CHAPTERXI.

CHAPTERXI.——————“Let their handsTremble, and their cheeks be flameAs they feel the fatal bandsOf love they dare not name,With a wild delicious pain,Twine about their hearts.”Tristram and Iseult.Gwyneth and Captain Hepburn drove home through the beautiful twilight together.“I do not think we need alarm your father very much,” said he, after a considerable silence: “there is every hope that she will be better to-morrow.”“Oh, yes! I have no doubt of that,” said Gwyneth; “I am not afraid about my father, he is too reasonable to entertain foolish fears; and now that all risk and danger are over, there can be no real ground for alarm.”“We must be careful in telling it,” continued he; “you will be able to break the news to him, perhaps; a woman’s tact is best: you will undertake it.”“I have no doubt but that I can do it—I am not at all afraid. There is every probability that Hilary will be home to-morrow,” repeated she.Gwyneth’s sanguine anticipations rather surprised Captain Hepburn; he had seen Dr. Pilgrim himself, just before quitting “the Ferns,” and had learned that the danger of fever was very far from passed away: the doctor had spoken openly to him, considering him a friend of the family, who had a right to know, and had told him that the result must be a matter of great anxiety, while the symptoms were so alarming. As, however, there was room to hope that to-morrow might bring abetter report, and relieve all apprehension, he considered that there was no reason for exciting unnecessary fears; and also that if Gwyneth did not know how much there was still to dread, she would be quite secure from giving alarms which might eventually prove unfounded.She really managed it very well; and though Mr. Duncan heard the intelligence with emotion, he bore it with the firmness and resignation of a Christian. It was quite evident, however, to the keen perception of his guest, that he did not share in the hopeful anticipations of his daughter. He did not check her, it was true, but allowed her to reckon with confidence on the safe return of the other three to the Vicarage the next day; but when she was out of the room, forgetful of Captain Hepburn’s presence, who had been sitting some time in silence, the blind old man clasped his hands together, and breathed out in deep, heartfelt tones of patient resignation, his fears, and his aspirations for submission, if the stroke he dreaded should be really impending.Captain Hepburn was deeply affected. The thoughts of what Hilary was in that home, of her importance to her sisters, her indispensability to her father; of what it would be for them to lose the music of her voice, the sunshine of her smile; for that parent no more to feel the touch of those gentle hands, tending his infirmities with such indefatigable zeal; or to hear the light echo of her busy feet, as she passed by in her accustomed household duties: for all, to miss her in her usual seat, in her daily walks, from her place at church; these thoughts were so replete with sadness, so full of heart-sinking desolation, that his whole soul was moved at the idea.He crossed the room, and laying his hand gently on that of his host, said in a voice which, in spite of his utmost efforts, was unsteady with deepfeeling—“Dear sir, if your fears should be realized, may your prayers be granted too! but, from my soul, I trust they may prove groundless, and that Heaven may long, long bless you with such a treasure as your daughter must be to you.”“Thank you, Captain Hepburn; I believe you are a true friend to me and mine, and I owe you much, much more than I can speak. If you could save Hilary for us, I believe you would, although you do not know half her worth. But when one has an angel-visitant on earth, one feels her stay must be precarious, and may be short.”“Perhaps so; but surely Heaven will hear your prayers, and she will be restored.”“Captain Hepburn, when you have twice mourned, as I have done, over the heart’s dearest treasure, you will learn perhaps, better I hope than I have learned the lesson, not to make a mortal’s life your idol; and to know that the Love which is above all other love, sees not as we see, judges not as we judge, but works always for our best and surest interests, even when it thwarts our weak and passionate desires here. We never know what is unfortunate or what is good for us, except the one thing, submissive trust. I have no other wish, but that, come what may, I may be patient and resigned.”Captain Hepburn was silent. What was his short-lived affection, true and warm as it was, compared with the fond love of a father for his eldest daughter? His heart smote him for his selfish wishes, as he thought that he had even for a moment contemplated taking her away himself; that he had hoped to tempt her to another home.“No, never,” said he to himself, “never will I rob their household of its dearest treasure; never shall this fond and trusting father charge me with stealing away the daughter in whom he delights. Every selfish desire of my own shall yield to his happiness, and unless I can really fill the place of a son to him, I will not deprive him of the child on whom his comfort depends. If my love can add to their happiness, it will be well for me; if not, it must be crushed and extinguished in the performance of higher duties.”As it would probably be late before Maurice returned from “the Ferns,” they persuaded the vicar not to sit up, promising that he should immediately hear the report which his son wouldbring; and more for Gwyneth’s sake than his own, he yielded to their wishes; so the visitor remained alone to wait his friend’s arrival, and wile away the long minutes as best he could. He had plenty of time for reflection and consideration then; time to recall all that Victoria had told him, to weigh her words, and guess what her motives were: time to remember Hilary’s smile and blush, as she talked of the violets with him; time to take from his bosom that little bunch of flowers with its soiled and dabbed white bands, and to smooth and dry the valued memorial of her peril and his exertions, which he had picked from the grass where it had dropped as Maurice raised her in his arms; time, too, to put up ardent prayers for her safety and petitions for her happiness; and to endeavor to judge how far that happiness was likely to be affected by his continuing there, persevering in an attempt to win her heart, and obtain a promise of her love and faith.The report which Maurice brought, did not materially differ from the opinion Dr. Pilgrim had given to Captain Hepburn; she was sleeping, but not quietly; there was still a threatening of fever, which might subside in the night, or might increase toward morning. Mr. Huyton had persuaded the doctor to remain all night at “the Ferns,” and Maurice intended to ride over before breakfast the next morning, to ascertain, as early as possible, how she had passed the night. Not that the brother was much alarmed; his sanguine temper and cheerful disposition made him take a happier view of probabilities than the father or the lover could do, and he anticipated with tolerable steadiness a much better report in the morning; or even should there be a little fever for a day or two, it need be nothing to alarm them; she was always well, and he did not think her delicate; surely there could be little serious fear, although there was room perhaps for some anxiety.So thought and argued Maurice, and apparently Captain Hepburn agreed with him; he was, however, found anxiously pacing up and down the green, the next morning, when Maurice returned from his early ride; and the eagerness withwhich he asked for intelligence, rather by look than word, did not indicate calm indifference, or careless certainty.Not so well—feverish and restless; still Dr. Pilgrim hopes the best, and thinks it will soon pass off; however, she must see no one but her nurses, and is to be kept quiet. Nest was sleeping soundly, and to guess from appearances, would wake quite well.Such was the report. Charles had promised to come over rather late in the forenoon, to bring word how she was going on, as the doctor had recommended some new mode of treatment, from which he expected much benefit.Just as they were sitting down to breakfast, the letters arrived. Among those for Captain Hepburn, there was one large, business-like, official-looking letter, with “On her Majesty’s Service,” in the corner, which was not to be seen and opened without some excitement.It was too truly a summons away from Hurstdene; a notification that his presence was greatly desired at the Admiralty, to receive his appointment to the command of a vessel fitting out at Sheerness. There was time neither for delay nor hesitation—go he must that very day; though to leave Hilary without seeing her again, ill, in his rival’s house, and utterly ignorant of his hopes, his love, his sincere love for her, was a trial which required no small amount of self-command and resolution to bear calmly.Long he sat, with his eyes bent upon the letter, with lips compressed and brows slightly knit, and cheeks glowing even through that bronzed complexion, before he could force from his tongue the words which must announce his departure, or trust his voice to speak without betraying more than he desired. How he craved a little delay; could he but have waited a week, oh, how precious the days would have been! Or had the appointment come before he had known and loved, how welcome, would then have been the announcement.But it must be done—the words must be spoken; was he turning craven then, to shrink from the duties he had undertaken,from the sacrifice required of him! Would Hilary esteem one who valued inglorious sloth and pleasure, beyond exertion and honor, and self-denial and courage!He tossed the letter across to Maurice.“There,” said he, with a smile, “see there; read it aloud, Maurice, and let your father hear!”Maurice did so.