CHAPTERV.“For she was passing weary of his love.”Iseult of Brittany.Hilary looked up from her needle-work with a trembling heart, but a face of calm determination. She had made up her mind to speak.“Mr. Huyton, this will not do; this must not be.”“What, dear Miss Duncan?” sitting down close beside her as he spoke.“I can not allow this; you must not suppose that if my father knew what has passed, he would act as he does now. He would see as plainly as I do, the impropriety of my undertaking what is done avowedly for such motives.”“Impropriety! nay, you must not put it so strongly; surely there is nothing improper in my assisting to clothe the same children as you do; or even in my caring for them because they are objects of interest to you!”“That is not what I mean; and indeed, I am sure you will not press your request, when I tell you that after the motive you assigned, it would be unpleasant to me to grant it.”“I would not do what is unpleasant to you, not for the hundredth part of a minute; no, not if it were to procure me the greatest pleasure in the world. Say no more about these foolish cloaks, I entreat you.”“And tell my father the reason?” said Hilary, blushing very deeply.“That is not necessary, surely,” replied he, gravely; “there is no occasion to assign any other reason; make the business over to your school-mistress; I dare say she will be competentenough. But remember themotiveis the same; I can not pretend to retract that; and whether you accept of it as a proof of devotion to you or not, there is no other plea to put it on.”Hilary was silent, and looked down.“You did not suppose Icouldchange?” continued he; “you are unjust alike to my constancy and your perfections. That indeed is the cause of my constancy; there is no merit in loving you unchangeably—nobody could help it.”“Mr. Huyton, I believe I was wrong,” replied Hilary, with very crimson cheeks, and a rather unsteady voice; “when I promised to allow you to remain—to go on the same as ever—I can not—it is painful, embarrassing, most distressing to me. Am I asking too much in asking you to leave us for a time?—perhaps, too, absence might be good for you, might teach you how much you over-rate me; but, at least, it would domegood. After a time, I might learn to meet you unembarrassed, and look on you as I used to do: I can not now; I have tried in vain—your presence distresses, frightens me—makes me uncomfortable and unhappy.”Hilary ended her sentence in very great trepidation, and finally burst into tears, which both frightened and perplexed Mr. Huyton.“Dear Miss Duncan, don’t; dearest, sweetest Hilary; my beloved!—do not make yourself unhappy; I will not stay another day to distress you. Though to leave you is exile and banishment, and protracted pain, I will go; only don’t cry. I would not cause you a tear if I could help it. I will make any sacrifice—there now, dry your eyes, take this glass of water! are you better? trust me, your happiness is dearer than my own. I will do any thing you ask.”Hilary dried her eyes, and quieted herself with an effort; then looking up, she said, “I beg your pardon for being so foolish; but—did I understand you rightly?—you said you would leave us!”“I did, and I will.”“Thank you. You will tell my father, will you not?”“I will explain all that is necessary. Compose yourself, and trust me.”She rose hastily, and left the room; dropping, as she did so, a carnation she had worn in her bosom, of which he took possession with a lover’s enthusiasm. He did not, however, go away immediately; he could not, without saying good-by to her; but he sat down, and formed his plan for the future.When Mr. Duncan returned, Hilary entered the room along with him, and glanced, with some confusion, at Charles, who, on catching her eye, said, half turning to the clergyman, “I propose to go with you, Mr. Duncan, and give these very important orders myself. I imagine my genius will be equal to that, if the shopman will only help me out a little; so if you will accept my society, I will order my horse round with yours, sir.”The offer of his company was readily accepted, and Hilary saw the two depart together, with much satisfaction, for more reasons than one; and having watched them off, and sighed to witness how uncertain her father’s step had become, she turned again into the house, to attend to household duties.Mr. Duncan’s eyesight had lately been failing rapidly, and Hilary, who was aware of the circumstance, had become extremely unwilling to allow him to ride about alone; but it was not in her power to accompany him that day, as the girls were all poorly with bad colds, and she did not like to leave them. She was therefore as glad on her father’s account that he should have a companion, as she was herself to get rid of Mr. Huyton’s society.She went to her sisters, and read or talked to them, to amuse and comfort them under the unpleasantness of their indisposition; and she continued with them until the sound of horses’ hoofs warned her that her father had returned.Charles Huyton was still with him, consequently Hilary went into the drawing-room to await his entrance, instead of running out into the porch. The two gentlemen entered together: theyoung man looking apologetically at Miss Duncan, as if to excuse his return.“I made Charles come in and give an account of his purchases in the woolen-drapery line,” observed Mr. Duncan, “that there might be no mistake in so important a transaction, Hilary; when you have arranged about quantities and other necessaries, he says he will turn the matter of making over to the village sempstress.”Hilary made no answer, busying herself with the teaequipage, which was on the table.“How are the children?” inquired Charles, drawing near her; and then adding, as the vicar went out of the room, “do not be displeased with me for coming once more.”She colored, and answered, “I am very much obliged for your going with my father, Mr. Huyton, and also for the arrangements you have made about this business. The little ones are much the same, thank you, but they will be better to-morrow, I hope. Do you stay to tea this evening?”“May I?—I should like—I have made up my mind during my ride; I will go abroad to-morrow; but I have not told your father, and it may seem unkind to leave abruptly, without any explanation. But I will do exactly as you please.”“I have made tea for you,” replied Hilary, busying herself as she spoke, in putting water into the tea-pot, and thereby avoiding looking up.While they three were sitting together round the tea-table, Charles Huyton said, rather to the surprise of Mr. Duncan,“Do you know, sir, I am thinking of going abroad.”“Abroad!” exclaimed the vicar, with an expression of sorrow in his countenance; “I had hoped, Charles, you were going to settle here for life.”“So did I, at one time,” replied Charles; “but circumstances have interfered, and I am proposing a visit to my mother’s family at Dresden; they have asked me several times during the last two years, and now I mean to go.”“When? soon? not directly, I hope?” said Mr. Duncan, still looking much concerned.“Yes, immediately; when a disagreeable thing has to be done, the sooner it is commenced the better. Unless Miss Duncan will give me leave to call to-morrow to say farewell to her sisters, I shall perform that painful ceremony to you both to-night.” He fixed his eyes on Hilary with a look of meaning, which she had great difficulty innotseeing.“Come to-morrow, by all means,” replied Mr. Duncan. “Hilary, dear, the girls will be able to see him then, and they would break their hearts at missing him altogether. Are you going with any permanent views of settling in life, Charles? Excuse my curiosity, but do you mean to bring home a bride with you? Or, perhaps, you will marry and stay there.”“Most decidedly not,” exclaimed he, eagerly and warmly; “there is not the smallest prospect of either one or the other. All my affections are centered in England, all my hopes of happiness are founded on a residence at ‘the Ferns,’ and every prospective plan of fancy, or retrospective glance of happy memory, will carry me at once to the parish of Hurstdene. You will see me here again as soon as it is in my power to come.”“I shall never see you here again, Charles,” replied the vicar, with a gentle shake of his head, and a very patient smile.“My dear sir, do not imagine such a thing; I trust to be with you at least in the spring.”“I trust you will, my dear Charles; but do you not understand what I mean? Before that time my old eyes will be quite worn out; at the rate in which they have lately failed me, they will be totally dark before the spring comes, and I shall not see your face, though you may look on mine when you return.”“I am shocked to hear you say so,” exclaimed Charles, with a face of the deepest sympathy. His glance went from the father to the daughter; Hilary was very pale, and her brimming eyes and quivering lips warned him not to speak to her at that moment; he turned again to the vicar. “But can nothing be done, dear sir? have you had advice?mustthis sadfate befall you? Do not believe it inevitable till it is proved to be so.”