CHAPTERXIV.“You ‘never loved me!’—No, you never knew—You with youth’s dews yet glittering on your soul—What ’tis tolove. Slow, drop by drop, to pourOur life’s whole essence perfumed through and through,With all the best we have, or can control,For the libation! cast it down beforeYour feet—then lift the goblet dry for evermore!”Anonymous.One afternoon, Mr. Duncan and two of his daughters had gone over to Primrose Bank, Hilary being left with only Nest as her companion. The child had been reading to her sister until she was tired, and then leaving her to reflection and silence on the green bank of the terrace, she strayed away to the garden-gate. She looked across the green, with no very particular expectation of seeing any object worth her attention, but with a vague childish curiosity, which was always prepared for a marvel or a pleasure. She saw some one approaching; a gentleman, a tall man; perhaps it was Mr. Huyton, perhaps Mr. Paine, or may be, thought she, it is Maurice: she was too young to consider probabilities, or understand the troublesome restraints of propriety and decorum; and too well known, and too much petted generally in the parish, to have any fear of a repulse, or dread of a rebuff. The gate was unlatched; out she ran, and skipped across the turf to meet the individual in question. After advancing a hundred yards, however, she saw that she was mistaken; Maurice it was not: no, nor Mr. Huyton—it was a fuller figure, a firmer step; she slackened her pace one minute, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at him attentively. It was!—yes—it was one of whom her sister hadspoken much! one to whom her father had told her she owed her life; one whose name had been joined with those of her own family in her prayers for blessings on his head. It was Captain Hepburn himself! She rushed on joyfully; and breathless with her race, eager, excited, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, she reached him, caught his outstretched hand in her little fat fingers, and covered it with grateful kisses.“Dear Nest!” said he, raising the child in his arms, and looking at her glittering eyes, “how are you? how are your sisters—all?”“Oh! Captain Hepburn, I am so glad to see you; now I can thank you,” was her only reply: and she threw her arms round his neck and laid her cheek close to his.“For what, dear child?” said he. His thoughts were of Hilary, and he hardly remembered that Nest had any thing to be grateful for.“For picking me out of that horrid black water,” said she, in a whisper. “I have so wanted to see you since; but you know you went away without saying good-by to me or Hilary.”“Do you remember that day, Nest?” said he, walking slowly on, with her in his arms.“Oh, yes! so well; my slipping down, and the bubbling water, and the cold, and the choking feeling here in my throat and head, and such a pain, oh, dear! I dream sometimes now, at night, of the bank, and the gurgle of the waves, and wake with such a start. I did not like to wash my face for some days afterward. But is it not odd, Captain Hepburn?—I can remember nothing about you taking me out. I should not have known you did, if they had not told me so!”“Who told you?”“Papa and the others?”“Hilary?”“No,” replied Nest, gravely; “they will not let me talk to her about it. Sybil told me not; and she never has spoken about it at all, since she has been ill.”“She is well now?” said he, inquiringly.“Better, but not well. She can not walk much. She is in the garden.”“Will she see me, do you think?” said he, stopping at the porch, and setting Nest on one of the benches.“I don’t know,” replied the little girl, gravely. “She has seen nobody but Mr. Paine, for days. She could not see Mr. Huyton, when he came last, though he sent me to ask her; and you know he pulled her out of the water, as you did me. She said she was too ill.”“But she is better now,” said he, earnestly; “perhaps she will not mind me. Is your papa in?”“No, only Hilary, and she is in the garden. I will go and ask her, if you like; or you will come, and she must see you then.”He hardly thought such a surprise desirable, and suggested that Nest should go on first. But Hilary, who had missed her sister, had risen to look for her, and met the child the moment after she turned the corner of the house; so that the gentleman had the opportunity of ascertaining that he might, so far as an abrupt introduction was concerned, almost as well have presented himself at first.“Oh, Hilary! will you see Captain Hepburn?” was her exclamation.“Nest, what do you mean?” he heard in a hurried, fluttered accent, and he was sure she had stopped short in her approach.“Don’t be pale, Hilary—don’t be frightened,” said Nest, coaxingly. “You have not seen him since that horrid day, I know; and when I saw him it made me remember all, and made me feel funny, I do not know how; but it goes off, and now I am only glad.”“But, Nest,” he heard her saying, and there was a catching in her voice, which, to his anxious ear, told of a struggle with excitement and surprise, perhaps of deeper feeling too, “have you seen him?”He could stand still no longer. Advancing from the porch, he met her on the lawn. She was stooping over her sister whenhe turned the corner of the house, but she raised her head at the sound of his feet, and stood still. She really could not take one step toward him, and had not her hand rested on little Nest’s shoulder, perhaps she could hardly even have stood at all. There was a beating at her heart, a throbbing in every pulse, which seemed to suffocate her; there was a mist and confusion before her eyes which, for a moment, blended sky and earth, trees, shadows, and Captain Hepburn, in one wavering cloud of darkness. She had no thought or feeling, except a wish to stand upright, and a sensation that to speak was impossible. How they met she did not know. The warm clasp of his hand on hers was the first thing of which she was quite aware; he was by her, he was looking at her, but he was silent as herself.The first words he spoke were not those of greeting, but as if they formed a part of a long preceding conversation, and in a tone that implied a whole world of tenderness and anxiety.“Come in now and sit down; I grieve to see you are still so weak!”He drew her hand within his arm and led her toward the porch, while she revived to the comforting conclusion that perhaps he thought her agitation was the effect alone of bodily, not mental weakness. She yielded to his guidance, wishing heartily that she could speak, but doubting her power too much to make the effort.When he saw her safe in a large easy chair, he sat down by her, and said, in a quiet voice:“I left Maurice quite well yesterday, very busy and enthusiastic about his ship.”“Happy, too,” ejaculated Hilary, her thoughts instantly reverting to her brother’s cares and troubles, and forgetting at once all her own embarrassments. “How are his spirits?”“Variable, perhaps; at least I fancied so, when he was not actually employed; but better than at first.”She looked at him, anxious to try and ascertain what he knew or suspected of Maurice’s feelings; but meeting his grave,dark eyes, she was recalled to a recollection of herself and him; she colored again, hesitated, and broke off a half-uttered word abruptly.He waited to allow her time to recover, then finding she was silent, he said:—“Were you going to ask how long we should be fitting out? I think in three weeks more we shall report ourselves ready for sea!”The easiest thing for her to do was to repeat his words, “Three weeks!”“Come here, Nest,” said the Captain, “Maurice sent you his love, and a great many kisses. Shall I give them to you?”“Did Maurice give them toyoufirst?” inquired Miss Nest, with a look half coquettish, half demure, and holding back from him.Even Hilary smiled at the idea, but he went on.