CHAPTERVI.“But in the world, I learnt, what thereThou too wilt surely one day prove—That will, that energy, though rare,Are yet far, far less rare than love.”Arnold.“I can not leave England, and quit for an indefinite time the spot which contains all that is dearest on earth to me, without one more attempt to avert the necessity of separation from you; one more endeavor to soften an indifference which occasions me so intense a regret. Dearest Miss Duncan, I fear, in my efforts for your father’s benefit, I have increased your sorrow, have deepened and aggravated the wounds, from which your loving heart was already so acutely aching. Forgive me the deed for the intention; may I suggest that, however bitter was the pang of disappointment, it must be less severe than would hereafter be the misery of self-reproach, had you neglected any means which might have alleviated his affliction? Your pale face of suffering, self-command, and fortitude is ever before me; I longed intensely yesterday to speak words of sympathy and affection; my heart was yearning to pour out its passionate pity for your agony—but I might not—I whose love for you is, oh, so deep! so pure, so strong! I was forced to be silent, or to breathe only calm sentences of courteous regard, and polite, well-bred, decorous compassion. Do not be angry with me for putting on paper the feeling I can not hope to express otherwise; condescend to read and give some attention to what I say. Must I leave you now, with this sad destiny closing darkly round you! leave you to struggle alone, to toil beyond your strength, to sacrifice yourself in the melancholy fate that awaitsyou! Do you think I can contemplate such a conclusion with calmness? Oh, no! it is agony to me to dwell upon the idea, which haunts me night and day. Beloved, excellent, adorable Hilary, you have an angel’s spirit in an angel form, but your strength, alas! is mortal, and well I know that rest and comfort for yourself will be your last thought, while your services of love are poured out on the helpless ones around you. May I tell you what is my dream, my vision of bliss? I fancy I see you all transported to ‘the Ferns,’ your younger sisters making joyous with their bright presence the dreary walls of the old house, and causing their empty chambers to echo to their merry voices; there I see them in idea, growing up under every advantage which can be procured by love and wealth united; proper attendants, masters, literature, enjoyments in doors and out, every taste developed, every talent cultivated to the utmost. I see your dear parent, too, enjoying under the same roof every blessing and comfort which perfect filial love and unbounded power could shower on him—every compensation for this new affliction which could assist to lighten the burden, and brighten the remainder of his path through life. And there I see, reigning supreme over all, with all the despotic power of love, and gentleness, and tender firmness combined, one whose presence is like a ray of sunshine, blessing and gladdening every thing within reach. I think I see you, ruling the family, governing the parish, protecting the weak, comforting the unhappy, delighting the gay; influencing all around by the imperceptible power of goodness, even as a delicate odor spreads itself unseen, and yet all-pervading, driving away what is bad, and purifying the surrounding atmosphere. Do you frown upon my dream? alas! that there should be that inme, which prevents its realization; that though to me it looks so fair and beautiful, my presence should cast the shadow on it, which alone makes it impossible. But is it so? let me ask, is there no change? may I have no hope? Have the three months which have elapsed since I first ventured to express my feelings passed, and left no trace behind? am I as far off as ever from the point, the onlything which can make me happy? If so, I go to exile and solitary misery to-morrow, for solitary I must ever be where you are not; solitary I shall continue until the weary months roll by, which you may consider necessary. But, tell me how long must it be? how long must my home duties be laid aside, my house be left untenanted, and myself a wanderer in foreign lands, away from all who have any claim on me? Hilary, you shall dictate; but remember you decide for more than yourself; look at the whole circumstances, and then tell me how long shall I be justified in absenting myself from what you have taught me to consider duties and responsibilities? Deign to give me an answer to this question. Must my dream continue nothing but an empty dream, while I go, and for how long—or may I remain and realize it?“Charles Huyton.”Such was the letter which, on the ensuing day after the interview with the oculist, Charles Huyton’s groom carried to the Vicarage; and to this Hilary was forced to reply, for the servant was waiting for an answer. Was it not a dazzling vision to place before a young girl’s eyes, whose self-devotion to her family was her most prominent characteristic? Opulence and all its advantages for them, instead of a narrowing income, a humble home, and the wearing routine of close domestic economy; and the price was to give her hand to an amiable and agreeable man, passionately devoted to her, and a favorite with every member of her family. Ought selfish feelings to stand in the way, and prevent their enjoying benefits which she might so easily purchase?For a moment she hesitated; she deliberated not for herself, but for those most dear to her. Then, too, there was his plea. Could it be necessary to insist on his leaving home and home duties, renouncing his occupations and pursuits, and all for her? Had she any right to require such a sacrifice? She pondered the question again and again: her head was bewildered, and she could decide on nothing. Time was flying quickly; theanswer must be written. Oh! for a friend to guide and counsel her.Nay, but she had a friend; One who would not leave her; One always accessible, always loving and patient. And there was a rule, too, a rule to guide her, if she could but discover it; she knew that she must not expect sudden illuminations, divine impulses to direct her; such were not the answers to her prayers for which she had been taught to look. Her line of duty was marked out, and she could see it, doubtless, clear and distinct, if she could but remove the intervening mists and shadows, which passion and prejudice, imaginations, mistrust, or too great anxiety for the future had thrown across it. She prayed to be guided aright, and then quietly set herself to review the case, trusting that she should eventually see what the right was.The cloud passed from her eyes; she saw the snare laid before her; stepped aside, and thanked God that she had been saved from sin and danger.“Thou shalt not do evil that good may come of it.”There was the rule; and plausible as the temptation had appeared, she saw now that it wasevil. Yes,evilto give her hand without her heart, to sell herself for any earthly good, either to herself or others; to make the solemn vow to love, honor, and obey, one toward whom the two former seemed impossible, and the latter might be incompatible with other duties. What, if she shrank from the claims now existing on her, should she therefore form others more indissoluble, more exacting still? If she had not strength to act a daughter’s part, should she take the responsibilities of a wife also? Would she have more time to attend to her father’s wants, when she had added the cares of an extensive establishment, and a large dependent neighborhood? What madness to dream of such a change! And would the luxuries, the indulgences of wealth be a real blessing, a safe acquisition to those for whom she had been tempted to procure them. Whose words then were those who spake—“How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdomof heaven?” Did not He know, or could He be mistaken?She wept! not that she must resign the prospect, but that it should have proved a temptation to her; and seizing a sheet of paper, she hastily wrote the answer which should decide this point as she hoped forever.