CHAPTERX.“What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers,Words by which the wretched are consoled?What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler,Circled, Tristram, by a crown of gold?”Iseult.The cry of alarm had brought Charles Huyton also to the spot where the accident had happened; for one brief moment the rivals stood side by side and gazed upon the scene. Under the steep, shelving bank, nearly submerged in the water, but clinging with her left arm to a long, pendant root, hung Hilary, and with her right hand she grasped, with all the energy of terrified love, the skirt of her sister’s dress, thereby but little supporting the child, and risking herself to be drawn from her precarious hold, and plunged in deep water by her struggles.Captain Hepburn and Charles Huyton simultaneously flung off their coats.“Save Hilary—I will secure the child,” said the sailor, in a tone of decision which seemed to command obedience, and without an instant of unnecessary delay, sprang from the steep bank head-foremost into the water. Mr. Huyton followed his example, and almost before she was conscious of help being at hand, Hilary felt an arm supporting her, and heard a well-known voicesaying—“Trust to me, dearest, and you will be safe.”She was too exhausted to understand exactly what was passing. She felt her sister was raised, released her grasp on her dress, and had just sense and energy enough left to remain quite passive, as she was borne to a more practical part of thebank. She turned her head, saw Nest was safe in Captain Hepburn’s care—his strong arms had drawn the child quickly out of danger—and then, perfectly overpowered, she fainted away. Landing her was by no means an easy task, the ground was soft, crumbling, and treacherous; but for the ready help at hand, Charles could not have done it; and he was so much exhausted by his efforts, that when he was assisted from the water, he was not only unable to support his burden, but had himself to sit down on the grass, to rest and breathe.Captain Hepburn hastily placed the dripping child in some of the many arms stretched out to take her, and turned with an eager bound to Hilary, who seemed as lifeless as her sister. But Maurice reached her at the same time; he had seen the accident, and with rapid strokes had brought the boat to the nearest land, where, utterly forgetful even of Dora Barham, he had thrown the chain, by which the skiff was moored, into the boatman’s hands, and sprung ashore to assist Hilary.He clasped his sister in his arms, exclaiming, as he did so, “Darling, dearest Hilary!” in the tones of the fondest endearment; then added, with agonized doubt,“Oh, Hepburn, is she dead?”Her pale cheeks, closed eyes, and inanimate form terrified him, and he looked to his friend for advice, assistance, or at least for comfort.“Heaven forbid!” cried the other, eagerly catching her hand, and endeavoring to feel her pulse, “she has only fainted from alarm. She must be taken to the house.”“Carry your sister to the house this moment,” cried Victoria; “I have dispatched little Nest there already, and will send some one to make preparations, and give orders.”A gentleman present, a relative of the Barhams, offered to run on and carry a message, but Sybil sprangforward—“Let me go, Miss Fielding, give me the necessary directions.”Victoria gave a hasty message to the housekeeper, and Sybil was off with a fleetness, and a knowledge of the shortest road, which distanced Mr. Farrington completely.Some of the many shawls which were proffered for the use of the sufferers, were hastily wrapped around Hilary, and, raising her in his arms, her brother walked off with steady steps toward the house.Charles and Captain Hepburn accompanied him, each entirely occupied by thoughts of her, and neither at that moment caring to conceal it.Either the fresh air, or the warmth, or the motion, revived Hilary; she sighed, opened her eyes, looked up for a moment, in doubt where she was, and what had happened, then recollecting every thing, she started up, andcried—“Nest—oh, Maurice, is she safe?”“Be still, darling,” replied he, and it was echoed by the other two; but she only repeated the question in greater alarm.“Yes, yes, she is safe; she is just on in front. Some one is carrying her to the house. Hepburn saved her.”The look which Hilary gave the sailor at that moment, was one which he never forgot.“I could walk, Maurice, I could walk quicker, if you would set me down,” said she, eagerly. “I am quite well, do let me try.”“Patience, we are just there!” and he would not let her go, until they reached the door.Several female attendants, and Sybil herself, were waiting there; they were carrying the little one up to be placed in Victoria’s own bed; and, a moment after, Miss Fielding herself joined them, having hurried on to summon a physician, who, as Isabel reminded her, was happily one of the party. Dr. Pilgrim was found, and at once took the lead in ordering and advising; gave the necessary directions for restoring animation to Nest, who still continued insensible, sent Victoria instantly to superintend the proper precautions for Hilary’s safety, and insisted on both the gentlemen retiring to procure dry clothes, declaring that they could do no good to any one, until they had first taken care of themselves.Happily, by the time Hilary was allowed by her active and judicious attendants to be well enough to seek her sister, Nest was not only perfectly restored to consciousness, but had dropped off into a quiet sleep, and Miss Duncan, at her own urgent request, was permitted to watch by her, on condition, as Dr. Pilgrim insisted, that nothing should be allowed to disturb the little one’s slumber, on which he declared her entire recovery to depend. By this means, as he communicated to Mrs. Gainsborough, the housekeeper, they should compel Miss Duncan to keep quiet also, and he was really more alarmed on her account than her sister’s, if the evident excitement under which she was laboring was not checked by some decisive measures. She ought to have gone to bed also.In the darkened room, reclining on an easy chair, beside the bed where the child peacefully slept, Hilary passed the rest of the afternoon, putting up mental thanksgivings for the safety of her darling, and for the preservation of her own life; grateful for the kindness and care she met with, and more grateful still thathe, the one to whom her heart had turned for help in the moment of horror and alarm, had been near enough to hear her cry, and rescue her sister.She was hardly aware who had saved herself; the absorbing idea of Nest’s danger and Nest’s safety, had prevented her making other inquiries, and her head still felt too weak and confused to think with accuracy, or recollect with precision. It all seemed a cloud of fear and agony, from the time when she saw her sister was running into danger, by so rapidly descending the steep bank, and when, in her effort to arrest her, she too had lost her footing on the short, slippery turf, and crumbling, sandy edge, until she had once more recovered herself in her brother’s arms, and had heard the delicious assurance that Nest was safe.At intervals, Sybil or Gwyneth would softly creep into the room, kiss her, look at Nest, till the tears sprung, and then glide away without a word; or Victoria would come with some refreshment, which she urged on Hilary with whispered eagerness;or Dr. Pilgrim would steal in with a stealthy, noiseless tread, glance at the child, feel Hilary’s pulse, and in low, positive tones, renew his orders for perfect quiet repose.The watchful housekeeper, too, was frequent in her silent visits, and the German maid, who sat in her mistress’s dressing-room, knowing no tongue saving her own, was deaf to entreaties for admission from all others, according to the express injunctions of Fraulein Victoria.Meanwhile, beyond that silent room, away even from sight as well as hearing of its inmates, all was excitement, bustle, interest, and gossip. Seeing that the accident had not been attended by fatal consequences, and that after the first lively alarm there was nothing which need disturb the festal party, the visitors listened to the earnest entreaties of Miss Fielding, and remained as if nothing had happened. Of course, there was much to be said about this interesting circumstance; all who had seen it had to tell their own story, each version differing considerably from the other; all who had not enjoyed the advantage of being spectators were naturally eager to inquire the needful information; and every lady there was loud in praise of the heroism of Mr. Huyton in saving Hilary at the risk of his own life.It was remarkable how much was said of him, how enthusiastic were the encomiums bestowed on his courage and presence of mind, while the equal devotion of his companion was passed over in silence. Every one could tell that Mr. Huyton, without a moment’s hesitation, had sprung from the bank to rescue the sufferers; none but himself and one other seemed