“I do not imagine any advice can avail,” replied the vicar, calmly; “I have looked forward for some time to this event; and having enjoyed my eyesight for sixty years, Charles, I have no reason to think it a very grievous hardship if I spend a few more in darkness. It will not last forever—light will come, I humbly trust, at length; a better, purer, brighter light than that on which my old eyes are so fast closing; the Light of everlasting day. There will be no darkness in heaven, Charles; and thinking of that, shall I complain?”With a suppressed sob, Hilary started from the table, and ran out of the room.“She is crying, is she not, Charles?” inquired the father, a little moved; “I can not see that dear face now as I used to do, to read all her emotions as in a book. Poor girl! she has not learned to think of it yet with composure; but she will find strength in her time of need. I mind it more, when I think of being a burden on the girls, than for any other reason; butHiswill be done—I will be as little troublesome as I can.”“Troublesome—a burden!” exclaimed Charles Huyton, extremely affected at the quiet resignation of the old man. You knowthatis impossible. A burden and a trouble implies something unwillingly carried; and Hilary, angel that she is, would bear any thing for you, or for others with pleasure. With such a daughter, your domestic happiness can never be entirely destroyed; I could almost envy you the blindness which will be waited on, and alleviated by her kindness.”“I am just going to take measures for inquiring for a curate. I can not trust my sight much longer, and some help I must have very soon,” said Mr. Duncan.Charles Huyton started. A curate settled at Hurstdene, and he away! images of a painful nature crossed his mind. He foresaw how much Hilary would be thrown with this curate; he knew the influence which religious enthusiasm exercises over the minds of women; he foresaw what he supposed would bethe inevitable consequence—an attachment between them; the overthrow of his hopes. Should this be! what could he do to remedy or prevent it?“I suppose you would wish for amarriedcurate,” suggested he, after a pause. “A lady resident in the village would be a comfort, perhaps, to Miss Duncan; it would be better in every respect to have the gentleman married.”“If we could lodge him; but how can that be done? Stair’s farm would accommodate a single man, but there is no house in the village where a couple could live.”“True, perhaps; but I think, if you will give me time to arrange, it could be managed. You remember that cottage on the green, which is known as Primrose Bank, about a quarter of a mile beyond the church. Would not that do?”“My dear Charles, are you dreaming? it is quite out of repair, and small besides.”“But that is easily altered; it is mine now; the lease fell in last Lady Day, and the tenants are gone. I must have it repaired, as you say, and a little addition, a couple of hundred pounds laid out on it, would make it just the thing.”“What a spirit you have, Charles; you never see difficulties.”“Not where there are none; but, my dear Mr. Duncan, I have a motive; it was only last week I heard from a sort of cousin of mine, saying, he wanted a curacy to marry on; and this would be the very thing. I do not know the lady, but I am sure you would like him; and as he is very well off, only wanting work, not pay, until a certain family living falls vacant, I am convinced it would suit exactly. I will put off my departure, until the whole matter is arranged to your liking.”“Can you do that?”“My departure does not depend on myself, Mr. Duncan; but on one, who, for your sake, would, I am sure, endure me in her presence a little longer. I only wish to please one, for whom I would go or stay, work, beg, die, if needs were—your angel-daughter, Hilary!”“Hilary!” exclaimed Mr. Duncan; “I do not understand! what has your going to do with her!”“Dear Mr. Duncan, I love Hilary with a devotion which is beyond any words of mine to express; but she does not love me; and to please her, to prove my constancy, to relieve her from my society, to try if my absence will win a regard which my presence has failed to do, I have resolved to quit England for a time.”Still Mr. Duncan was puzzled; the idea of Charles wishing to marry Hilary was entirely new to him; and he trembled at the notion of losing her, even while he wished he could see her, as he supposed, so safely settled.Charles explained all that had passed between them, dwelling much on Hilary’s determination never to leave her father, with a sort of hope that his influence would be used to turn her wishes in favor of her lover. His eloquence was interrupted by the return of Miss Duncan, calm and composed, as usual; and on her resuming her seat, her father immediately entered on the discussion of Mr. Huyton’s plan respecting his cousin, and the house at Primrose Bank, anxiously appealing to her for an opinion.Hilary, who had been for some time aware that an assistant in the parish was every day becoming more necessary, and who saw at once the possible advantage of having that assistant a married man, admitted that the plan was a good one, and did not frown when Charles, with some anxiety and doubt, proposed delaying his departure from England for the purpose of superintending the necessary alterations. It was unpleasant to her, but she could not allow her own wishes or fancies to interfere with the advantage of others, or her father’s comfort. To have this affair settled, was of great importance to him, as he had more than once hinted at the necessity of leaving the Vicarage for his successor, and retiring to some other home; but Hilary knew well that to leave the abode where he had spent nearly thirty years, to break off all the ties formed in a lifetime, to quit his people, his church, his schools, and all the interestsaccumulated around him, would be as painful to his mind and heart, as unknown rooms and paths, and people, would assuredly be trying to his bodily infirmities.She could not refuse her acquiescence to these plans, although it increased her obligations to one from whom she was forced still to withhold the only return he asked for his kindness.After a good deal of discussion, Charles decided that he would go the next morning to London to seek an interview with his cousin, Mr. Paine, and, if possible, bring him down to “the Ferns;” he further determined to engage some clever architect, who could give them the best plan for arranging Primrose Bank, and then the alterations could commence without the least delay; and having come to this determination, he took leave, and returned to his house, to think what more he could do to win Hilary’s heart.Left together, the father and daughter sat some time in silence; he broke it by saying,“Hilary, my child, is it for my sake only that you will not listen to Charles Huyton’s love?”Hilary started, laid down her work, and going to him, she hid her face on the back of his chair, while shewhispered—“Dearest papa, I would not listen to any one’s love, who proposed to take me away from you!”“I could ill spare you just now; but yet, if it would make you happy, my child, I would give you to him,” replied he, drawing down her face and kissing her.“But it wouldnot—it would make me miserable; I do not love Mr. Huyton well enough to marry him. To go and live with him would be wretchedness, and I am very, very happy, with you and my sisters—as happy as I can be!”“I do not feel sure of that; I shall regret my blindness more than I ought, if it interferes with such a prospect for you.”“Don’t say so, dear, dearest father; ah! how glad I am that I am not in any danger of being tempted away. Would I leave you in solitary darkness for any thing this world can offer; or, would I throw such a burden on my younger sisters,as to expect them to take the duties I deserted. I hopenothingwould tempt me to such selfish wickedness. But, indeed, papa, I donotlove Mr. Huyton in the least; I can not tell why, but the more I tried the less I found I could; so now I have given up trying, and mean to devote myself to one dearer, better, more precious than he, or twenty such;” kissing him over and over again as she spoke.“Dear Hilary, I will not say a word to urge you to wed where you do not love; but be quite sure, before you decide for life. I should like to see you safely housed at ‘the Ferns,’ with such a guardian and husband as Charles Huyton.”“You never will, papa—do not talk of it; I will not leave you; I never mean to marry. I have made up my mind to be your single daughter for life, and to give away my sisters, as if I were an old maiden-aunt, or a lady-abbess, at least.”He smiled, and passed his hand over her forehead, putting back her hair, and looking lovingly at her face; then he added, in a sort of regretful tone,“Charles Huyton loves you very much, Hilary.”