“He wants you to send him some of those double violets which grow in your garden. You are to put them in a letter which is to go by post.”“I will go and gather some,” screamed she, in an ecstasy of delight at the idea, and darted away.He turned to his other companion.“Do you remember?” said he, bending a look on her she could not meet.“What?” in a low, trembling whisper, was all she could say.“These, and what preceded them!” and he drew out and opened a paper, and showed her the contents.She did remember; she saw the withered flowers, the white ribbon tied in a peculiar knot. They recalled all: the whispered words, the gay festival, the alarm, the accident, the agony of fear, the rescue, and the parting look. Embarrassment and personal feeling were merged in one sentiment, stronger still, gratitude! Clasping her hands, and raising to him a look of trustful earnest, tender gratitude, she exclaimed: “And I have never thanked you; let me now. Oh, Captain Hepburn! you who risked your life for Nest and me, what do we not owe you?” Her tearful eyes said more, far more than her words.“The risk was nothing,” said he, hastily; “do not speak of that; and the prize was all that I hold dearest on earth!” He had said it at last; she had almost intuitively known what was coming, and she did know what must follow now. She gave him one shy glance, and then hiding her face upon her clasped hands, she tried to conceal the blushes which burnt upon her cheeks.“Yes, Hilary, it is the truth! the world does not hold another object so dear to me as you. Are you displeased with me for saying so? For you, for your happiness, your welfare, your peace, there is not the thing which I would not dare or suffer myself; and to win your love! if I only knew how to dothat!”—He stopped and made a gentle effort to take her hand; it was yielding unresistingly. He ventured to draw a little nearer, and said: “Will you not give me one look, one word, at least, to show me that you are not displeased with my presumption?”She looked up at him; there was an earnest expression in his eyes, a deeply-anxious tone in his voice, a humility, a self-mistrust in his whole air and manner, which told that it was no set form of self-depreciating words without meaning, no assumption of suspense to conceal real assurance and hope; he was at that moment truly suffering from struggling doubts and fears; he was putting his happiness to the test, to win or lose it all.The look she did give him was not discouraging: it was not likely to be, with her feelings. Fears as to the past, doubts for the future, present anxieties, weakness, uncertainty, were all swept away in the rush of gratified feelings and tender satisfaction. He loved her; he, the good, the wise, the brave, the courageous man; he who could deliberately and unflinchingly face danger, and confront death, not only in the tumult of excitement, amid the plaudits of the multitude, but also in the chamber of sickness, by the bed of infection, in the stillness of the hospital, where none but true courage or dull apathy could remain unmoved by fear; he was now waiting, in tremblingsuspense, for her decision, and deprecating her displeasure with a humility he would hardly have shown to a monarch.She saw the immense power which she had over him, and she saw it with delight. Not the delight of gratified vanity, the satisfaction of the coquette who rejoices in giving pain; but the pleasure of a loving and grateful heart, exulting in the discovery that it has the means to confer happiness where it has felt deep obligation, and the gentle triumph of maiden modesty, at last assured that it has not bestowed affection unauthorized and unwished for.She owed him her life, and her sister’s also; and she had that in her power which he said would repay the benefit. He had placed his happiness with his heart at her disposal, and she could reward the generous gift by a single word.With an air of the most betwitching modesty and confidence, she raised her head, she held out both her hands, and said, “Captain Hepburn, you have made me happy by the assurance of your love;” then fearing she had said too much, she would have drawn back, but she was not allowed; his thanks and raptures were too warm, too energetic to be interrupted.“I could not leave England,” he said, presently, “without explaining my mind, small as my hope of such an answer was; I trusted, that perhaps you would think of me, let me try to deserve you, let me endeavor to win your love. I feared that silence and absence might lead to misconstructions, might make you doubt my sincerity, blame and mistrust me. Believe me, I dared not flatter myself that you felt more than a friendly interest; what have I to tempt you, Hilary, that you should condescend to love me? It is only your own goodness, your sweetness, which inclines you to listen to me favorably. If you knew me better, I fear you would value me less.”She shook her head a little, and with downcast eyes, and lips just parting into a smile, she said, “I do notloveall those whom I have known much longer.”He knew it well; for he knew he had a rival, and shemight almost have seen that he did so, had she been able to look at him.“Hilary, I know you will be true to me, while I am at sea; I feel that I may trust you once and forever; and when I return, you will become my wife.”“I will never leave my father, Captain Hepburn; I will form no engagement—plight no promise, which can in the least interfere with his comfort, or my attention to him. His claims first, and then yours may be considered. You think me right, do you not?” added she, anxiously, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in his face, where she fancied she saw a shadow gather. On that question she felt all her happiness depended.“Right, Hilary, in your estimation of your duty; only wrong in your estimation of me. Do you think I would tempt you away? or that I could look for happiness with you, if it was bought at the price of neglecting your first duty? I hoped you knew me better.”Her answer was to lay her head upon his shoulder, and whisper gently, “Had I thought so, you would not be what you are to me, Captain Hepburn. I trust you entirely; and promise, one day, to be yours. When, we can not tell.”“And hear me, dearest, renew the vow I once made, never to ask you to give me your hand, unless our marriage can be compatible with your father’s comfort. I will wait—I will be patient—I will consider only your happiness and your peace. Since you have condescended to promise me your faith, I feel that no sacrifice on my part can be too great to repay you. It is so good of you to love me. I have no better home, no fortune, no worldly station, or importance to offer you. I have so little to tempt you. Ardent, devoted love, and a share in an unblemished name, that is nearly all; and if you condescend to accept this, shall I not agree to your terms, and consult your pleasure? Indeed, it seems to me such a wonder that you should love me, that I feel tempted to ask again, are you sure you do? What have I done to deserve such happiness?”“Done! if I were not afraid of spoiling you by praise,” replied Hilary, smiling, then stopping; she added, after a minute’s pause, and in a tone of emotion, “done! who saved me, by saving Nest? who dared what others hesitated to do? do I not know you brave, and prompt, and energetic?—no, do not interrupt me, manymighthave done as much, perhaps; but who saved Maurice? whose watchful care preserved my brother? who sat by him when others feared infection, or shrank from the terrors of delirium? You may have known me only for a fortnight, I have known and valued you, Captain Hepburn, for many, many weeks—for months, indeed.”