“Again, and I trust for the last time, let me say, I thank you for your good wishes, but my plans, my intentions are unchanged. I deeply regret having been the cause of so much disappointment to you. Our duties henceforth must keep a separate path. Mine is too clear to be mistaken; nor am I making any sacrifice in my resolution; my wishes, my hopes of peace and happiness all point to remaining as I am, as clearly as my sense of right, and my convictions of duty. Now will you allow me, as the only return I can make for your attachment and kind wishes, to say one word to you about what yourdutyis? Is it right for you to throw on me the decision of what it should be? you know, whatever you may say, you can not really make me responsible for what I can not help.“Must you renounce your country and your home, because you must renounce my society? I asked younotto come to the Vicarage; I did not bid you go to Dresden—neither do I tell younotto go there. If your mother’s family have claims on you, of course you must attend to them; if the claims of others are pre-eminent, should you not give them their due place?“Does it become any of us, poor, short-sighted, weak individuals to quarrel with our station in life, and because Providence denies us one thing we wish for, should we fret like a pettish child, and throw aside every other blessing in angry disgust? Pardon me for writing thus to you; I should not have presumed to do so, but for the part of your letter in which you call on me to decide. Mr. Huyton, when you have hereafter to answer for your conduct, will it be a good plea that you gave up the helm of your mind to another hand, one which could not guide you rightly?“Now, farewell. I trust that we shall each be led right in our separate ways, and if I can give you nothing else, I will, at least, give you my poor prayers for a blessing on you, in return for the kind wishes you have expressed for my family, and the favors you have conferred on them.“H. D.”This answer dispatched, of its results she knew nothing, except that Charles Huyton left the country with the intention of going abroad; and this information was conveyed by a servant, who brought over a little parcel, directed to Miss Sybil Duncan. There was the key of his library, and an order to his gardener to admit Mr. Duncan’s family, when and where they pleased, in his grounds, a privilege accorded to no one else. Hilary was glad of this little proof of kindness, it shewed that he did not resent her answer; and she trusted that she was acting from right motives, whatever his course might be.She was the only one of her family who did not either secretly or openly regret his absence; but to her the relief was unspeakable, and she knew that her father owned it was right, however much he might miss his society.Charles Huyton gone, she was able to devote herself to other cares and occupations, and all disagreeable memories connected with him vanished gradually from her mind in the more pressing duties which surrounded her, and unexpected pleasures which opened upon her view.Mr. Barham, the gentleman whose duty it was to keep the chancel in repair, answered the letter from the Vicar on the subject by a visit in person, accompanied by his steward, Mr. Edwards, and a surveyor, whose opinion was much relied on by his employer. Mr. Duncan’s infirmities rendered Hilary’s presence necessary during the interview; and the gentlemen really seemed much struck by the young lady’s personal appearance, graceful manners, and quick yet clear powers of mind. Mr. Edwards paid her several compliments on her business-like habits and capacities; the surveyor admired her command over herpencil; and Mr. Barham, who was a courteous but calm-mannered person, and who was known generally as possessing a considerable degree of that pride of family and exclusiveness of habits which often develops itself in a lofty graciousness to all others supposed to be inferiors, intimated his wish to come again, and see how the building went on, and requested permission to bring over his daughters to visit a place which had so much to recommend it.Hilary gave a ready acquiescence; and an early day next week was fixed on for a party from Drewhurst Abbey to come over and take luncheon at the Vicarage.In the course of conversation, Mr. Duncan mentioned the circumstance of the expected arrival of the curate, who was to come down in a very short time, and take the duty on Sunday. Mr. Barham immediately began regretting that he had not known that Mr. Duncan was inquiring for a curate: there was a young man of good family and great talent whom he should have been glad to have seen settled there—one, in fact, who was about to marry a connection of his, a cousin of his daughters—it would have been pleasant to have had them in the neighborhood: Miss Duncan would have found the lady an acquisition to their society. He very much lamented that the arrangement had been made without his knowledge.Mr. Duncan was privately a little amused at his visitor, who, having been contented for thirty years to have no intercourse with him, could hardly have reasonably expected to be consulted on the choice of an assistant in duties with which he had no concern.However, he answered very mildly, “that the gentleman in question was, he believed, an excellent young man, which, so far as parochial matters were concerned, was of far more consequence than either high family or astonishing talents, and he hoped no one would find reason to complain that their Vicar had been hasty or injudicious in the selection of a pastor.”“No doubt that is very true, my dear sir,” blandly observed Mr. Barham; “virtue in a clergyman undoubtedly ranks aboveall; nevertheless, the advantages of a cultivated genius and high family are not to be despised; and although there may be many men of low birth highly estimable in a moral point of view, yet it is desirable, for the sake of the character and standing of the clerical body, that there should be gentlemen also in the profession. They give a tone—an elevated tone to the whole!”Mr. Duncan did not feel called on to reply; and after a pause, Mr. Barham added,“I could have wished that your curate had been a man of good connections, and a certain fortune and position in society. Is he married?”“Not yet, I understand,” replied the Vicar; “but he has promised to bring a wife as soon as his new house is ready. And I believe I may venture to answer for his connections and fortune being both good. He is a relative of Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns,’ who assured me he was a man of independent income.”“Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns!’—how strange! What may his name be?”“Paine—the Reverend Edward Paine.”“My dear sir, this is most extraordinary! he is the very man I was thinking of. I am delighted to hear it; but it is strange that it should be settled without my knowing it; neither Mr. Huyton nor Miss Maxwell has informed us. I wonder she did not let her cousins, my daughters, know. I wonder Charles Huyton has not called to inform me.”“Mr. Huyton went abroad last week,” observed Mr. Duncan, quietly.“Abroad!—are you certain? I knew nothing about that, and I should have expected, from the sort of terms we were on, that he would have told me. I can hardly believe it.”Mr. Duncan made no observation.