“I believe he does now, papa; but I daresay it will not last; you do not think a man could go on loving a woman who did not care for him, do you? He will find some one else to marry; and when I am an old woman of thirty-five, he will be thankful that he has so much more charming a wife.”“You do not do yourself or him justice, my dear; I expect he will be constant!”“Constant for a man, dear papa; but that is not constant to one woman, only to one idea—that of marrying somebody.”“What do you know of men, Hilary?” inquired her father, laughingly.“A little from history and books; a little otherwise,” said Hilary, smiling also.However, Hilary coaxed her father into not minding her refusal of Charles Huyton, and not regretting her resolution of never quitting him; and the matter was dropped between them, although it could not be forgotten by either.About four days after this conversation, as Hilary and her father were walking together in the garden, where the other girls, now quite recovered, were also amusing themselves, the sound of horses’ feet upon the green drew their attention, and looking up, they saw Mr. Huyton advancing to the Vicarage, accompanied by three gentlemen who were strangers. He sprang off his horse, and came hastily into the garden, leaving his companions to occupy themselves by surveying the village.After a hurried greeting, though a joyous one enough from all but Hilary, Charles told Mr. Duncan, not without some little embarrassment, that he had brought his cousin, Mr. Paine, to visit him; that one of his other companions was a Mr. Jeffries, a clever architect, who was to give them plans for improving Primrose Bank; and the other was a friend of his own, whose name he, for some reason, omitted just then to mention.Mr. Duncan most courteously desired he would introduce any friends he wished; and the three gentlemen, leaving their horses to the groom, were ushered into the garden. Hilary had no difficulty in deciding which of the three strangers was the clergyman, during the short interval of their approach down the garden walk, and she as rapidly made up her mind that she liked his looks; his countenance conveyed the impression of benevolence, sense, and firmness: she hoped he would come to settle among them.He, as might naturally be expected, gave his attention to the vicar, and they soon were deeply engaged in conversation. Mr. Jeffries, the architect, began talking to little Nest, to whom he speedily made himself very agreeable; Charles Huyton stood by Hilary in silence, while she made an effort to converse with the third stranger, a very clever, intelligent-looking man, who answered her remarks with a quick but pleasant manner, although with a slightly foreign accent, while his eyes followed Mr. Duncan’s movements, and expressed great interest in him.After a while, the whole party adjourned to see the church; Hilary then claiming her right of leading her father, Mr. Painestill by his side conversing on parish matters, the architect leading little Nest, and devoting himself to her prattle with astonishing pleasure, while the other two gentlemen followed behind, earnestly discussing some topic in under-tones.Love of his profession, apparently, overcame his love of children in Mr. Jeffries, when in the church, for he examined the building minutely; but Hilary observed that the unknown placed himself beside Mr. Duncan, and seemed far more interested in watching his expression and countenance than in looking at windows, or deciphering brasses.Her curiosity was excited; something more than curiosity, indeed, for whatever was connected with her father interested her deeply, and she determined, as soon as she was outside the church, to inquire of Mr. Huyton who this stranger was.Meantime, the quick eyes and keen perception of Mr. Jeffries had revealed a circumstance which country church-wardens had not detected, and which Mr. Duncan’s increasing blindness had prevented him from seeing. The chancel was exceedingly out of repair, and Mr. Paine suggested that immediate application should be made to the lay-impropriator to remedy that evil now first pointed out. Mr. Duncan promised to take measures to that effect, and they all left the church together.Charles came up to Hilary’s side as they did so, and rather detaining her behind the others, said, “Your eyes, Miss Duncan, have been questioning, ever since we arrived, who the individual now walking with your father is; he is an eminent French physician, a friend of mine, an oculist, I should rather say, whom I persuaded to come over here with me to-day, thinking that perhaps his advice might be of service to Mr. Duncan.”Hilary colored deeply; she saw, or thought she saw at once, that this was another obligation under which Mr. Huyton had laid them; possibly he had only invited M. de la Récaille to ‘the Ferns’ in order to see and consult about her father’s sight. It was a positive pain to her to receive favors in their present relative situation; and while she felt she ought to be obliged for the kindness of the thought, she could not entirely suppress afeeling of repulsion toward one who would heap benefits on her which she would rather have avoided.“Do you think Mr. Duncan would mind my friend looking at his eyes?” continued Charles, watching her countenance attentively; “I was afraid of doing any thing disagreeable, so did not like to mention it to him without your leave; but M. de la Récaille is such an enthusiast in his profession, that he declares I can not oblige him more than by bringing new cases under his notice; that is the reason he accompanied me here to-day!”This speech in some measure quieted Hilary’s mind; and after scolding herself in secret for being such a goose as to think that Mr. Huyton must be influenced by thoughts of her in all he did, she entered upon the subject more readily with him, and it was agreed that the suggestion should be made to Mr. Duncan.“I am not afraid of hurting him,” continued Hilary; “for his resignation to whatever happens, is too deep to be shaken by an observation, a hope, or a decision of any man. I have not learned to view it so calmly yet,” her lip quivering as she spoke, “and can hardly discuss the subject—but, oh! if your friend could give us hopes—could tell us how to avert—” her voice was lost entirely, and Charles almost regretted that he had introduced the topic. However she recovered her composure again when M. de la Récaille spoke to her on the subject, inquiring particularly, methodically, and with great acuteness, all the symptoms of which she had ever been aware in her father’s case; what advice he had taken, and what remedies had been used. His quick, business-like questions, the manner in which he caught the meaning and point of her answers, stopping her from entering on useless details, and arranging all the facts which he elicited during his searching interrogatory, compelled her to use her utmost endeavors to meet his inquiries, to banish feeling and agitation, and to look only at facts in the same light as that in which he viewed them.It was too late in the day, when they returned from the church, to be favorable for an examination at that time; and itwas finally settled that the gentlemen should proceed at once to Primrose Bank, conclude their investigations there, and return to Hurstdene the next morning; when Mr. Paine and the vicar could mutually make known their decisions concerning the curacy, and M. de la Récaille might carry out his wishes withregard to Mr. Duncan’s eyesight.It was an evening of great trial to Hilary; hope for her father had entered her heart, and she could not bid its gentle whispers be still: but she dared not impart her fancies, or allow him to see how much she dwelt on the idea. He was as calm as ever; the notion of approaching darkness had become familiar to him, and he was so firmly convinced of the incurable nature of his complaint, that he would hardly have been disturbed had all the oculists in the kingdom promised him sight. She would not distress him with her agitation; her feelings must be smothered under an assumed appearance of calmness, but she could not approach the topic; and while her sisters were chattering gayly about the gentlemen whom they had seen that day, and describing again and again the personal appearance of all three strangers, never agreeing in details, nor feeling sure whether any pair of eyes were blue, black, or brown, Hilary smiled, and answered, and gave her opinion with almost her ordinary cheerfulness and readiness, while her heart was palpitating with excitement, and her mind at every leisure moment putting up secret petitions for patience, strength, and submission, whatever the result might be.The morrow came, and the visitors arrived punctually. After a brief interview between the clergymen in