CHAPTERXII.“Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,Was, indeed, the heaviest burthen thrown?Thou a weeping exile in thy forest,I a smiling queen upon my throne.”Iseult.The amendment in Hilary’s health continued to advance so favorably that the next day she was considered well enough to see her father without risk from excitement, and then she began clearly to understand the fact that her whole family were at “the Ferns.” She did not at first make any audible comments on the circumstance, but toward evening she took the opportunity of no one but Sybil being present, to make her tell her who had proposed this arrangement, and what had been said on the subject.Sybil said it had been entirely Charles Huyton’s own idea; and nothing could be kinder or more hospitable than he was, making it most pleasant for them all, and avowing that, were it not for Hilary’s illness, he should be the happiest man possible, with such a family round him.Miss Duncan lay silent for some minutes, thenobserved—“Were it not that my illness makes it inevitable we should not be here at all.”“So Nest proved to him,” remarked Sybil; “and she added, somewhat uncourteously, she would rather have you well, and be at home.”“Nest must not be rude, but it is well she thinks so. I must get well as fast as possible. I shall leave this room to-morrow, I hope, Sybil.”“How glad we shall be to have you down stairs,” said her sister.“I shall not go down till I am well enough to go home,” replied Hilary, decidedly; “I hope to get into the dressing-room to-morrow, and on Monday, if Mr. Huyton will lend us his carriage, we can all go back to the Vicarage.”“I am sure I shall be glad if we can,” was Sybil’s answer. She partly understood the motives of Hilary’s conduct.“Where is Captain Hepburn?” added Hilary, after a pause, turning her head on the pillow of the sofa where she was lying. “Is he gone?”“He went away yesterday morning, and hopes to come back again soon. He promised he would return as soon as he could.”There was another pause; then Hilaryasked—“Did you see him yesterday?”“He called here to say good-by, and hear the last account of you!”“Why did he go, did he tell you?”“Business, indispensable business,” said Sybil, fearful of distressing her sister by announcing his appointment, and the expected consequences to Maurice, who, Hilary well knew, had always reckoned on going with him.“Business!” repeated Hilary, looking anxiously at her sister, “that is a vague term; however, I suppose I have no right to question about it. Gone without my being able to thank him! I should have liked to do that!”“I gave him your message, dear Hilary; do you remember what you told me to say?”“Yes, and he—what did he say, Sybil?” said her sister, eager to hear something, she hardly knew what. Sybil repeated Captain Hepburn’s message verbatim, and with emphasis.It was listened to with silence, but after a long pause she repeated—“Duty.”“The fact is,” added Sybil, seeing she was perplexing herself about his departure, “he has been appointed to the commandof thePandanus, a fine new screw steamer, one of the finest in the service, he says; and he has gone down to Woolwich, where she is fitting out.”“Will he take Maurice?” exclaimed Hilary, eagerly. “Oh, I hope he will!”“They both expect it, but there has not been time yet; he only went yesterday; now do lie still, dear, or you will bring on your fever again, and we shall not go home on Monday.”Hilary laid her head back on her pillows, and remained perfectly quiet for the rest of the evening. She resolved not to think of Captain Hepburn, or to bewilder herself in conjectures relative to any thing uncertain or unpleasant; she resolutely quieted her mind, banishing doubt and conjecture, which are worse and more irritating to the weak, than certainty of evil, and dwelling only on soothing subjects.Her self-discipline and mental government were successful, and were rewarded by finding her strength as much improved the next day as she could have expected. She was able to resume her usual dress, and sit up in the adjoining room, where the balmy air of a sweet summer Sunday morning seemed every minute to add to her strength. She kept her resolution, however, of not going down stairs, or joining the family party, in spite of Victoria’s urgent entreaties. It was quite true, that her head would not as yet bear much noise, and she had no intention of risking a relapse, by taking liberties too early.She must, of course, have an interview with Charles eventually, and thank him for his share in saving her life, but she rather shrank from the thought; she hoped it was not ingratitude, she really did feel thankful to him; and had there been no recollections of former conversations and past professions to trouble her, she would have been ready and anxious to express her gratitude. But now she feared to say either too little or too much; she dreaded to raise hopes which she had once trusted were extinguished, and she had a vague foreboding that any sort of emotion would inevitably lead to painful and perplexing discoveries.As memory had resumed its power, a distinct impression of his words and tone when he reached her in the water, impressed itself on her mind with unaccountable accuracy and vividness; and though it was not usually her way to shrink from duty, even if painful, or to put off the evil day, with that weak procrastination which often trebles the suffering by unnecessary and prolonged anticipation, she determined to delay this interview to the very last, that escape to her own home might immediately follow.Her resolutions, however, were over-ruled, and her wishes set aside, by the stronger will, and less scrupulous determinations of others. Charles and Victoria were alike decided, that she should see him; and Hilary found herself actually without a choice, although nominally consulted on the occasion.It was in the afternoon; the family had returned from church, and Gwyneth, who had remained at home to read to Hilary, was persuaded by her to go down stairs, and if Maurice was at leisure, to ask him to come and sit with her. A knock at the door a few minutes afterward, made her suppose he was there; but in answer to her invitation, Victoria entered, inquired how she did, whether she was equal to conversation: and on Hilary’s cheerfully assuring her that she was going on nicely, Miss Fielding added, in a manner which left her almost withoutchoice—“You will not mind, then, seeing Charles for a moment, who is dying of impatience to kiss your hand.”As she said this, she admitted Mr. Huyton into the room, and then turned toward the toilette table, where she busied herself with her back to Hilary, in searching among caskets and drawers for unknown articles, with an evident determination not to see or hear any thing else; which was extremely distressing to her friend, however pleasant it might be to her cousin.Surprised and flurried by an intrusion so unexpected and unwelcome, Hilary’s pale cheeks flushed, and her hand trembled, as she endeavored to rise from her easy chair to meet her host. Somehow she hardly understood how, she was gently put backinto it, and in another moment she found Charles, placing one knee on the ground, was really and very warmly kissing the hand she had held out, as he pressed it in both of his. She endeavored to draw it away; she tried to express by a glance, that whatever gratitude might inspire, love for him did not exist; but although words may define differences, and draw lines of distinction, it is often difficult for looks to express nice shades of feeling, and to mark accurately all the gazer would wish. At least, she feared her looks were incomprehensible; for though Charles’s tongue was mute, his eyes declared so plainly and unequivocally the ruling passion of his life at that time, that it was perfectly impossible for her actually to misunderstand him. She saw that Victoria was nothing, and that she was all to him.The color flitted from her cheeks, and they became white, whiter than her illness had left them—deadly pale; her hand turned cold in his grasp, and after feebly trying to draw it away, she sank back against the pillows behind her, and, for the second time in her life, she fainted.When she recovered, she found herself lying on the sofa; and as sense and perception gradually returned, she discovered that Charles was supporting her head on his arm, while Victoria was plentifully bedewing her face with eau-de-Cologne. She moved her head, and whispered, “I should like to lie down,” which compelled Mr. Huyton to resign her to the pillows, where common sense would have taught him, she had better have been all the time.