aware that he was second in the attempt, and that it was the prompt decision of another mind which had influenced his conduct. Charles was brave, perhaps, but the total disregard of danger, the self-devotion which could calmly risk death itself in the cause of humanity, the quiet trust in a higher power which true Christianity alone can give, these were not his. Neither had he the quick eye to see the best means of help, the rapid decision to carry it out, nor the unselfish prudence which couldresign the efforts love would have prompted, rather than fail of doing all that was required; to these he had no claim. No human eye could see that jealousy and rivalry had prompted what others call heroism and self-devotion; that but for the example of another, he would have shrunk from the attempt; or that had not his companion been more generous than himself, they might have clashed in their efforts to rescue Hilary, while Nest might have been lost by delay.When Mr. Huyton returned to his guests, having changed his own clothes, and taken care that Captain Hepburn was properly accommodated, he was received as a hero. Every one crowded round him to congratulate and admire; one enthusiastic lady (she had two grown-up daughters) insisted on his being crowned with laurel; and the professional singer, Madame G——, came forward, and volunteered a grandbravurain his honor. In short, such was the crowd about him, that Maurice could hardly pierce through to shake his hands in both of his, and thank him, with grateful emotion, for the safety of his sister. Charles bore it very well, he put aside the plaudits, escaped from the ovation, gracefully denied all merit, and seizing Maurice by the arm eagerly drew him aside to pour out his rapturous delight at having been of use to Hilary. No one was near, for he had retreated quite away from his guests; and they had the consideration not to intrude on the gratitude and thanks of the brother, whatever they might have wished to do. In this moment of feeling and excitement, Maurice learned, with surprise, what Hilary had hitherto carefully concealed even from him—the ardent, constant, unchanging devotion of his friend for his sister. Charles gave vent to his feelings, told of his love, his disappointment, his hopes, his fears; Hilary was dearer to him than ever, dearer far than life (he really thought so, now there was no danger); had he any chance, could Maurice give him any encouragement; at least, would he give him his good wishes?Surprise was the brother’s principal feeling; not surprise that Hilary was loved, but that he had never discovered what waspassing close to him. As to his sister’s feelings, could he have guessed them, he would not have betrayed his guesses, nor breathed a word which could make her blush. He was saved from further solicitation by a summons to Charles, who was wanted by his cousin immediately.Maurice at that moment was in no humor for making love himself—his thoughts were absorbed by his sisters’ peril, and their escape; the crowd was irksome to him; his feelings wanted a higher and better outlet than the idle gossip and careless chatter around; he could not hear the subject lightly discussed, with even outward calmness; and now, reassured by a recent report from Dr. Pilgrim, that both patients were doing as well as possible, he quietly stole away into the shrubbery, and then retraced, with thoughtful step and swelling heart, the path along which he had borne his sister’s inanimate form.He reached the spot where the accident had occurred, he saw the marks on the bank, he gazed at the dark, still, sullen-looking water, whose black depth had so nearly been the grave of those two loved ones; and lifting his hat from his head, he raised his whole heart in grateful praise, that she, the light, the support, the comfort of their home, and that little one, whose merry voice always spoke of mirth and love, had been spared to bless them still.He was roused by a footstep; his hands were grasped by Captain Hepburn; and warm, earnest, deeply heart-felt congratulations were poured out to him on his sister’s safety.“My dear fellow! I can not speak my joy—they say she is doing well! have you seen her yet?” continued he, eagerly.Maurice answered he had not.“They insist on perfect quiet at present, and then, Dr. Pilgrim says, all will be well; but, Hepburn, how can I thankyouenough for this additional benefit—dearer, more precious far than my own life? I wish I could speak—”Maurice could not quite control his voice, and was obliged to break off abruptly.“I did not save Hilary,” replied he; “thank Mr. Huyton for that!”“You did what I am certain Hilary will thank you for more than for her own life—you saved Nest; and I think she will feel as I do; although she may not have so entire an appreciation of your motives as I have.”“My motives were simple enough,” said Captain Hepburn, after a little pause; “I felt I might trust her to the exertions of Mr. Huyton, at least, till I had placed the child in safety; and Nest’s struggles made it difficult to do any thing for either while Hilary retained her grasp on her clothes.”“I knew it! I was convinced that it was your doing—your judgment, decision, prudence, and promptness by which either was rescued! Others may give Huyton the credit—they are making a hero of him out there—butIknow, and Hilary, too, shall know, to whom we are truly indebted. What can I say! how poor words are! what can I do to show our gratitude?”“Nothing—nothing more, my dear fellow! it was nothing to speak of, although the result was so important. If Hilary will only believe that I acted as I thoughtshewould wish—that for her dear sake I did what I did—would have done any thing possible—would have dared a thousand times more, had it been necessary—then I shall be amply repaid!”Maurice looked at him earnestly and inquiringly. Captain Hepburn went on after a moment.“I should have acted as I did, Maurice, even though I had known that in resigning the charge of her to Mr. Huyton I was resigning all claim on her forever. Her safety was more to me than my life, as her happiness is more important than my own. May be, she may never know this; be it so! if she is happy, I will try to be content.”“I hardly understand you,” replied Maurice, “at least, I am not sure; but if your wishes are what I suppose, I can only say that mine will go with them; more, infinitely more cordially than with Charles Huyton.”“I did not mean to have said so much,” replied Captain Hepburn;“it was a momentary excitement; we will not discuss it now. I want to know about going back to the Vicarage. Hilary and Nest must remain here, and will require something in the way of wardrobe, certainly; and you must remember, the little one was to have returned about seven, and one of her sisters with her. I think these were the first arrangements. Your father will be expecting them, and the Paines will wish to go home.”“True; what is to be done? Hilarymustremain here, of course.”“I could go home with your sister Gwyneth, if you like; perhaps you would wish to remain as late as possible, to hear the last account; and probably Miss Sybil had better, if she can, stay with her sisters altogether. What do you think?”“That you have the clearest head for arranging in the world.”“Well, you may propose it, I can only suggest privately to you, and have no wish to put myself forward. If they will send us home, I shall be ready whenever Gwyneth likes, and the carriage can take back the clothes.”They turned to walk toward the house, Maurice anxious to find his sisters, and settle with them what they would wish to have done.It was soon arranged, and just as Captain Hepburn had suggested. The invitation to the younger Miss Duncans to remain with their sisters, had already been given, through the thoughtful kindness of Charles, and although it was impossible both should accept it, it was gratefully taken advantage of by Sybil, who shrank from the idea of being the one to break the intelligence to Mr. Duncan, and gladly persuaded herself that she could be more use at “the Ferns” to Hilary herself, while Gwyneth would certainly be much the best able to act for her father alone.The carriage was ordered immediately, and Gwyneth stealing up stairs to take one more look at the invalids, found Hilary had just been positively ordered by Dr. Pilgrim to go to bed, where he hoped a composing draught would procure necessarysleep, and avert the symptoms of fever which he reluctantly admitted were becoming stronger.Gwyneth, however, was not informed of this alarm; she stayed to see Hilary comfortably settled for the night, and as her heavy eyelids closed almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, it was hoped by all her nurses that a good night’s rest would cure every thing that was wrong. Sybil wished to remain with her, but there was really nothing to be done, and both patients appearing to be quietly asleep. Victoria persuaded her to trust them to the watchfulness of Mrs. Gainsborough, and return with her to the