“It shall ever be my humble prayer, it shall be my most earnest endeavor, Hilary, not to disappoint your trusting love; and Heaven helping me, I hope to repay it in kindness, in affection, in guarding you from evil all your life long.” He spoke very gravely; he was much moved by her warmth. “Words are too poor to paint my gratitude to you for the honor you do me. And so they are to describe my implicit trust in your truth, your constancy, your prudence, and your affection. That I have to ask you to wait, that I am forced to leave you to the anxiety and trouble which I fear our separation may cause you, gives me great pain and grief for your sake; I would gladly spare you every shadow of care, I would gladly devote my life to you from this time. I grieve, but I trust you entirely. Will you believe as fully in my constancy as I do in yours, sweetest Hilary?”“Yes.”That single word satisfied him completely.When Nest came back from the garden, and the clergyman and his daughter from Primrose Bank, they interrupted a very happy conversation; one full of all the sweetness which confidence and affection, hope and gratitude, can inspire.It may be easily believed that after this explanation Hilary recovered both strength and spirits with a rapidity which surprised and delighted her sisters and friends: it may be readily imagined, that young ladies of Sybil’s and Gwyneth’s ages entertainedtheir own theories, and formed their own opinions, when they found Captain Hepburn once more at the Vicarage; opinions and guesses which proved to have been surprisingly near the truth, when we consider their age and education. Mr. Huyton’s acquaintance had existed so long, and his friendship had been so diffused in the family, that they had never thought of him as a suitor to their sister; but, from the first, they had settled between themselves, that Captain Hepburn must fall in love with her. There was every thing to recommend such an arrangement in their eyes. He was grave and quiet, the nearest approach they could hope for to a mysterious and suspicious character; while, on the contrary, Charles was so lively and talkative, that they could imagine neither concealment nor reserve in his case. Then, too, their favorite hero was comparatively poor, and had a profession which would be attended by possible danger as well as renown, would certainly occasion long absences, and might give rise to romantic incidents, doubts, distresses, and heroic difficulties. All this was a charming contrast with Charles Huyton’s fortune and station in life; who besides, as they thought, not caring for Hilary, could only, had he wished to marry her, have offered her a matter-of-fact, readymade, and every-day sort of home; it would have been an engagement, presenting no difficulties except that of getting her wedding-clothes properly made, and offering no romance, except their first meeting, now nearly forgotten.Not that the girls wished their sister any harm, or had the slightest dislike to seeing her happy; but at their age the quiet monotony of a prosperous life seems dull in prospect, and they had no idea that misery and misfortune, anxiety, suspense, and sorrow were not the most pleasant accompaniments of life, when occasioned by sufficiently romantic and poetic causes. They did not know how reality strips suffering of romance, not only to the individual who grieves, but to the spectators who witness it: and that mourners who go about the daily affairs of life, hiding a broken heart under an outward calmness, may be extremely interesting to read of, but hardly excite so much actualsympathy and compassion, as one who has to walk through the world with a wooden leg.But all this these two girls had yet to learn; and in the mean time they were greatly rejoiced when they understood how rightly they had guessed, and learned that the evident and marked devotion with which Captain Hepburn had listened to Hilary, watched her footsteps, conversed with her, and finally saved her life (for they always gave him the whole credit of that adventure, and were, perhaps, for his sake, a little unjust to Charles), when they learned that this was finally to be rewarded with her love and faith. In short, the engagement gave them perfect satisfaction.Mr. Duncan was very well pleased; yet he certainly would have preferred the richerparti: he liked Charles, perhaps, a little better than he did the other; and there could be no doubt as to which, in common language, was the best match. If Hilary was happy, there was nothing more to be required; but he would certainly have wished either that Captain Hepburn had been in Charles Huyton’s place as regarded position, or that Charles Huyton had been the accepted suitor.But if Hilary was happy, that was enough. And she was happy, exquisitely happy; for the five days that her lover was able to remain, she was as joyful and blithe as a bird. She recovered her health, of course; she went about her daily tasks singing and smiling, making every body near her partakers in her gayety. She felt she had one to trust to now, on whom she should have a claim; she looked forward with pleasure, and saw the future very bright. In the happy hours they spent together, she found one to whom she could express her past difficulties, her bygone sorrows and trials, one whose firmness strengthened, and whose tenderness comforted her. Oh! what delightful seasons of confidence these were; dearly prized at the time—more dearly still in memory.Maurice had told his friend his troubles and sorrows; so Hilary could discuss his prospects with her lover; and though perhaps a little shocked at the depreciating view he took ofDora’s conduct, the earnestness with which he hoped that Maurice would recover from his attachment, and the certainty with which he predicted that the lady would probably forsake him, she would not have been a true woman had she not speedily adopted his opinions, and become a convert to his views even before she had quite done combatting them. One subject there was on which they did not touch; one topic on which Hilary, supposing him to be ignorant, herself preserved silence, and on which he, aware of her reserve, respected her feelings of delicacy too much to intrude.The knowledge that Charles Huyton had been perseveringly repulsed, that wealth and station, abilities, personal charms, flattery and importunity, had failed to gain the heart which was now his own, was very sweet. If there is the man in the world whose pleasure in his own success would not be enhanced by such considerations, let him triumph in his conscious stoicism. I do not believe that there is; some might plume themselves on their own superior fascinations, some might rejoice in the lady’s disinterested love; some might value themselves—some her the more for such knowledge, but satisfaction of one kind or other, I imagine, every one would feel. For the present, however, Captain Hepburn concealed this source of satisfaction with as much scrupulous care as Hilary herself; and, but for an occurrence which even on this topic broke down their reserve, they would, probably, have parted when his leave of absence called him away, without any allusion to the matter.Captain Hepburn had letters of business to write; and Hilary, taking advantage of the opportunity, set off to pay some visits in the village. The night had been stormy, but the morning was fair and bright, and Hilary, walking briskly, was soon at a cottage about half a mile on the road toward “the Ferns,” whose inmates it was convenient for her to visit alone. The food, the clothes, and the advice all given, she was just issuing from the garden gate when she was addressed by Charles, who, throwing himself from his horse, advanced quickly to greet her. She was surprised, for she had believedhim still absent from the country; and a mixture of other feelings, which his sight recalled, gave her an air of emotion, sensibility, and bashfulness, which he readily interpreted in