“Are you better?” said he, softly and anxiously.“Yes, thank you; please leave me, and send Sybil;” and she fixed her eyes for one moment on him so decidedly, that disobedience was out of his power. He was forced to withdraw, and went to find Sybil, with no other advantage from his visit, than the idea that if she was so very weak, it would be impossible for her to leave “the Ferns” next day.But half an hour’s quiet restored her strength; and reflection on what had passed, made Hilary more than ever certain of thepropriety of leaving the house the next day, even should the effort be attended with fatigue to herself. It had been a transitory emotion which had made her faint; she was not at all accustomed to such attacks; but her physical weakness had perhaps made her feelings more than usually acute, and herself less able than in general to govern them. It was the expression of Charles Huyton’s eyes which had overpowered her: she had read, or seemed to read in them, such a world of strong concentrated passion, such selfish self-will, such deep determination to carry out a point which he had never for one moment abandoned; so much of human pride, and of stern resolution not to submit passively or unresistingly to what thwarted his wishes, as opened up to her mind a new view of his character, and made her almost regret that he had not left her to sink under the black waters in that shady pool, rather than live to enter into a contest with one who seemed so well fitted to trample down and overpower her, when their happiness or their desires crossed. Calm reflection recalled her courage and her firmness. Let her but walk straight on, he could not hurt her. The spirit of evil itself was powerless to harm those who trusted in “the shadow of those Almighty wings,” which she believed stretched out over her and hers: and should she then fear one who was but man? No; he might pain, but he could not injure her, unless he enticed her feet from that narrow path of duty, within which she was safe.And as her evening prayer arose, that she might “have understanding in the way of godliness,” she felt more strongly than ever thatthatway did not point to becoming Charles Huyton’s wife.When the family met at breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan announced, that Hilary was quite well enough to go home that day, and therefore, if Mr. Huyton would be so kind as to lend them his carriage, he would no longer trespass on his hospitality.In vain his host and Miss Fielding urged her supposed weakness, and their desires to detain them all, by every argumentwhich love and policy could devise. Mr. Duncan was calmly immovable, and they were obliged to yield the point at last. The younger girls, naturally enough, had enjoyed the change, and were extremely sorry to quit “the Ferns;” but Maurice, whose spirits and gayety seemed at times entirely to fail him, and who, except when with his father, appeared wrapped in a cloud of impenetrable gloom, was entirely on his father’s side, and expressed, as warmly as politeness permitted, a strong desire to return home before his being obliged to quit Hurstdene, an event he now daily expected.The carriage accordingly was ordered directly after luncheon; and meantime, Maurice walked home, to give notice that they were coming, taking Gwyneth with him, that all might be ready for the reception of Hilary.“So you are determined to leave us,” said Victoria, as she entered the dressing-room, where Hilary had breakfasted; “however, if you are so well, you will, I trust, come down stairs before quitting the house; you could surely give us your company in the saloon.”“I shall be better at home,” replied Miss Duncan; “I am very anxious to be there on Maurice’s account, for he will want a hundred things done and arranged, and it would be much less anxiety to me to see to it all, than to remain absent, and trust to the chance of others doing right. I can keep quiet at home, you know.”“Yes; I can understand how quiet you will be, from what I know of your usual habits; you will only wait on your father incessantly, see to your brother’s having every comfort, teach Nest, look after your servants, attend to the housekeeping, and listen to every old man, sick woman, or unhappy child, who may choose to come and drawl out their long story to you. That is your quiet.”Hilary laughed.“Well, if all that is to be done, the sooner I get about it the better.”“Meantime,” said Victoria, “come down stairs.”Hilary seemed inclined to demur.“You must,” continued Miss Fielding, urgently, “or I shall conclude it is want of will, not want of power, prevents you.”“I will come down by-and-by,” said Hilary, gently, “but I dare not exhaust myself before I take this little journey; and if you would be so very kind as to let me, I should like to lie down and rest now.”Victoria really could not find in her heart to oppose Hilary’s meek petition, or to say any more at present about her own wishes; so giving her friend a kiss, she settled her comfortably on the sofa, and then left her to peace and solitude.“Will she not come down, Victoria?” asked Charles, eagerly, as he met her on the stairs.Victoria told him what had passed, and strongly recommended, under present circumstances, patience and caution on his part. His rival, if Captain Hepburn was his rival, was gone, and had left without an explanation; but although the field was thus open to him, it by no means followed, that he should rush forward hastily and unadvisedly. She was not in a state to bear it, and he might lose all, by hazarding too much.It was about half an hour before luncheon, when Hilary, leaning on Victoria’s arm, eventually entered the saloon, where Mr. Huyton had been passing the morning, in an uncontrollable state of restless impatience. How he sprang forward to meet her at the door, and how carefully he provided the easiest chair in the pleasantest corner of the room for her accommodation, may be imagined. His manners seemed scarcely to allow that any other person could have the least claim upon her; and his whole wish seemed to be to engross her himself. But Hilary would sit near her father, would give her principal attention to him, and would at first, when she spoke, whisper in her soft voice, words which marked her regard and consideration for him as her principal object.Presently, however, gathering courage and firmness, she turned to her host, and said:“I have no doubt that my father has conveyed the thanks I sent by him, Mr. Huyton; but let me now for myself, thank you again for your share in the exertions which saved my life. I was too weak to say so yesterday. I hope you believe that I am grateful.”“If ever an action brought its own reward,” said he, in a low voice, and placing his hand on the fingers which rested on the arm of her chair; “it was mine, when I bore you from the water, and laid you safely on the bank. I can conceive only one degree of happiness greater than that.”“My strength was so completely exhausted,” said Hilary, drawing away her hand to pass it across her forehead, “that had I not been relieved from the weight of Nest, and released from her struggles, I must have sunk in another moment.”“Poor little thing! she was unconscious how she increased your danger,” replied Charles; he could not bring himself to say the words of praise to his rival’s presence of mind, which were his due, and which Hilary half hoped to hear. Presently he added, looking up suddenly:“And youwillgo to-day! is that kind, Miss Duncan, to hurry away the moment you can move; at any risk to leave my house, rather than oblige me?”“You know, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, “we have sometimes other things to consider, besides obliging our friends; but it can not justly be called unkindness to do our duty; and mine takes me home to-day.”“Of course, if yourdutytakes you away,” was his answer, “my pleasure or happiness must not interfere with it; they have no right to be considered for a moment.”“I am sure my father would tell you that the two can not really be at variance,” answered Hilary, earnestly. “If we both follow the road of duty, we may be certain that we shall not come into dangerous collision. They are lines which never clash, except through carelessness or mistake. They may diverge widely, they may run parallel, but they will have no unsafe crossings, if we take conscience for our engineer.”