spelling corrections:

  be greater that [than] she could bear;
  rested against Hillary’s [Hilary’s] shoulder
  with the tea equippage [equipage]
  wishes with resgard [regard] to
  She was a very pleasing young women [woman]
  glanced at her fatherr [father]
  delighted so [to] see her
  which, on opening, diclosed [disclosed]
  These [There] is a tact
  it was one with which no cotemporary [contemporary] love
  party at the Vicarge [Vicarage]
  observed Hillary [Hilary]
  retain the love is [it] does not return
  That soft touch overpowed [overpowered] Gwyneth
  Had the marrige [marriage] really taken place
  thrilled through her fame [frame]