Mr. Duncan’s study, he repaired to the drawing-room, and seating himself according to the oculist’s directions, quietly submitted to his examination. His daughter stood beside him, her hand clasping his, her breath almost stopped from agitation, her very lips white with intense excitement, and yet her face calm, rigid, and pale as marble. Oh! the suspense of that moment: her eyes eagerly bent on the oculist’s countenance, endeavored to read his decision in his face, before his lips pronounced it; and, unconscious of all beside,her whole mind and understanding was centred on that one object.Charles was close to her, his eyes intently gazing on her, but she knew it not: had he been a hundred miles off she could hardly have been more indifferent about him.It was over at last; that prolonged agony was ended; M. de la Récaille shook his head, sighed, and announced there was no hope, no human probability of any cure; perfect rest might delay the result, agitation might expedite the evil; but come it must; total blindness, sooner or later, was inevitably impending.Mr. Duncan heard it unmoved; he only drew Hilary’s hand closer to his heart, and said, in a cheerful voice,“Then, my child, I must submit to be dependent on you for eyes; thank God, that I have still a daughter!”She pressed his hand, words could not come, and she was too shy to caress him before strangers; but Charles saw that her feelings were wrought to the uttermost, that composure was on the point of giving way, and only anxious to release her, addressed Mr. Duncan, so as to call off his attention. Hilary had sufficient fortitude quietly to withdraw her hand, and then escaping from the room, rushed into her father’s study, where, throwing herself on a chair, and burying her face in her hands, she gave way to sobs deep and agonizing, such as are the outpourings of suppressed feeling alone, the quivering of the spring long held in suspense.She was not aware that Mr. Paine had continued in the study after her father left it; at the moment of her entrance he was sitting in a large chair, engrossed in reading, but startled from his occupation by her appearance, and the expressive agony she betrayed, he looked at her for a minute in silent commiseration, and then rising, and approaching close to her, he said, in a peculiarly gentle and sweet voice,“Miss Duncan, I am grieved to see you so much distressed; has any thing occurred?”She started at the sound of his voice, but her feelings weretoo strongly moved for ceremony, and the soft, kind tone went to her heart like the words of a friend.“Oh, my father! my father!” she sobbed, “all hope is gone; he is, he must be—” then her voice was choked again in an agony of tears.“M. de la Récaille gives no hope, then?” said he, very gently; “I am indeed grieved.”“Ah, if it had been to me,” exclaimed Hilary, “I think I could have borne it better; but for my father, dear, dear father, that he should be helpless, dependent, dark—he who has such intense pleasure in beauty, who has been so active, so busy all his life—that he should be reduced to the state—oh, for submission, resignation, faith like his!”“Is he much disappointed at the result?” inquired Mr. Paine.“No, oh, no; he never hoped at all; and he is so good, so trustful!”“Dear Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Paine, drawing a chair close beside hers, “short as our acquaintance has been, it is impossible for me not to be interested in your father and family; and the future connection between us, the claim which I hope to have as your pastor, when I come to assist Mr. Duncan in his duties here, makes me feel that I have a right to speak to you. Will you let me address you as a friend, or shall I be intruding unpleasantly on a sorrow I would gladly assuage or mitigate?”Hilary raised her head, and wiping away her tears, she said, with a sort of watery smile,“Be our friend, Mr. Paine, and speak; I deserve reproof for my rebellion to the will of heaven!”“I would rather give you comfort than reproof, Miss Duncan; and painful as the certainty you have just acquired must be, natural as grief is under such feelings, I think there is comfort to be found even here. The entire and beautiful resignation of your father shows so clearly that he has that blessed light within which is alone the source of true happiness, that I think you may repose in perfect confidence on this dispensation proving a blessing, not a scourge to him. ‘Hethat formed the eye, shallnotHesee’ the sorrow or the suffering of His servant? and can not that Arm guard him from evil during the rest of his life which has led him hitherto?Hehas not left him helpless, for He has given him daughters who, I am sure, will all make it their privilege to minister to his wants. There is the same home to shelter him, the same daily comforts to which he has been used, the same church, and the same loved services to cheer him. And best of all, beyond all,” added Mr. Paine, looking upward, “the same hope of everlasting life in the brightness of light, when our poor, feeble bodies shall be changed into the likeness of the glorious body of our Adorable Redeemer, and when all sorrow, sighing, and darkness shall forever flee away.”Hilary could not answer, and he was silent, too, for a few minutes. Such thoughts as these make earthly trials and earthly pleasures seem small and poor indeed; and the young man just entering on life’s serious duties and engagements felt he could readily have changed his own bright prospects for the fate of the elder Christian, whose active warfare must be nearly accomplished, and who must now retire from harassing duties to that quiet contemplation so suited to the last stages of our pilgrimage here.Recollecting himself and his companion, who was sitting before him with downcast eyes, and composed though pale features, he added, in a more cheerful voice,“And indeed, my dear Miss Duncan, if you have had any experience among blind people, you must know that there is far less trouble to the sufferer than to those who care for and watch over him. There are many alleviations mercifully sent in all trials; and I have often remarked that those deprived of sight are cheerful, and even joyous, under their affliction. To you, and to your sisters, the anxiety and responsibility may be great, but I feel convinced that, in such a cause, no labor will be a trouble.”“Trouble!” repeated Hilary, clasping her hands; “Mr. Paine, I can only consider it, as far as I am concerned, a privilege, a blessing, to be allowed to minister to such a father as mine. It is a thing to be thankful for for life.”“Fear not, then, you will not be deserted, or left withoutstrength to fulfill your labor of love; services so rendered are indeed a blessing; and happy as I believe your father to be in having a daughter from whom he may receive attentions, I hold that daughter happier still who, from the truest, highest, holiest motives, can give her undivided affection to such an object. Miss Duncan, if you can view your position in the true light, you are not an object of pity; the line of your duty is so plainly marked out, you can have no hesitation in following it. Give yourself to it unreservedly, and your strength will not fail; or, if your cares should become too heavy, and your burden more than you can bear alone, then only believe, and help will be sent you in your need. Look above for aid, and you will find it come to you by earthly means, as you require it. Look below, fasten your hopes on temporal things, and they will wither in your grasp!”“True, most true; at this moment I feel it true; just now, when, weak and fainting, you have been sent to strengthen me, Mr. Paine; thank you for your words. No, I am not to be pitied, indeed; for I can put my trust above, and even below I have blessings innumerable. You are right; my duty is plain, and with God’s help I will not depart from it.”“I hope we shall always continue to be friends, Miss Duncan,” added the clergyman; “looking forward as I do to a residence among you, I feel happy in the prospect of having such neighbors; and I trust to bring one among you, who, I am sure, will be desirous to be numbered also among your friends; one whose society will, I hope, be not disagreeable to you. I will not venture to say more, for perhaps you may not consider my evidence conclusive, but I hope weshallbe friends.“I am sure I shall be most happy to have a friend,” replied Hilary, simply. “I have never had one of near my own age, and I shall look forward to the prospect of the acquaintance with very great pleasure. Now shall we go back to my father? perhaps he will want me; and,” added she, with something between a sigh and a smile, “do not betray how weak I have been, and then my dear father need not know it.”
“For she was passing weary of his love.”Iseult of Brittany.
“For she was passing weary of his love.”Iseult of Brittany.
“For she was passing weary of his love.”
Iseult of Brittany.