“True, dear child,” said Mr. Duncan, “as your favorite poet says:“‘Duty, like a strict preceptor,Sometimes frowns or seems to frown;’still, when we have the courage to look her calmly in the face, we shall find the frown is our mistake; a mere shadow cast by fear or over-anxious wishes.”Mr. Huyton make no further objections, and the family were permitted to return to the Vicarage, as had been proposed. Nobody, however, could prevent his riding beside the carriage the whole way, or to forbid his being there to hand Hilary out when she descended from it; it was very disagreeable to her, but he would not see that; and even when she entered the house, he appeared extremely reluctant to take his leave, and allow her to rest in peace.Once more in her place at home, and gathering strength, every hour, from the pleasure of being there, Hilary could not avoid immediately perceiving the extreme depression of spirits which overpowered Maurice; and with a woman’s quickness, made more acute by her own recent experience, she decided that his unfortunate attachment to Dora, must in some way be the cause. Of the existence of this attachment she had been for some time aware; but not guessing what had really passed between them, she concluded that it was his own sense of its hopelessness which oppressed her brother. Eager to bury those too-encroaching thoughts of another person, which were continually creeping into her mind, she would yield nothing to the lassitude of recent illness, would allow herself no rest, lest memory should be engrossed by one image; but resolutely engaged in all her usual occupations, and threw herself with more than her former zeal into the cares, hopes, and pleasures of those around her. Of these, naturally, Maurice was the first, after her father; and his affairs, indeed, were peculiarly prominent just then. Captain Hepburn had written to say, that he had received the promise of Maurice’s appointment to thePandanus; so that they might now expect his removal any day. But however excited or restless, anxious or happy, such a prospect might make him, his sister saw clearly this was not all; and earnestly hoping that a confidence she had so long enjoyed would not now be withdrawn, she watched him with affectionate attention and silent pity.It was not till the day following, that she received from him an explanation, which told her how truly he deserved the pity she had already bestowed, and how much real, though unacknowledged, sympathy there was between them.They were sitting together on Tuesday afternoon, just arranging about an expedition to be undertaken by Mr. Duncan, his son, and Gwyneth, when the Drewhurst carriage drove up to the door. At the first glimpse of the liveries in the distance, Maurice had started up; but when the carriage passed the window, he sat down again quietly, and whispered to his sister, there was only Miss Barham in it.Isabel entered alone. She came to inquire after Hilary; it appeared that she and her father had driven over to “the Ferns,” expecting to find the Duncans still there; and that on discovering the mistake, Mr. Barham had decided to remain with Mr. Huyton, having some magistrates’ matters to talk over, while his daughter proceeded to the Vicarage. Isabel said that Mr. Huyton had offered to accompany them; but her father thought that such an incursion in the Vicarage drawing-room would be overpowering, so after luncheon she had come alone. She would not, therefore, remain very long, as papa would be expecting her back to pick him up; but she was delighted to see how well Hilary was looking, quite like herself again! getting home must have done her a world of good. When questioned about her sister, she answered that Dora was not well; she thought the hot weather disagreed with her; she complained of head-ache; could not eat, and was very pale; a common effect of heat on her constitution. Papa talked of sending her to some friends in the north, for change of air. He meant to remain at the Abbey himself, for the present, and of courseIsabel must be with him; he could not spare her; but Lady Margaret would take Dora to Scotland, or Scarborough, or Germany; it was not quite settled which; and she believed they would go very soon.“Now I must go,” exclaimed Isabel, starting up, “or papa will not trust me alone again. Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Maurice Duncan, I thought you were gone to sea. Surely Mr. Huyton told us you were appointed to some ship.”“Perhaps I maybe,” said Maurice, trying to speak carelessly, then remembering that what he said might be repeated to Dora, he added, “I expect it any day: I heard it was to come, and of course, it will be soon.”“Well then I wish youbon voyage,” replied Isabel, lightly; “I am so very glad to have seen you once more before you go, to say so. Good-by, Hilary, dear! mind and get well. Do you know, papa wants Mr. Huyton to stand for the county, and I dare say he will; and with papa’s interest, I have no doubt he will succeed. He ought to be an M.P. Papa says, few people know how really clever he is, he is so quiet and modest. But we want such men for the country. So papa says. Good-by.”Hilary watched the carriage drive away, and as Isabel’s pink and white feathers disappeared in the distance, she sighed to think what would she not give to be able to hope that Mr. Huyton would really transfer to the heiress of Drewhurst Abbey the affection which he had hitherto wasted on herself.It was with the utmost difficulty that poor Maurice was able to command his attention and spirits sufficiently to be the usual cheerful companion to his father. But on his return he hurried into the garden, and there, when Hilary was able to seek him, she discovered him stretched on the sloping bank of the terrace, with his face covered by his arms. She sat down beside him, and gently passing her hands through his curly hair, she whispered,“Dear Maurice!”He turned his face toward her, and she, putting her lips to his cheek, again whispered,“I was afraid you were very unhappy.”“Oh, Hilary, I am such a wretch, such a thoughtless, selfish, cruel fellow! If you knew all—” was his exclamation, with a passionate misery of look and manner most unusual to him.“Indeed, dear Maurice, I can not believe you. You may, perhaps, have been thoughtless, though that is not like you; but cruel, selfish! never. Oh no, I know you better!”“You don’t know, dear; you could not guess what I have done; how I have pained and half-broken the dearest, warmest, most loving little heart in the world; how I have dimned her smiles, and clouded her sunshine, and made both her head and heart ache. Yes, it is all my fault; mine, mine entirely.”“Yours, dear Maurice!”“Yes, Hilary, she loves me; it is no idle vanity which misleads me; she said it—she owned it with tears and sobs—with fear and trembling, and yet in spite of both grief and terror, that she loved me; she, the bright—the rich—the beautiful; she lovedme! and what has it brought her? Grief and pain, sickness and fear; and all for me! I, who though I would lay down my life for her, am not worthy to touch the tip of her little finger! I, who have no claim, except that of deep, doting, devoted, never-ending love for her. Oh! Hilary, is she not an angel to love me!”“But why, dear Maurice, why be so miserable then, if she really loves you? does Mr. Barham object?” asked Hilary, not quite understanding his incoherent exclamations.“We dared not ask him.”“Dared not! Maurice, that is not like you!”“No! Dora dared not. What is there that I would not dare for her that honor did not forbid? Oh, Hilary, if you only knew how I love her!”“But it is a pity—nay, surely, Maurice, it is wrong if you love thus, not to tell Mr. Barham! concealment never can be right, and must be doubly painful!”“Yes, Hilary,” said her brother, rising upright and looking steadfastly at her, “if we went on with it; but when I foundhow it was, that I was not only using up my own feelings, but acting on hers—not only making myself unhappy by indulging a presumptuous passion, but involving her in the same hopeless misery, I saw there were but two ways open to us. One to explain all to Mr. Barham, and cast ourselves on his compassion; the other to part! I would have taken the first, there would have been far less of suffering and misery; she judged otherwise, and we parted on Saturday. You heard what Isabel said to-day.”