“I shall call at ‘the Ferns’ to inquire as I go home. Perhaps you have been misinformed!” continued Mr. Barham.“I have reason to think not,” was the Vicar’s quiet observation,conveying, however, no conviction to the mind of his visitor, who only thought he knew nothing about it.“But about Edward Paine,” continued Mr. Barham; “how came it settled without my hearing, I wonder? Whose arrangement, may I ask, was it?”“It was so recently settled,” answered Mr. Duncan, “that perhaps there has not been time to let you know; and in that case, I regret I have forestalled them in giving information, which would, no doubt, have come more gracefully from the parties in whom you are so much interested. Charles knew my wishes, and introduced his cousin here; and Mr. Paine, once introduced, is a person to make his own way; but almost nothing was said of the lady, so that I was entirely ignorant of her being a connection of yours. Charles did not even mention her name to us, did he, Hilary?”“Excuse me,” said Mr. Barham; “may I inquire whoCharlesis?”“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Barham; I mean Mr. Huyton; but for the last two years I have been so completely in the habit of speakingtohim by his Christian name, I sometimes forget and speakofhim as such, too.”“I had no idea,” said Mr. Barham, a little majestically, “that my young friend, Mr. Huyton, was so diffusive in his acquaintances. You were, then, on very intimate terms?”“He has always been a kind neighbor to us, and being my principal parishioner, and owning most of the property about, we naturally were much interested in many of the same things. He has been very good to the schools, and, indeed, in many ways; the poor will miss him this winter, for we can hardly expect him to remember them at Dresden.”Mr. Barham’s notions were quite discomposed by this speech. His amiable intentions of patronising and bringing into notice a family who had hitherto “blushed unseen” in the wilds of Hurstdene, seemed apparently quite thrown away; possibly they were not such entire representatives of modern Robinson Crusoes as he had imagined them. He saw, however, no reason forchanging his views with regard to introducing his daughters, and, accordingly, he soon afterward took leave, with a renewed promise to come at the time talked of.Isabel and Dora Barham were both younger than Hilary Duncan, but their friends had evidently done what they could to give them the advantages of age, or to deprive them as soon as possible of those peculiarities of youth which consist in simplicity, bashfulness, or diffidence. They had been early brought out into the world; early introduced into society; they had been taught to behave, talk, and dress as women, at an age when more fortunate girls are allowed still to feel themselves children. They were now, at sixteen and seventeen, extremely elegant young women, elegantly educated, elegantly dressed, elegantly mannered, surrounded from childhood by all the refinements and luxuries of life; accustomed to lavish indulgence of their fancies, and an unbounded command of money. Suffering was to them a fable; self-denial a mere myth. Had they not been naturally amiable, they would have been now detestable—but they were not. Isabel was a little proud, a little selfish, a little vain; but she had some very good qualities mixed with these vices, which, in good hands, might have turned out well. Dora had no particular character at all; she was merely a reflection of those she lived with; and as these were chiefly her father and sister, of course she generally fell in with their tastes, adopted their habits, and believed all they told her.They were delighted with the introduction to Hilary; they both commenced a most enthusiastic girlish friendship with her. Isabel’s was, perhaps, less sincere than Dora’s—she had more of her father’s patronising tone; and never, in the least, suspected how very far the vicar’s daughter was really her superior in every essential particular.Hilary was very simply sincere in her regard for the two girls. She admired them exceedingly, and their kindness, their caressing manners, and very amiable ways, engaged her affection. They soon became intimate, and the Miss Barhams would ride over of a morning, and gliding into the Vicarage drawing-room,would spend the whole afternoon hanging about Hilary, chatting, idling, or pretending to learn from her some of the many fancy works which she had acquired. They were continually trying to wile away Hilary to the Abbey; but this her home occupations forbade, and only twice, during the autumn and winter following, was she induced to spend an afternoon there, and then her father accompanied her.The introduction of Mrs. Paine was another remarkable event in Hilary’s quiet life, which gave her, perhaps, even more pleasure than the acquisition of her other friends. She was a very pleasing youngwoman indeed, and, although a cousin of the late Mrs. Barham, and having a good fortune, she was so earnest in her wishes to follow out her duty, so simple in her tastes, and indifferent to personal accommodation, that long before Primrose Bank was habitable, she was established with her husband in tiny lodgings at Stairs farm, and giving her time and attention as much to their new parish as to her future home.The winter passed quietly, but far more cheerfully than Hilary could have ventured to hope; Mr. Duncan enjoyed Mr. Paine’s society, and relied on his judgment in all parochial matters; he also liked the two young ladies who frequented his house, especially Dora, who, he once told Hilary, might be made any thing, either good or bad, as circumstances fell out.Sybil and Gwyneth, meanwhile, were growing very tall; and whether it was from their intercourse with the young ladies from the Abbey, or their own nature, they had lately advanced so rapidly, that their appearance had got the start of their years, and no one would have guessed them to be less than sixteen and seventeen, instead of what was actually their respective ages.The owner of ‘the Ferns,’ although absent in a foreign land, had by no means forgotten either his friends or his tenants. More than one extensive order on his banker was remitted to Mr. Duncan, for the relief of distress, and the encouragement of good conduct; and several letters were received from him, written to the same person. Hilary could neither quarrel withthe act, nor the manner of performing it. Although Mr. Huyton was, of course, aware that she would necessarily be acquainted with the contents of the letters, there was nothing in the words which could in the least offend her; they breathed warm interest in his people, affectionate regard for the vicar, and kind remembrances to his family. No one could have suspected from these letters what had passed between them, and it seemed to Hilary’s young and trustful imagination, that absence was effecting the desired cure; she hoped that when their friend returned, as he talked of doing in the spring, it would be to resume a pleasant and rational intercourse, such as it had been eighteen months ago.One morning, about the first opening of spring, the two young ladies from the Abbey arrived earlier than usual; so early, indeed, as to break in upon the girls’ school hours, which was a point Hilary had long begged them to attend to. She was looking graver than usual, which they attributed to this transgression; and Dora, putting her arms caressingly round her neck,exclaimed—“Now, Hilary, dear, don’t be angry, but give your sisters a holiday, and let us be happy for once; do you know we have come to say good-by for ages.”“Indeed! are you leaving home?” said Miss Duncan.