company for the present; and her entreaties being enforced by a threat, that if she did not come down, Miss Fielding would remain with her upstairs, Sybil was obliged, though somewhat reluctantly, to yield the point.As they were issuing from the house, they met Mr. Farrington strolling about near the door; he joined them immediately, and after inquiring earnestly for the sufferers up stairs, he turned to Sybil, and expressed, in very gentlemanlike and pleasant words, his strong admiration of her promptness in action and swiftness of foot.Sybil, of course, like a great many other people when undergoing a compliment, or accused of a virtue, took refuge in denying the facts, declaring herself peculiarly slow in action, and undecided in thought, and hardly even allowing that she could run faster than other people; although, to say the truth, her forest-life, and habits independent of governess and dancing-master, had given, or at least had not taken away, a power and ease of motion not common to many young ladies.Mr. Farrington did not persist in compliments which were evidently received with as much shy reluctance as conscious pleasure; but changing the conversation, first discussed with her the details of the accident, listening with extreme interest to Sybil’s enthusiastic gratitude to Captain Hepburn and Mr. Huyton, and then led her on, how she hardly knew, to give a long detail of their usual mode of life; their quiet habits, theirfather’s state of health; followed by glowing descriptions of the lovely forest scenery, through which they were wont to roam, the quaint manners of the woodmen, the vagrant ways of the gipsies, and a hundred other particulars, which Sybil detailed with a poetic feeling for the romance of their situation peculiarly attractive to him.Her ardent affection and admiration for her half-sister, convinced Mr. Farrington that Sybil herself must be equally amiable, and perhaps equally clever to appreciate her so entirely; and altogether he was so much interested in his companion, as to feel disinclined to quit her again during the rest of the evening.Sybil was too tired, from excitement and exertion, to be disposed to do any thing but sit still beside Mrs. Fielding, except at the intervals when she stole up stairs to learn how Hilary slept; and her spirits being naturally depressed by what had already passed, and anxiety for the future, she was just in that state of mind which made her communicative of her hopes and fears, inclined to take retrospective views of bygone happiness, and thankful to hear cheerful anticipations for the morrow.As to Maurice, after he had made the arrangements before recorded, feeling easier for his sisters at “the Ferns,” and depending entirely on his friend’s direction to give as little pain as possible to his father in making known the accident, he suddenly returned to thoughts of his own affairs, that is to say, to recollections of Dora, whom he had left with her sister, and wonder what they had done, as well as what they would think of his conduct.Isabel he saw was with her aunt, Lady Margaret, and her party, which was tolerably numerous, but Dora herself was invisible. He went up to Miss Barham, and apologized for his conduct, in quitting them so abruptly in the boat; an apology which she declared totally unnecessary, as of course Hilary must be his first object; but in answer to his inquiries after her sister, she could only tell him, that Dora had gone in doors to rest, as she said she had a head-ache, and the band made it worse. Assoon as he could, Maurice went to the house to look for her, but was unsuccessful in his search through all the public rooms. Vexed and disappointed, he strolled out again, but on the opposite side to that on which the pavilion stood, and wandered away by himself, into a small thicket of laurel and other evergreens, overhung by some remarkably fine old hawthorns, whose long sprays, wreathed with snowy blossoms, shed around their rich and enervating perfume.A sudden turn in the walk brought him to a small alcove, and there, reclining on a bank of turf, her face concealed partly by her arm and partly by her handkerchief, was Dora Barham, sobbing as if her heart was broken, and so engrossed by the cause of her agitation, as to be quite unconscious of his approach.He hesitated a moment, for he could not leave her in such grief, and yet he did not dare to intrude upon it; he stopped, looked at her, waited, and was then resolved to go back, when accidentally treading on a broken stick in the path, the sharp crack it gave under his foot, startled Dora, and made her instantly raise her head.“Mr. Duncan!” exclaimed she, trying to brush away her tears in a great hurry, as she saw him, but not looking at all sorry at the interruption.“I hope I do not disturb you,” said he, apologetically. “I had no idea of finding you here.”“Not in the least,” looking at the bank beside her (she was now sitting upright), as if she longed to ask him to sit down. “How is Hilary?”“Doing quite well, they tell me; she is going to bed; I hope she will sleep well, and be all right to-morrow.” He ventured to sit down as he spoke.“Oh, I am so glad! dear Hilary—it was horrid, dreadful—I can not get the idea out of my head; oh, Mr. Duncan! if they had not been there to save her!” Dora shuddered again, and again tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.“Do not agitate yourself so,” exclaimed her companion,“do not think of it; can I do nothing for you; get you nothing?”“No, thank you! I shall be better presently.” She sobbed a little, and then was quiet.“And your head-ache? Miss Barham told me it was bad.”“I believe it was my heart, more than my head, Mr. Duncan,” replied Dora, with a smile. “I can not bear things as Isabel does, and I was so frightened; and people seemed so thoughtless and indifferent, and so ready to forget—so little thankful. Oh, dear! what a set I live with; it made my heart full, and my head ache; so at last I crept away here, to be happy and grateful my own way.”He looked at her with a smile, half-admiring, half arch, butsaid—“I had no idea I found you in a state ofhappiness.”She crimsoned, laughed, and thensaid—“It is, nevertheless, very pleasant to cry sometimes.”“I have heard so before,” was his answer.“And one can not do it in company, you know; it would look absurd, and be considered bad manners, which is worse; and besides, people do not ever understand one; I believeyouare rather shocked at me.”“Do you? then I am afraid my looks are deceitful.”“Don’t you think me foolish then?” coloring again, and looking down.“Foolish for feeling for my sister’s danger! foolish for caring for her safety! if affection, sympathy, friendship, sensibility, gratitude to Heaven, sincerity, simple truth of feeling, if these are folly, or if you suppose I consider them so, then accuse me of thinking you foolish.”She was silent, but was visibly gratified by his warmth of manner.“What have I ever done or said, Miss Barham, which can justify your suspecting me of such hard-hearted, cynical want of feeling? Tears, which do honor to my sister’s worth; tears, which prove your disinterested regard for the dearest objects ofmy heart; tears, which show how nearly we sympathize in some ofourfeelings and affections; if I do not honor and respect such—if I do not feel intensely and most humbly grateful for them, I do not deserve to be admitted into civilized society, far less into yours, Miss Barham.”“Please don’t talk in that way; I did not mean to imply you were any thing bad; how could I, when I know you love Hilary so?—but I am sure you give me credit for a great deal more good than I deserve.”“I do not think that possible.”“Amiable people always do give the sunshine of their own virtues to their companion’s character,” said Dora, somewhat thoughtfully.Maurice kept his gratification to himself, and wisely changing the subject to one less personal, began relating to Dora all the arrangements which had been made by Charles Huyton and Victoria for the accommodation of his sisters.This was followed by a warm eulogium from Dora of the virtues and amiability of Mr. Huyton, in which, as on most other subjects, there was a wonderful similarity in their opinions; and after lingering together in that pleasant retreat a longer time than it was at all prudent for a poor lieutenant to spend in the bewitching society of the co-heiress of the Abbey, they at length remembered that they might as well return to the world, unsympathizing and hard-hearted as Dora had just discovered it to be.On the whole, in spite of her tears and agitation, Dora felt, as she considered the circumstances of the afternoon, that the party had produced quite as much pleasure as she had anticipated; by no means a common occurrence. This was her conclusion, as she stationed herself by Sybil’s side, on the quiet sofa where she and Mr. Farrington were composedly conversing; and as Maurice had nothing to do more perfectly natural and justifiable than to seat himself close to his sister, and remain there to take care of her, Dora seemed likely to have a good deal more enjoyment.The shades of evening came down; and though dancing in the house had been given up, as the fireworks had not, in due time the company betook themselves once more to the park, where, under the shelter of the trees, they could conveniently view the display of cascades, bouquets, stars, serpents, and initial devices, with which the pyrotechnist was to delight them; the whole effect being doubled by the reflection in the waters.