“Then you have been neither cruel nor selfish, my dear brother, but strictly honorable and right. Imprudent, perhaps, but who can control the heart by prudence, Maurice; or prevent the growth of love, where there is sympathy and community of feeling? We can not either compel or forbid its existence, can we?” and Hilary blushed deeply, as she propounded a doctrine taught her by her late experience.“I do not think that is right, Hilary,” replied her brother thoughtfully, considering his own circumstances, and not suspecting from what feelings she spoke. “I believe we ought to control all our passions; and if we have not the power, it must be that we have willfully thrown it away. Love is like ardent spirits, perhaps, we may refrain altogether, but if we do imbibe it we must be responsible for the ungovernable evils it produces. And, oh, Hilary!” added he, throwing himself down on the grass again, “I am a wretch for having plunged Dora in such a depth of trouble—a selfish, miserable wretch; because, even now, I can not wish her not to love me; I would give the world, I would give my hopes of promotion, that she had never begun; but I can not, try as I will, really wish her now to leave off loving me. And yet it is only sorrow and pain to her.”“But, Maurice, better times may come—why should you despair so? who knows what may happen to induce Mr. Barham to approve of your suit, and then what happiness for you?”“What happiness indeed! I wish Dora would let me speak. I am sure it would have been better, don’t you think so, Hilary?We could but have been refused; have had to part, and to wait; wemighthave been happier. We had better have spoken.”“Yes, I am sure of that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “certainty would be better, and candor and openness must be the safest, because the truest path. She should have let you speak.”“I don’t know, though,” resumed Maurice, with a strong dislike to hear even an implied censure on his idol, “she must be the best judge of that; the evils, the pain of coldness and displeasure, would have all fallen on her. She would have been the sufferer. It was natural she should shrink from the disclosure, it would cost her too dear! If I could only have borne all for her!”“I can not imagine that she would have met with any thing half so bad as the trouble of concealment and the pain of mystery. Mr. Barham might not approve your attachment, and then he would have separated you, sent her away, or something of that sort; but that is no more than has now happened. The dictates of honor are as imperative as the commands of the sternest parent. If he had refused his consent, you must have given up all hope, and you might both trust to recovering in time from an unfortunate love.”“Hilary, you don’t know! Love like mine lasts for life,” was his determined answer.“But perhaps it might not with her; and you know you must really wish her to be happy. If she had no hope she would gradually recover her serenity; at least I think one must if hope were really gone; but now she will not only have the sickening misery of protracted suspense, but the fear of discovery, and the pain of acting a part—of in appearance deceiving her father.”“Deceiving! how unjust you are; she is incapable of deceit.”“I only said the appearance, dear Maurice; but why should she fear to own her love? You are not unworthy of it; noble birth, indeed, you have not, but, except that and money, youhave every thing a man can want! Education, profession—why, Maurice, your profession has been followed by a king!—person, manners, temper, principles. Oh, what could Mr. Barham ask better; and you have no low connections—nothing to shock aristocratic prejudices; the son of a gentleman, and of an old, good family! Why should Dora fear to own you—to acknowledge her love? A love returned, confessed as yours is, and Mr. Barham never prevented your being together. Dora has been allowed to come here as she pleased. Surely she must be mistaken in her judgment on this occasion.”“I wish you could persuade her so.”“I will try when I can see her,” said Hilary.“But it must be before I go, dear,” returned Maurice, eagerly. “If I am ordered off, and have to leave this unexplained, it would be base and cowardly then to throw all the burden and pain on her alone. I could not do that!”“I think even then, at any rate, it would be right to avow it all, and let the consequences follow as they might. Every week’s delay must add to the evil.”“If you could but see her, Hilary! but she will not come here, I know. Where could you meet her? Could you go to the Abbey?”“How, dear Maurice? I have no means,” said Hilary.“Perhaps Mrs. Paine could take you over, or Miss Fielding. If you could contrive it! do think about some way of meeting!”Eager to fulfill her brother’s wishes, Hilary turned her mind entirely to the means of their accomplishment; and in her self-devotion to his interest, contrived to forget, in a great degree, her own feelings of suspense and anxiety. She would not indulge in contemplation, she would not listen to the whispers of hope, or to the cold insinuations of fear and doubt. She put away all retrospective glances, and stilled her mind with a calm, but fixed resolution, to wait in patience, and trust for the future, whatever its result might be.She sent a note to Mrs. Paine to ask if she could drive her over to the Abbey the next day, saying, that having heard fromIsabel that Dora was suffering, and likely soon to leave home, she was very desirous of seeing her. Maurice carried the note, eager to do something, and finding action less painful than quiet and thought. But the owners of Primrose Bank were out when he arrived there; and after wandering for some time in the vicinity, in hopes of meeting them, Maurice was obliged to return home without a reply.It was about twelve the next day, as the family at the Vicarage were sitting together, that the carriage from “the Ferns” drove up. Much to Miss Duncan’s relief, she saw at a glance that there were only the two ladies in it; and in a few minutes Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were in the parlor, the one as full of kindness, and the other of energy and gayety, as usual. They were delighted to find Hilary so much improved. As well as ever they said, no trace of languor or paleness visible. This was true, for the sight of them excited her, and they could not tell that the pink hue in her cheeks, and her apparent self-possession and activity, were the result of high-wrought, but concealed, feelings of suffering anxiety. Victoria’s object was to take her out for a drive, Mrs. Fielding to remain with Mr. Duncan while his eldest daughter was away.No answer had come from Mrs. Paine; Hilary saw Maurice look at her with imploring eyes; and although hardly liking to ask the favor of Victoria, she was strongly tempted to beg at once to be driven over to the Abbey. It was, however, by no means improbable that any minute might bring the answer from Mrs. Paine, and until that arrived, she could decide nothing. She could only explain to Victoria how far she was pre-engaged; and while doing so, Mr. Paine himself walked in, bringing an excuse from his wife. She was not well, and the poney-carriage had met with an accident; but if to-morrow would do, it should be at her service. To-morrow, Hilary thought, might be too late: Maurice was in an agony of impatience, Victoria was urgent and persuasive, and she herself, afraid of yielding to selfish feelings, and sacrificing her brother’s happiness to her own scruples,gave way at length to the united influence of her companions, and prepared to accompany Miss Fielding.Certain thoughts as to what Captain Hepburn would think, if he knew she was driving in Mr. Huyton’s carriage, were put away as intrusive and selfish; there was no occasion to connect the latter at all with the act, the obligation was conferred by Victoria alone, and need concern no one else; and as she hoped to be of use to Maurice, there was every excuse for taking her present step.
“Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,Was, indeed, the heaviest burthen thrown?Thou a weeping exile in thy forest,I a smiling queen upon my throne.”Iseult.
“Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,Was, indeed, the heaviest burthen thrown?Thou a weeping exile in thy forest,I a smiling queen upon my throne.”Iseult.
“Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,
Was, indeed, the heaviest burthen thrown?