Hilary looked up from her needle-work with a trembling heart, but a face of calm determination. She had made up her mind to speak.
“Mr. Huyton, this will not do; this must not be.”
“What, dear Miss Duncan?” sitting down close beside her as he spoke.
“I can not allow this; you must not suppose that if my father knew what has passed, he would act as he does now. He would see as plainly as I do, the impropriety of my undertaking what is done avowedly for such motives.”
“Impropriety! nay, you must not put it so strongly; surely there is nothing improper in my assisting to clothe the same children as you do; or even in my caring for them because they are objects of interest to you!”
“That is not what I mean; and indeed, I am sure you will not press your request, when I tell you that after the motive you assigned, it would be unpleasant to me to grant it.”
“I would not do what is unpleasant to you, not for the hundredth part of a minute; no, not if it were to procure me the greatest pleasure in the world. Say no more about these foolish cloaks, I entreat you.”
“And tell my father the reason?” said Hilary, blushing very deeply.
“That is not necessary, surely,” replied he, gravely; “there is no occasion to assign any other reason; make the business over to your school-mistress; I dare say she will be competentenough. But remember themotiveis the same; I can not pretend to retract that; and whether you accept of it as a proof of devotion to you or not, there is no other plea to put it on.”
Hilary was silent, and looked down.
“You did not suppose Icouldchange?” continued he; “you are unjust alike to my constancy and your perfections. That indeed is the cause of my constancy; there is no merit in loving you unchangeably—nobody could help it.”
“Mr. Huyton, I believe I was wrong,” replied Hilary, with very crimson cheeks, and a rather unsteady voice; “when I promised to allow you to remain—to go on the same as ever—I can not—it is painful, embarrassing, most distressing to me. Am I asking too much in asking you to leave us for a time?—perhaps, too, absence might be good for you, might teach you how much you over-rate me; but, at least, it would domegood. After a time, I might learn to meet you unembarrassed, and look on you as I used to do: I can not now; I have tried in vain—your presence distresses, frightens me—makes me uncomfortable and unhappy.”
Hilary ended her sentence in very great trepidation, and finally burst into tears, which both frightened and perplexed Mr. Huyton.
“Dear Miss Duncan, don’t; dearest, sweetest Hilary; my beloved!—do not make yourself unhappy; I will not stay another day to distress you. Though to leave you is exile and banishment, and protracted pain, I will go; only don’t cry. I would not cause you a tear if I could help it. I will make any sacrifice—there now, dry your eyes, take this glass of water! are you better? trust me, your happiness is dearer than my own. I will do any thing you ask.”
Hilary dried her eyes, and quieted herself with an effort; then looking up, she said, “I beg your pardon for being so foolish; but—did I understand you rightly?—you said you would leave us!”
“I did, and I will.”
“Thank you. You will tell my father, will you not?”
“I will explain all that is necessary. Compose yourself, and trust me.”
She rose hastily, and left the room; dropping, as she did so, a carnation she had worn in her bosom, of which he took possession with a lover’s enthusiasm. He did not, however, go away immediately; he could not, without saying good-by to her; but he sat down, and formed his plan for the future.
When Mr. Duncan returned, Hilary entered the room along with him, and glanced, with some confusion, at Charles, who, on catching her eye, said, half turning to the clergyman, “I propose to go with you, Mr. Duncan, and give these very important orders myself. I imagine my genius will be equal to that, if the shopman will only help me out a little; so if you will accept my society, I will order my horse round with yours, sir.”
The offer of his company was readily accepted, and Hilary saw the two depart together, with much satisfaction, for more reasons than one; and having watched them off, and sighed to witness how uncertain her father’s step had become, she turned again into the house, to attend to household duties.
Mr. Duncan’s eyesight had lately been failing rapidly, and Hilary, who was aware of the circumstance, had become extremely unwilling to allow him to ride about alone; but it was not in her power to accompany him that day, as the girls were all poorly with bad colds, and she did not like to leave them. She was therefore as glad on her father’s account that he should have a companion, as she was herself to get rid of Mr. Huyton’s society.
She went to her sisters, and read or talked to them, to amuse and comfort them under the unpleasantness of their indisposition; and she continued with them until the sound of horses’ hoofs warned her that her father had returned.
Charles Huyton was still with him, consequently Hilary went into the drawing-room to await his entrance, instead of running out into the porch. The two gentlemen entered together: theyoung man looking apologetically at Miss Duncan, as if to excuse his return.
“I made Charles come in and give an account of his purchases in the woolen-drapery line,” observed Mr. Duncan, “that there might be no mistake in so important a transaction, Hilary; when you have arranged about quantities and other necessaries, he says he will turn the matter of making over to the village sempstress.”
Hilary made no answer, busying herself with the teaequipage, which was on the table.
“How are the children?” inquired Charles, drawing near her; and then adding, as the vicar went out of the room, “do not be displeased with me for coming once more.”
She colored, and answered, “I am very much obliged for your going with my father, Mr. Huyton, and also for the arrangements you have made about this business. The little ones are much the same, thank you, but they will be better to-morrow, I hope. Do you stay to tea this evening?”
“May I?—I should like—I have made up my mind during my ride; I will go abroad to-morrow; but I have not told your father, and it may seem unkind to leave abruptly, without any explanation. But I will do exactly as you please.”
“I have made tea for you,” replied Hilary, busying herself as she spoke, in putting water into the tea-pot, and thereby avoiding looking up.
While they three were sitting together round the tea-table, Charles Huyton said, rather to the surprise of Mr. Duncan,
“Do you know, sir, I am thinking of going abroad.”
“Abroad!” exclaimed the vicar, with an expression of sorrow in his countenance; “I had hoped, Charles, you were going to settle here for life.”
“So did I, at one time,” replied Charles; “but circumstances have interfered, and I am proposing a visit to my mother’s family at Dresden; they have asked me several times during the last two years, and now I mean to go.”
“When? soon? not directly, I hope?” said Mr. Duncan, still looking much concerned.
“Yes, immediately; when a disagreeable thing has to be done, the sooner it is commenced the better. Unless Miss Duncan will give me leave to call to-morrow to say farewell to her sisters, I shall perform that painful ceremony to you both to-night.” He fixed his eyes on Hilary with a look of meaning, which she had great difficulty innotseeing.
“Come to-morrow, by all means,” replied Mr. Duncan. “Hilary, dear, the girls will be able to see him then, and they would break their hearts at missing him altogether. Are you going with any permanent views of settling in life, Charles? Excuse my curiosity, but do you mean to bring home a bride with you? Or, perhaps, you will marry and stay there.”
“Most decidedly not,” exclaimed he, eagerly and warmly; “there is not the smallest prospect of either one or the other. All my affections are centered in England, all my hopes of happiness are founded on a residence at ‘the Ferns,’ and every prospective plan of fancy, or retrospective glance of happy memory, will carry me at once to the parish of Hurstdene. You will see me here again as soon as it is in my power to come.”
“I shall never see you here again, Charles,” replied the vicar, with a gentle shake of his head, and a very patient smile.
“My dear sir, do not imagine such a thing; I trust to be with you at least in the spring.”
“I trust you will, my dear Charles; but do you not understand what I mean? Before that time my old eyes will be quite worn out; at the rate in which they have lately failed me, they will be totally dark before the spring comes, and I shall not see your face, though you may look on mine when you return.”