the way most flattering to himself. Had he known whom she had left writing letters at her little table at home, he would perhaps have been as anxious to avoid the interview as herself; but ignorant of what had passed since they last met, he very joyfully took his horse’s reins upon his arm, and walked himself by her side. The usual form of questioning about friends and relations, recent occupations, his journey and his return, was gone through, and was followed by a silence of some duration. This was broken by Hilary, who, casting an anxious look at the clouds now gathering ominously overhead, observed, that she was afraid there was going to be a storm. She had hardly said the words when down came the rain in large drops, rapidly increasing in number every moment. There was a sawyer’s pit at a short distance with a shed beside it, and as this seemed the only shelter within reach, and the rain appeared likely to be violent, they quickly agreed to take refuge there; hoping that the shower would be as brief as it was sudden. She was most anxious to get on home; perhaps Captain Hepburn would have done work, and would miss her; perhaps her father might want her. So she thought, as she stood for a minute or two at the entrance to the shed, looking wistfully up at the clouds, and watching those flitting gleams of brighter sky which occasionally seemed to promise a clearing up. Still the rain went on, and as drops began to penetrate through the slight roof where she stood, he said,“Come further in, Miss Duncan; it will not clear the quicker for your watching; and here is a nice block of wood, which will form a seat for you, where it is quite dry.”The easiest thing to do was to comply; she sat down accordingly, and he placed himself beside her. Then a sudden conviction came over her that something was to follow; and with a sort of desperate hope of stopping him, of avoiding a renewal of what was so painful, she began to talk of other things, the season,the harvest, the people, any thing for a subject. He listened in silence; his eyes were fixed on the open doorway; he might have been counting the drops which fell from the eaves, so steadily did he gaze that way. Her ideas, unsupported by any help from him, necessarily came to an end; and when she paused, it was his turn to speak.“Hilary, tell me, once more let me speak; has my changeless devotion no influence on you?”She shook her head.“None! yet of late you have seemed to encourage me; you have accepted—at least you have not repelled—my attentions; you have allowed me to distinguish you as my first object; you have permitted those advances from my family which were intended to show how they would welcome you as one of themselves; you have graced myfêtewith your presence; your name has already been whispered round the neighborhood as the object, as the recipient of my vows: has not all this given me a right to hope; does all this go for nothing, for unmeaning form with you?”“I do not understand your language, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, in great suprise; “your tone and manner are alike new and unpleasant. May I ask you to drop this subject while we are compelled to remain together here!”“You would ask in vain; my happiness, my welfare in life, every hope here and hereafter is bound up in the thoughts of you, in the wish to make you my wife!”She tried to stop him as he spoke, but her gentle interruption was quite unheeded as he poured out his vehement declarations.“Why have you refused to see me, shut yourself up, and banished me from your house? What makes you, one so tender, loving, gentle as you, what makes you so hard, so unpersuadable to me? What have I done that you will not love me? What is there in me, about me, belonging to me, that makes me disagreeable? And why this coquetry; at one time readily listening, calmly permitting, if not encouraging, my devotion,then denying me all interest, all concern; repulsing me entirely? Is this fair! just! right! Hilary! Do you think those who witnessed your peril, and your rescue, in my park, doubted the motives which nerved my arm and warmed my heart? Do you think their plaudits were valued for any thing besides the worth they might give me in your eyes? And, Hilary, is my reward to be ever the no! no! no! which dooms me to misery, despair, and heartless solitude?”Mr. Huyton rose as he spoke, and stood before her in magnificent desperation. She looked at him amazed; he was strangely altered. He was no longer the humble suppliant; he seemed to think he had earned a right other, that she was his in equity.“Mr. Huyton, you are unjust, and such language as this is strangely unpleasant to hear. I do not know what claim you have to speak so. I have never intentionally done any thing to give you hopes that I should change as you wish. Again, I must ask you to be silent, or I shall leave this shelter; I would rather encounter the storm without, than listen to such words.”“You do not know my claim? It is the claim of love, constant, unchanging love, the love of years. Not the feeble growth of a week’s intercourse; the every-day admiration, which at one moment distinguishes its object, the next leaves it without a sigh or a struggle; it is the passionate glowing devotion which rises beyond every earthly consideration, which sets neither honor nor duty above it—which knows no honor, owns no duty except that of loving unchangeably and deeply. This is my claim, who can produce a better? who has striven harder, longer, more devotedly, to make this love apparent?”“I will neither listen to, nor answer such language,” replied she, decidedly; “let me pass.”“I will not,” said he, placing himself in the door-way; “do you suppose I would allow you to go out in this storm, expose yourself to such risk? Sit still.”“Then,” said Hilary, reseating herself, “as you are a man and a gentleman, be silent.”“You were not always so sternly resolute, Hilary!”“Nor you so—” she stopped.“So what? speak out, say what you mean at once,” said he, advancing close to her.“No, I shall not,” replied she, more gently; “I am sure that you do not wish to give me pain, and that this unpleasant topic will be dropped henceforth.”“But do you not pity me?” ejaculated he, seating himself again by her side, and clasping her hand so firmly that she could not withdraw it.“Yes.”“And nothing more, Hilary? esteem, regard, kindly feelings, are all these gone, or did you never entertain them toward me?”“You did not ask for these, Mr. Huyton; you asked for love, which alone I could not give.”“Are you sure?” said he, gazing intently at her. “Are you certain that it is not pride of consistency, or ignorance of your own feelings which misleads you? Do you know what love is, Hilary?”“I do,” said she, in desperation, resolved, even at the risk of raising an indignant jealousy, which she instinctively dreaded, to end his painful importunity. “I know what love is, and that I do not feel it for you.”“Hilary! Hilary!” cried he, in the wildest excitement, and more firmly than ever grasping her hand; “do you mean!—what am I to understand by that avowal?”“That I have no love to give you, Mr. Huyton—my hand and my heart are another’s.” Her blushes confirmed her words.“And who has dared to step between me and my object?” said he, slowly, while his face grew dark with rising passion and jealousy. “Is it, can it be Captain Hepburn?—there is no other.”“It is,” she tried to say, but the words hardly passed her lips; she was frightened by his look and tone.“Hashedared!