“Oh, Captain Hepburn,” exclaimed Gwyneth, starting up, and looking over her brother’s shoulder, as he read; “it is an appointment! it will take you away! how sorry, how very sorry I am!”“Thank you, Miss Gwyneth; your sorrow is more than I deserve;yourcongratulations will be different, Duncan, I expect; shall I apply for you?”“Do, sir, I shall be delighted,” exclaimed Maurice, professional zeal and enthusiasm for the moment overpowering, with their warm glow, the cooler calculations of love, or home affections. “I should be happy indeed to serve with you again.”“AndImust go to-day,” observed Captain Hepburn, struggling with his own feelings in the wish to appear cheerful.“To-day!” again exclaimed Gwyneth, “and Hilary away, and not able to say good-by, nor Sybil either; oh, do stay at least till to-morrow, and see Sybil again!”“You are inconsiderate, my dear Gwyneth,” said her father; “you ought to know that duty admits of no delay, and that his profession has claims on Captain Hepburn beyond and above all private ties or inclinations.”“True, my dear sir, it leaves me no choice, no room for hesitation, which, perhaps, is a blessing. Could I consult my feelings, Miss Gwyneth, thus abruptly, and under such circumstances, to quit your father’s roof, would be the last thing I should wish; nothing would be more precious to me than delay might I indulge in it. Maurice, will you help me to make arrangements as to the means of going?”In a couple of hours more every thing was ready for starting,and Captain Hepburn had nothing to do but to say farewell to his host and Gwyneth.“If it is in your power,” said Mr. Duncan, as he grasped the sailor’s hand, “we shall be happy to see you here again before leaving England; do let us hear from you, at least.”“If possible, I will run down and see you again,” said the other, warmly; “it will not be want of will that can stop me, my dear sir; I shall be very, very busy, I know; but my memory and my heart will be here with you; and my first wish will be that you may have improving tidings of your daughter to communicate. Maurice has promised to write.”“You shall hear regularly, if you are so kind as to wish it,” replied the clergyman; “but, Captain Hepburn, take your heart to your work, or I fear it will be but ill performed, and we shall have spoiled a good officer.”“My professional heart, sir, may go with me, but when memory wishes to conjure up an image of domestic happiness, purity, piety, affection, truth, and all lovely virtues, it will certainly go back mechanically to the Vicar of Hurstdene and his charming daughters.”“God bless you,” replied the other, shaking his hand again and again; “you have been a blessing to me and mine; I owe you, under Providence, the lives of one, two, perhaps three of my children; and if a father’s warmest prayers and most heartfelt benediction can call down aught of blessing or well-being for you, then may you be sure of happiness, lasting, satisfying happiness, wherever you may go. Farewell!”To such words, at such a moment, the only answer was the low, earnest “Thank you!” of subdued feeling, and the close-pressed hand lingering long in a friendly grasp.Both Gwyneth’s hands, taken and clasped in silence for a moment, and then a softly-whispered “Farewell!” which the quivering lip could hardly utter, was all he had firmness for, as he turned away.“Have you no message for the absent ones?” inquired she, half-reproachfully, as she accompanied him to the porch.“I pass ‘the Ferns’ on my road. I shall call there to hear the latest news, and at least, see your sisters, Sybil and Nest,” was his justification, which amply satisfied Gwyneth.He reached “the Ferns” just as Charles Huyton was on the point of stepping into his carriage to drive over to the Vicarage. He turned back, however, and accompanied his guest into the house, who explained his errand as they crossed the hall.“I congratulate you on your appointment,” exclaimed Charles, with much sincerity; “I am truly rejoiced to hear it. I have learned enough of a sailor’s feelings, during my acquaintance with Maurice, to know how, beyond all other things, they value professional employment, and covet professional distinction. I will call my cousin to you, and, perhaps, as you are going, you will like to say good-by to Miss Sybil Duncan, and little Nest.”“It was the particular object of my stopping here. If you will let Miss Sybil know I am here I dare say she will see me; but do not disturb Miss Fielding on my account if she is engaged.”Mr. Huyton sent a message to Sybil to inform her who waited for her in the saloon. In a moment she came running down.“How good of you to call, Captain Hepburn! I saw Maurice this morning; did he tell you?” Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.“Could you come out with me for five minutes on the lawn?” said he, determined to speak to her without Mr. Huyton’s presence; and almost without waiting for her acquiescence, he drew the hand which he had been holding under his arm, and led her through the open window.“Tell me truly, how is your sister now?” was his first question.“Restless and feverish, but not worse—rather better if any thing; but to be kept quite quiet.”“Thank Heaven! I am come to say good-by to you,” he added, in a changed voice.She started, and exclaimed—“Why,mustyou just now?”He explained; and Sybil knew enough of the service to be aware that there was no choice in such a case. She listened quietly, but her eyes filled with tears as he spoke.“You must go then,” said she, sorrowfully; “how we shall miss you. I suppose I ought to be glad that you are employed, but I am so selfish as to feel very, very sorry to part. We owe you so much; and when you are gone, how can we show our gratitude to you, or make you feel how we thank you every day? What can we do for you?”“Remember me, dear Sybil; and help others, your sister above all, to remember me too. Do not let absence or time make you forget me,” said he, formality giving way before warmly excited feeling.“Forget you! oh, Captain Hepburn, never! we none of uscando that. Hilary, when she knows what has happened to you, will grieve that she has not thanked you with her own lips; but will she everforgetthe preserver of Nest? One of the few things she has said has been to express her gratitude, and to charge me, when I saw you, to say how infinitely she felt your courage, and how much more she thanked you for that action than she would have done for her own life alone. I hoped in a few days you would have heard it from herself; but since that can not be, you must try to be satisfied with her gratitude second-hand. What shall I say to her from you, in answer, when I can talk to her again.”“Tell her that nothing dearer than duty would have taken me away from Hurstdene at the present moment; and that so soon as duty permits, I pledge myself to be here again. Meantime, I shall write to Maurice.” His tone gave additional force to his words.“Write often, do,” said Sybil, earnestly looking at him, with an appreciation of his meaning dawning on her.“As often as I can. I must not linger now.” He felt that he was understood, but dared not say more.They turned toward the house.“Mr. Huyton wants my father and Gwyneth to come over here to remain,” said Sybil, as they retraced their steps; “he is going to fetch them, if he can.”“That is very kind; it will be more comfortable for you.”They entered the saloon, and found Victoria there; Mr. Huyton was looking slightly impatient.Miss Fielding’s greetings and adieux were, like herself, lively, gracious, and emphatic. The traveler did not linger a minute more, and as soon as he was gone, Charles Huyton drove off to the Vicarage, for the purpose Sybil had named. The latter went out again for a short stroll. Hilary was sleeping, and her sister, fearful of disturbing her, resolved not to return until summoned on her awakening.Nest, though pretty well, had enjoyed so prolonged a slumber, that she was not yet dressed; so Sybil resolved to refresh herself by a solitary walk under the beautiful avenue in front of the house. The sound of a horse approaching roused her from her reverie, and looking up, she saw Mr. Farrington, who, immediately on perceiving her, alighted, and giving his horse to the groom, joined her in her walk. His object was to inquire for Miss Duncan; he had been deputed by the party at the Abbey to come over early for news; and the sisters themselves, or some of them, were intending to drive to “the Ferns” later in the day to see Sybil, and hear the bulletin in person.This was his account of himself; perhaps it would have been more strictly accurate, had he said that he had volunteered the service, which otherwise the groom would have performed alone; and that, though feeling a natural interest in the welfare of a young lady in such circumstances as Hilary, he yet thought and cared a great deal more about her sister. His fancy had been strangely captivated by the tall, handsome girl, whose appearance and manners had haunted his memory, and formed the principal subject of his conversation with Doro Barham all the morning.Sybil turned when he joined her, and walked toward the house, from which they were distant about a quarter of a mile; giving him, as they went along, first, an answer to his inquiriesafter her sister; and then a voluntary detail of her regret at parting with Captain Hepburn, whom they all valued so highly.Mr. Farrington listened with real interest to the account of the family obligations to the gallant officer, and readily conceded that they owed him great gratitude for an amount of benefit not often bestowed by one person. He would have admired and applauded kindness and courage under any circumstances; but when the narrative was enforced by the bright flash of those dark eyes, and the peculiarly sweet tones of the voice which recounted it, his enthusiastic appreciation of Captain Hepburn’s merits was quite equal to what even Sybil considered right and becoming.Her energetic