“Yes, we are going to martyrdom,” replied Dora.“We are going to town for the season,” said Isabel, in answer to Hilary’s look of inquiry. “We always do, of course; it is expected of people in our rank, you know; Dora pretends she does not like it, but she does really; and if she did not, one must make some sacrifices for duty.”“Going to London for the season—that means going to be very gay, does it not?” said Sybil.“Oh, yes, Sybil,” cried Dora, “it means turning night into day, and spending it in hot crowds, for whom one does not care the least portion of an atom; and employing all one’s energies, faculties, and time in dressing, dancing, or sleeping—oh dear!”“Don’t be foolish, Dora; nobody likes company, or pretty clothes, better than you,” said Isabel.“That is the worst of it; I like them against my conscience, and every time I buy some extravagant ornament, I suffer from remorse; and yet am just as weak at the next temptation. I wish I could say I really hated it all. Do you know, Hilary, I envy you for staying here so quietly in the country, and being able to dress plainly and do good, while I am only able to wish to do either.”“I am afraid you would feel rather awkward, Dora, either with my wardrobe or my occupations. Our duties are so different; yours, you know, is to go with your father to London, to dress elegantly, and look pretty.”“That is just what I despise myself for, Hilary—my perfect uselessness, and life of gaudy show. I never leave you without wishing I were situated like you. Not too grand to be useful—living in a small house, instead of those fatiguing large rooms, which tire one to walk across; having a garden one could love and care for, instead of being merely allowed to look at papa’s gardener’s plants and shrubs; having to do things myself, instead of being always waited on; and oh, above all, having learned to despise the pomps and vanities of life, instead of all the time loving them in my heart, and feeling them necessary to my comfort.”“She is only talking nonsense, Hilary,” interposed Isabel; “she is seized with these fits of despondency about her own rank in life, every now and then, and fancies we are all wrong, for living according to what is expected of us in society. I am happy to say, however, she acts on principles of common sense, and her democratic theories of equality and universal brotherhood are confined to theory entirely.”“It is not right,” said Dora, thoughtfully shaking her head; “it can not be right; but I do not know what is wrong, and when I begin to think, I am involved in a labyrinth of doubt. To be admired, courted, and caressed, can not be the right aim of life, and yet I am sure it is mine. Now, is not that absolutely contemptible, Hilary, to live for such objects?”“I rather suspect,” replied Hilary, “you mistake your real motives. You know your father likes you to go into society, and is pleased when you are admired; and this, I have no doubt, is what makes you like it too. If nobody wished you to go out, I dare say you would be as quietly domestic as I am, Dora.”“I do not know; I believe if any body I cared for wished me to stay at home, I should yield to them with delight. One comfort is, I know the London dissipation will make me ill, and then I shall be forced to be quiet.”“That is an odd sort of comfort, Dora,” said Hilary, smiling; “one I can not wish for you!”“It is her nonsense,” observed Isabel.“Indeed, it is not. I was quite knocked up last year; and I am not so strong now. I mean, when I am ill, to ask Mrs. Paine to take me, for change of air, to Primrose Bank, and try how I like small rooms and a moderate establishment.”“Here come Mr. and Mrs. Paine,” observed Gwyneth, who was sitting by a window; “you can settle with her at once, Dora; it would be so nice to have you at Primrose Bank.”Mr. Paine went to Mr. Duncan’s study; his wife came to the drawing-room, bringing with her little Nest, who had been saying her lessons to her papa. There were some parish matters to be discussed first with Hilary; and then, before Dora had time to mention her plans for her expected illness, Mrs. Paine observed, looking earnestly at Hilary,“What is the matter, dear?—have you had bad news of any kind to-day?”“Notbad; at least, not necessarily so,” replied Miss Duncan; “but we heard from abroad to-day.”“Your brother! nothing wrong about him, I hope.”Hilary’s eyes filled, but she spoke calmly. Maurice had been ill, very ill, of a most dangerous fever; the danger was over now, they hoped, but, indeed, they believed it had been extreme, and he was not yet well enough to write himself. Their letter had been from his captain, who had most kindly written to hisfather, to assure him that danger was now over, and that they hoped, by care and attention, to restore this promising young officer to his family and his country; there was one to the same effect from the surgeon, also, who had written at the express desire of Captain Hepburn, to certify his being now in a state of convalescence.“It was so kind, so very kind, of Captain Hepburn to write,” pursued Hilary, with emotion; “and such a beautiful, feeling letter, speaking, oh, in such terms of Maurice, and so desirous to spare my father’s feelings. I knew Maurice liked him very much, and now I do not wonder.”“What a wonderful girl you are, you dear thing!” said Dora, caressing her; “having all this on your mind, and yet teaching and talking, as if nothing had been the matter. How did you see, Fanny? for I never discovered any change in Hilary.”“Perhaps, Dora,” said Mrs. Paine, “because you are more accustomed to attend to your own feelings than those of other people.”“Well, I am afraid I am; I want to know how to cure that. But do tell me something more about this brother of yours; how long has he been away? what is he, a captain, too? or what?”“He is only a mate, Dora; but has served long enough to be promoted, only we have no interest. But the best part of Captain Hepburn’s letter, Mrs. Paine, is, that he hopes to get him leave to come home for his health, and then we shall have him here again!” Hilary clasped her hands in a very unusual ecstacy.“And what sort of interest does it need to make a young man a lieutenant?” inquired Dora, again. “Could papa do it for you?”“interest at the Admiralty,” replied Mrs. Paine. “I hardly think Mr. Barham would like to trouble himself about it, because he has a nephew at sea himself.”“Oh, yes! cousin Peter—I can not bear him, Hilary; I hope your brother Maurice is not like our cousin Peter.”“Absurd, Dora!” ejaculated Isabel; “Peter is a very good sort of young man.”However, Dora’s inquiries were not to be stopped by Isabel’s ejaculations; and before she took leave of the Vicarage, she had made herself mistress of the rank which Maurice now held, of the time he had served, and the wished-for promotion he deserved to attain.Maurice’s illness, and his expected return to England, so excited and engrossed the minds of the family at the Vicarage, that another piece of news, which reached them the same time, was comparatively insignificant; this was the projected return of Charles Huyton.A letter to Mr. Duncan reached the Vicarage the week after the Barham family left the Abbey, intimating that he was proposing to be at “the Ferns” in about a fortnight. It was a calm and friendly letter; not one expression or sentiment betrayed any strong emotion, nor was there the smallest allusion to the motive which had taken him abroad. Hilary was much pleased; and when she had thoughts to spare for him at all, they were of a quiet and satisfactory nature.
“But in the world, I learnt, what thereThou too wilt surely one day prove—That will, that energy, though rare,Are yet far, far less rare than love.”Arnold.