“I really can not go out again,” said Mrs. Fielding to Sybil; “perhaps, if you wish it, your brother will go with you to see these fireworks.”Sybil hesitated; she would rather have gone to Hilary.“Do come,” said Dora, coaxingly, and foolishly anxious to enjoy the walk with Maurice. “I want so to see them, Sybil dear, do come.”Sybil consented; Mr. Farrington gave her his arm; Mrs. Fielding insisted on her wrapping an additional shawl over her shoulders, to guard her from the night air. Dora said she would like one also, and sent Maurice to find a cashmere she had left in the cloak room. At that moment, Lady Margaret called Dora, who explained that she was waiting for her shawl, and would follow with Sybil and Mr. Farrington; she begged the others not to wait; and Lady Margaret, satisfied that Mr. Farrington, who belonged to their party, should be Dora’s escort, went on; but as Maurice was some minutes finding the proper article, her aunt was quite out of sight before Dora, with Sybil, went after them.Dora was only too happy; the fireworks were nothing to her; but the gentle grace with which she was guarded, and the quiet strength of the arm on which she leaned, were pretty nearly all she cared for in the world at the moment; she would not think of results, or calculate consequences; all she wished was to prolong the pleasant intercourse, dangerous as it might be to future peace.Something was said about his profession, and Maurice expressed his hopes of very soon being employed afloat. Dora started, and inquired, in a faltering voice, if he wanted to go?“Of course I do, in one sense,” was his answer; and even as he spoke he could feel the nervous, tremulous movement of the little hand which rested on his arm. “My first wish is to distinguish myself—to obtain promotion—to rise. One can not do that without serving.”“I suppose honor and gloryoughtto be a sailor’s first wish?” said Dora, in a slightly disconcerted tone, as if she did not like the thought.“The honor leads to promotion; and on promotion all one’s hopes of domestic happiness, the power of settling in life, making a home of one’s own, and living in it, depend. One must work, deny oneself now, to rest and enjoy hereafter,” was his answer.“Then you will not always be going to sea?” continued she.“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”“Or wishing it? I suppose, then, you would be really glad to get an appointment now—to-morrow—any day?”“Not quite to-morrow, unless Hilary is well first; and come when it will, it is a desperate struggle, Miss Barham, to leave all that is dearest and sweetest on earth for the chances of being tossed about, living among wild and careless companions, exposed to all manner of little trials and vexations, and no woman near to soothe one; no sweet sister to smile one into patience; no sister’s sweeter friend to bewitch one into forgetfulness. Don’t think we are all stones or blocks, because we do our best to put on the look of unconcern, Miss Barham. It often hides a very heavy heart.”“And how soon can you be promoted?” inquired Dora, after a little pause, not feeling herself exactly equal to pursuing the conversation on the same topic.He told how long he must serve before he had the claim; how much longer, probably, before he could have the chance to be promoted. Then, as she continued silent, he went on, emboldened by the darkness and the solitude, for they were a little apart from the others, and no one could see any thing distinctly.“I am not sure whether I ought to say it, but I have so longed to express—do not be angry with me for mentioning the subject—to express my gratitude to you for the trouble you took for my benefit. I have never dared speak of it before. Perhaps I may not have another opportunity.”“I was very glad to do it,” said Dora, hurriedly; “butyouowe me no thanks, it was for Hilary I asked; you know I had never seen you then!”“I am perfectly aware of that; I never flattered myself it was personal regard for me; the kindness, I know, was to Hilary; but the benefit was to myself. Whatever I felt at the time, I can only say now, the rank is dearer to me, when I remember from whose hand I received it; and my earnest wish not to disgrace my name, my profession, and my country, is changed into a longing, ardent desire, to show that I am sensible of the honor done me, and will do any thing, lay down my life, were it necessary, to try and deserve it.”“Heaven forbid!” murmured Dora; “don’t say such dreadful words; you make me feel as if I should be a murderess. Please don’t be too anxious to distinguish yourself.”“I hope you will never have to blush for your kindness, Miss Barham. There is little danger in these times of peace of any thing leading me to too great distinction.”“And I—oh, Mr. Duncan! if your promotion should lead to any misfortune, I should never forgive myself for having interfered; I could never look at Hilary again.” Dora spoke with great emotion.“Nay, do not distress yourself, dear Miss Barham; events and their results are not in our own hands, and we are not responsible for them. We have but to do and dare; you in small things at home, perhaps; I in more distant, but may be, not more trying scenes abroad; to go forward bravely, trusting heartily in Providence, do our duty firmly, and leave the rest to heaven, that is our best as well as our wisest course; and if the end should be stormy, let us still trust and be strong.”“I never was strong; I never can be brave. I am afraid ofstorms, and whenever some people tell me one thing is right, and others declare the contrary, as so often happens to me, then I become so puzzled, that I can do nothing at all. You do not know the misery of indecision.”“No; but we all have the compass and chart to guide us, and mostly find a pilot, if the passage is very shoal, and the rocks are intricate, and the navigation too puzzling for us; and there are light-houses, and buoys too, to direct us right. Do you understand me?”“I think I do; but although I hear of rules, and discipline, and self-control, when I go to church, and have been taught to reverence the Holy Word, and believe in the existence of conscience, theoretically, practically it is all nothing to me. I do not understand it. I dare say I ought not to say this to you. It seems strange to confess all this; only you led to the subject, and I can see that what is all a mist and unsubstantial phantasmagoria to me, is a light and comfort, and real guiding force, and existing present support, to such as you and Hilary.”“And to you also, if you choose, Miss Barham.”“Oh, no! never to me; I am too weak to lay hold of them, too foolish to understand them. Life in itself frightens me. It has claims to which I ought to attend; but if I try, a whole host of ceremonies, fashions, customs, prejudices, follies, rise up between me and my duties; I stretch out my hand, and can not reach it, and spend my time in sighing and idle wishes.”“And I am not theologian or philosopher enough to know what advice to give you. I think, however, I understand your feeling. I wish I could help you.”“I was brought up,” continued Dora, “to value nothing but what contributed to outward show; to consider only appearances; to act only for effect; I feel the whole root and source of my actions is false; I despise myself, but I do not know how to mend it. I have waked up to a sense that there ought to be reality in life, but know not how to find or make it.”“Take one duty at a time, and conquer that; give yourself one good rule, and act upon it; do not look at every thing atonce, or you are bewildered by what is before you. One takes the problems of Euclid, one by one, and learns them all; without a gradual advance, or beginning at the simplest, how could we get on?”“If I only had some one to guide and teach me always; some one like Hilary, who could keep me right,” sighed Dora. Sybil just then joined them, and their conversation was ended for the time; but Dora, when Maurice wished her good-night at parting, whispered: “I shall try to remember;” and his answer was an enthusiastic “Ishall never forget.”
“What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers,Words by which the wretched are consoled?What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler,Circled, Tristram, by a crown of gold?”Iseult.
“What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers,Words by which the wretched are consoled?What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler,Circled, Tristram, by a crown of gold?”Iseult.