eloquence was interrupted by a slight incident: glancing upward as she spoke, and quite forgetting all minor considerations, she hit her foot against a projecting root, and was very nearly thrown down on her face: she was not hurt, only a little confused at her awkwardness, as she called it; but the gentleman persuaded her to take his arm after that, and the abrupt pause which ensued was broken by his starting another topic, namely, that he had to return to London the next morning, having only come down to the Abbey for a couple of days, for the sake of Mr. Huyton’s party.This information by no means disturbed Sybil in the way in which Captain Hepburn’s departure had affected her. She had found Mr. Farrington a pleasant companion, but she had not expected even to see him a second time, and there was neither any surprise or regret visible, when he talked of going. It seemed to her simply natural. He talked of regret, and said a good deal about his memory lingering amid the green shades of “the Ferns,” and his wish to visit this country again; to which Sybil listened quietly, and presently observed, “If he liked it so much, what would prevent his coming?” He could not construe her remark into any thing approaching to conscious encouragement; she did not seem to have an idea that she had the least to do with his coming or wishing to come: he found this natural simplicity particularly captivating, and his admiration for hermind increased as much as his conviction for her uncommon beauty did. He thought her more lovely by day-light, in a simple morning dress, than he had done the evening before, in her more elaborate toilette.In spite of all his efforts to lengthen out the walk, by stopping to admire glens in the park, or remarkably fine trees, or to conjecture the date of the mansion, she yet proceeded so decidedly onward, with so evident a resolution to reach the house, that he was compelled to suppose her quite indifferent to any peculiar charm in his society, or very strictly correct in her notions of propriety and etiquette. He tried to flatter himself rather it was the latter, as she was evidently very young, and young girls, he believed, are always either rigidly prudent, or immensely careless about decorum; but he could not quite convince himself that this was the fact; he was too diffident, indeed, to be very certain on this point.On she walked, at least, straight into the house, and never lingered till they reached the saloon where Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were sitting. Then she quietly said that she would go up and learn the very latest tidings of Hilary, for Isabel and Dora’s benefit, seeming to expect he would instantly start off to the Abbey with the report. The interval was employed by him in learning from Victoria all the particulars relative to the expected visit of Mr. Duncan, whom Charles hoped to bring back with him; an announcement which excited so strong a wish in Mr. Farrington to see the clergyman, that the ladies proposed at once that he should stay and lunch at “the Ferns,” sending the groom back to the Abbey with the report he had come to fetch.No pressing was needed to elicit a very ready acceptance of this proposition; and, to say the truth, Victoria was as glad of the company of a pleasant and gentlemanlike young man, as he could be to stay. The morning after a fête is generally flat and dull; and if a gentleman desires to make his presence thoroughly appreciated, he should contrive to drop in on such an occasion, among a family party in the country.On Sybil’s return, she seemed rather surprised to find that the message was to be intrusted to the groom; and apparently doubtful whether he could convey safely so important a verbal communication as that Miss Duncan was asleep, but seemed much the same, she indited a little note to Dora Barham; and by this means that young lady became possessed of the interesting fact, that the whole family from the Vicarage were expected at “the Ferns,” to remain there as long as Hilary’s health required it.Nest, who was now quite well, had entered the room with Sybil, and the gentleman soon coaxed her on to his knee, and began conversing with her about her home, her father, and her sisters: they were excellent friends before Sybil’s note was finished.“How wonderfully the sisters are alike,” said he to Victoria, as he gazed admiringly at the little one’s large black eyes and raven hair; “I should like a sketch of this child.”“I believe I can show you some, although I can not give them to you,” replied Victoria, going to a large portfolio which was standing near. She opened the boards, and began to turn over the sketches it contained. He put down Nest, and went to examine it with great interest; there were many views in the forest, at the sight of which Nest frequently exclaimed she knew that spot, or she had seen this in Hilary’s sketch-book; and when Sybil joined them, she seemed to know every view, and owned that they had all been together, when such or such was done. At last they came to some groups of figures; the sisters again and again, Hilary always principal; and then single drawings, Sybil, Gwyneth, and Nest, evidently younger and more childish, but still very like. There was no finished drawing of Hilary alone; and Sybil owned that her sister never had sat to Mr. Huyton, as they had, again and again; she did not know why, perhaps he had never asked her: the views there were of her, were taken by stealth, or done from memory, perhaps.“It is hardly fair to show drawings which so plainly tell atale,” whispered Mr. Farrington to Victoria, when Sybil had turned away to listen to Mrs. Fielding’s questions. “If these were mine, I would not allow them to be carelessly examined and investigated.”“Oh! I am breaking no confidence,” replied Victoria, in a laughing whisper; “Charles makes no secret of his object; the whole plan and intention of yesterday’s fête, was to distinguish one person above all others; and though we did not propose to risk drowning her, yet, I believe, he will by no means regret the accident, if all ends well. At any rate, it has secured him some important advantages.”Mr. Farrington looked excessively surprised at this communication, and made a mental determination to keep his own counsel, so far as Victoria was concerned, unless he wanted all the world to know his affairs.Sybil disappeared again just after this, much to Mr. Farrington’s disappointment; the only amusement left for him was what Victoria supplied; and although she was very entertaining and agreeable, as he was wishing all the time for something else, her powers of pleasing were lost upon him.“Where have you been?” was Victoria’s question, when Sybil joined them at the luncheon table; to which she replied, “she had gone out to finish her walk, as Hilary was still sleeping soundly; and she wished when her father arrived, to be quite fresh and ready to attend him.”Very fresh, and very handsome, too, she looked, with the bright color which exercise had brought into her cheeks, and the happy expression which a conviction that her sister was now doing very well, produced; and her perfect unconsciousness that Mr. Farrington’s visit was made for her sake, or that his eyes were incessantly attracted to her in admiration, greatly heightened her charms in his opinion. He tried to detain her in conversation; but no sooner was the luncheon finished, than she again withdrew, and remained invisible for the next hour.It was not Mr. Farrington’s conversational powers which brought her down at last, but the arrival of her own family,with Charles Huyton. No sooner did she see the carriage at a little distance, than she ran hastily down stairs, and was on the steps to receive her father when it drew up, quite regardless of all the state formalities of porter, butler, or footman, who had to stand off to make way for her.Charles sprang out first, and his inquiries of “How is she now? How is Hilary?” were hardly less earnest and eager than those of Gwyneth and Maurice. But Sybil had scarcely words to answer them: it was to her father she looked, of him she thought; and when, by the assistance of his son and host, the clergyman had been safely placed upon the broad steps, she threw herself into his arms, and in accents choking from delight, she whispered that Hilary was better, Dr. Pilgrim had just seen her, and said she was out of danger.Mr. Farrington, who was standing near enough to see the meeting, thought he had never witnessed a more touching sight, than the glad thankfulness of the young people, and the deep, reverend gratitude of the father, as he raised his hat from his head, and uttered audible thanks for this joyful tidings. Mr. Huyton himself was in a state of excitement most visible to a calm looker-on; he shook hands ardently with Mr. Duncan, kissed the hands of Sybil and Gwyneth with most un-English grace, and as to Nest, he caught her up in his arms and almost smothered her with caresses, the overflowings of a full-hearted happiness.They became rational at last, and moved into the house. It was necessary that Miss Duncan should still be kept quiet; but, under promise of silence and discretion, Gwyneth was permitted to take her sister’s place in watching the invalid, and Sybil was able to devote herself to her father.Mr. Farrington’s wish of being introduced to the clergyman was gratified, and he found the next hour spent in conversing with him, and looking at Sybil, so very pleasant, that he heard with great regret the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Barham and his daughter. This brought back Charles Huyton and Maurice into the saloon, they having been pacing onthe terrace, and discussing the wishes of the latter to sail with Captain Hepburn, in which Mr. Huyton very cordially joined.Dora’s vail and bonnet hid her face from her father when she spoke to Maurice, and after a few fluttered sentences, she turned to Sybil, and asked if she might