“But in the world, I learnt, what thereThou too wilt surely one day prove—That will, that energy, though rare,Are yet far, far less rare than love.”Arnold.
“But in the world, I learnt, what there
Thou too wilt surely one day prove—
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.”
Arnold.
“I can not leave England, and quit for an indefinite time the spot which contains all that is dearest on earth to me, without one more attempt to avert the necessity of separation from you; one more endeavor to soften an indifference which occasions me so intense a regret. Dearest Miss Duncan, I fear, in my efforts for your father’s benefit, I have increased your sorrow, have deepened and aggravated the wounds, from which your loving heart was already so acutely aching. Forgive me the deed for the intention; may I suggest that, however bitter was the pang of disappointment, it must be less severe than would hereafter be the misery of self-reproach, had you neglected any means which might have alleviated his affliction? Your pale face of suffering, self-command, and fortitude is ever before me; I longed intensely yesterday to speak words of sympathy and affection; my heart was yearning to pour out its passionate pity for your agony—but I might not—I whose love for you is, oh, so deep! so pure, so strong! I was forced to be silent, or to breathe only calm sentences of courteous regard, and polite, well-bred, decorous compassion. Do not be angry with me for putting on paper the feeling I can not hope to express otherwise; condescend to read and give some attention to what I say. Must I leave you now, with this sad destiny closing darkly round you! leave you to struggle alone, to toil beyond your strength, to sacrifice yourself in the melancholy fate that awaitsyou! Do you think I can contemplate such a conclusion with calmness? Oh, no! it is agony to me to dwell upon the idea, which haunts me night and day. Beloved, excellent, adorable Hilary, you have an angel’s spirit in an angel form, but your strength, alas! is mortal, and well I know that rest and comfort for yourself will be your last thought, while your services of love are poured out on the helpless ones around you. May I tell you what is my dream, my vision of bliss? I fancy I see you all transported to ‘the Ferns,’ your younger sisters making joyous with their bright presence the dreary walls of the old house, and causing their empty chambers to echo to their merry voices; there I see them in idea, growing up under every advantage which can be procured by love and wealth united; proper attendants, masters, literature, enjoyments in doors and out, every taste developed, every talent cultivated to the utmost. I see your dear parent, too, enjoying under the same roof every blessing and comfort which perfect filial love and unbounded power could shower on him—every compensation for this new affliction which could assist to lighten the burden, and brighten the remainder of his path through life. And there I see, reigning supreme over all, with all the despotic power of love, and gentleness, and tender firmness combined, one whose presence is like a ray of sunshine, blessing and gladdening every thing within reach. I think I see you, ruling the family, governing the parish, protecting the weak, comforting the unhappy, delighting the gay; influencing all around by the imperceptible power of goodness, even as a delicate odor spreads itself unseen, and yet all-pervading, driving away what is bad, and purifying the surrounding atmosphere. Do you frown upon my dream? alas! that there should be that inme, which prevents its realization; that though to me it looks so fair and beautiful, my presence should cast the shadow on it, which alone makes it impossible. But is it so? let me ask, is there no change? may I have no hope? Have the three months which have elapsed since I first ventured to express my feelings passed, and left no trace behind? am I as far off as ever from the point, the onlything which can make me happy? If so, I go to exile and solitary misery to-morrow, for solitary I must ever be where you are not; solitary I shall continue until the weary months roll by, which you may consider necessary. But, tell me how long must it be? how long must my home duties be laid aside, my house be left untenanted, and myself a wanderer in foreign lands, away from all who have any claim on me? Hilary, you shall dictate; but remember you decide for more than yourself; look at the whole circumstances, and then tell me how long shall I be justified in absenting myself from what you have taught me to consider duties and responsibilities? Deign to give me an answer to this question. Must my dream continue nothing but an empty dream, while I go, and for how long—or may I remain and realize it?
“Charles Huyton.”
Such was the letter which, on the ensuing day after the interview with the oculist, Charles Huyton’s groom carried to the Vicarage; and to this Hilary was forced to reply, for the servant was waiting for an answer. Was it not a dazzling vision to place before a young girl’s eyes, whose self-devotion to her family was her most prominent characteristic? Opulence and all its advantages for them, instead of a narrowing income, a humble home, and the wearing routine of close domestic economy; and the price was to give her hand to an amiable and agreeable man, passionately devoted to her, and a favorite with every member of her family. Ought selfish feelings to stand in the way, and prevent their enjoying benefits which she might so easily purchase?
For a moment she hesitated; she deliberated not for herself, but for those most dear to her. Then, too, there was his plea. Could it be necessary to insist on his leaving home and home duties, renouncing his occupations and pursuits, and all for her? Had she any right to require such a sacrifice? She pondered the question again and again: her head was bewildered, and she could decide on nothing. Time was flying quickly; theanswer must be written. Oh! for a friend to guide and counsel her.
Nay, but she had a friend; One who would not leave her; One always accessible, always loving and patient. And there was a rule, too, a rule to guide her, if she could but discover it; she knew that she must not expect sudden illuminations, divine impulses to direct her; such were not the answers to her prayers for which she had been taught to look. Her line of duty was marked out, and she could see it, doubtless, clear and distinct, if she could but remove the intervening mists and shadows, which passion and prejudice, imaginations, mistrust, or too great anxiety for the future had thrown across it. She prayed to be guided aright, and then quietly set herself to review the case, trusting that she should eventually see what the right was.
The cloud passed from her eyes; she saw the snare laid before her; stepped aside, and thanked God that she had been saved from sin and danger.
“Thou shalt not do evil that good may come of it.”
There was the rule; and plausible as the temptation had appeared, she saw now that it wasevil. Yes,evilto give her hand without her heart, to sell herself for any earthly good, either to herself or others; to make the solemn vow to love, honor, and obey, one toward whom the two former seemed impossible, and the latter might be incompatible with other duties. What, if she shrank from the claims now existing on her, should she therefore form others more indissoluble, more exacting still? If she had not strength to act a daughter’s part, should she take the responsibilities of a wife also? Would she have more time to attend to her father’s wants, when she had added the cares of an extensive establishment, and a large dependent neighborhood? What madness to dream of such a change! And would the luxuries, the indulgences of wealth be a real blessing, a safe acquisition to those for whom she had been tempted to procure them. Whose words then were those who spake—“How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdomof heaven?” Did not He know, or could He be mistaken?