“What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers,
Words by which the wretched are consoled?
What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler,
Circled, Tristram, by a crown of gold?”
Iseult.
The cry of alarm had brought Charles Huyton also to the spot where the accident had happened; for one brief moment the rivals stood side by side and gazed upon the scene. Under the steep, shelving bank, nearly submerged in the water, but clinging with her left arm to a long, pendant root, hung Hilary, and with her right hand she grasped, with all the energy of terrified love, the skirt of her sister’s dress, thereby but little supporting the child, and risking herself to be drawn from her precarious hold, and plunged in deep water by her struggles.
Captain Hepburn and Charles Huyton simultaneously flung off their coats.
“Save Hilary—I will secure the child,” said the sailor, in a tone of decision which seemed to command obedience, and without an instant of unnecessary delay, sprang from the steep bank head-foremost into the water. Mr. Huyton followed his example, and almost before she was conscious of help being at hand, Hilary felt an arm supporting her, and heard a well-known voicesaying—
“Trust to me, dearest, and you will be safe.”
She was too exhausted to understand exactly what was passing. She felt her sister was raised, released her grasp on her dress, and had just sense and energy enough left to remain quite passive, as she was borne to a more practical part of thebank. She turned her head, saw Nest was safe in Captain Hepburn’s care—his strong arms had drawn the child quickly out of danger—and then, perfectly overpowered, she fainted away. Landing her was by no means an easy task, the ground was soft, crumbling, and treacherous; but for the ready help at hand, Charles could not have done it; and he was so much exhausted by his efforts, that when he was assisted from the water, he was not only unable to support his burden, but had himself to sit down on the grass, to rest and breathe.
Captain Hepburn hastily placed the dripping child in some of the many arms stretched out to take her, and turned with an eager bound to Hilary, who seemed as lifeless as her sister. But Maurice reached her at the same time; he had seen the accident, and with rapid strokes had brought the boat to the nearest land, where, utterly forgetful even of Dora Barham, he had thrown the chain, by which the skiff was moored, into the boatman’s hands, and sprung ashore to assist Hilary.
He clasped his sister in his arms, exclaiming, as he did so, “Darling, dearest Hilary!” in the tones of the fondest endearment; then added, with agonized doubt,
“Oh, Hepburn, is she dead?”
Her pale cheeks, closed eyes, and inanimate form terrified him, and he looked to his friend for advice, assistance, or at least for comfort.
“Heaven forbid!” cried the other, eagerly catching her hand, and endeavoring to feel her pulse, “she has only fainted from alarm. She must be taken to the house.”
“Carry your sister to the house this moment,” cried Victoria; “I have dispatched little Nest there already, and will send some one to make preparations, and give orders.”
A gentleman present, a relative of the Barhams, offered to run on and carry a message, but Sybil sprangforward—
“Let me go, Miss Fielding, give me the necessary directions.”
Victoria gave a hasty message to the housekeeper, and Sybil was off with a fleetness, and a knowledge of the shortest road, which distanced Mr. Farrington completely.
Some of the many shawls which were proffered for the use of the sufferers, were hastily wrapped around Hilary, and, raising her in his arms, her brother walked off with steady steps toward the house.
Charles and Captain Hepburn accompanied him, each entirely occupied by thoughts of her, and neither at that moment caring to conceal it.
Either the fresh air, or the warmth, or the motion, revived Hilary; she sighed, opened her eyes, looked up for a moment, in doubt where she was, and what had happened, then recollecting every thing, she started up, andcried—
“Nest—oh, Maurice, is she safe?”
“Be still, darling,” replied he, and it was echoed by the other two; but she only repeated the question in greater alarm.
“Yes, yes, she is safe; she is just on in front. Some one is carrying her to the house. Hepburn saved her.”
The look which Hilary gave the sailor at that moment, was one which he never forgot.
“I could walk, Maurice, I could walk quicker, if you would set me down,” said she, eagerly. “I am quite well, do let me try.”
“Patience, we are just there!” and he would not let her go, until they reached the door.
Several female attendants, and Sybil herself, were waiting there; they were carrying the little one up to be placed in Victoria’s own bed; and, a moment after, Miss Fielding herself joined them, having hurried on to summon a physician, who, as Isabel reminded her, was happily one of the party. Dr. Pilgrim was found, and at once took the lead in ordering and advising; gave the necessary directions for restoring animation to Nest, who still continued insensible, sent Victoria instantly to superintend the proper precautions for Hilary’s safety, and insisted on both the gentlemen retiring to procure dry clothes, declaring that they could do no good to any one, until they had first taken care of themselves.
Happily, by the time Hilary was allowed by her active and judicious attendants to be well enough to seek her sister, Nest was not only perfectly restored to consciousness, but had dropped off into a quiet sleep, and Miss Duncan, at her own urgent request, was permitted to watch by her, on condition, as Dr. Pilgrim insisted, that nothing should be allowed to disturb the little one’s slumber, on which he declared her entire recovery to depend. By this means, as he communicated to Mrs. Gainsborough, the housekeeper, they should compel Miss Duncan to keep quiet also, and he was really more alarmed on her account than her sister’s, if the evident excitement under which she was laboring was not checked by some decisive measures. She ought to have gone to bed also.
In the darkened room, reclining on an easy chair, beside the bed where the child peacefully slept, Hilary passed the rest of the afternoon, putting up mental thanksgivings for the safety of her darling, and for the preservation of her own life; grateful for the kindness and care she met with, and more grateful still thathe, the one to whom her heart had turned for help in the moment of horror and alarm, had been near enough to hear her cry, and rescue her sister.
She was hardly aware who had saved herself; the absorbing idea of Nest’s danger and Nest’s safety, had prevented her making other inquiries, and her head still felt too weak and confused to think with accuracy, or recollect with precision. It all seemed a cloud of fear and agony, from the time when she saw her sister was running into danger, by so rapidly descending the steep bank, and when, in her effort to arrest her, she too had lost her footing on the short, slippery turf, and crumbling, sandy edge, until she had once more recovered herself in her brother’s arms, and had heard the delicious assurance that Nest was safe.
At intervals, Sybil or Gwyneth would softly creep into the room, kiss her, look at Nest, till the tears sprung, and then glide away without a word; or Victoria would come with some refreshment, which she urged on Hilary with whispered eagerness;or Dr. Pilgrim would steal in with a stealthy, noiseless tread, glance at the child, feel Hilary’s pulse, and in low, positive tones, renew his orders for perfect quiet repose.
The watchful housekeeper, too, was frequent in her silent visits, and the German maid, who sat in her mistress’s dressing-room, knowing no tongue saving her own, was deaf to entreaties for admission from all others, according to the express injunctions of Fraulein Victoria.
Meanwhile, beyond that silent room, away even from sight as well as hearing of its inmates, all was excitement, bustle, interest, and gossip. Seeing that the accident had not been attended by fatal consequences, and that after the first lively alarm there was nothing which need disturb the festal party, the visitors listened to the earnest entreaties of Miss Fielding, and remained as if nothing had happened. Of course, there was much to be said about this interesting circumstance; all who had seen it had to tell their own story, each version differing considerably from the other; all who had not enjoyed the advantage of being spectators were naturally eager to inquire the needful information; and every lady there was loud in praise of the heroism of Mr. Huyton in saving Hilary at the risk of his own life.