not go up stairs and see Gwyneth for a minute; so the two girls left the room together, with a word of apology to Victoria. Then Mr. Barham expressed a strong wish to see some alterations Mr. Huyton was making in his hot-houses, and Isabel said she should like to accompany them; Victoria politely offered to go with her, and as Charles seemed to regret leaving Mr. Duncan, both Maurice and Mr. Farrington volunteered to remain with him; while Mrs. Fielding, just then entering the room, declared it was her peculiar right to wait on and attend to him, when he was at “the Ferns.”Had Mr. Barham and Isabel intended to do what was most pleasant, but least profitable, to Dora and Maurice, they could hardly have arranged better. Sybil and her friend returned to the saloon, to find the party very much reduced; and as Mrs. Fielding was as good as her word, and entirely engrossed Mr. Duncan, Mr. Farrington enticed Sybil to sit down with him by the portfolio before alluded to, to tell him more about the beautiful sketches it contained; and she, quite unaware how little he had cared for them when only Victoria had turned them over, very good-naturedly complied with his request, and discussed the times and places where the sketches had been drawn, with such amusing vivacity, and in such graphic language, that he did not discover how time slipped by while so employed.Why Dora and Maurice chose at the same time to go out of the window, and continued for the next hour to walk slowly up and down a long green alley beside the flower garden, or to stand in deep talk, leaning over a pedestal, was best known to themselves. Mr. Barham was so very well satisfied to see his eldest daughter attended through his gardens by Mr. Huyton,and leaning on his arm, that he quite forgot to think about how little Dora was employed; he could not on any account hurry a stroll which afforded Isabel so good an opportunity of displaying her interest in science, and her peculiarly sensible opinions relative to the regulation of hot-houses, gardeners, village schools, farmers’ prejudices, and the poor-law; on all which subjects she spoke with much earnestness and grace. Mr. Huyton being much too well-bred to show how excessively he was bored, or in the slightest degree to hurry Miss Barham, although longing to return to the house, the elder gentleman was quite persuaded that he was delighted with their society, and fully appreciated the honor done to him by the owner of Drewhurst Abbey, and his eldest daughter. He judged Charles by himself; and conscious that no claims of civility would have madehimsubmit to agêneof any kind, and that the use he made of politeness and courtesy, was, not to please others at his own expense, but to gratify himself on all occasions without actually giving, offense, he conjectured that what was so gracefully borne, must be a pleasure in itself; and lingered long on purpose ere he brought his visit to a close.And all this time Maurice and Dora were together, on a warm, sunshiny May afternoon, straying in a beautiful garden, where early roses, lilacs, and hawthorns, mingled their scent with the rich rhododendrons, daphnes, and still rarer exotics with which the flower-beds were glowing, and talking as young people will talk, when, in the warm glow of true first-love, they forget the cold calculations of worldly prudence, and ambitious hopes.He told her how suddenly Captain Hepburn had been called away, and she turned pale, and her voice faltered, as she suggested that the same thing might occur to him; and when she heard that his friend had promised to apply for him, and that his interest was such that there was little doubt the application would be successful, she was quite unable to conceal how much she was pained at the idea. In vain she tried to say she wished him honor and success in his profession; she was too sincere todeceive, and too thoughtless to remember any thing but her own emotions. And what could be the result, but that Maurice made a rash avowal of his passionate admiration and love, his presumptuous affection, his hopeless attachment, and received in return a still more rash acknowledgment, that her feelings were but too much in agreement with his own, and that the certainty of his devotion to her was the only thing which could console her for his departure, if he must go.It was a moment of wild intoxication; the delight of knowing each other’s hearts, was dearly purchased, and yet it was a delight. Their whole acquaintance had been a series of imprudencies, and this conversation was but the crowning imprudence of all. For as to hope, they really, hardly dared entertain an idea of it; Dora felt, and Maurice feared, that there was small chance of her father’s consent to an engagement, and without Mr. Barham’s consent, Maurice would not even ask her to make him the smallest promise of constancy or faith.He indeed, would have gone straight to Mr. Barham, owned his affection, and asked to be allowed to win her hand by gallant deeds, or constant devotion; but Dora dared do no such thing; she shrank from cold looks, and harsh, stern words, and contempt and censure. She could not encounter Isabel’s surprise, or her father’s frown; she would have gladly plighted her hand to Maurice, and would have trusted, with the coward’s trusts, to time or chance, to circumstances, to accident, to any thing in fact, rather than to bold, straightforward measures. It was his sense of honor, and his rectitude of feeling alone, which saved her from the misery of a clandestine engagement; she would have ventured that for him; she dared not be open, but she thought she could be true. His, too, was all the regret, the remorse, indeed, for what he had done. When the first violent emotion had passed away, and he saw how he had won her heart, and yet must not avow their mutual affection, he became aware how great an injury he had done her; what a cloud he should have thrown upon her young life, what a constant, fretting, wearing anxiety he had brought upon her. Then, in histrue and honorable love, he prayed her to forget him; not to let the thought, the memory of him, darken her days, or interfere with her future prospects. His love saw no shadow, no fault in her; it was too warm to permit the thought that she was a coward at heart, and shrank from the only right step; he called her weakness, gentleness, docility, feminine tenderness; and while he would have braved all and any thing for her, he almost trembled at the idea of entailing on her a moment’s care or mental suffering.“No, I do not deserve your love; do not make yourself unhappy for a fellow like me, dearest, sweetest Dora! it is too good of you; I can never, never forgetyou! but think of me only as of a brother, as of one who would bring you nothing but good, not sorrow; think of me with kindness always, but not with sorrowful regret; think of me as one who loves you devotedly, passionately; I shall treasure your image in my heart, and dote upon it in my fancy, and in the lonely nightwatch, dwell on the recollection of your smile; and perhaps in moments of danger, in storm, and peril, and difficulty, your dear, bright eyes will shine on my memory, and nerve me for daring deeds; but do not think of me. It is enough for me to know that had there been no obstacle you would have loved me; that had my birth and fortune entitled me to ask your hand, I might have won you; that your heart should have been mine, had Heaven so willed it. But do not grieve that we must part; nay, do not shed those tears; dearest Dora! I do not deserve so very great an honor.”As if such words would make her care less, or quiet the heart-broken sobs with which she listened to his protestations!“But you are not going yet?” she murmured.“Heaven knows how soon; but, Dora, after this, even if I do not, we must not meet again.”“Oh! Maurice,” ejaculated she, in overwhelming distress.“Not purposely, not alone; no, Dora, it has been madness, wickedness almost, to love you and make you unhappy; but we will not add to that unintentional error the real, downrightcrime of carrying on a secret understanding, a clandestine intercourse. If I may not ask you of your father now, at least he shall not, when I do, throw back on me the imputation that I have meanly, basely encouraged you in defying his wishes or thwarting his hopes. If that blessed time should ever come when I may seek you openly—if—oh! Dora,—if you still love me in some happier future, then let us, at least, have the power of saying and feeling we were rash, imprudent, thoughtless, but we were not deceitful.”The little hand he held tremblingly pressed his fingers with a convulsive clasp, and then she murmured again—“Oh! Maurice, I will be true to you for life; I will never, no, never, be the bride of another; you have my heart, and shall have my faith for life.”“No, no, Dora, you must not say so, I will not hold you bound; dear as your words are, sweetest! you must take them back; no promise must be given or accepted which truth and honor do not sanction. Time alters all, every thing; and when I am gone, and you learn to see my character as it deserves, unblinded by your own sweet fancies, and that delightful kindness which has moved you to pity a poor sailor like me, then you must still think of me as of one who would not, even for his dearest hopes, allow you to fetter yourself with a bond you might regret, with a promise which, being wrong, could bring no happiness with it. Dora, your peace of mind is dearer than my own!”“Good, kind, generous,” was all she could say.“Give me that ribbon from your wrist,” added he.She hurriedly undid the blue ribbon that she wore round her left arm, put it for one moment to her lips, then tossed it to him, and turned with hasty steps toward the house. He followed her quietly until he saw her enter the saloon, and turning off by another path, he escaped, to consider what had passed, and console himself with the blue ribbon as he could.