Thou a weeping exile in thy forest,
I a smiling queen upon my throne.”
Iseult.
The amendment in Hilary’s health continued to advance so favorably that the next day she was considered well enough to see her father without risk from excitement, and then she began clearly to understand the fact that her whole family were at “the Ferns.” She did not at first make any audible comments on the circumstance, but toward evening she took the opportunity of no one but Sybil being present, to make her tell her who had proposed this arrangement, and what had been said on the subject.
Sybil said it had been entirely Charles Huyton’s own idea; and nothing could be kinder or more hospitable than he was, making it most pleasant for them all, and avowing that, were it not for Hilary’s illness, he should be the happiest man possible, with such a family round him.
Miss Duncan lay silent for some minutes, thenobserved—
“Were it not that my illness makes it inevitable we should not be here at all.”
“So Nest proved to him,” remarked Sybil; “and she added, somewhat uncourteously, she would rather have you well, and be at home.”
“Nest must not be rude, but it is well she thinks so. I must get well as fast as possible. I shall leave this room to-morrow, I hope, Sybil.”
“How glad we shall be to have you down stairs,” said her sister.
“I shall not go down till I am well enough to go home,” replied Hilary, decidedly; “I hope to get into the dressing-room to-morrow, and on Monday, if Mr. Huyton will lend us his carriage, we can all go back to the Vicarage.”
“I am sure I shall be glad if we can,” was Sybil’s answer. She partly understood the motives of Hilary’s conduct.
“Where is Captain Hepburn?” added Hilary, after a pause, turning her head on the pillow of the sofa where she was lying. “Is he gone?”
“He went away yesterday morning, and hopes to come back again soon. He promised he would return as soon as he could.”
There was another pause; then Hilaryasked—
“Did you see him yesterday?”
“He called here to say good-by, and hear the last account of you!”
“Why did he go, did he tell you?”
“Business, indispensable business,” said Sybil, fearful of distressing her sister by announcing his appointment, and the expected consequences to Maurice, who, Hilary well knew, had always reckoned on going with him.
“Business!” repeated Hilary, looking anxiously at her sister, “that is a vague term; however, I suppose I have no right to question about it. Gone without my being able to thank him! I should have liked to do that!”
“I gave him your message, dear Hilary; do you remember what you told me to say?”
“Yes, and he—what did he say, Sybil?” said her sister, eager to hear something, she hardly knew what. Sybil repeated Captain Hepburn’s message verbatim, and with emphasis.
It was listened to with silence, but after a long pause she repeated—“Duty.”
“The fact is,” added Sybil, seeing she was perplexing herself about his departure, “he has been appointed to the commandof thePandanus, a fine new screw steamer, one of the finest in the service, he says; and he has gone down to Woolwich, where she is fitting out.”
“Will he take Maurice?” exclaimed Hilary, eagerly. “Oh, I hope he will!”
“They both expect it, but there has not been time yet; he only went yesterday; now do lie still, dear, or you will bring on your fever again, and we shall not go home on Monday.”
Hilary laid her head back on her pillows, and remained perfectly quiet for the rest of the evening. She resolved not to think of Captain Hepburn, or to bewilder herself in conjectures relative to any thing uncertain or unpleasant; she resolutely quieted her mind, banishing doubt and conjecture, which are worse and more irritating to the weak, than certainty of evil, and dwelling only on soothing subjects.
Her self-discipline and mental government were successful, and were rewarded by finding her strength as much improved the next day as she could have expected. She was able to resume her usual dress, and sit up in the adjoining room, where the balmy air of a sweet summer Sunday morning seemed every minute to add to her strength. She kept her resolution, however, of not going down stairs, or joining the family party, in spite of Victoria’s urgent entreaties. It was quite true, that her head would not as yet bear much noise, and she had no intention of risking a relapse, by taking liberties too early.
She must, of course, have an interview with Charles eventually, and thank him for his share in saving her life, but she rather shrank from the thought; she hoped it was not ingratitude, she really did feel thankful to him; and had there been no recollections of former conversations and past professions to trouble her, she would have been ready and anxious to express her gratitude. But now she feared to say either too little or too much; she dreaded to raise hopes which she had once trusted were extinguished, and she had a vague foreboding that any sort of emotion would inevitably lead to painful and perplexing discoveries.
As memory had resumed its power, a distinct impression of his words and tone when he reached her in the water, impressed itself on her mind with unaccountable accuracy and vividness; and though it was not usually her way to shrink from duty, even if painful, or to put off the evil day, with that weak procrastination which often trebles the suffering by unnecessary and prolonged anticipation, she determined to delay this interview to the very last, that escape to her own home might immediately follow.
Her resolutions, however, were over-ruled, and her wishes set aside, by the stronger will, and less scrupulous determinations of others. Charles and Victoria were alike decided, that she should see him; and Hilary found herself actually without a choice, although nominally consulted on the occasion.
It was in the afternoon; the family had returned from church, and Gwyneth, who had remained at home to read to Hilary, was persuaded by her to go down stairs, and if Maurice was at leisure, to ask him to come and sit with her. A knock at the door a few minutes afterward, made her suppose he was there; but in answer to her invitation, Victoria entered, inquired how she did, whether she was equal to conversation: and on Hilary’s cheerfully assuring her that she was going on nicely, Miss Fielding added, in a manner which left her almost withoutchoice—
“You will not mind, then, seeing Charles for a moment, who is dying of impatience to kiss your hand.”
As she said this, she admitted Mr. Huyton into the room, and then turned toward the toilette table, where she busied herself with her back to Hilary, in searching among caskets and drawers for unknown articles, with an evident determination not to see or hear any thing else; which was extremely distressing to her friend, however pleasant it might be to her cousin.
Surprised and flurried by an intrusion so unexpected and unwelcome, Hilary’s pale cheeks flushed, and her hand trembled, as she endeavored to rise from her easy chair to meet her host. Somehow she hardly understood how, she was gently put backinto it, and in another moment she found Charles, placing one knee on the ground, was really and very warmly kissing the hand she had held out, as he pressed it in both of his. She endeavored to draw it away; she tried to express by a glance, that whatever gratitude might inspire, love for him did not exist; but although words may define differences, and draw lines of distinction, it is often difficult for looks to express nice shades of feeling, and to mark accurately all the gazer would wish. At least, she feared her looks were incomprehensible; for though Charles’s tongue was mute, his eyes declared so plainly and unequivocally the ruling passion of his life at that time, that it was perfectly impossible for her actually to misunderstand him. She saw that Victoria was nothing, and that she was all to him.
The color flitted from her cheeks, and they became white, whiter than her illness had left them—deadly pale; her hand turned cold in his grasp, and after feebly trying to draw it away, she sank back against the pillows behind her, and, for the second time in her life, she fainted.
When she recovered, she found herself lying on the sofa; and as sense and perception gradually returned, she discovered that Charles was supporting her head on his arm, while Victoria was plentifully bedewing her face with eau-de-Cologne. She moved her head, and whispered, “I should like to lie down,” which compelled Mr. Huyton to resign her to the pillows, where common sense would have taught him, she had better have been all the time.