—what, when he was warned, when he knewmy wishes, my intentions; ah, he did not knowme! Did he think I would be balked of my object? Does he think it is safe to come between me and my aim? Hilary, dearly shall you rue the day that you give your hand to that beggarly sailor. Bitterly shall you repent the deed! While you are still Hilary Duncan, you are unspeakably dear to me, and for love’s sake, while there is hope, I will be whatever you may wish; but once destroy that hope, once take from me all possibility of winning you, and I tell you, you will wish rather that a demon had crossed your path, than that you had thwarted me.”Indignant and offended, she raised her eyes to bid him leave her instantly, and they fell on the figure of Captain Hepburn himself, whose step on the wet turf had been inaudible, but who now stood in the door-way looking at them. Her start and exclamation made Charles release her hand and turn round too; and Hilary, profiting by her freedom, sprang toward her lover, and clasped his arm as if to claim his protection.“Take me away,” she whispered, in an agitated voice.Silently and gravely, he threw round her a cloak which he carried, and carefully wrapping her in it, he drew her hand under his arm, and prepared to leave the shed.She gave one glance at Charles; he was standing with his arms crossed, and a look of haughty indifference, which she believed to be affected. In another moment they had turned away, and were taking the path homeward; but before they had gone a hundred yards, they heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs at a sharp gallop, dashing along the road to “the Ferns.” The sounds died in the distance, and Hilary, relieved and overpowered at once, very nearly burst into tears.The storm was passing away, the rain had not quite ceased, but the sunbeams were struggling through the clouds, and every tree and shrub was fringed with glittering drops of light, while the effect of the flitting shadows chasing each other over the distant landscape was beautiful to see.“There is no hurry,” said Captain Hepburn, gently checking the impetuous steps with which Hilary had at first proceeded.“Do not agitate yourself, we are quite safe. The storm is all but over now, and you may walk quietly. It is pleasant to be together here, Hilary.”A gentle pressure of the arm on which she leaned, was her only answer, she had not quite self-command enough to speak.“I wish I had come a little sooner to look for you,” added he; “had you been long there?”“I don’t know; it seemed long, it was so disagreeable,” and her voice was checked by a sob. But recovering by an effort, she added immediately: “However, it is over now, and we need not refer to it.”He did not answer for a little while, but at last he said, very gently, but with a manner which seemed to indicate that his mind was made up on the point. “Hilary, I do not think that is right, either by me or yourself, in our relative situations. If I were to remain with you, to protect and watch over you, I would not ask your confidence on that point. I could act for myself and you too. But since I must leave you so soon, and in the neighborhood of that man, whose bad passions are all raised by your refusal of his addresses, at least let me know all. Let me understand exactly what has passed, that I may form some idea of what there is to dread. Indistinctness of outline always magnifies objects. Let us view the matter calmly and clearly.”“How much do you know?” said she, looking up at him. “I never told you that.”“You did not, dear, but Miss Fielding told me at ‘the Ferns,’ that her cousin had been in love with you for years, had been refused by you once, but that he still hoped to win your love; and that thefêtewhich so nearly cost you your life, was devised and carried out as a compliment to yourself.”“Had I suspected that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “do you think any persuasion would have induced me to go there? Oh, no!”“I thought that at the time, dear Hilary; and but for the abrupt conclusion to your share in the amusements, I shouldhave taken the opportunity that afternoon, there in the very midst of my rival’s splendor and all the riches and temptations which he displayed to bribe or buy your love, to offer you my hand, and a share in my humble fortunes.”“What consummate vanity!” said Hilary, smiling up at him with eyes that told a very different tale from her words; “could not your triumph in forcing me to like you be complete without the glory of such a contrast?”“Presumption I would plead guilty to; but if you knew the doubt and hesitation with which I contemplated the effort, you would not think it was the easy feeling of satisfied vanity, Hilary. To plunge after you into the lake was a trifle, compared to the plunge I meditated at the moment. But now I will not be baffled by smiles; tell me, if you love me, all that passed between Mr. Huyton and you just now.”With crimson cheeks, she repeated as well as she could the dialogue in the shed, until he stopped her by saying, “His last speech I heard! I never liked him or his cousin; there was a something of intrigue and manœuver in her which shocked me; and forhim—perhaps I was unjust, however. But his unmanly violence to you now, is hard to forgive. Is that what he calls love? or can he suppose affection is won by threats? Dear Hilary! for your own sake, I am glad you did not love him.”“There never was any danger that I should,” said she, calmly.“Yes, there was great danger; young, simple-minded, and inexperienced as you are; too pure to suspect evil, too ignorant to know it, there was the greatest danger that this man, handsome, clever, rich, ardent, devoted, with every advantage which seclusion and leisure, time and place could supply, should have won your heart before you could rightly read his character. That your affections should have continued disengaged until I had gained them appears to me a wonder, and a thing to fill me with gratitude. Dearest Hilary! how can I be thankful enough?”“You can not imagine,” said Hilary, after a pause of gratifiedfeeling, “how great a shock it has been to me to find that he has shown himself what he is; I never could have loved him, but I did esteem and like him. I thought well of him in many respects, and to find that he is so desperate, so self-willed, so violent, has really given me great pain. Oh, I hope he will leave the country now, that we shall never meet again!”“It was ungoverned temper, Hilary, made him speak as he did; a disposition quite unaccustomed to be checked or thwarted. It will wear off. When he really sees that it is hopeless, I do not think he will continue to vex himself about it. The quick, fiery passions which explode so vehemently are not those which are the most lasting and effectual in their results. Do not vex yourself, dearest, about it. Time will smooth down his asperity, perhaps. At any rate, he can do you no harm, he can not alter my trust in you, nor, I should hope, shake your confidence in me.”Hilary’s smile showed how entirely she agreed with her lover’s opinion, which accordingly they continued to discuss, with great satisfaction, till they reached home.
“You ‘never loved me!’—No, you never knew—You with youth’s dews yet glittering on your soul—What ’tis tolove. Slow, drop by drop, to pourOur life’s whole essence perfumed through and through,With all the best we have, or can control,For the libation! cast it down beforeYour feet—then lift the goblet dry for evermore!”Anonymous.
“You ‘never loved me!’—No, you never knew—You with youth’s dews yet glittering on your soul—What ’tis tolove. Slow, drop by drop, to pourOur life’s whole essence perfumed through and through,With all the best we have, or can control,For the libation! cast it down beforeYour feet—then lift the goblet dry for evermore!”Anonymous.
“You ‘never loved me!’—No, you never knew—
You with youth’s dews yet glittering on your soul—
What ’tis tolove. Slow, drop by drop, to pour
Our life’s whole essence perfumed through and through,
With all the best we have, or can control,
For the libation! cast it down before
Your feet—then lift the goblet dry for evermore!”
Anonymous.