——————“Let their handsTremble, and their cheeks be flameAs they feel the fatal bandsOf love they dare not name,With a wild delicious pain,Twine about their hearts.”Tristram and Iseult.

——————“Let their handsTremble, and their cheeks be flameAs they feel the fatal bandsOf love they dare not name,With a wild delicious pain,Twine about their hearts.”Tristram and Iseult.

——————“Let their hands

Tremble, and their cheeks be flame

As they feel the fatal bands

Of love they dare not name,

With a wild delicious pain,

Twine about their hearts.”

Tristram and Iseult.

Gwyneth and Captain Hepburn drove home through the beautiful twilight together.

“I do not think we need alarm your father very much,” said he, after a considerable silence: “there is every hope that she will be better to-morrow.”

“Oh, yes! I have no doubt of that,” said Gwyneth; “I am not afraid about my father, he is too reasonable to entertain foolish fears; and now that all risk and danger are over, there can be no real ground for alarm.”

“We must be careful in telling it,” continued he; “you will be able to break the news to him, perhaps; a woman’s tact is best: you will undertake it.”

“I have no doubt but that I can do it—I am not at all afraid. There is every probability that Hilary will be home to-morrow,” repeated she.

Gwyneth’s sanguine anticipations rather surprised Captain Hepburn; he had seen Dr. Pilgrim himself, just before quitting “the Ferns,” and had learned that the danger of fever was very far from passed away: the doctor had spoken openly to him, considering him a friend of the family, who had a right to know, and had told him that the result must be a matter of great anxiety, while the symptoms were so alarming. As, however, there was room to hope that to-morrow might bring abetter report, and relieve all apprehension, he considered that there was no reason for exciting unnecessary fears; and also that if Gwyneth did not know how much there was still to dread, she would be quite secure from giving alarms which might eventually prove unfounded.

She really managed it very well; and though Mr. Duncan heard the intelligence with emotion, he bore it with the firmness and resignation of a Christian. It was quite evident, however, to the keen perception of his guest, that he did not share in the hopeful anticipations of his daughter. He did not check her, it was true, but allowed her to reckon with confidence on the safe return of the other three to the Vicarage the next day; but when she was out of the room, forgetful of Captain Hepburn’s presence, who had been sitting some time in silence, the blind old man clasped his hands together, and breathed out in deep, heartfelt tones of patient resignation, his fears, and his aspirations for submission, if the stroke he dreaded should be really impending.

Captain Hepburn was deeply affected. The thoughts of what Hilary was in that home, of her importance to her sisters, her indispensability to her father; of what it would be for them to lose the music of her voice, the sunshine of her smile; for that parent no more to feel the touch of those gentle hands, tending his infirmities with such indefatigable zeal; or to hear the light echo of her busy feet, as she passed by in her accustomed household duties: for all, to miss her in her usual seat, in her daily walks, from her place at church; these thoughts were so replete with sadness, so full of heart-sinking desolation, that his whole soul was moved at the idea.

He crossed the room, and laying his hand gently on that of his host, said in a voice which, in spite of his utmost efforts, was unsteady with deepfeeling—

“Dear sir, if your fears should be realized, may your prayers be granted too! but, from my soul, I trust they may prove groundless, and that Heaven may long, long bless you with such a treasure as your daughter must be to you.”

“Thank you, Captain Hepburn; I believe you are a true friend to me and mine, and I owe you much, much more than I can speak. If you could save Hilary for us, I believe you would, although you do not know half her worth. But when one has an angel-visitant on earth, one feels her stay must be precarious, and may be short.”

“Perhaps so; but surely Heaven will hear your prayers, and she will be restored.”

“Captain Hepburn, when you have twice mourned, as I have done, over the heart’s dearest treasure, you will learn perhaps, better I hope than I have learned the lesson, not to make a mortal’s life your idol; and to know that the Love which is above all other love, sees not as we see, judges not as we judge, but works always for our best and surest interests, even when it thwarts our weak and passionate desires here. We never know what is unfortunate or what is good for us, except the one thing, submissive trust. I have no other wish, but that, come what may, I may be patient and resigned.”

Captain Hepburn was silent. What was his short-lived affection, true and warm as it was, compared with the fond love of a father for his eldest daughter? His heart smote him for his selfish wishes, as he thought that he had even for a moment contemplated taking her away himself; that he had hoped to tempt her to another home.

“No, never,” said he to himself, “never will I rob their household of its dearest treasure; never shall this fond and trusting father charge me with stealing away the daughter in whom he delights. Every selfish desire of my own shall yield to his happiness, and unless I can really fill the place of a son to him, I will not deprive him of the child on whom his comfort depends. If my love can add to their happiness, it will be well for me; if not, it must be crushed and extinguished in the performance of higher duties.”

As it would probably be late before Maurice returned from “the Ferns,” they persuaded the vicar not to sit up, promising that he should immediately hear the report which his son wouldbring; and more for Gwyneth’s sake than his own, he yielded to their wishes; so the visitor remained alone to wait his friend’s arrival, and wile away the long minutes as best he could. He had plenty of time for reflection and consideration then; time to recall all that Victoria had told him, to weigh her words, and guess what her motives were: time to remember Hilary’s smile and blush, as she talked of the violets with him; time to take from his bosom that little bunch of flowers with its soiled and dabbed white bands, and to smooth and dry the valued memorial of her peril and his exertions, which he had picked from the grass where it had dropped as Maurice raised her in his arms; time, too, to put up ardent prayers for her safety and petitions for her happiness; and to endeavor to judge how far that happiness was likely to be affected by his continuing there, persevering in an attempt to win her heart, and obtain a promise of her love and faith.

The report which Maurice brought, did not materially differ from the opinion Dr. Pilgrim had given to Captain Hepburn; she was sleeping, but not quietly; there was still a threatening of fever, which might subside in the night, or might increase toward morning. Mr. Huyton had persuaded the doctor to remain all night at “the Ferns,” and Maurice intended to ride over before breakfast the next morning, to ascertain, as early as possible, how she had passed the night. Not that the brother was much alarmed; his sanguine temper and cheerful disposition made him take a happier view of probabilities than the father or the lover could do, and he anticipated with tolerable steadiness a much better report in the morning; or even should there be a little fever for a day or two, it need be nothing to alarm them; she was always well, and he did not think her delicate; surely there could be little serious fear, although there was room perhaps for some anxiety.

So thought and argued Maurice, and apparently Captain Hepburn agreed with him; he was, however, found anxiously pacing up and down the green, the next morning, when Maurice returned from his early ride; and the eagerness withwhich he asked for intelligence, rather by look than word, did not indicate calm indifference, or careless certainty.

Not so well—feverish and restless; still Dr. Pilgrim hopes the best, and thinks it will soon pass off; however, she must see no one but her nurses, and is to be kept quiet. Nest was sleeping soundly, and to guess from appearances, would wake quite well.

Such was the report. Charles had promised to come over rather late in the forenoon, to bring word how she was going on, as the doctor had recommended some new mode of treatment, from which he expected much benefit.

Just as they were sitting down to breakfast, the letters arrived. Among those for Captain Hepburn, there was one large, business-like, official-looking letter, with “On her Majesty’s Service,” in the corner, which was not to be seen and opened without some excitement.

It was too truly a summons away from Hurstdene; a notification that his presence was greatly desired at the Admiralty, to receive his appointment to the command of a vessel fitting out at Sheerness. There was time neither for delay nor hesitation—go he must that very day; though to leave Hilary without seeing her again, ill, in his rival’s house, and utterly ignorant of his hopes, his love, his sincere love for her, was a trial which required no small amount of self-command and resolution to bear calmly.

Long he sat, with his eyes bent upon the letter, with lips compressed and brows slightly knit, and cheeks glowing even through that bronzed complexion, before he could force from his tongue the words which must announce his departure, or trust his voice to speak without betraying more than he desired. How he craved a little delay; could he but have waited a week, oh, how precious the days would have been! Or had the appointment come before he had known and loved, how welcome, would then have been the announcement.

But it must be done—the words must be spoken; was he turning craven then, to shrink from the duties he had undertaken,from the sacrifice required of him! Would Hilary esteem one who valued inglorious sloth and pleasure, beyond exertion and honor, and self-denial and courage!

He tossed the letter across to Maurice.

“There,” said he, with a smile, “see there; read it aloud, Maurice, and let your father hear!”

Maurice did so.

“Oh, Captain Hepburn,” exclaimed Gwyneth, starting up, and looking over her brother’s shoulder, as he read; “it is an appointment! it will take you away! how sorry, how very sorry I am!”