“Are you better?” said he, softly and anxiously.
“Yes, thank you; please leave me, and send Sybil;” and she fixed her eyes for one moment on him so decidedly, that disobedience was out of his power. He was forced to withdraw, and went to find Sybil, with no other advantage from his visit, than the idea that if she was so very weak, it would be impossible for her to leave “the Ferns” next day.
But half an hour’s quiet restored her strength; and reflection on what had passed, made Hilary more than ever certain of thepropriety of leaving the house the next day, even should the effort be attended with fatigue to herself. It had been a transitory emotion which had made her faint; she was not at all accustomed to such attacks; but her physical weakness had perhaps made her feelings more than usually acute, and herself less able than in general to govern them. It was the expression of Charles Huyton’s eyes which had overpowered her: she had read, or seemed to read in them, such a world of strong concentrated passion, such selfish self-will, such deep determination to carry out a point which he had never for one moment abandoned; so much of human pride, and of stern resolution not to submit passively or unresistingly to what thwarted his wishes, as opened up to her mind a new view of his character, and made her almost regret that he had not left her to sink under the black waters in that shady pool, rather than live to enter into a contest with one who seemed so well fitted to trample down and overpower her, when their happiness or their desires crossed. Calm reflection recalled her courage and her firmness. Let her but walk straight on, he could not hurt her. The spirit of evil itself was powerless to harm those who trusted in “the shadow of those Almighty wings,” which she believed stretched out over her and hers: and should she then fear one who was but man? No; he might pain, but he could not injure her, unless he enticed her feet from that narrow path of duty, within which she was safe.
And as her evening prayer arose, that she might “have understanding in the way of godliness,” she felt more strongly than ever thatthatway did not point to becoming Charles Huyton’s wife.
When the family met at breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan announced, that Hilary was quite well enough to go home that day, and therefore, if Mr. Huyton would be so kind as to lend them his carriage, he would no longer trespass on his hospitality.
In vain his host and Miss Fielding urged her supposed weakness, and their desires to detain them all, by every argumentwhich love and policy could devise. Mr. Duncan was calmly immovable, and they were obliged to yield the point at last. The younger girls, naturally enough, had enjoyed the change, and were extremely sorry to quit “the Ferns;” but Maurice, whose spirits and gayety seemed at times entirely to fail him, and who, except when with his father, appeared wrapped in a cloud of impenetrable gloom, was entirely on his father’s side, and expressed, as warmly as politeness permitted, a strong desire to return home before his being obliged to quit Hurstdene, an event he now daily expected.
The carriage accordingly was ordered directly after luncheon; and meantime, Maurice walked home, to give notice that they were coming, taking Gwyneth with him, that all might be ready for the reception of Hilary.
“So you are determined to leave us,” said Victoria, as she entered the dressing-room, where Hilary had breakfasted; “however, if you are so well, you will, I trust, come down stairs before quitting the house; you could surely give us your company in the saloon.”
“I shall be better at home,” replied Miss Duncan; “I am very anxious to be there on Maurice’s account, for he will want a hundred things done and arranged, and it would be much less anxiety to me to see to it all, than to remain absent, and trust to the chance of others doing right. I can keep quiet at home, you know.”
“Yes; I can understand how quiet you will be, from what I know of your usual habits; you will only wait on your father incessantly, see to your brother’s having every comfort, teach Nest, look after your servants, attend to the housekeeping, and listen to every old man, sick woman, or unhappy child, who may choose to come and drawl out their long story to you. That is your quiet.”
Hilary laughed.
“Well, if all that is to be done, the sooner I get about it the better.”
“Meantime,” said Victoria, “come down stairs.”
Hilary seemed inclined to demur.
“You must,” continued Miss Fielding, urgently, “or I shall conclude it is want of will, not want of power, prevents you.”
“I will come down by-and-by,” said Hilary, gently, “but I dare not exhaust myself before I take this little journey; and if you would be so very kind as to let me, I should like to lie down and rest now.”
Victoria really could not find in her heart to oppose Hilary’s meek petition, or to say any more at present about her own wishes; so giving her friend a kiss, she settled her comfortably on the sofa, and then left her to peace and solitude.
“Will she not come down, Victoria?” asked Charles, eagerly, as he met her on the stairs.
Victoria told him what had passed, and strongly recommended, under present circumstances, patience and caution on his part. His rival, if Captain Hepburn was his rival, was gone, and had left without an explanation; but although the field was thus open to him, it by no means followed, that he should rush forward hastily and unadvisedly. She was not in a state to bear it, and he might lose all, by hazarding too much.
It was about half an hour before luncheon, when Hilary, leaning on Victoria’s arm, eventually entered the saloon, where Mr. Huyton had been passing the morning, in an uncontrollable state of restless impatience. How he sprang forward to meet her at the door, and how carefully he provided the easiest chair in the pleasantest corner of the room for her accommodation, may be imagined. His manners seemed scarcely to allow that any other person could have the least claim upon her; and his whole wish seemed to be to engross her himself. But Hilary would sit near her father, would give her principal attention to him, and would at first, when she spoke, whisper in her soft voice, words which marked her regard and consideration for him as her principal object.
Presently, however, gathering courage and firmness, she turned to her host, and said:
“I have no doubt that my father has conveyed the thanks I sent by him, Mr. Huyton; but let me now for myself, thank you again for your share in the exertions which saved my life. I was too weak to say so yesterday. I hope you believe that I am grateful.”
“If ever an action brought its own reward,” said he, in a low voice, and placing his hand on the fingers which rested on the arm of her chair; “it was mine, when I bore you from the water, and laid you safely on the bank. I can conceive only one degree of happiness greater than that.”
“My strength was so completely exhausted,” said Hilary, drawing away her hand to pass it across her forehead, “that had I not been relieved from the weight of Nest, and released from her struggles, I must have sunk in another moment.”
“Poor little thing! she was unconscious how she increased your danger,” replied Charles; he could not bring himself to say the words of praise to his rival’s presence of mind, which were his due, and which Hilary half hoped to hear. Presently he added, looking up suddenly:
“And youwillgo to-day! is that kind, Miss Duncan, to hurry away the moment you can move; at any risk to leave my house, rather than oblige me?”
“You know, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, “we have sometimes other things to consider, besides obliging our friends; but it can not justly be called unkindness to do our duty; and mine takes me home to-day.”
“Of course, if yourdutytakes you away,” was his answer, “my pleasure or happiness must not interfere with it; they have no right to be considered for a moment.”
“I am sure my father would tell you that the two can not really be at variance,” answered Hilary, earnestly. “If we both follow the road of duty, we may be certain that we shall not come into dangerous collision. They are lines which never clash, except through carelessness or mistake. They may diverge widely, they may run parallel, but they will have no unsafe crossings, if we take conscience for our engineer.”