She wept! not that she must resign the prospect, but that it should have proved a temptation to her; and seizing a sheet of paper, she hastily wrote the answer which should decide this point as she hoped forever.
“Again, and I trust for the last time, let me say, I thank you for your good wishes, but my plans, my intentions are unchanged. I deeply regret having been the cause of so much disappointment to you. Our duties henceforth must keep a separate path. Mine is too clear to be mistaken; nor am I making any sacrifice in my resolution; my wishes, my hopes of peace and happiness all point to remaining as I am, as clearly as my sense of right, and my convictions of duty. Now will you allow me, as the only return I can make for your attachment and kind wishes, to say one word to you about what yourdutyis? Is it right for you to throw on me the decision of what it should be? you know, whatever you may say, you can not really make me responsible for what I can not help.
“Must you renounce your country and your home, because you must renounce my society? I asked younotto come to the Vicarage; I did not bid you go to Dresden—neither do I tell younotto go there. If your mother’s family have claims on you, of course you must attend to them; if the claims of others are pre-eminent, should you not give them their due place?
“Does it become any of us, poor, short-sighted, weak individuals to quarrel with our station in life, and because Providence denies us one thing we wish for, should we fret like a pettish child, and throw aside every other blessing in angry disgust? Pardon me for writing thus to you; I should not have presumed to do so, but for the part of your letter in which you call on me to decide. Mr. Huyton, when you have hereafter to answer for your conduct, will it be a good plea that you gave up the helm of your mind to another hand, one which could not guide you rightly?
“Now, farewell. I trust that we shall each be led right in our separate ways, and if I can give you nothing else, I will, at least, give you my poor prayers for a blessing on you, in return for the kind wishes you have expressed for my family, and the favors you have conferred on them.
“H. D.”
This answer dispatched, of its results she knew nothing, except that Charles Huyton left the country with the intention of going abroad; and this information was conveyed by a servant, who brought over a little parcel, directed to Miss Sybil Duncan. There was the key of his library, and an order to his gardener to admit Mr. Duncan’s family, when and where they pleased, in his grounds, a privilege accorded to no one else. Hilary was glad of this little proof of kindness, it shewed that he did not resent her answer; and she trusted that she was acting from right motives, whatever his course might be.
She was the only one of her family who did not either secretly or openly regret his absence; but to her the relief was unspeakable, and she knew that her father owned it was right, however much he might miss his society.
Charles Huyton gone, she was able to devote herself to other cares and occupations, and all disagreeable memories connected with him vanished gradually from her mind in the more pressing duties which surrounded her, and unexpected pleasures which opened upon her view.
Mr. Barham, the gentleman whose duty it was to keep the chancel in repair, answered the letter from the Vicar on the subject by a visit in person, accompanied by his steward, Mr. Edwards, and a surveyor, whose opinion was much relied on by his employer. Mr. Duncan’s infirmities rendered Hilary’s presence necessary during the interview; and the gentlemen really seemed much struck by the young lady’s personal appearance, graceful manners, and quick yet clear powers of mind. Mr. Edwards paid her several compliments on her business-like habits and capacities; the surveyor admired her command over herpencil; and Mr. Barham, who was a courteous but calm-mannered person, and who was known generally as possessing a considerable degree of that pride of family and exclusiveness of habits which often develops itself in a lofty graciousness to all others supposed to be inferiors, intimated his wish to come again, and see how the building went on, and requested permission to bring over his daughters to visit a place which had so much to recommend it.
Hilary gave a ready acquiescence; and an early day next week was fixed on for a party from Drewhurst Abbey to come over and take luncheon at the Vicarage.
In the course of conversation, Mr. Duncan mentioned the circumstance of the expected arrival of the curate, who was to come down in a very short time, and take the duty on Sunday. Mr. Barham immediately began regretting that he had not known that Mr. Duncan was inquiring for a curate: there was a young man of good family and great talent whom he should have been glad to have seen settled there—one, in fact, who was about to marry a connection of his, a cousin of his daughters—it would have been pleasant to have had them in the neighborhood: Miss Duncan would have found the lady an acquisition to their society. He very much lamented that the arrangement had been made without his knowledge.
Mr. Duncan was privately a little amused at his visitor, who, having been contented for thirty years to have no intercourse with him, could hardly have reasonably expected to be consulted on the choice of an assistant in duties with which he had no concern.
However, he answered very mildly, “that the gentleman in question was, he believed, an excellent young man, which, so far as parochial matters were concerned, was of far more consequence than either high family or astonishing talents, and he hoped no one would find reason to complain that their Vicar had been hasty or injudicious in the selection of a pastor.”
“No doubt that is very true, my dear sir,” blandly observed Mr. Barham; “virtue in a clergyman undoubtedly ranks aboveall; nevertheless, the advantages of a cultivated genius and high family are not to be despised; and although there may be many men of low birth highly estimable in a moral point of view, yet it is desirable, for the sake of the character and standing of the clerical body, that there should be gentlemen also in the profession. They give a tone—an elevated tone to the whole!”
Mr. Duncan did not feel called on to reply; and after a pause, Mr. Barham added,
“I could have wished that your curate had been a man of good connections, and a certain fortune and position in society. Is he married?”
“Not yet, I understand,” replied the Vicar; “but he has promised to bring a wife as soon as his new house is ready. And I believe I may venture to answer for his connections and fortune being both good. He is a relative of Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns,’ who assured me he was a man of independent income.”
“Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns!’—how strange! What may his name be?”
“Paine—the Reverend Edward Paine.”
“My dear sir, this is most extraordinary! he is the very man I was thinking of. I am delighted to hear it; but it is strange that it should be settled without my knowing it; neither Mr. Huyton nor Miss Maxwell has informed us. I wonder she did not let her cousins, my daughters, know. I wonder Charles Huyton has not called to inform me.”
“Mr. Huyton went abroad last week,” observed Mr. Duncan, quietly.
“Abroad!—are you certain? I knew nothing about that, and I should have expected, from the sort of terms we were on, that he would have told me. I can hardly believe it.”
Mr. Duncan made no observation.
“I shall call at ‘the Ferns’ to inquire as I go home. Perhaps you have been misinformed!” continued Mr. Barham.
“I have reason to think not,” was the Vicar’s quiet observation,conveying, however, no conviction to the mind of his visitor, who only thought he knew nothing about it.