One afternoon, Mr. Duncan and two of his daughters had gone over to Primrose Bank, Hilary being left with only Nest as her companion. The child had been reading to her sister until she was tired, and then leaving her to reflection and silence on the green bank of the terrace, she strayed away to the garden-gate. She looked across the green, with no very particular expectation of seeing any object worth her attention, but with a vague childish curiosity, which was always prepared for a marvel or a pleasure. She saw some one approaching; a gentleman, a tall man; perhaps it was Mr. Huyton, perhaps Mr. Paine, or may be, thought she, it is Maurice: she was too young to consider probabilities, or understand the troublesome restraints of propriety and decorum; and too well known, and too much petted generally in the parish, to have any fear of a repulse, or dread of a rebuff. The gate was unlatched; out she ran, and skipped across the turf to meet the individual in question. After advancing a hundred yards, however, she saw that she was mistaken; Maurice it was not: no, nor Mr. Huyton—it was a fuller figure, a firmer step; she slackened her pace one minute, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at him attentively. It was!—yes—it was one of whom her sister hadspoken much! one to whom her father had told her she owed her life; one whose name had been joined with those of her own family in her prayers for blessings on his head. It was Captain Hepburn himself! She rushed on joyfully; and breathless with her race, eager, excited, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, she reached him, caught his outstretched hand in her little fat fingers, and covered it with grateful kisses.
“Dear Nest!” said he, raising the child in his arms, and looking at her glittering eyes, “how are you? how are your sisters—all?”
“Oh! Captain Hepburn, I am so glad to see you; now I can thank you,” was her only reply: and she threw her arms round his neck and laid her cheek close to his.
“For what, dear child?” said he. His thoughts were of Hilary, and he hardly remembered that Nest had any thing to be grateful for.
“For picking me out of that horrid black water,” said she, in a whisper. “I have so wanted to see you since; but you know you went away without saying good-by to me or Hilary.”
“Do you remember that day, Nest?” said he, walking slowly on, with her in his arms.
“Oh, yes! so well; my slipping down, and the bubbling water, and the cold, and the choking feeling here in my throat and head, and such a pain, oh, dear! I dream sometimes now, at night, of the bank, and the gurgle of the waves, and wake with such a start. I did not like to wash my face for some days afterward. But is it not odd, Captain Hepburn?—I can remember nothing about you taking me out. I should not have known you did, if they had not told me so!”
“Who told you?”
“Papa and the others?”
“Hilary?”
“No,” replied Nest, gravely; “they will not let me talk to her about it. Sybil told me not; and she never has spoken about it at all, since she has been ill.”
“She is well now?” said he, inquiringly.
“Better, but not well. She can not walk much. She is in the garden.”
“Will she see me, do you think?” said he, stopping at the porch, and setting Nest on one of the benches.
“I don’t know,” replied the little girl, gravely. “She has seen nobody but Mr. Paine, for days. She could not see Mr. Huyton, when he came last, though he sent me to ask her; and you know he pulled her out of the water, as you did me. She said she was too ill.”
“But she is better now,” said he, earnestly; “perhaps she will not mind me. Is your papa in?”
“No, only Hilary, and she is in the garden. I will go and ask her, if you like; or you will come, and she must see you then.”
He hardly thought such a surprise desirable, and suggested that Nest should go on first. But Hilary, who had missed her sister, had risen to look for her, and met the child the moment after she turned the corner of the house; so that the gentleman had the opportunity of ascertaining that he might, so far as an abrupt introduction was concerned, almost as well have presented himself at first.
“Oh, Hilary! will you see Captain Hepburn?” was her exclamation.
“Nest, what do you mean?” he heard in a hurried, fluttered accent, and he was sure she had stopped short in her approach.
“Don’t be pale, Hilary—don’t be frightened,” said Nest, coaxingly. “You have not seen him since that horrid day, I know; and when I saw him it made me remember all, and made me feel funny, I do not know how; but it goes off, and now I am only glad.”
“But, Nest,” he heard her saying, and there was a catching in her voice, which, to his anxious ear, told of a struggle with excitement and surprise, perhaps of deeper feeling too, “have you seen him?”
He could stand still no longer. Advancing from the porch, he met her on the lawn. She was stooping over her sister whenhe turned the corner of the house, but she raised her head at the sound of his feet, and stood still. She really could not take one step toward him, and had not her hand rested on little Nest’s shoulder, perhaps she could hardly even have stood at all. There was a beating at her heart, a throbbing in every pulse, which seemed to suffocate her; there was a mist and confusion before her eyes which, for a moment, blended sky and earth, trees, shadows, and Captain Hepburn, in one wavering cloud of darkness. She had no thought or feeling, except a wish to stand upright, and a sensation that to speak was impossible. How they met she did not know. The warm clasp of his hand on hers was the first thing of which she was quite aware; he was by her, he was looking at her, but he was silent as herself.
The first words he spoke were not those of greeting, but as if they formed a part of a long preceding conversation, and in a tone that implied a whole world of tenderness and anxiety.
“Come in now and sit down; I grieve to see you are still so weak!”
He drew her hand within his arm and led her toward the porch, while she revived to the comforting conclusion that perhaps he thought her agitation was the effect alone of bodily, not mental weakness. She yielded to his guidance, wishing heartily that she could speak, but doubting her power too much to make the effort.
When he saw her safe in a large easy chair, he sat down by her, and said, in a quiet voice:
“I left Maurice quite well yesterday, very busy and enthusiastic about his ship.”
“Happy, too,” ejaculated Hilary, her thoughts instantly reverting to her brother’s cares and troubles, and forgetting at once all her own embarrassments. “How are his spirits?”
“Variable, perhaps; at least I fancied so, when he was not actually employed; but better than at first.”
She looked at him, anxious to try and ascertain what he knew or suspected of Maurice’s feelings; but meeting his grave,dark eyes, she was recalled to a recollection of herself and him; she colored again, hesitated, and broke off a half-uttered word abruptly.
He waited to allow her time to recover, then finding she was silent, he said:—“Were you going to ask how long we should be fitting out? I think in three weeks more we shall report ourselves ready for sea!”
The easiest thing for her to do was to repeat his words, “Three weeks!”
“Come here, Nest,” said the Captain, “Maurice sent you his love, and a great many kisses. Shall I give them to you?”
“Did Maurice give them toyoufirst?” inquired Miss Nest, with a look half coquettish, half demure, and holding back from him.
Even Hilary smiled at the idea, but he went on.
“He wants you to send him some of those double violets which grow in your garden. You are to put them in a letter which is to go by post.”
“I will go and gather some,” screamed she, in an ecstasy of delight at the idea, and darted away.
He turned to his other companion.
“Do you remember?” said he, bending a look on her she could not meet.
“What?” in a low, trembling whisper, was all she could say.
“These, and what preceded them!” and he drew out and opened a paper, and showed her the contents.