It was remarkable how much was said of him, how enthusiastic were the encomiums bestowed on his courage and presence of mind, while the equal devotion of his companion was passed over in silence. Every one could tell that Mr. Huyton, without a moment’s hesitation, had sprung from the bank to rescue the sufferers; none but himself and one other seemed aware that he was second in the attempt, and that it was the prompt decision of another mind which had influenced his conduct. Charles was brave, perhaps, but the total disregard of danger, the self-devotion which could calmly risk death itself in the cause of humanity, the quiet trust in a higher power which true Christianity alone can give, these were not his. Neither had he the quick eye to see the best means of help, the rapid decision to carry it out, nor the unselfish prudence which couldresign the efforts love would have prompted, rather than fail of doing all that was required; to these he had no claim. No human eye could see that jealousy and rivalry had prompted what others call heroism and self-devotion; that but for the example of another, he would have shrunk from the attempt; or that had not his companion been more generous than himself, they might have clashed in their efforts to rescue Hilary, while Nest might have been lost by delay.
When Mr. Huyton returned to his guests, having changed his own clothes, and taken care that Captain Hepburn was properly accommodated, he was received as a hero. Every one crowded round him to congratulate and admire; one enthusiastic lady (she had two grown-up daughters) insisted on his being crowned with laurel; and the professional singer, Madame G——, came forward, and volunteered a grandbravurain his honor. In short, such was the crowd about him, that Maurice could hardly pierce through to shake his hands in both of his, and thank him, with grateful emotion, for the safety of his sister. Charles bore it very well, he put aside the plaudits, escaped from the ovation, gracefully denied all merit, and seizing Maurice by the arm eagerly drew him aside to pour out his rapturous delight at having been of use to Hilary. No one was near, for he had retreated quite away from his guests; and they had the consideration not to intrude on the gratitude and thanks of the brother, whatever they might have wished to do. In this moment of feeling and excitement, Maurice learned, with surprise, what Hilary had hitherto carefully concealed even from him—the ardent, constant, unchanging devotion of his friend for his sister. Charles gave vent to his feelings, told of his love, his disappointment, his hopes, his fears; Hilary was dearer to him than ever, dearer far than life (he really thought so, now there was no danger); had he any chance, could Maurice give him any encouragement; at least, would he give him his good wishes?
Surprise was the brother’s principal feeling; not surprise that Hilary was loved, but that he had never discovered what waspassing close to him. As to his sister’s feelings, could he have guessed them, he would not have betrayed his guesses, nor breathed a word which could make her blush. He was saved from further solicitation by a summons to Charles, who was wanted by his cousin immediately.
Maurice at that moment was in no humor for making love himself—his thoughts were absorbed by his sisters’ peril, and their escape; the crowd was irksome to him; his feelings wanted a higher and better outlet than the idle gossip and careless chatter around; he could not hear the subject lightly discussed, with even outward calmness; and now, reassured by a recent report from Dr. Pilgrim, that both patients were doing as well as possible, he quietly stole away into the shrubbery, and then retraced, with thoughtful step and swelling heart, the path along which he had borne his sister’s inanimate form.
He reached the spot where the accident had occurred, he saw the marks on the bank, he gazed at the dark, still, sullen-looking water, whose black depth had so nearly been the grave of those two loved ones; and lifting his hat from his head, he raised his whole heart in grateful praise, that she, the light, the support, the comfort of their home, and that little one, whose merry voice always spoke of mirth and love, had been spared to bless them still.
He was roused by a footstep; his hands were grasped by Captain Hepburn; and warm, earnest, deeply heart-felt congratulations were poured out to him on his sister’s safety.
“My dear fellow! I can not speak my joy—they say she is doing well! have you seen her yet?” continued he, eagerly.
Maurice answered he had not.
“They insist on perfect quiet at present, and then, Dr. Pilgrim says, all will be well; but, Hepburn, how can I thankyouenough for this additional benefit—dearer, more precious far than my own life? I wish I could speak—”
Maurice could not quite control his voice, and was obliged to break off abruptly.
“I did not save Hilary,” replied he; “thank Mr. Huyton for that!”
“You did what I am certain Hilary will thank you for more than for her own life—you saved Nest; and I think she will feel as I do; although she may not have so entire an appreciation of your motives as I have.”
“My motives were simple enough,” said Captain Hepburn, after a little pause; “I felt I might trust her to the exertions of Mr. Huyton, at least, till I had placed the child in safety; and Nest’s struggles made it difficult to do any thing for either while Hilary retained her grasp on her clothes.”
“I knew it! I was convinced that it was your doing—your judgment, decision, prudence, and promptness by which either was rescued! Others may give Huyton the credit—they are making a hero of him out there—butIknow, and Hilary, too, shall know, to whom we are truly indebted. What can I say! how poor words are! what can I do to show our gratitude?”
“Nothing—nothing more, my dear fellow! it was nothing to speak of, although the result was so important. If Hilary will only believe that I acted as I thoughtshewould wish—that for her dear sake I did what I did—would have done any thing possible—would have dared a thousand times more, had it been necessary—then I shall be amply repaid!”
Maurice looked at him earnestly and inquiringly. Captain Hepburn went on after a moment.
“I should have acted as I did, Maurice, even though I had known that in resigning the charge of her to Mr. Huyton I was resigning all claim on her forever. Her safety was more to me than my life, as her happiness is more important than my own. May be, she may never know this; be it so! if she is happy, I will try to be content.”
“I hardly understand you,” replied Maurice, “at least, I am not sure; but if your wishes are what I suppose, I can only say that mine will go with them; more, infinitely more cordially than with Charles Huyton.”
“I did not mean to have said so much,” replied Captain Hepburn;“it was a momentary excitement; we will not discuss it now. I want to know about going back to the Vicarage. Hilary and Nest must remain here, and will require something in the way of wardrobe, certainly; and you must remember, the little one was to have returned about seven, and one of her sisters with her. I think these were the first arrangements. Your father will be expecting them, and the Paines will wish to go home.”
“True; what is to be done? Hilarymustremain here, of course.”
“I could go home with your sister Gwyneth, if you like; perhaps you would wish to remain as late as possible, to hear the last account; and probably Miss Sybil had better, if she can, stay with her sisters altogether. What do you think?”
“That you have the clearest head for arranging in the world.”
“Well, you may propose it, I can only suggest privately to you, and have no wish to put myself forward. If they will send us home, I shall be ready whenever Gwyneth likes, and the carriage can take back the clothes.”
They turned to walk toward the house, Maurice anxious to find his sisters, and settle with them what they would wish to have done.
It was soon arranged, and just as Captain Hepburn had suggested. The invitation to the younger Miss Duncans to remain with their sisters, had already been given, through the thoughtful kindness of Charles, and although it was impossible both should accept it, it was gratefully taken advantage of by Sybil, who shrank from the idea of being the one to break the intelligence to Mr. Duncan, and gladly persuaded herself that she could be more use at “the Ferns” to Hilary herself, while Gwyneth would certainly be much the best able to act for her father alone.
The carriage was ordered immediately, and Gwyneth stealing up stairs to take one more look at the invalids, found Hilary had just been positively ordered by Dr. Pilgrim to go to bed, where he hoped a composing draught would procure necessarysleep, and avert the symptoms of fever which he reluctantly admitted were becoming stronger.
Gwyneth, however, was not informed of this alarm; she stayed to see Hilary comfortably settled for the night, and as her heavy eyelids closed almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, it was hoped by all her nurses that a good night’s rest would cure every thing that was wrong. Sybil wished to remain with her, but there was really nothing to be done, and both patients appearing to be quietly asleep. Victoria persuaded her to trust them to the watchfulness of Mrs. Gainsborough, and return with her to the company for the present; and her entreaties being enforced by a threat, that if she did not come down, Miss Fielding would remain with her upstairs, Sybil was obliged, though somewhat reluctantly, to yield the point.