“But about Edward Paine,” continued Mr. Barham; “how came it settled without my hearing, I wonder? Whose arrangement, may I ask, was it?”
“It was so recently settled,” answered Mr. Duncan, “that perhaps there has not been time to let you know; and in that case, I regret I have forestalled them in giving information, which would, no doubt, have come more gracefully from the parties in whom you are so much interested. Charles knew my wishes, and introduced his cousin here; and Mr. Paine, once introduced, is a person to make his own way; but almost nothing was said of the lady, so that I was entirely ignorant of her being a connection of yours. Charles did not even mention her name to us, did he, Hilary?”
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Barham; “may I inquire whoCharlesis?”
“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Barham; I mean Mr. Huyton; but for the last two years I have been so completely in the habit of speakingtohim by his Christian name, I sometimes forget and speakofhim as such, too.”
“I had no idea,” said Mr. Barham, a little majestically, “that my young friend, Mr. Huyton, was so diffusive in his acquaintances. You were, then, on very intimate terms?”
“He has always been a kind neighbor to us, and being my principal parishioner, and owning most of the property about, we naturally were much interested in many of the same things. He has been very good to the schools, and, indeed, in many ways; the poor will miss him this winter, for we can hardly expect him to remember them at Dresden.”
Mr. Barham’s notions were quite discomposed by this speech. His amiable intentions of patronising and bringing into notice a family who had hitherto “blushed unseen” in the wilds of Hurstdene, seemed apparently quite thrown away; possibly they were not such entire representatives of modern Robinson Crusoes as he had imagined them. He saw, however, no reason forchanging his views with regard to introducing his daughters, and, accordingly, he soon afterward took leave, with a renewed promise to come at the time talked of.
Isabel and Dora Barham were both younger than Hilary Duncan, but their friends had evidently done what they could to give them the advantages of age, or to deprive them as soon as possible of those peculiarities of youth which consist in simplicity, bashfulness, or diffidence. They had been early brought out into the world; early introduced into society; they had been taught to behave, talk, and dress as women, at an age when more fortunate girls are allowed still to feel themselves children. They were now, at sixteen and seventeen, extremely elegant young women, elegantly educated, elegantly dressed, elegantly mannered, surrounded from childhood by all the refinements and luxuries of life; accustomed to lavish indulgence of their fancies, and an unbounded command of money. Suffering was to them a fable; self-denial a mere myth. Had they not been naturally amiable, they would have been now detestable—but they were not. Isabel was a little proud, a little selfish, a little vain; but she had some very good qualities mixed with these vices, which, in good hands, might have turned out well. Dora had no particular character at all; she was merely a reflection of those she lived with; and as these were chiefly her father and sister, of course she generally fell in with their tastes, adopted their habits, and believed all they told her.
They were delighted with the introduction to Hilary; they both commenced a most enthusiastic girlish friendship with her. Isabel’s was, perhaps, less sincere than Dora’s—she had more of her father’s patronising tone; and never, in the least, suspected how very far the vicar’s daughter was really her superior in every essential particular.
Hilary was very simply sincere in her regard for the two girls. She admired them exceedingly, and their kindness, their caressing manners, and very amiable ways, engaged her affection. They soon became intimate, and the Miss Barhams would ride over of a morning, and gliding into the Vicarage drawing-room,would spend the whole afternoon hanging about Hilary, chatting, idling, or pretending to learn from her some of the many fancy works which she had acquired. They were continually trying to wile away Hilary to the Abbey; but this her home occupations forbade, and only twice, during the autumn and winter following, was she induced to spend an afternoon there, and then her father accompanied her.
The introduction of Mrs. Paine was another remarkable event in Hilary’s quiet life, which gave her, perhaps, even more pleasure than the acquisition of her other friends. She was a very pleasing youngwoman indeed, and, although a cousin of the late Mrs. Barham, and having a good fortune, she was so earnest in her wishes to follow out her duty, so simple in her tastes, and indifferent to personal accommodation, that long before Primrose Bank was habitable, she was established with her husband in tiny lodgings at Stairs farm, and giving her time and attention as much to their new parish as to her future home.
The winter passed quietly, but far more cheerfully than Hilary could have ventured to hope; Mr. Duncan enjoyed Mr. Paine’s society, and relied on his judgment in all parochial matters; he also liked the two young ladies who frequented his house, especially Dora, who, he once told Hilary, might be made any thing, either good or bad, as circumstances fell out.
Sybil and Gwyneth, meanwhile, were growing very tall; and whether it was from their intercourse with the young ladies from the Abbey, or their own nature, they had lately advanced so rapidly, that their appearance had got the start of their years, and no one would have guessed them to be less than sixteen and seventeen, instead of what was actually their respective ages.
The owner of ‘the Ferns,’ although absent in a foreign land, had by no means forgotten either his friends or his tenants. More than one extensive order on his banker was remitted to Mr. Duncan, for the relief of distress, and the encouragement of good conduct; and several letters were received from him, written to the same person. Hilary could neither quarrel withthe act, nor the manner of performing it. Although Mr. Huyton was, of course, aware that she would necessarily be acquainted with the contents of the letters, there was nothing in the words which could in the least offend her; they breathed warm interest in his people, affectionate regard for the vicar, and kind remembrances to his family. No one could have suspected from these letters what had passed between them, and it seemed to Hilary’s young and trustful imagination, that absence was effecting the desired cure; she hoped that when their friend returned, as he talked of doing in the spring, it would be to resume a pleasant and rational intercourse, such as it had been eighteen months ago.
One morning, about the first opening of spring, the two young ladies from the Abbey arrived earlier than usual; so early, indeed, as to break in upon the girls’ school hours, which was a point Hilary had long begged them to attend to. She was looking graver than usual, which they attributed to this transgression; and Dora, putting her arms caressingly round her neck,exclaimed—
“Now, Hilary, dear, don’t be angry, but give your sisters a holiday, and let us be happy for once; do you know we have come to say good-by for ages.”
“Indeed! are you leaving home?” said Miss Duncan.
“Yes, we are going to martyrdom,” replied Dora.
“We are going to town for the season,” said Isabel, in answer to Hilary’s look of inquiry. “We always do, of course; it is expected of people in our rank, you know; Dora pretends she does not like it, but she does really; and if she did not, one must make some sacrifices for duty.”
“Going to London for the season—that means going to be very gay, does it not?” said Sybil.
