CHAPTERII.“Blowing between the stems, the forest airHad loosened the brown curls of Vivian’s hair,Which played o’er her flushed cheeks; and her blue eyesSparkled 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 themwith 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 sawfurther; 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 taughther 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 wildinsouciance, 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, ofwild 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 strolledalong, 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 knowthe 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 assistedMaurice 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 havechosen 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; wenevertouch wine, except Maurice, and I do not supposehewould 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 withintense 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 castmany 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 againstHilary’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 theywere 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.
“Blowing between the stems, the forest airHad loosened the brown curls of Vivian’s hair,Which played o’er her flushed cheeks; and her blue eyesSparkled with mocking glee and exercise.”Iseult of Brittany.
“Blowing between the stems, the forest airHad loosened the brown curls of Vivian’s hair,Which played o’er her flushed cheeks; and her blue eyesSparkled with mocking glee and exercise.”Iseult of Brittany.
“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 themwith 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 sawfurther; 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 taughther 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 wildinsouciance, 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, ofwild 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 strolledalong, 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 knowthe 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 assistedMaurice 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 havechosen 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; wenevertouch wine, except Maurice, and I do not supposehewould 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 withintense 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 castmany 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 againstHilary’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 theywere 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.