“Thank you, Miss Gwyneth; your sorrow is more than I deserve;yourcongratulations will be different, Duncan, I expect; shall I apply for you?”

“Do, sir, I shall be delighted,” exclaimed Maurice, professional zeal and enthusiasm for the moment overpowering, with their warm glow, the cooler calculations of love, or home affections. “I should be happy indeed to serve with you again.”

“AndImust go to-day,” observed Captain Hepburn, struggling with his own feelings in the wish to appear cheerful.

“To-day!” again exclaimed Gwyneth, “and Hilary away, and not able to say good-by, nor Sybil either; oh, do stay at least till to-morrow, and see Sybil again!”

“You are inconsiderate, my dear Gwyneth,” said her father; “you ought to know that duty admits of no delay, and that his profession has claims on Captain Hepburn beyond and above all private ties or inclinations.”

“True, my dear sir, it leaves me no choice, no room for hesitation, which, perhaps, is a blessing. Could I consult my feelings, Miss Gwyneth, thus abruptly, and under such circumstances, to quit your father’s roof, would be the last thing I should wish; nothing would be more precious to me than delay might I indulge in it. Maurice, will you help me to make arrangements as to the means of going?”

In a couple of hours more every thing was ready for starting,and Captain Hepburn had nothing to do but to say farewell to his host and Gwyneth.

“If it is in your power,” said Mr. Duncan, as he grasped the sailor’s hand, “we shall be happy to see you here again before leaving England; do let us hear from you, at least.”

“If possible, I will run down and see you again,” said the other, warmly; “it will not be want of will that can stop me, my dear sir; I shall be very, very busy, I know; but my memory and my heart will be here with you; and my first wish will be that you may have improving tidings of your daughter to communicate. Maurice has promised to write.”

“You shall hear regularly, if you are so kind as to wish it,” replied the clergyman; “but, Captain Hepburn, take your heart to your work, or I fear it will be but ill performed, and we shall have spoiled a good officer.”

“My professional heart, sir, may go with me, but when memory wishes to conjure up an image of domestic happiness, purity, piety, affection, truth, and all lovely virtues, it will certainly go back mechanically to the Vicar of Hurstdene and his charming daughters.”

“God bless you,” replied the other, shaking his hand again and again; “you have been a blessing to me and mine; I owe you, under Providence, the lives of one, two, perhaps three of my children; and if a father’s warmest prayers and most heartfelt benediction can call down aught of blessing or well-being for you, then may you be sure of happiness, lasting, satisfying happiness, wherever you may go. Farewell!”

To such words, at such a moment, the only answer was the low, earnest “Thank you!” of subdued feeling, and the close-pressed hand lingering long in a friendly grasp.

Both Gwyneth’s hands, taken and clasped in silence for a moment, and then a softly-whispered “Farewell!” which the quivering lip could hardly utter, was all he had firmness for, as he turned away.

“Have you no message for the absent ones?” inquired she, half-reproachfully, as she accompanied him to the porch.

“I pass ‘the Ferns’ on my road. I shall call there to hear the latest news, and at least, see your sisters, Sybil and Nest,” was his justification, which amply satisfied Gwyneth.

He reached “the Ferns” just as Charles Huyton was on the point of stepping into his carriage to drive over to the Vicarage. He turned back, however, and accompanied his guest into the house, who explained his errand as they crossed the hall.

“I congratulate you on your appointment,” exclaimed Charles, with much sincerity; “I am truly rejoiced to hear it. I have learned enough of a sailor’s feelings, during my acquaintance with Maurice, to know how, beyond all other things, they value professional employment, and covet professional distinction. I will call my cousin to you, and, perhaps, as you are going, you will like to say good-by to Miss Sybil Duncan, and little Nest.”

“It was the particular object of my stopping here. If you will let Miss Sybil know I am here I dare say she will see me; but do not disturb Miss Fielding on my account if she is engaged.”

Mr. Huyton sent a message to Sybil to inform her who waited for her in the saloon. In a moment she came running down.

“How good of you to call, Captain Hepburn! I saw Maurice this morning; did he tell you?” Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

“Could you come out with me for five minutes on the lawn?” said he, determined to speak to her without Mr. Huyton’s presence; and almost without waiting for her acquiescence, he drew the hand which he had been holding under his arm, and led her through the open window.

“Tell me truly, how is your sister now?” was his first question.

“Restless and feverish, but not worse—rather better if any thing; but to be kept quite quiet.”

“Thank Heaven! I am come to say good-by to you,” he added, in a changed voice.

She started, and exclaimed—

“Why,mustyou just now?”

He explained; and Sybil knew enough of the service to be aware that there was no choice in such a case. She listened quietly, but her eyes filled with tears as he spoke.

“You must go then,” said she, sorrowfully; “how we shall miss you. I suppose I ought to be glad that you are employed, but I am so selfish as to feel very, very sorry to part. We owe you so much; and when you are gone, how can we show our gratitude to you, or make you feel how we thank you every day? What can we do for you?”

“Remember me, dear Sybil; and help others, your sister above all, to remember me too. Do not let absence or time make you forget me,” said he, formality giving way before warmly excited feeling.

“Forget you! oh, Captain Hepburn, never! we none of uscando that. Hilary, when she knows what has happened to you, will grieve that she has not thanked you with her own lips; but will she everforgetthe preserver of Nest? One of the few things she has said has been to express her gratitude, and to charge me, when I saw you, to say how infinitely she felt your courage, and how much more she thanked you for that action than she would have done for her own life alone. I hoped in a few days you would have heard it from herself; but since that can not be, you must try to be satisfied with her gratitude second-hand. What shall I say to her from you, in answer, when I can talk to her again.”

“Tell her that nothing dearer than duty would have taken me away from Hurstdene at the present moment; and that so soon as duty permits, I pledge myself to be here again. Meantime, I shall write to Maurice.” His tone gave additional force to his words.

“Write often, do,” said Sybil, earnestly looking at him, with an appreciation of his meaning dawning on her.

“As often as I can. I must not linger now.” He felt that he was understood, but dared not say more.

They turned toward the house.

“Mr. Huyton wants my father and Gwyneth to come over here to remain,” said Sybil, as they retraced their steps; “he is going to fetch them, if he can.”

“That is very kind; it will be more comfortable for you.”

They entered the saloon, and found Victoria there; Mr. Huyton was looking slightly impatient.

Miss Fielding’s greetings and adieux were, like herself, lively, gracious, and emphatic. The traveler did not linger a minute more, and as soon as he was gone, Charles Huyton drove off to the Vicarage, for the purpose Sybil had named. The latter went out again for a short stroll. Hilary was sleeping, and her sister, fearful of disturbing her, resolved not to return until summoned on her awakening.

Nest, though pretty well, had enjoyed so prolonged a slumber, that she was not yet dressed; so Sybil resolved to refresh herself by a solitary walk under the beautiful avenue in front of the house. The sound of a horse approaching roused her from her reverie, and looking up, she saw Mr. Farrington, who, immediately on perceiving her, alighted, and giving his horse to the groom, joined her in her walk. His object was to inquire for Miss Duncan; he had been deputed by the party at the Abbey to come over early for news; and the sisters themselves, or some of them, were intending to drive to “the Ferns” later in the day to see Sybil, and hear the bulletin in person.

This was his account of himself; perhaps it would have been more strictly accurate, had he said that he had volunteered the service, which otherwise the groom would have performed alone; and that, though feeling a natural interest in the welfare of a young lady in such circumstances as Hilary, he yet thought and cared a great deal more about her sister. His fancy had been strangely captivated by the tall, handsome girl, whose appearance and manners had haunted his memory, and formed the principal subject of his conversation with Doro Barham all the morning.

Sybil turned when he joined her, and walked toward the house, from which they were distant about a quarter of a mile; giving him, as they went along, first, an answer to his inquiriesafter her sister; and then a voluntary detail of her regret at parting with Captain Hepburn, whom they all valued so highly.