She did remember; she saw the withered flowers, the white ribbon tied in a peculiar knot. They recalled all: the whispered words, the gay festival, the alarm, the accident, the agony of fear, the rescue, and the parting look. Embarrassment and personal feeling were merged in one sentiment, stronger still, gratitude! Clasping her hands, and raising to him a look of trustful earnest, tender gratitude, she exclaimed: “And I have never thanked you; let me now. Oh, Captain Hepburn! you who risked your life for Nest and me, what do we not owe you?” Her tearful eyes said more, far more than her words.
“The risk was nothing,” said he, hastily; “do not speak of that; and the prize was all that I hold dearest on earth!” He had said it at last; she had almost intuitively known what was coming, and she did know what must follow now. She gave him one shy glance, and then hiding her face upon her clasped hands, she tried to conceal the blushes which burnt upon her cheeks.
“Yes, Hilary, it is the truth! the world does not hold another object so dear to me as you. Are you displeased with me for saying so? For you, for your happiness, your welfare, your peace, there is not the thing which I would not dare or suffer myself; and to win your love! if I only knew how to dothat!”—
He stopped and made a gentle effort to take her hand; it was yielding unresistingly. He ventured to draw a little nearer, and said: “Will you not give me one look, one word, at least, to show me that you are not displeased with my presumption?”
She looked up at him; there was an earnest expression in his eyes, a deeply-anxious tone in his voice, a humility, a self-mistrust in his whole air and manner, which told that it was no set form of self-depreciating words without meaning, no assumption of suspense to conceal real assurance and hope; he was at that moment truly suffering from struggling doubts and fears; he was putting his happiness to the test, to win or lose it all.
The look she did give him was not discouraging: it was not likely to be, with her feelings. Fears as to the past, doubts for the future, present anxieties, weakness, uncertainty, were all swept away in the rush of gratified feelings and tender satisfaction. He loved her; he, the good, the wise, the brave, the courageous man; he who could deliberately and unflinchingly face danger, and confront death, not only in the tumult of excitement, amid the plaudits of the multitude, but also in the chamber of sickness, by the bed of infection, in the stillness of the hospital, where none but true courage or dull apathy could remain unmoved by fear; he was now waiting, in tremblingsuspense, for her decision, and deprecating her displeasure with a humility he would hardly have shown to a monarch.
She saw the immense power which she had over him, and she saw it with delight. Not the delight of gratified vanity, the satisfaction of the coquette who rejoices in giving pain; but the pleasure of a loving and grateful heart, exulting in the discovery that it has the means to confer happiness where it has felt deep obligation, and the gentle triumph of maiden modesty, at last assured that it has not bestowed affection unauthorized and unwished for.
She owed him her life, and her sister’s also; and she had that in her power which he said would repay the benefit. He had placed his happiness with his heart at her disposal, and she could reward the generous gift by a single word.
With an air of the most betwitching modesty and confidence, she raised her head, she held out both her hands, and said, “Captain Hepburn, you have made me happy by the assurance of your love;” then fearing she had said too much, she would have drawn back, but she was not allowed; his thanks and raptures were too warm, too energetic to be interrupted.
“I could not leave England,” he said, presently, “without explaining my mind, small as my hope of such an answer was; I trusted, that perhaps you would think of me, let me try to deserve you, let me endeavor to win your love. I feared that silence and absence might lead to misconstructions, might make you doubt my sincerity, blame and mistrust me. Believe me, I dared not flatter myself that you felt more than a friendly interest; what have I to tempt you, Hilary, that you should condescend to love me? It is only your own goodness, your sweetness, which inclines you to listen to me favorably. If you knew me better, I fear you would value me less.”
She shook her head a little, and with downcast eyes, and lips just parting into a smile, she said, “I do notloveall those whom I have known much longer.”
He knew it well; for he knew he had a rival, and shemight almost have seen that he did so, had she been able to look at him.
“Hilary, I know you will be true to me, while I am at sea; I feel that I may trust you once and forever; and when I return, you will become my wife.”
“I will never leave my father, Captain Hepburn; I will form no engagement—plight no promise, which can in the least interfere with his comfort, or my attention to him. His claims first, and then yours may be considered. You think me right, do you not?” added she, anxiously, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in his face, where she fancied she saw a shadow gather. On that question she felt all her happiness depended.
“Right, Hilary, in your estimation of your duty; only wrong in your estimation of me. Do you think I would tempt you away? or that I could look for happiness with you, if it was bought at the price of neglecting your first duty? I hoped you knew me better.”
Her answer was to lay her head upon his shoulder, and whisper gently, “Had I thought so, you would not be what you are to me, Captain Hepburn. I trust you entirely; and promise, one day, to be yours. When, we can not tell.”
“And hear me, dearest, renew the vow I once made, never to ask you to give me your hand, unless our marriage can be compatible with your father’s comfort. I will wait—I will be patient—I will consider only your happiness and your peace. Since you have condescended to promise me your faith, I feel that no sacrifice on my part can be too great to repay you. It is so good of you to love me. I have no better home, no fortune, no worldly station, or importance to offer you. I have so little to tempt you. Ardent, devoted love, and a share in an unblemished name, that is nearly all; and if you condescend to accept this, shall I not agree to your terms, and consult your pleasure? Indeed, it seems to me such a wonder that you should love me, that I feel tempted to ask again, are you sure you do? What have I done to deserve such happiness?”
“Done! if I were not afraid of spoiling you by praise,” replied Hilary, smiling, then stopping; she added, after a minute’s pause, and in a tone of emotion, “done! who saved me, by saving Nest? who dared what others hesitated to do? do I not know you brave, and prompt, and energetic?—no, do not interrupt me, manymighthave done as much, perhaps; but who saved Maurice? whose watchful care preserved my brother? who sat by him when others feared infection, or shrank from the terrors of delirium? You may have known me only for a fortnight, I have known and valued you, Captain Hepburn, for many, many weeks—for months, indeed.”
“It shall ever be my humble prayer, it shall be my most earnest endeavor, Hilary, not to disappoint your trusting love; and Heaven helping me, I hope to repay it in kindness, in affection, in guarding you from evil all your life long.” He spoke very gravely; he was much moved by her warmth. “Words are too poor to paint my gratitude to you for the honor you do me. And so they are to describe my implicit trust in your truth, your constancy, your prudence, and your affection. That I have to ask you to wait, that I am forced to leave you to the anxiety and trouble which I fear our separation may cause you, gives me great pain and grief for your sake; I would gladly spare you every shadow of care, I would gladly devote my life to you from this time. I grieve, but I trust you entirely. Will you believe as fully in my constancy as I do in yours, sweetest Hilary?”
“Yes.”
That single word satisfied him completely.
