CHAPTERIV.“Far, far from each otherOur 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 wasrichly 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—Icouldnot 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 electmay 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 laymethere—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;Ican 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 berealof 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 notfriendshipthat 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 tome, 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 nothateme?” 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 nothateyou; 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 knowmy 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, asmyfather andmysisters, 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 theonlyreason; 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—youshall 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 veryignorant 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 daynow, 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 inher 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 gainedwhen 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, ormore 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 onlynothinted 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, frightenthe 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.
“Far, far from each otherOur spirits have grown;And what heart knows another?Ah! who knows his own?”Arnold.
“Far, far from each otherOur spirits have grown;And what heart knows another?Ah! who knows his own?”Arnold.
“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 wasrichly 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—Icouldnot 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 electmay 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 laymethere—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;Ican 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 berealof 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 notfriendshipthat 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 tome, 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 nothateme?” 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 nothateyou; 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 knowmy 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, asmyfather andmysisters, 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 theonlyreason; 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—youshall 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 veryignorant 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 daynow, 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 inher 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 gainedwhen 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, ormore 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 onlynothinted 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, frightenthe 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.