“True, dear child,” said Mr. Duncan, “as your favorite poet says:
“‘Duty, like a strict preceptor,Sometimes frowns or seems to frown;’
“‘Duty, like a strict preceptor,Sometimes frowns or seems to frown;’
“‘Duty, like a strict preceptor,
Sometimes frowns or seems to frown;’
still, when we have the courage to look her calmly in the face, we shall find the frown is our mistake; a mere shadow cast by fear or over-anxious wishes.”
Mr. Huyton make no further objections, and the family were permitted to return to the Vicarage, as had been proposed. Nobody, however, could prevent his riding beside the carriage the whole way, or to forbid his being there to hand Hilary out when she descended from it; it was very disagreeable to her, but he would not see that; and even when she entered the house, he appeared extremely reluctant to take his leave, and allow her to rest in peace.
Once more in her place at home, and gathering strength, every hour, from the pleasure of being there, Hilary could not avoid immediately perceiving the extreme depression of spirits which overpowered Maurice; and with a woman’s quickness, made more acute by her own recent experience, she decided that his unfortunate attachment to Dora, must in some way be the cause. Of the existence of this attachment she had been for some time aware; but not guessing what had really passed between them, she concluded that it was his own sense of its hopelessness which oppressed her brother. Eager to bury those too-encroaching thoughts of another person, which were continually creeping into her mind, she would yield nothing to the lassitude of recent illness, would allow herself no rest, lest memory should be engrossed by one image; but resolutely engaged in all her usual occupations, and threw herself with more than her former zeal into the cares, hopes, and pleasures of those around her. Of these, naturally, Maurice was the first, after her father; and his affairs, indeed, were peculiarly prominent just then. Captain Hepburn had written to say, that he had received the promise of Maurice’s appointment to thePandanus; so that they might now expect his removal any day. But however excited or restless, anxious or happy, such a prospect might make him, his sister saw clearly this was not all; and earnestly hoping that a confidence she had so long enjoyed would not now be withdrawn, she watched him with affectionate attention and silent pity.
It was not till the day following, that she received from him an explanation, which told her how truly he deserved the pity she had already bestowed, and how much real, though unacknowledged, sympathy there was between them.
They were sitting together on Tuesday afternoon, just arranging about an expedition to be undertaken by Mr. Duncan, his son, and Gwyneth, when the Drewhurst carriage drove up to the door. At the first glimpse of the liveries in the distance, Maurice had started up; but when the carriage passed the window, he sat down again quietly, and whispered to his sister, there was only Miss Barham in it.
Isabel entered alone. She came to inquire after Hilary; it appeared that she and her father had driven over to “the Ferns,” expecting to find the Duncans still there; and that on discovering the mistake, Mr. Barham had decided to remain with Mr. Huyton, having some magistrates’ matters to talk over, while his daughter proceeded to the Vicarage. Isabel said that Mr. Huyton had offered to accompany them; but her father thought that such an incursion in the Vicarage drawing-room would be overpowering, so after luncheon she had come alone. She would not, therefore, remain very long, as papa would be expecting her back to pick him up; but she was delighted to see how well Hilary was looking, quite like herself again! getting home must have done her a world of good. When questioned about her sister, she answered that Dora was not well; she thought the hot weather disagreed with her; she complained of head-ache; could not eat, and was very pale; a common effect of heat on her constitution. Papa talked of sending her to some friends in the north, for change of air. He meant to remain at the Abbey himself, for the present, and of courseIsabel must be with him; he could not spare her; but Lady Margaret would take Dora to Scotland, or Scarborough, or Germany; it was not quite settled which; and she believed they would go very soon.
“Now I must go,” exclaimed Isabel, starting up, “or papa will not trust me alone again. Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Maurice Duncan, I thought you were gone to sea. Surely Mr. Huyton told us you were appointed to some ship.”
“Perhaps I maybe,” said Maurice, trying to speak carelessly, then remembering that what he said might be repeated to Dora, he added, “I expect it any day: I heard it was to come, and of course, it will be soon.”
“Well then I wish youbon voyage,” replied Isabel, lightly; “I am so very glad to have seen you once more before you go, to say so. Good-by, Hilary, dear! mind and get well. Do you know, papa wants Mr. Huyton to stand for the county, and I dare say he will; and with papa’s interest, I have no doubt he will succeed. He ought to be an M.P. Papa says, few people know how really clever he is, he is so quiet and modest. But we want such men for the country. So papa says. Good-by.”
Hilary watched the carriage drive away, and as Isabel’s pink and white feathers disappeared in the distance, she sighed to think what would she not give to be able to hope that Mr. Huyton would really transfer to the heiress of Drewhurst Abbey the affection which he had hitherto wasted on herself.
It was with the utmost difficulty that poor Maurice was able to command his attention and spirits sufficiently to be the usual cheerful companion to his father. But on his return he hurried into the garden, and there, when Hilary was able to seek him, she discovered him stretched on the sloping bank of the terrace, with his face covered by his arms. She sat down beside him, and gently passing her hands through his curly hair, she whispered,
“Dear Maurice!”
He turned his face toward her, and she, putting her lips to his cheek, again whispered,
“I was afraid you were very unhappy.”
“Oh, Hilary, I am such a wretch, such a thoughtless, selfish, cruel fellow! If you knew all—” was his exclamation, with a passionate misery of look and manner most unusual to him.
“Indeed, dear Maurice, I can not believe you. You may, perhaps, have been thoughtless, though that is not like you; but cruel, selfish! never. Oh no, I know you better!”
“You don’t know, dear; you could not guess what I have done; how I have pained and half-broken the dearest, warmest, most loving little heart in the world; how I have dimned her smiles, and clouded her sunshine, and made both her head and heart ache. Yes, it is all my fault; mine, mine entirely.”
“Yours, dear Maurice!”
“Yes, Hilary, she loves me; it is no idle vanity which misleads me; she said it—she owned it with tears and sobs—with fear and trembling, and yet in spite of both grief and terror, that she loved me; she, the bright—the rich—the beautiful; she lovedme! and what has it brought her? Grief and pain, sickness and fear; and all for me! I, who though I would lay down my life for her, am not worthy to touch the tip of her little finger! I, who have no claim, except that of deep, doting, devoted, never-ending love for her. Oh! Hilary, is she not an angel to love me!”
“But why, dear Maurice, why be so miserable then, if she really loves you? does Mr. Barham object?” asked Hilary, not quite understanding his incoherent exclamations.
“We dared not ask him.”
“Dared not! Maurice, that is not like you!”
“No! Dora dared not. What is there that I would not dare for her that honor did not forbid? Oh, Hilary, if you only knew how I love her!”
“But it is a pity—nay, surely, Maurice, it is wrong if you love thus, not to tell Mr. Barham! concealment never can be right, and must be doubly painful!”