“I am shocked to hear you say so,” exclaimed Charles, with a face of the deepest sympathy. His glance went from the father to the daughter; Hilary was very pale, and her brimming eyes and quivering lips warned him not to speak to her at that moment; he turned again to the vicar. “But can nothing be done, dear sir? have you had advice?mustthis sadfate befall you? Do not believe it inevitable till it is proved to be so.”
“I do not imagine any advice can avail,” replied the vicar, calmly; “I have looked forward for some time to this event; and having enjoyed my eyesight for sixty years, Charles, I have no reason to think it a very grievous hardship if I spend a few more in darkness. It will not last forever—light will come, I humbly trust, at length; a better, purer, brighter light than that on which my old eyes are so fast closing; the Light of everlasting day. There will be no darkness in heaven, Charles; and thinking of that, shall I complain?”
With a suppressed sob, Hilary started from the table, and ran out of the room.
“She is crying, is she not, Charles?” inquired the father, a little moved; “I can not see that dear face now as I used to do, to read all her emotions as in a book. Poor girl! she has not learned to think of it yet with composure; but she will find strength in her time of need. I mind it more, when I think of being a burden on the girls, than for any other reason; butHiswill be done—I will be as little troublesome as I can.”
“Troublesome—a burden!” exclaimed Charles Huyton, extremely affected at the quiet resignation of the old man. You knowthatis impossible. A burden and a trouble implies something unwillingly carried; and Hilary, angel that she is, would bear any thing for you, or for others with pleasure. With such a daughter, your domestic happiness can never be entirely destroyed; I could almost envy you the blindness which will be waited on, and alleviated by her kindness.”
“I am just going to take measures for inquiring for a curate. I can not trust my sight much longer, and some help I must have very soon,” said Mr. Duncan.
Charles Huyton started. A curate settled at Hurstdene, and he away! images of a painful nature crossed his mind. He foresaw how much Hilary would be thrown with this curate; he knew the influence which religious enthusiasm exercises over the minds of women; he foresaw what he supposed would bethe inevitable consequence—an attachment between them; the overthrow of his hopes. Should this be! what could he do to remedy or prevent it?
“I suppose you would wish for amarriedcurate,” suggested he, after a pause. “A lady resident in the village would be a comfort, perhaps, to Miss Duncan; it would be better in every respect to have the gentleman married.”
“If we could lodge him; but how can that be done? Stair’s farm would accommodate a single man, but there is no house in the village where a couple could live.”
“True, perhaps; but I think, if you will give me time to arrange, it could be managed. You remember that cottage on the green, which is known as Primrose Bank, about a quarter of a mile beyond the church. Would not that do?”
“My dear Charles, are you dreaming? it is quite out of repair, and small besides.”
“But that is easily altered; it is mine now; the lease fell in last Lady Day, and the tenants are gone. I must have it repaired, as you say, and a little addition, a couple of hundred pounds laid out on it, would make it just the thing.”
“What a spirit you have, Charles; you never see difficulties.”
“Not where there are none; but, my dear Mr. Duncan, I have a motive; it was only last week I heard from a sort of cousin of mine, saying, he wanted a curacy to marry on; and this would be the very thing. I do not know the lady, but I am sure you would like him; and as he is very well off, only wanting work, not pay, until a certain family living falls vacant, I am convinced it would suit exactly. I will put off my departure, until the whole matter is arranged to your liking.”
“Can you do that?”
“My departure does not depend on myself, Mr. Duncan; but on one, who, for your sake, would, I am sure, endure me in her presence a little longer. I only wish to please one, for whom I would go or stay, work, beg, die, if needs were—your angel-daughter, Hilary!”
“Hilary!” exclaimed Mr. Duncan; “I do not understand! what has your going to do with her!”
“Dear Mr. Duncan, I love Hilary with a devotion which is beyond any words of mine to express; but she does not love me; and to please her, to prove my constancy, to relieve her from my society, to try if my absence will win a regard which my presence has failed to do, I have resolved to quit England for a time.”
Still Mr. Duncan was puzzled; the idea of Charles wishing to marry Hilary was entirely new to him; and he trembled at the notion of losing her, even while he wished he could see her, as he supposed, so safely settled.
Charles explained all that had passed between them, dwelling much on Hilary’s determination never to leave her father, with a sort of hope that his influence would be used to turn her wishes in favor of her lover. His eloquence was interrupted by the return of Miss Duncan, calm and composed, as usual; and on her resuming her seat, her father immediately entered on the discussion of Mr. Huyton’s plan respecting his cousin, and the house at Primrose Bank, anxiously appealing to her for an opinion.
Hilary, who had been for some time aware that an assistant in the parish was every day becoming more necessary, and who saw at once the possible advantage of having that assistant a married man, admitted that the plan was a good one, and did not frown when Charles, with some anxiety and doubt, proposed delaying his departure from England for the purpose of superintending the necessary alterations. It was unpleasant to her, but she could not allow her own wishes or fancies to interfere with the advantage of others, or her father’s comfort. To have this affair settled, was of great importance to him, as he had more than once hinted at the necessity of leaving the Vicarage for his successor, and retiring to some other home; but Hilary knew well that to leave the abode where he had spent nearly thirty years, to break off all the ties formed in a lifetime, to quit his people, his church, his schools, and all the interestsaccumulated around him, would be as painful to his mind and heart, as unknown rooms and paths, and people, would assuredly be trying to his bodily infirmities.
She could not refuse her acquiescence to these plans, although it increased her obligations to one from whom she was forced still to withhold the only return he asked for his kindness.
After a good deal of discussion, Charles decided that he would go the next morning to London to seek an interview with his cousin, Mr. Paine, and, if possible, bring him down to “the Ferns;” he further determined to engage some clever architect, who could give them the best plan for arranging Primrose Bank, and then the alterations could commence without the least delay; and having come to this determination, he took leave, and returned to his house, to think what more he could do to win Hilary’s heart.
Left together, the father and daughter sat some time in silence; he broke it by saying,
“Hilary, my child, is it for my sake only that you will not listen to Charles Huyton’s love?”
Hilary started, laid down her work, and going to him, she hid her face on the back of his chair, while shewhispered—
“Dearest papa, I would not listen to any one’s love, who proposed to take me away from you!”
“I could ill spare you just now; but yet, if it would make you happy, my child, I would give you to him,” replied he, drawing down her face and kissing her.
“But it wouldnot—it would make me miserable; I do not love Mr. Huyton well enough to marry him. To go and live with him would be wretchedness, and I am very, very happy, with you and my sisters—as happy as I can be!”
“I do not feel sure of that; I shall regret my blindness more than I ought, if it interferes with such a prospect for you.”
“Don’t say so, dear, dearest father; ah! how glad I am that I am not in any danger of being tempted away. Would I leave you in solitary darkness for any thing this world can offer; or, would I throw such a burden on my younger sisters,as to expect them to take the duties I deserted. I hopenothingwould tempt me to such selfish wickedness. But, indeed, papa, I donotlove Mr. Huyton in the least; I can not tell why, but the more I tried the less I found I could; so now I have given up trying, and mean to devote myself to one dearer, better, more precious than he, or twenty such;” kissing him over and over again as she spoke.
“Dear Hilary, I will not say a word to urge you to wed where you do not love; but be quite sure, before you decide for life. I should like to see you safely housed at ‘the Ferns,’ with such a guardian and husband as Charles Huyton.”