Mr. Farrington listened with real interest to the account of the family obligations to the gallant officer, and readily conceded that they owed him great gratitude for an amount of benefit not often bestowed by one person. He would have admired and applauded kindness and courage under any circumstances; but when the narrative was enforced by the bright flash of those dark eyes, and the peculiarly sweet tones of the voice which recounted it, his enthusiastic appreciation of Captain Hepburn’s merits was quite equal to what even Sybil considered right and becoming.

Her energetic eloquence was interrupted by a slight incident: glancing upward as she spoke, and quite forgetting all minor considerations, she hit her foot against a projecting root, and was very nearly thrown down on her face: she was not hurt, only a little confused at her awkwardness, as she called it; but the gentleman persuaded her to take his arm after that, and the abrupt pause which ensued was broken by his starting another topic, namely, that he had to return to London the next morning, having only come down to the Abbey for a couple of days, for the sake of Mr. Huyton’s party.

This information by no means disturbed Sybil in the way in which Captain Hepburn’s departure had affected her. She had found Mr. Farrington a pleasant companion, but she had not expected even to see him a second time, and there was neither any surprise or regret visible, when he talked of going. It seemed to her simply natural. He talked of regret, and said a good deal about his memory lingering amid the green shades of “the Ferns,” and his wish to visit this country again; to which Sybil listened quietly, and presently observed, “If he liked it so much, what would prevent his coming?” He could not construe her remark into any thing approaching to conscious encouragement; she did not seem to have an idea that she had the least to do with his coming or wishing to come: he found this natural simplicity particularly captivating, and his admiration for hermind increased as much as his conviction for her uncommon beauty did. He thought her more lovely by day-light, in a simple morning dress, than he had done the evening before, in her more elaborate toilette.

In spite of all his efforts to lengthen out the walk, by stopping to admire glens in the park, or remarkably fine trees, or to conjecture the date of the mansion, she yet proceeded so decidedly onward, with so evident a resolution to reach the house, that he was compelled to suppose her quite indifferent to any peculiar charm in his society, or very strictly correct in her notions of propriety and etiquette. He tried to flatter himself rather it was the latter, as she was evidently very young, and young girls, he believed, are always either rigidly prudent, or immensely careless about decorum; but he could not quite convince himself that this was the fact; he was too diffident, indeed, to be very certain on this point.

On she walked, at least, straight into the house, and never lingered till they reached the saloon where Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were sitting. Then she quietly said that she would go up and learn the very latest tidings of Hilary, for Isabel and Dora’s benefit, seeming to expect he would instantly start off to the Abbey with the report. The interval was employed by him in learning from Victoria all the particulars relative to the expected visit of Mr. Duncan, whom Charles hoped to bring back with him; an announcement which excited so strong a wish in Mr. Farrington to see the clergyman, that the ladies proposed at once that he should stay and lunch at “the Ferns,” sending the groom back to the Abbey with the report he had come to fetch.

No pressing was needed to elicit a very ready acceptance of this proposition; and, to say the truth, Victoria was as glad of the company of a pleasant and gentlemanlike young man, as he could be to stay. The morning after a fête is generally flat and dull; and if a gentleman desires to make his presence thoroughly appreciated, he should contrive to drop in on such an occasion, among a family party in the country.

On Sybil’s return, she seemed rather surprised to find that the message was to be intrusted to the groom; and apparently doubtful whether he could convey safely so important a verbal communication as that Miss Duncan was asleep, but seemed much the same, she indited a little note to Dora Barham; and by this means that young lady became possessed of the interesting fact, that the whole family from the Vicarage were expected at “the Ferns,” to remain there as long as Hilary’s health required it.

Nest, who was now quite well, had entered the room with Sybil, and the gentleman soon coaxed her on to his knee, and began conversing with her about her home, her father, and her sisters: they were excellent friends before Sybil’s note was finished.

“How wonderfully the sisters are alike,” said he to Victoria, as he gazed admiringly at the little one’s large black eyes and raven hair; “I should like a sketch of this child.”

“I believe I can show you some, although I can not give them to you,” replied Victoria, going to a large portfolio which was standing near. She opened the boards, and began to turn over the sketches it contained. He put down Nest, and went to examine it with great interest; there were many views in the forest, at the sight of which Nest frequently exclaimed she knew that spot, or she had seen this in Hilary’s sketch-book; and when Sybil joined them, she seemed to know every view, and owned that they had all been together, when such or such was done. At last they came to some groups of figures; the sisters again and again, Hilary always principal; and then single drawings, Sybil, Gwyneth, and Nest, evidently younger and more childish, but still very like. There was no finished drawing of Hilary alone; and Sybil owned that her sister never had sat to Mr. Huyton, as they had, again and again; she did not know why, perhaps he had never asked her: the views there were of her, were taken by stealth, or done from memory, perhaps.

“It is hardly fair to show drawings which so plainly tell atale,” whispered Mr. Farrington to Victoria, when Sybil had turned away to listen to Mrs. Fielding’s questions. “If these were mine, I would not allow them to be carelessly examined and investigated.”

“Oh! I am breaking no confidence,” replied Victoria, in a laughing whisper; “Charles makes no secret of his object; the whole plan and intention of yesterday’s fête, was to distinguish one person above all others; and though we did not propose to risk drowning her, yet, I believe, he will by no means regret the accident, if all ends well. At any rate, it has secured him some important advantages.”

Mr. Farrington looked excessively surprised at this communication, and made a mental determination to keep his own counsel, so far as Victoria was concerned, unless he wanted all the world to know his affairs.

Sybil disappeared again just after this, much to Mr. Farrington’s disappointment; the only amusement left for him was what Victoria supplied; and although she was very entertaining and agreeable, as he was wishing all the time for something else, her powers of pleasing were lost upon him.

“Where have you been?” was Victoria’s question, when Sybil joined them at the luncheon table; to which she replied, “she had gone out to finish her walk, as Hilary was still sleeping soundly; and she wished when her father arrived, to be quite fresh and ready to attend him.”

Very fresh, and very handsome, too, she looked, with the bright color which exercise had brought into her cheeks, and the happy expression which a conviction that her sister was now doing very well, produced; and her perfect unconsciousness that Mr. Farrington’s visit was made for her sake, or that his eyes were incessantly attracted to her in admiration, greatly heightened her charms in his opinion. He tried to detain her in conversation; but no sooner was the luncheon finished, than she again withdrew, and remained invisible for the next hour.

It was not Mr. Farrington’s conversational powers which brought her down at last, but the arrival of her own family,with Charles Huyton. No sooner did she see the carriage at a little distance, than she ran hastily down stairs, and was on the steps to receive her father when it drew up, quite regardless of all the state formalities of porter, butler, or footman, who had to stand off to make way for her.

Charles sprang out first, and his inquiries of “How is she now? How is Hilary?” were hardly less earnest and eager than those of Gwyneth and Maurice. But Sybil had scarcely words to answer them: it was to her father she looked, of him she thought; and when, by the assistance of his son and host, the clergyman had been safely placed upon the broad steps, she threw herself into his arms, and in accents choking from delight, she whispered that Hilary was better, Dr. Pilgrim had just seen her, and said she was out of danger.

Mr. Farrington, who was standing near enough to see the meeting, thought he had never witnessed a more touching sight, than the glad thankfulness of the young people, and the deep, reverend gratitude of the father, as he raised his hat from his head, and uttered audible thanks for this joyful tidings. Mr. Huyton himself was in a state of excitement most visible to a calm looker-on; he shook hands ardently with Mr. Duncan, kissed the hands of Sybil and Gwyneth with most un-English grace, and as to Nest, he caught her up in his arms and almost smothered her with caresses, the overflowings of a full-hearted happiness.

They became rational at last, and moved into the house. It was necessary that Miss Duncan should still be kept quiet; but, under promise of silence and discretion, Gwyneth was permitted to take her sister’s place in watching the invalid, and Sybil was able to devote herself to her father.

Mr. Farrington’s wish of being introduced to the clergyman was gratified, and he found the next hour spent in conversing with him, and looking at Sybil, so very pleasant, that he heard with great regret the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Barham and his daughter. This brought back Charles Huyton and Maurice into the saloon, they having been pacing onthe terrace, and discussing the wishes of the latter to sail with Captain Hepburn, in which Mr. Huyton very cordially joined.