As they were issuing from the house, they met Mr. Farrington strolling about near the door; he joined them immediately, and after inquiring earnestly for the sufferers up stairs, he turned to Sybil, and expressed, in very gentlemanlike and pleasant words, his strong admiration of her promptness in action and swiftness of foot.
Sybil, of course, like a great many other people when undergoing a compliment, or accused of a virtue, took refuge in denying the facts, declaring herself peculiarly slow in action, and undecided in thought, and hardly even allowing that she could run faster than other people; although, to say the truth, her forest-life, and habits independent of governess and dancing-master, had given, or at least had not taken away, a power and ease of motion not common to many young ladies.
Mr. Farrington did not persist in compliments which were evidently received with as much shy reluctance as conscious pleasure; but changing the conversation, first discussed with her the details of the accident, listening with extreme interest to Sybil’s enthusiastic gratitude to Captain Hepburn and Mr. Huyton, and then led her on, how she hardly knew, to give a long detail of their usual mode of life; their quiet habits, theirfather’s state of health; followed by glowing descriptions of the lovely forest scenery, through which they were wont to roam, the quaint manners of the woodmen, the vagrant ways of the gipsies, and a hundred other particulars, which Sybil detailed with a poetic feeling for the romance of their situation peculiarly attractive to him.
Her ardent affection and admiration for her half-sister, convinced Mr. Farrington that Sybil herself must be equally amiable, and perhaps equally clever to appreciate her so entirely; and altogether he was so much interested in his companion, as to feel disinclined to quit her again during the rest of the evening.
Sybil was too tired, from excitement and exertion, to be disposed to do any thing but sit still beside Mrs. Fielding, except at the intervals when she stole up stairs to learn how Hilary slept; and her spirits being naturally depressed by what had already passed, and anxiety for the future, she was just in that state of mind which made her communicative of her hopes and fears, inclined to take retrospective views of bygone happiness, and thankful to hear cheerful anticipations for the morrow.
As to Maurice, after he had made the arrangements before recorded, feeling easier for his sisters at “the Ferns,” and depending entirely on his friend’s direction to give as little pain as possible to his father in making known the accident, he suddenly returned to thoughts of his own affairs, that is to say, to recollections of Dora, whom he had left with her sister, and wonder what they had done, as well as what they would think of his conduct.
Isabel he saw was with her aunt, Lady Margaret, and her party, which was tolerably numerous, but Dora herself was invisible. He went up to Miss Barham, and apologized for his conduct, in quitting them so abruptly in the boat; an apology which she declared totally unnecessary, as of course Hilary must be his first object; but in answer to his inquiries after her sister, she could only tell him, that Dora had gone in doors to rest, as she said she had a head-ache, and the band made it worse. Assoon as he could, Maurice went to the house to look for her, but was unsuccessful in his search through all the public rooms. Vexed and disappointed, he strolled out again, but on the opposite side to that on which the pavilion stood, and wandered away by himself, into a small thicket of laurel and other evergreens, overhung by some remarkably fine old hawthorns, whose long sprays, wreathed with snowy blossoms, shed around their rich and enervating perfume.
A sudden turn in the walk brought him to a small alcove, and there, reclining on a bank of turf, her face concealed partly by her arm and partly by her handkerchief, was Dora Barham, sobbing as if her heart was broken, and so engrossed by the cause of her agitation, as to be quite unconscious of his approach.
He hesitated a moment, for he could not leave her in such grief, and yet he did not dare to intrude upon it; he stopped, looked at her, waited, and was then resolved to go back, when accidentally treading on a broken stick in the path, the sharp crack it gave under his foot, startled Dora, and made her instantly raise her head.
“Mr. Duncan!” exclaimed she, trying to brush away her tears in a great hurry, as she saw him, but not looking at all sorry at the interruption.
“I hope I do not disturb you,” said he, apologetically. “I had no idea of finding you here.”
“Not in the least,” looking at the bank beside her (she was now sitting upright), as if she longed to ask him to sit down. “How is Hilary?”
“Doing quite well, they tell me; she is going to bed; I hope she will sleep well, and be all right to-morrow.” He ventured to sit down as he spoke.
“Oh, I am so glad! dear Hilary—it was horrid, dreadful—I can not get the idea out of my head; oh, Mr. Duncan! if they had not been there to save her!” Dora shuddered again, and again tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“Do not agitate yourself so,” exclaimed her companion,“do not think of it; can I do nothing for you; get you nothing?”
“No, thank you! I shall be better presently.” She sobbed a little, and then was quiet.
“And your head-ache? Miss Barham told me it was bad.”
“I believe it was my heart, more than my head, Mr. Duncan,” replied Dora, with a smile. “I can not bear things as Isabel does, and I was so frightened; and people seemed so thoughtless and indifferent, and so ready to forget—so little thankful. Oh, dear! what a set I live with; it made my heart full, and my head ache; so at last I crept away here, to be happy and grateful my own way.”
He looked at her with a smile, half-admiring, half arch, butsaid—
“I had no idea I found you in a state ofhappiness.”
She crimsoned, laughed, and thensaid—
“It is, nevertheless, very pleasant to cry sometimes.”
“I have heard so before,” was his answer.
“And one can not do it in company, you know; it would look absurd, and be considered bad manners, which is worse; and besides, people do not ever understand one; I believeyouare rather shocked at me.”
“Do you? then I am afraid my looks are deceitful.”
“Don’t you think me foolish then?” coloring again, and looking down.
“Foolish for feeling for my sister’s danger! foolish for caring for her safety! if affection, sympathy, friendship, sensibility, gratitude to Heaven, sincerity, simple truth of feeling, if these are folly, or if you suppose I consider them so, then accuse me of thinking you foolish.”
She was silent, but was visibly gratified by his warmth of manner.
“What have I ever done or said, Miss Barham, which can justify your suspecting me of such hard-hearted, cynical want of feeling? Tears, which do honor to my sister’s worth; tears, which prove your disinterested regard for the dearest objects ofmy heart; tears, which show how nearly we sympathize in some ofourfeelings and affections; if I do not honor and respect such—if I do not feel intensely and most humbly grateful for them, I do not deserve to be admitted into civilized society, far less into yours, Miss Barham.”
“Please don’t talk in that way; I did not mean to imply you were any thing bad; how could I, when I know you love Hilary so?—but I am sure you give me credit for a great deal more good than I deserve.”
“I do not think that possible.”
“Amiable people always do give the sunshine of their own virtues to their companion’s character,” said Dora, somewhat thoughtfully.
Maurice kept his gratification to himself, and wisely changing the subject to one less personal, began relating to Dora all the arrangements which had been made by Charles Huyton and Victoria for the accommodation of his sisters.
This was followed by a warm eulogium from Dora of the virtues and amiability of Mr. Huyton, in which, as on most other subjects, there was a wonderful similarity in their opinions; and after lingering together in that pleasant retreat a longer time than it was at all prudent for a poor lieutenant to spend in the bewitching society of the co-heiress of the Abbey, they at length remembered that they might as well return to the world, unsympathizing and hard-hearted as Dora had just discovered it to be.