“Yes, Hilary,” said her brother, rising upright and looking steadfastly at her, “if we went on with it; but when I foundhow it was, that I was not only using up my own feelings, but acting on hers—not only making myself unhappy by indulging a presumptuous passion, but involving her in the same hopeless misery, I saw there were but two ways open to us. One to explain all to Mr. Barham, and cast ourselves on his compassion; the other to part! I would have taken the first, there would have been far less of suffering and misery; she judged otherwise, and we parted on Saturday. You heard what Isabel said to-day.”
“Then you have been neither cruel nor selfish, my dear brother, but strictly honorable and right. Imprudent, perhaps, but who can control the heart by prudence, Maurice; or prevent the growth of love, where there is sympathy and community of feeling? We can not either compel or forbid its existence, can we?” and Hilary blushed deeply, as she propounded a doctrine taught her by her late experience.
“I do not think that is right, Hilary,” replied her brother thoughtfully, considering his own circumstances, and not suspecting from what feelings she spoke. “I believe we ought to control all our passions; and if we have not the power, it must be that we have willfully thrown it away. Love is like ardent spirits, perhaps, we may refrain altogether, but if we do imbibe it we must be responsible for the ungovernable evils it produces. And, oh, Hilary!” added he, throwing himself down on the grass again, “I am a wretch for having plunged Dora in such a depth of trouble—a selfish, miserable wretch; because, even now, I can not wish her not to love me; I would give the world, I would give my hopes of promotion, that she had never begun; but I can not, try as I will, really wish her now to leave off loving me. And yet it is only sorrow and pain to her.”
“But, Maurice, better times may come—why should you despair so? who knows what may happen to induce Mr. Barham to approve of your suit, and then what happiness for you?”
“What happiness indeed! I wish Dora would let me speak. I am sure it would have been better, don’t you think so, Hilary?We could but have been refused; have had to part, and to wait; wemighthave been happier. We had better have spoken.”
“Yes, I am sure of that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “certainty would be better, and candor and openness must be the safest, because the truest path. She should have let you speak.”
“I don’t know, though,” resumed Maurice, with a strong dislike to hear even an implied censure on his idol, “she must be the best judge of that; the evils, the pain of coldness and displeasure, would have all fallen on her. She would have been the sufferer. It was natural she should shrink from the disclosure, it would cost her too dear! If I could only have borne all for her!”
“I can not imagine that she would have met with any thing half so bad as the trouble of concealment and the pain of mystery. Mr. Barham might not approve your attachment, and then he would have separated you, sent her away, or something of that sort; but that is no more than has now happened. The dictates of honor are as imperative as the commands of the sternest parent. If he had refused his consent, you must have given up all hope, and you might both trust to recovering in time from an unfortunate love.”
“Hilary, you don’t know! Love like mine lasts for life,” was his determined answer.
“But perhaps it might not with her; and you know you must really wish her to be happy. If she had no hope she would gradually recover her serenity; at least I think one must if hope were really gone; but now she will not only have the sickening misery of protracted suspense, but the fear of discovery, and the pain of acting a part—of in appearance deceiving her father.”
“Deceiving! how unjust you are; she is incapable of deceit.”
“I only said the appearance, dear Maurice; but why should she fear to own her love? You are not unworthy of it; noble birth, indeed, you have not, but, except that and money, youhave every thing a man can want! Education, profession—why, Maurice, your profession has been followed by a king!—person, manners, temper, principles. Oh, what could Mr. Barham ask better; and you have no low connections—nothing to shock aristocratic prejudices; the son of a gentleman, and of an old, good family! Why should Dora fear to own you—to acknowledge her love? A love returned, confessed as yours is, and Mr. Barham never prevented your being together. Dora has been allowed to come here as she pleased. Surely she must be mistaken in her judgment on this occasion.”
“I wish you could persuade her so.”
“I will try when I can see her,” said Hilary.
“But it must be before I go, dear,” returned Maurice, eagerly. “If I am ordered off, and have to leave this unexplained, it would be base and cowardly then to throw all the burden and pain on her alone. I could not do that!”
“I think even then, at any rate, it would be right to avow it all, and let the consequences follow as they might. Every week’s delay must add to the evil.”
“If you could but see her, Hilary! but she will not come here, I know. Where could you meet her? Could you go to the Abbey?”
“How, dear Maurice? I have no means,” said Hilary.
“Perhaps Mrs. Paine could take you over, or Miss Fielding. If you could contrive it! do think about some way of meeting!”
Eager to fulfill her brother’s wishes, Hilary turned her mind entirely to the means of their accomplishment; and in her self-devotion to his interest, contrived to forget, in a great degree, her own feelings of suspense and anxiety. She would not indulge in contemplation, she would not listen to the whispers of hope, or to the cold insinuations of fear and doubt. She put away all retrospective glances, and stilled her mind with a calm, but fixed resolution, to wait in patience, and trust for the future, whatever its result might be.
She sent a note to Mrs. Paine to ask if she could drive her over to the Abbey the next day, saying, that having heard fromIsabel that Dora was suffering, and likely soon to leave home, she was very desirous of seeing her. Maurice carried the note, eager to do something, and finding action less painful than quiet and thought. But the owners of Primrose Bank were out when he arrived there; and after wandering for some time in the vicinity, in hopes of meeting them, Maurice was obliged to return home without a reply.
It was about twelve the next day, as the family at the Vicarage were sitting together, that the carriage from “the Ferns” drove up. Much to Miss Duncan’s relief, she saw at a glance that there were only the two ladies in it; and in a few minutes Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were in the parlor, the one as full of kindness, and the other of energy and gayety, as usual. They were delighted to find Hilary so much improved. As well as ever they said, no trace of languor or paleness visible. This was true, for the sight of them excited her, and they could not tell that the pink hue in her cheeks, and her apparent self-possession and activity, were the result of high-wrought, but concealed, feelings of suffering anxiety. Victoria’s object was to take her out for a drive, Mrs. Fielding to remain with Mr. Duncan while his eldest daughter was away.
No answer had come from Mrs. Paine; Hilary saw Maurice look at her with imploring eyes; and although hardly liking to ask the favor of Victoria, she was strongly tempted to beg at once to be driven over to the Abbey. It was, however, by no means improbable that any minute might bring the answer from Mrs. Paine, and until that arrived, she could decide nothing. She could only explain to Victoria how far she was pre-engaged; and while doing so, Mr. Paine himself walked in, bringing an excuse from his wife. She was not well, and the poney-carriage had met with an accident; but if to-morrow would do, it should be at her service. To-morrow, Hilary thought, might be too late: Maurice was in an agony of impatience, Victoria was urgent and persuasive, and she herself, afraid of yielding to selfish feelings, and sacrificing her brother’s happiness to her own scruples,gave way at length to the united influence of her companions, and prepared to accompany Miss Fielding.
Certain thoughts as to what Captain Hepburn would think, if he knew she was driving in Mr. Huyton’s carriage, were put away as intrusive and selfish; there was no occasion to connect the latter at all with the act, the obligation was conferred by Victoria alone, and need concern no one else; and as she hoped to be of use to Maurice, there was every excuse for taking her present step.