“You never will, papa—do not talk of it; I will not leave you; I never mean to marry. I have made up my mind to be your single daughter for life, and to give away my sisters, as if I were an old maiden-aunt, or a lady-abbess, at least.”
He smiled, and passed his hand over her forehead, putting back her hair, and looking lovingly at her face; then he added, in a sort of regretful tone,
“Charles Huyton loves you very much, Hilary.”
“I believe he does now, papa; but I daresay it will not last; you do not think a man could go on loving a woman who did not care for him, do you? He will find some one else to marry; and when I am an old woman of thirty-five, he will be thankful that he has so much more charming a wife.”
“You do not do yourself or him justice, my dear; I expect he will be constant!”
“Constant for a man, dear papa; but that is not constant to one woman, only to one idea—that of marrying somebody.”
“What do you know of men, Hilary?” inquired her father, laughingly.
“A little from history and books; a little otherwise,” said Hilary, smiling also.
However, Hilary coaxed her father into not minding her refusal of Charles Huyton, and not regretting her resolution of never quitting him; and the matter was dropped between them, although it could not be forgotten by either.
About four days after this conversation, as Hilary and her father were walking together in the garden, where the other girls, now quite recovered, were also amusing themselves, the sound of horses’ feet upon the green drew their attention, and looking up, they saw Mr. Huyton advancing to the Vicarage, accompanied by three gentlemen who were strangers. He sprang off his horse, and came hastily into the garden, leaving his companions to occupy themselves by surveying the village.
After a hurried greeting, though a joyous one enough from all but Hilary, Charles told Mr. Duncan, not without some little embarrassment, that he had brought his cousin, Mr. Paine, to visit him; that one of his other companions was a Mr. Jeffries, a clever architect, who was to give them plans for improving Primrose Bank; and the other was a friend of his own, whose name he, for some reason, omitted just then to mention.
Mr. Duncan most courteously desired he would introduce any friends he wished; and the three gentlemen, leaving their horses to the groom, were ushered into the garden. Hilary had no difficulty in deciding which of the three strangers was the clergyman, during the short interval of their approach down the garden walk, and she as rapidly made up her mind that she liked his looks; his countenance conveyed the impression of benevolence, sense, and firmness: she hoped he would come to settle among them.
He, as might naturally be expected, gave his attention to the vicar, and they soon were deeply engaged in conversation. Mr. Jeffries, the architect, began talking to little Nest, to whom he speedily made himself very agreeable; Charles Huyton stood by Hilary in silence, while she made an effort to converse with the third stranger, a very clever, intelligent-looking man, who answered her remarks with a quick but pleasant manner, although with a slightly foreign accent, while his eyes followed Mr. Duncan’s movements, and expressed great interest in him.
After a while, the whole party adjourned to see the church; Hilary then claiming her right of leading her father, Mr. Painestill by his side conversing on parish matters, the architect leading little Nest, and devoting himself to her prattle with astonishing pleasure, while the other two gentlemen followed behind, earnestly discussing some topic in under-tones.
Love of his profession, apparently, overcame his love of children in Mr. Jeffries, when in the church, for he examined the building minutely; but Hilary observed that the unknown placed himself beside Mr. Duncan, and seemed far more interested in watching his expression and countenance than in looking at windows, or deciphering brasses.
Her curiosity was excited; something more than curiosity, indeed, for whatever was connected with her father interested her deeply, and she determined, as soon as she was outside the church, to inquire of Mr. Huyton who this stranger was.
Meantime, the quick eyes and keen perception of Mr. Jeffries had revealed a circumstance which country church-wardens had not detected, and which Mr. Duncan’s increasing blindness had prevented him from seeing. The chancel was exceedingly out of repair, and Mr. Paine suggested that immediate application should be made to the lay-impropriator to remedy that evil now first pointed out. Mr. Duncan promised to take measures to that effect, and they all left the church together.
Charles came up to Hilary’s side as they did so, and rather detaining her behind the others, said, “Your eyes, Miss Duncan, have been questioning, ever since we arrived, who the individual now walking with your father is; he is an eminent French physician, a friend of mine, an oculist, I should rather say, whom I persuaded to come over here with me to-day, thinking that perhaps his advice might be of service to Mr. Duncan.”
Hilary colored deeply; she saw, or thought she saw at once, that this was another obligation under which Mr. Huyton had laid them; possibly he had only invited M. de la Récaille to ‘the Ferns’ in order to see and consult about her father’s sight. It was a positive pain to her to receive favors in their present relative situation; and while she felt she ought to be obliged for the kindness of the thought, she could not entirely suppress afeeling of repulsion toward one who would heap benefits on her which she would rather have avoided.
“Do you think Mr. Duncan would mind my friend looking at his eyes?” continued Charles, watching her countenance attentively; “I was afraid of doing any thing disagreeable, so did not like to mention it to him without your leave; but M. de la Récaille is such an enthusiast in his profession, that he declares I can not oblige him more than by bringing new cases under his notice; that is the reason he accompanied me here to-day!”
This speech in some measure quieted Hilary’s mind; and after scolding herself in secret for being such a goose as to think that Mr. Huyton must be influenced by thoughts of her in all he did, she entered upon the subject more readily with him, and it was agreed that the suggestion should be made to Mr. Duncan.
“I am not afraid of hurting him,” continued Hilary; “for his resignation to whatever happens, is too deep to be shaken by an observation, a hope, or a decision of any man. I have not learned to view it so calmly yet,” her lip quivering as she spoke, “and can hardly discuss the subject—but, oh! if your friend could give us hopes—could tell us how to avert—” her voice was lost entirely, and Charles almost regretted that he had introduced the topic. However she recovered her composure again when M. de la Récaille spoke to her on the subject, inquiring particularly, methodically, and with great acuteness, all the symptoms of which she had ever been aware in her father’s case; what advice he had taken, and what remedies had been used. His quick, business-like questions, the manner in which he caught the meaning and point of her answers, stopping her from entering on useless details, and arranging all the facts which he elicited during his searching interrogatory, compelled her to use her utmost endeavors to meet his inquiries, to banish feeling and agitation, and to look only at facts in the same light as that in which he viewed them.
It was too late in the day, when they returned from the church, to be favorable for an examination at that time; and itwas finally settled that the gentlemen should proceed at once to Primrose Bank, conclude their investigations there, and return to Hurstdene the next morning; when Mr. Paine and the vicar could mutually make known their decisions concerning the curacy, and M. de la Récaille might carry out his wishes withregard to Mr. Duncan’s eyesight.
It was an evening of great trial to Hilary; hope for her father had entered her heart, and she could not bid its gentle whispers be still: but she dared not impart her fancies, or allow him to see how much she dwelt on the idea. He was as calm as ever; the notion of approaching darkness had become familiar to him, and he was so firmly convinced of the incurable nature of his complaint, that he would hardly have been disturbed had all the oculists in the kingdom promised him sight. She would not distress him with her agitation; her feelings must be smothered under an assumed appearance of calmness, but she could not approach the topic; and while her sisters were chattering gayly about the gentlemen whom they had seen that day, and describing again and again the personal appearance of all three strangers, never agreeing in details, nor feeling sure whether any pair of eyes were blue, black, or brown, Hilary smiled, and answered, and gave her opinion with almost her ordinary cheerfulness and readiness, while her heart was palpitating with excitement, and her mind at every leisure moment putting up secret petitions for patience, strength, and submission, whatever the result might be.