On the whole, in spite of her tears and agitation, Dora felt, as she considered the circumstances of the afternoon, that the party had produced quite as much pleasure as she had anticipated; by no means a common occurrence. This was her conclusion, as she stationed herself by Sybil’s side, on the quiet sofa where she and Mr. Farrington were composedly conversing; and as Maurice had nothing to do more perfectly natural and justifiable than to seat himself close to his sister, and remain there to take care of her, Dora seemed likely to have a good deal more enjoyment.
The shades of evening came down; and though dancing in the house had been given up, as the fireworks had not, in due time the company betook themselves once more to the park, where, under the shelter of the trees, they could conveniently view the display of cascades, bouquets, stars, serpents, and initial devices, with which the pyrotechnist was to delight them; the whole effect being doubled by the reflection in the waters.
“I really can not go out again,” said Mrs. Fielding to Sybil; “perhaps, if you wish it, your brother will go with you to see these fireworks.”
Sybil hesitated; she would rather have gone to Hilary.
“Do come,” said Dora, coaxingly, and foolishly anxious to enjoy the walk with Maurice. “I want so to see them, Sybil dear, do come.”
Sybil consented; Mr. Farrington gave her his arm; Mrs. Fielding insisted on her wrapping an additional shawl over her shoulders, to guard her from the night air. Dora said she would like one also, and sent Maurice to find a cashmere she had left in the cloak room. At that moment, Lady Margaret called Dora, who explained that she was waiting for her shawl, and would follow with Sybil and Mr. Farrington; she begged the others not to wait; and Lady Margaret, satisfied that Mr. Farrington, who belonged to their party, should be Dora’s escort, went on; but as Maurice was some minutes finding the proper article, her aunt was quite out of sight before Dora, with Sybil, went after them.
Dora was only too happy; the fireworks were nothing to her; but the gentle grace with which she was guarded, and the quiet strength of the arm on which she leaned, were pretty nearly all she cared for in the world at the moment; she would not think of results, or calculate consequences; all she wished was to prolong the pleasant intercourse, dangerous as it might be to future peace.
Something was said about his profession, and Maurice expressed his hopes of very soon being employed afloat. Dora started, and inquired, in a faltering voice, if he wanted to go?
“Of course I do, in one sense,” was his answer; and even as he spoke he could feel the nervous, tremulous movement of the little hand which rested on his arm. “My first wish is to distinguish myself—to obtain promotion—to rise. One can not do that without serving.”
“I suppose honor and gloryoughtto be a sailor’s first wish?” said Dora, in a slightly disconcerted tone, as if she did not like the thought.
“The honor leads to promotion; and on promotion all one’s hopes of domestic happiness, the power of settling in life, making a home of one’s own, and living in it, depend. One must work, deny oneself now, to rest and enjoy hereafter,” was his answer.
“Then you will not always be going to sea?” continued she.
“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”
“Or wishing it? I suppose, then, you would be really glad to get an appointment now—to-morrow—any day?”
“Not quite to-morrow, unless Hilary is well first; and come when it will, it is a desperate struggle, Miss Barham, to leave all that is dearest and sweetest on earth for the chances of being tossed about, living among wild and careless companions, exposed to all manner of little trials and vexations, and no woman near to soothe one; no sweet sister to smile one into patience; no sister’s sweeter friend to bewitch one into forgetfulness. Don’t think we are all stones or blocks, because we do our best to put on the look of unconcern, Miss Barham. It often hides a very heavy heart.”
“And how soon can you be promoted?” inquired Dora, after a little pause, not feeling herself exactly equal to pursuing the conversation on the same topic.
He told how long he must serve before he had the claim; how much longer, probably, before he could have the chance to be promoted. Then, as she continued silent, he went on, emboldened by the darkness and the solitude, for they were a little apart from the others, and no one could see any thing distinctly.
“I am not sure whether I ought to say it, but I have so longed to express—do not be angry with me for mentioning the subject—to express my gratitude to you for the trouble you took for my benefit. I have never dared speak of it before. Perhaps I may not have another opportunity.”
“I was very glad to do it,” said Dora, hurriedly; “butyouowe me no thanks, it was for Hilary I asked; you know I had never seen you then!”
“I am perfectly aware of that; I never flattered myself it was personal regard for me; the kindness, I know, was to Hilary; but the benefit was to myself. Whatever I felt at the time, I can only say now, the rank is dearer to me, when I remember from whose hand I received it; and my earnest wish not to disgrace my name, my profession, and my country, is changed into a longing, ardent desire, to show that I am sensible of the honor done me, and will do any thing, lay down my life, were it necessary, to try and deserve it.”
“Heaven forbid!” murmured Dora; “don’t say such dreadful words; you make me feel as if I should be a murderess. Please don’t be too anxious to distinguish yourself.”
“I hope you will never have to blush for your kindness, Miss Barham. There is little danger in these times of peace of any thing leading me to too great distinction.”
“And I—oh, Mr. Duncan! if your promotion should lead to any misfortune, I should never forgive myself for having interfered; I could never look at Hilary again.” Dora spoke with great emotion.
“Nay, do not distress yourself, dear Miss Barham; events and their results are not in our own hands, and we are not responsible for them. We have but to do and dare; you in small things at home, perhaps; I in more distant, but may be, not more trying scenes abroad; to go forward bravely, trusting heartily in Providence, do our duty firmly, and leave the rest to heaven, that is our best as well as our wisest course; and if the end should be stormy, let us still trust and be strong.”
“I never was strong; I never can be brave. I am afraid ofstorms, and whenever some people tell me one thing is right, and others declare the contrary, as so often happens to me, then I become so puzzled, that I can do nothing at all. You do not know the misery of indecision.”
“No; but we all have the compass and chart to guide us, and mostly find a pilot, if the passage is very shoal, and the rocks are intricate, and the navigation too puzzling for us; and there are light-houses, and buoys too, to direct us right. Do you understand me?”
“I think I do; but although I hear of rules, and discipline, and self-control, when I go to church, and have been taught to reverence the Holy Word, and believe in the existence of conscience, theoretically, practically it is all nothing to me. I do not understand it. I dare say I ought not to say this to you. It seems strange to confess all this; only you led to the subject, and I can see that what is all a mist and unsubstantial phantasmagoria to me, is a light and comfort, and real guiding force, and existing present support, to such as you and Hilary.”
“And to you also, if you choose, Miss Barham.”
“Oh, no! never to me; I am too weak to lay hold of them, too foolish to understand them. Life in itself frightens me. It has claims to which I ought to attend; but if I try, a whole host of ceremonies, fashions, customs, prejudices, follies, rise up between me and my duties; I stretch out my hand, and can not reach it, and spend my time in sighing and idle wishes.”
“And I am not theologian or philosopher enough to know what advice to give you. I think, however, I understand your feeling. I wish I could help you.”
“I was brought up,” continued Dora, “to value nothing but what contributed to outward show; to consider only appearances; to act only for effect; I feel the whole root and source of my actions is false; I despise myself, but I do not know how to mend it. I have waked up to a sense that there ought to be reality in life, but know not how to find or make it.”
“Take one duty at a time, and conquer that; give yourself one good rule, and act upon it; do not look at every thing atonce, or you are bewildered by what is before you. One takes the problems of Euclid, one by one, and learns them all; without a gradual advance, or beginning at the simplest, how could we get on?”
“If I only had some one to guide and teach me always; some one like Hilary, who could keep me right,” sighed Dora. Sybil just then joined them, and their conversation was ended for the time; but Dora, when Maurice wished her good-night at parting, whispered: “I shall try to remember;” and his answer was an enthusiastic “Ishall never forget.”