“Oh, yes, Sybil,” cried Dora, “it means turning night into day, and spending it in hot crowds, for whom one does not care the least portion of an atom; and employing all one’s energies, faculties, and time in dressing, dancing, or sleeping—oh dear!”
“Don’t be foolish, Dora; nobody likes company, or pretty clothes, better than you,” said Isabel.
“That is the worst of it; I like them against my conscience, and every time I buy some extravagant ornament, I suffer from remorse; and yet am just as weak at the next temptation. I wish I could say I really hated it all. Do you know, Hilary, I envy you for staying here so quietly in the country, and being able to dress plainly and do good, while I am only able to wish to do either.”
“I am afraid you would feel rather awkward, Dora, either with my wardrobe or my occupations. Our duties are so different; yours, you know, is to go with your father to London, to dress elegantly, and look pretty.”
“That is just what I despise myself for, Hilary—my perfect uselessness, and life of gaudy show. I never leave you without wishing I were situated like you. Not too grand to be useful—living in a small house, instead of those fatiguing large rooms, which tire one to walk across; having a garden one could love and care for, instead of being merely allowed to look at papa’s gardener’s plants and shrubs; having to do things myself, instead of being always waited on; and oh, above all, having learned to despise the pomps and vanities of life, instead of all the time loving them in my heart, and feeling them necessary to my comfort.”
“She is only talking nonsense, Hilary,” interposed Isabel; “she is seized with these fits of despondency about her own rank in life, every now and then, and fancies we are all wrong, for living according to what is expected of us in society. I am happy to say, however, she acts on principles of common sense, and her democratic theories of equality and universal brotherhood are confined to theory entirely.”
“It is not right,” said Dora, thoughtfully shaking her head; “it can not be right; but I do not know what is wrong, and when I begin to think, I am involved in a labyrinth of doubt. To be admired, courted, and caressed, can not be the right aim of life, and yet I am sure it is mine. Now, is not that absolutely contemptible, Hilary, to live for such objects?”
“I rather suspect,” replied Hilary, “you mistake your real motives. You know your father likes you to go into society, and is pleased when you are admired; and this, I have no doubt, is what makes you like it too. If nobody wished you to go out, I dare say you would be as quietly domestic as I am, Dora.”
“I do not know; I believe if any body I cared for wished me to stay at home, I should yield to them with delight. One comfort is, I know the London dissipation will make me ill, and then I shall be forced to be quiet.”
“That is an odd sort of comfort, Dora,” said Hilary, smiling; “one I can not wish for you!”
“It is her nonsense,” observed Isabel.
“Indeed, it is not. I was quite knocked up last year; and I am not so strong now. I mean, when I am ill, to ask Mrs. Paine to take me, for change of air, to Primrose Bank, and try how I like small rooms and a moderate establishment.”
“Here come Mr. and Mrs. Paine,” observed Gwyneth, who was sitting by a window; “you can settle with her at once, Dora; it would be so nice to have you at Primrose Bank.”
Mr. Paine went to Mr. Duncan’s study; his wife came to the drawing-room, bringing with her little Nest, who had been saying her lessons to her papa. There were some parish matters to be discussed first with Hilary; and then, before Dora had time to mention her plans for her expected illness, Mrs. Paine observed, looking earnestly at Hilary,
“What is the matter, dear?—have you had bad news of any kind to-day?”
“Notbad; at least, not necessarily so,” replied Miss Duncan; “but we heard from abroad to-day.”
“Your brother! nothing wrong about him, I hope.”
Hilary’s eyes filled, but she spoke calmly. Maurice had been ill, very ill, of a most dangerous fever; the danger was over now, they hoped, but, indeed, they believed it had been extreme, and he was not yet well enough to write himself. Their letter had been from his captain, who had most kindly written to hisfather, to assure him that danger was now over, and that they hoped, by care and attention, to restore this promising young officer to his family and his country; there was one to the same effect from the surgeon, also, who had written at the express desire of Captain Hepburn, to certify his being now in a state of convalescence.
“It was so kind, so very kind, of Captain Hepburn to write,” pursued Hilary, with emotion; “and such a beautiful, feeling letter, speaking, oh, in such terms of Maurice, and so desirous to spare my father’s feelings. I knew Maurice liked him very much, and now I do not wonder.”
“What a wonderful girl you are, you dear thing!” said Dora, caressing her; “having all this on your mind, and yet teaching and talking, as if nothing had been the matter. How did you see, Fanny? for I never discovered any change in Hilary.”
“Perhaps, Dora,” said Mrs. Paine, “because you are more accustomed to attend to your own feelings than those of other people.”
“Well, I am afraid I am; I want to know how to cure that. But do tell me something more about this brother of yours; how long has he been away? what is he, a captain, too? or what?”
“He is only a mate, Dora; but has served long enough to be promoted, only we have no interest. But the best part of Captain Hepburn’s letter, Mrs. Paine, is, that he hopes to get him leave to come home for his health, and then we shall have him here again!” Hilary clasped her hands in a very unusual ecstacy.
“And what sort of interest does it need to make a young man a lieutenant?” inquired Dora, again. “Could papa do it for you?”
“interest at the Admiralty,” replied Mrs. Paine. “I hardly think Mr. Barham would like to trouble himself about it, because he has a nephew at sea himself.”
“Oh, yes! cousin Peter—I can not bear him, Hilary; I hope your brother Maurice is not like our cousin Peter.”
“Absurd, Dora!” ejaculated Isabel; “Peter is a very good sort of young man.”
However, Dora’s inquiries were not to be stopped by Isabel’s ejaculations; and before she took leave of the Vicarage, she had made herself mistress of the rank which Maurice now held, of the time he had served, and the wished-for promotion he deserved to attain.
Maurice’s illness, and his expected return to England, so excited and engrossed the minds of the family at the Vicarage, that another piece of news, which reached them the same time, was comparatively insignificant; this was the projected return of Charles Huyton.
A letter to Mr. Duncan reached the Vicarage the week after the Barham family left the Abbey, intimating that he was proposing to be at “the Ferns” in about a fortnight. It was a calm and friendly letter; not one expression or sentiment betrayed any strong emotion, nor was there the smallest allusion to the motive which had taken him abroad. Hilary was much pleased; and when she had thoughts to spare for him at all, they were of a quiet and satisfactory nature.