The morrow came, and the visitors arrived punctually. After a brief interview between the clergymen in Mr. Duncan’s study, he repaired to the drawing-room, and seating himself according to the oculist’s directions, quietly submitted to his examination. His daughter stood beside him, her hand clasping his, her breath almost stopped from agitation, her very lips white with intense excitement, and yet her face calm, rigid, and pale as marble. Oh! the suspense of that moment: her eyes eagerly bent on the oculist’s countenance, endeavored to read his decision in his face, before his lips pronounced it; and, unconscious of all beside,her whole mind and understanding was centred on that one object.
Charles was close to her, his eyes intently gazing on her, but she knew it not: had he been a hundred miles off she could hardly have been more indifferent about him.
It was over at last; that prolonged agony was ended; M. de la Récaille shook his head, sighed, and announced there was no hope, no human probability of any cure; perfect rest might delay the result, agitation might expedite the evil; but come it must; total blindness, sooner or later, was inevitably impending.
Mr. Duncan heard it unmoved; he only drew Hilary’s hand closer to his heart, and said, in a cheerful voice,
“Then, my child, I must submit to be dependent on you for eyes; thank God, that I have still a daughter!”
She pressed his hand, words could not come, and she was too shy to caress him before strangers; but Charles saw that her feelings were wrought to the uttermost, that composure was on the point of giving way, and only anxious to release her, addressed Mr. Duncan, so as to call off his attention. Hilary had sufficient fortitude quietly to withdraw her hand, and then escaping from the room, rushed into her father’s study, where, throwing herself on a chair, and burying her face in her hands, she gave way to sobs deep and agonizing, such as are the outpourings of suppressed feeling alone, the quivering of the spring long held in suspense.
She was not aware that Mr. Paine had continued in the study after her father left it; at the moment of her entrance he was sitting in a large chair, engrossed in reading, but startled from his occupation by her appearance, and the expressive agony she betrayed, he looked at her for a minute in silent commiseration, and then rising, and approaching close to her, he said, in a peculiarly gentle and sweet voice,
“Miss Duncan, I am grieved to see you so much distressed; has any thing occurred?”
She started at the sound of his voice, but her feelings weretoo strongly moved for ceremony, and the soft, kind tone went to her heart like the words of a friend.
“Oh, my father! my father!” she sobbed, “all hope is gone; he is, he must be—” then her voice was choked again in an agony of tears.
“M. de la Récaille gives no hope, then?” said he, very gently; “I am indeed grieved.”
“Ah, if it had been to me,” exclaimed Hilary, “I think I could have borne it better; but for my father, dear, dear father, that he should be helpless, dependent, dark—he who has such intense pleasure in beauty, who has been so active, so busy all his life—that he should be reduced to the state—oh, for submission, resignation, faith like his!”
“Is he much disappointed at the result?” inquired Mr. Paine.
“No, oh, no; he never hoped at all; and he is so good, so trustful!”
“Dear Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Paine, drawing a chair close beside hers, “short as our acquaintance has been, it is impossible for me not to be interested in your father and family; and the future connection between us, the claim which I hope to have as your pastor, when I come to assist Mr. Duncan in his duties here, makes me feel that I have a right to speak to you. Will you let me address you as a friend, or shall I be intruding unpleasantly on a sorrow I would gladly assuage or mitigate?”
Hilary raised her head, and wiping away her tears, she said, with a sort of watery smile,
“Be our friend, Mr. Paine, and speak; I deserve reproof for my rebellion to the will of heaven!”
“I would rather give you comfort than reproof, Miss Duncan; and painful as the certainty you have just acquired must be, natural as grief is under such feelings, I think there is comfort to be found even here. The entire and beautiful resignation of your father shows so clearly that he has that blessed light within which is alone the source of true happiness, that I think you may repose in perfect confidence on this dispensation proving a blessing, not a scourge to him. ‘Hethat formed the eye, shallnotHesee’ the sorrow or the suffering of His servant? and can not that Arm guard him from evil during the rest of his life which has led him hitherto?Hehas not left him helpless, for He has given him daughters who, I am sure, will all make it their privilege to minister to his wants. There is the same home to shelter him, the same daily comforts to which he has been used, the same church, and the same loved services to cheer him. And best of all, beyond all,” added Mr. Paine, looking upward, “the same hope of everlasting life in the brightness of light, when our poor, feeble bodies shall be changed into the likeness of the glorious body of our Adorable Redeemer, and when all sorrow, sighing, and darkness shall forever flee away.”
Hilary could not answer, and he was silent, too, for a few minutes. Such thoughts as these make earthly trials and earthly pleasures seem small and poor indeed; and the young man just entering on life’s serious duties and engagements felt he could readily have changed his own bright prospects for the fate of the elder Christian, whose active warfare must be nearly accomplished, and who must now retire from harassing duties to that quiet contemplation so suited to the last stages of our pilgrimage here.
Recollecting himself and his companion, who was sitting before him with downcast eyes, and composed though pale features, he added, in a more cheerful voice,
“And indeed, my dear Miss Duncan, if you have had any experience among blind people, you must know that there is far less trouble to the sufferer than to those who care for and watch over him. There are many alleviations mercifully sent in all trials; and I have often remarked that those deprived of sight are cheerful, and even joyous, under their affliction. To you, and to your sisters, the anxiety and responsibility may be great, but I feel convinced that, in such a cause, no labor will be a trouble.”
“Trouble!” repeated Hilary, clasping her hands; “Mr. Paine, I can only consider it, as far as I am concerned, a privilege, a blessing, to be allowed to minister to such a father as mine. It is a thing to be thankful for for life.”
“Fear not, then, you will not be deserted, or left withoutstrength to fulfill your labor of love; services so rendered are indeed a blessing; and happy as I believe your father to be in having a daughter from whom he may receive attentions, I hold that daughter happier still who, from the truest, highest, holiest motives, can give her undivided affection to such an object. Miss Duncan, if you can view your position in the true light, you are not an object of pity; the line of your duty is so plainly marked out, you can have no hesitation in following it. Give yourself to it unreservedly, and your strength will not fail; or, if your cares should become too heavy, and your burden more than you can bear alone, then only believe, and help will be sent you in your need. Look above for aid, and you will find it come to you by earthly means, as you require it. Look below, fasten your hopes on temporal things, and they will wither in your grasp!”
“True, most true; at this moment I feel it true; just now, when, weak and fainting, you have been sent to strengthen me, Mr. Paine; thank you for your words. No, I am not to be pitied, indeed; for I can put my trust above, and even below I have blessings innumerable. You are right; my duty is plain, and with God’s help I will not depart from it.”
“I hope we shall always continue to be friends, Miss Duncan,” added the clergyman; “looking forward as I do to a residence among you, I feel happy in the prospect of having such neighbors; and I trust to bring one among you, who, I am sure, will be desirous to be numbered also among your friends; one whose society will, I hope, be not disagreeable to you. I will not venture to say more, for perhaps you may not consider my evidence conclusive, but I hope weshallbe friends.
“I am sure I shall be most happy to have a friend,” replied Hilary, simply. “I have never had one of near my own age, and I shall look forward to the prospect of the acquaintance with very great pleasure. Now shall we go back to my father? perhaps he will want me; and,” added she, with something between a sigh and a smile, “do not betray how weak I have been, and then my dear father need not know it.”