Dora’s vail and bonnet hid her face from her father when she spoke to Maurice, and after a few fluttered sentences, she turned to Sybil, and asked if she might not go up stairs and see Gwyneth for a minute; so the two girls left the room together, with a word of apology to Victoria. Then Mr. Barham expressed a strong wish to see some alterations Mr. Huyton was making in his hot-houses, and Isabel said she should like to accompany them; Victoria politely offered to go with her, and as Charles seemed to regret leaving Mr. Duncan, both Maurice and Mr. Farrington volunteered to remain with him; while Mrs. Fielding, just then entering the room, declared it was her peculiar right to wait on and attend to him, when he was at “the Ferns.”

Had Mr. Barham and Isabel intended to do what was most pleasant, but least profitable, to Dora and Maurice, they could hardly have arranged better. Sybil and her friend returned to the saloon, to find the party very much reduced; and as Mrs. Fielding was as good as her word, and entirely engrossed Mr. Duncan, Mr. Farrington enticed Sybil to sit down with him by the portfolio before alluded to, to tell him more about the beautiful sketches it contained; and she, quite unaware how little he had cared for them when only Victoria had turned them over, very good-naturedly complied with his request, and discussed the times and places where the sketches had been drawn, with such amusing vivacity, and in such graphic language, that he did not discover how time slipped by while so employed.

Why Dora and Maurice chose at the same time to go out of the window, and continued for the next hour to walk slowly up and down a long green alley beside the flower garden, or to stand in deep talk, leaning over a pedestal, was best known to themselves. Mr. Barham was so very well satisfied to see his eldest daughter attended through his gardens by Mr. Huyton,and leaning on his arm, that he quite forgot to think about how little Dora was employed; he could not on any account hurry a stroll which afforded Isabel so good an opportunity of displaying her interest in science, and her peculiarly sensible opinions relative to the regulation of hot-houses, gardeners, village schools, farmers’ prejudices, and the poor-law; on all which subjects she spoke with much earnestness and grace. Mr. Huyton being much too well-bred to show how excessively he was bored, or in the slightest degree to hurry Miss Barham, although longing to return to the house, the elder gentleman was quite persuaded that he was delighted with their society, and fully appreciated the honor done to him by the owner of Drewhurst Abbey, and his eldest daughter. He judged Charles by himself; and conscious that no claims of civility would have madehimsubmit to agêneof any kind, and that the use he made of politeness and courtesy, was, not to please others at his own expense, but to gratify himself on all occasions without actually giving, offense, he conjectured that what was so gracefully borne, must be a pleasure in itself; and lingered long on purpose ere he brought his visit to a close.

And all this time Maurice and Dora were together, on a warm, sunshiny May afternoon, straying in a beautiful garden, where early roses, lilacs, and hawthorns, mingled their scent with the rich rhododendrons, daphnes, and still rarer exotics with which the flower-beds were glowing, and talking as young people will talk, when, in the warm glow of true first-love, they forget the cold calculations of worldly prudence, and ambitious hopes.

He told her how suddenly Captain Hepburn had been called away, and she turned pale, and her voice faltered, as she suggested that the same thing might occur to him; and when she heard that his friend had promised to apply for him, and that his interest was such that there was little doubt the application would be successful, she was quite unable to conceal how much she was pained at the idea. In vain she tried to say she wished him honor and success in his profession; she was too sincere todeceive, and too thoughtless to remember any thing but her own emotions. And what could be the result, but that Maurice made a rash avowal of his passionate admiration and love, his presumptuous affection, his hopeless attachment, and received in return a still more rash acknowledgment, that her feelings were but too much in agreement with his own, and that the certainty of his devotion to her was the only thing which could console her for his departure, if he must go.

It was a moment of wild intoxication; the delight of knowing each other’s hearts, was dearly purchased, and yet it was a delight. Their whole acquaintance had been a series of imprudencies, and this conversation was but the crowning imprudence of all. For as to hope, they really, hardly dared entertain an idea of it; Dora felt, and Maurice feared, that there was small chance of her father’s consent to an engagement, and without Mr. Barham’s consent, Maurice would not even ask her to make him the smallest promise of constancy or faith.

He indeed, would have gone straight to Mr. Barham, owned his affection, and asked to be allowed to win her hand by gallant deeds, or constant devotion; but Dora dared do no such thing; she shrank from cold looks, and harsh, stern words, and contempt and censure. She could not encounter Isabel’s surprise, or her father’s frown; she would have gladly plighted her hand to Maurice, and would have trusted, with the coward’s trusts, to time or chance, to circumstances, to accident, to any thing in fact, rather than to bold, straightforward measures. It was his sense of honor, and his rectitude of feeling alone, which saved her from the misery of a clandestine engagement; she would have ventured that for him; she dared not be open, but she thought she could be true. His, too, was all the regret, the remorse, indeed, for what he had done. When the first violent emotion had passed away, and he saw how he had won her heart, and yet must not avow their mutual affection, he became aware how great an injury he had done her; what a cloud he should have thrown upon her young life, what a constant, fretting, wearing anxiety he had brought upon her. Then, in histrue and honorable love, he prayed her to forget him; not to let the thought, the memory of him, darken her days, or interfere with her future prospects. His love saw no shadow, no fault in her; it was too warm to permit the thought that she was a coward at heart, and shrank from the only right step; he called her weakness, gentleness, docility, feminine tenderness; and while he would have braved all and any thing for her, he almost trembled at the idea of entailing on her a moment’s care or mental suffering.

“No, I do not deserve your love; do not make yourself unhappy for a fellow like me, dearest, sweetest Dora! it is too good of you; I can never, never forgetyou! but think of me only as of a brother, as of one who would bring you nothing but good, not sorrow; think of me with kindness always, but not with sorrowful regret; think of me as one who loves you devotedly, passionately; I shall treasure your image in my heart, and dote upon it in my fancy, and in the lonely nightwatch, dwell on the recollection of your smile; and perhaps in moments of danger, in storm, and peril, and difficulty, your dear, bright eyes will shine on my memory, and nerve me for daring deeds; but do not think of me. It is enough for me to know that had there been no obstacle you would have loved me; that had my birth and fortune entitled me to ask your hand, I might have won you; that your heart should have been mine, had Heaven so willed it. But do not grieve that we must part; nay, do not shed those tears; dearest Dora! I do not deserve so very great an honor.”

As if such words would make her care less, or quiet the heart-broken sobs with which she listened to his protestations!

“But you are not going yet?” she murmured.

“Heaven knows how soon; but, Dora, after this, even if I do not, we must not meet again.”

“Oh! Maurice,” ejaculated she, in overwhelming distress.

“Not purposely, not alone; no, Dora, it has been madness, wickedness almost, to love you and make you unhappy; but we will not add to that unintentional error the real, downrightcrime of carrying on a secret understanding, a clandestine intercourse. If I may not ask you of your father now, at least he shall not, when I do, throw back on me the imputation that I have meanly, basely encouraged you in defying his wishes or thwarting his hopes. If that blessed time should ever come when I may seek you openly—if—oh! Dora,—if you still love me in some happier future, then let us, at least, have the power of saying and feeling we were rash, imprudent, thoughtless, but we were not deceitful.”

The little hand he held tremblingly pressed his fingers with a convulsive clasp, and then she murmured again—

“Oh! Maurice, I will be true to you for life; I will never, no, never, be the bride of another; you have my heart, and shall have my faith for life.”

“No, no, Dora, you must not say so, I will not hold you bound; dear as your words are, sweetest! you must take them back; no promise must be given or accepted which truth and honor do not sanction. Time alters all, every thing; and when I am gone, and you learn to see my character as it deserves, unblinded by your own sweet fancies, and that delightful kindness which has moved you to pity a poor sailor like me, then you must still think of me as of one who would not, even for his dearest hopes, allow you to fetter yourself with a bond you might regret, with a promise which, being wrong, could bring no happiness with it. Dora, your peace of mind is dearer than my own!”

“Good, kind, generous,” was all she could say.

“Give me that ribbon from your wrist,” added he.

She hurriedly undid the blue ribbon that she wore round her left arm, put it for one moment to her lips, then tossed it to him, and turned with hasty steps toward the house. He followed her quietly until he saw her enter the saloon, and turning off by another path, he escaped, to consider what had passed, and console himself with the blue ribbon as he could.

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