When Nest came back from the garden, and the clergyman and his daughter from Primrose Bank, they interrupted a very happy conversation; one full of all the sweetness which confidence and affection, hope and gratitude, can inspire.
It may be easily believed that after this explanation Hilary recovered both strength and spirits with a rapidity which surprised and delighted her sisters and friends: it may be readily imagined, that young ladies of Sybil’s and Gwyneth’s ages entertainedtheir own theories, and formed their own opinions, when they found Captain Hepburn once more at the Vicarage; opinions and guesses which proved to have been surprisingly near the truth, when we consider their age and education. Mr. Huyton’s acquaintance had existed so long, and his friendship had been so diffused in the family, that they had never thought of him as a suitor to their sister; but, from the first, they had settled between themselves, that Captain Hepburn must fall in love with her. There was every thing to recommend such an arrangement in their eyes. He was grave and quiet, the nearest approach they could hope for to a mysterious and suspicious character; while, on the contrary, Charles was so lively and talkative, that they could imagine neither concealment nor reserve in his case. Then, too, their favorite hero was comparatively poor, and had a profession which would be attended by possible danger as well as renown, would certainly occasion long absences, and might give rise to romantic incidents, doubts, distresses, and heroic difficulties. All this was a charming contrast with Charles Huyton’s fortune and station in life; who besides, as they thought, not caring for Hilary, could only, had he wished to marry her, have offered her a matter-of-fact, readymade, and every-day sort of home; it would have been an engagement, presenting no difficulties except that of getting her wedding-clothes properly made, and offering no romance, except their first meeting, now nearly forgotten.
Not that the girls wished their sister any harm, or had the slightest dislike to seeing her happy; but at their age the quiet monotony of a prosperous life seems dull in prospect, and they had no idea that misery and misfortune, anxiety, suspense, and sorrow were not the most pleasant accompaniments of life, when occasioned by sufficiently romantic and poetic causes. They did not know how reality strips suffering of romance, not only to the individual who grieves, but to the spectators who witness it: and that mourners who go about the daily affairs of life, hiding a broken heart under an outward calmness, may be extremely interesting to read of, but hardly excite so much actualsympathy and compassion, as one who has to walk through the world with a wooden leg.
But all this these two girls had yet to learn; and in the mean time they were greatly rejoiced when they understood how rightly they had guessed, and learned that the evident and marked devotion with which Captain Hepburn had listened to Hilary, watched her footsteps, conversed with her, and finally saved her life (for they always gave him the whole credit of that adventure, and were, perhaps, for his sake, a little unjust to Charles), when they learned that this was finally to be rewarded with her love and faith. In short, the engagement gave them perfect satisfaction.
Mr. Duncan was very well pleased; yet he certainly would have preferred the richerparti: he liked Charles, perhaps, a little better than he did the other; and there could be no doubt as to which, in common language, was the best match. If Hilary was happy, there was nothing more to be required; but he would certainly have wished either that Captain Hepburn had been in Charles Huyton’s place as regarded position, or that Charles Huyton had been the accepted suitor.
But if Hilary was happy, that was enough. And she was happy, exquisitely happy; for the five days that her lover was able to remain, she was as joyful and blithe as a bird. She recovered her health, of course; she went about her daily tasks singing and smiling, making every body near her partakers in her gayety. She felt she had one to trust to now, on whom she should have a claim; she looked forward with pleasure, and saw the future very bright. In the happy hours they spent together, she found one to whom she could express her past difficulties, her bygone sorrows and trials, one whose firmness strengthened, and whose tenderness comforted her. Oh! what delightful seasons of confidence these were; dearly prized at the time—more dearly still in memory.
Maurice had told his friend his troubles and sorrows; so Hilary could discuss his prospects with her lover; and though perhaps a little shocked at the depreciating view he took ofDora’s conduct, the earnestness with which he hoped that Maurice would recover from his attachment, and the certainty with which he predicted that the lady would probably forsake him, she would not have been a true woman had she not speedily adopted his opinions, and become a convert to his views even before she had quite done combatting them. One subject there was on which they did not touch; one topic on which Hilary, supposing him to be ignorant, herself preserved silence, and on which he, aware of her reserve, respected her feelings of delicacy too much to intrude.
The knowledge that Charles Huyton had been perseveringly repulsed, that wealth and station, abilities, personal charms, flattery and importunity, had failed to gain the heart which was now his own, was very sweet. If there is the man in the world whose pleasure in his own success would not be enhanced by such considerations, let him triumph in his conscious stoicism. I do not believe that there is; some might plume themselves on their own superior fascinations, some might rejoice in the lady’s disinterested love; some might value themselves—some her the more for such knowledge, but satisfaction of one kind or other, I imagine, every one would feel. For the present, however, Captain Hepburn concealed this source of satisfaction with as much scrupulous care as Hilary herself; and, but for an occurrence which even on this topic broke down their reserve, they would, probably, have parted when his leave of absence called him away, without any allusion to the matter.
Captain Hepburn had letters of business to write; and Hilary, taking advantage of the opportunity, set off to pay some visits in the village. The night had been stormy, but the morning was fair and bright, and Hilary, walking briskly, was soon at a cottage about half a mile on the road toward “the Ferns,” whose inmates it was convenient for her to visit alone. The food, the clothes, and the advice all given, she was just issuing from the garden gate when she was addressed by Charles, who, throwing himself from his horse, advanced quickly to greet her. She was surprised, for she had believedhim still absent from the country; and a mixture of other feelings, which his sight recalled, gave her an air of emotion, sensibility, and bashfulness, which he readily interpreted in the way most flattering to himself. Had he known whom she had left writing letters at her little table at home, he would perhaps have been as anxious to avoid the interview as herself; but ignorant of what had passed since they last met, he very joyfully took his horse’s reins upon his arm, and walked himself by her side. The usual form of questioning about friends and relations, recent occupations, his journey and his return, was gone through, and was followed by a silence of some duration. This was broken by Hilary, who, casting an anxious look at the clouds now gathering ominously overhead, observed, that she was afraid there was going to be a storm. She had hardly said the words when down came the rain in large drops, rapidly increasing in number every moment. There was a sawyer’s pit at a short distance with a shed beside it, and as this seemed the only shelter within reach, and the rain appeared likely to be violent, they quickly agreed to take refuge there; hoping that the shower would be as brief as it was sudden. She was most anxious to get on home; perhaps Captain Hepburn would have done work, and would miss her; perhaps her father might want her. So she thought, as she stood for a minute or two at the entrance to the shed, looking wistfully up at the clouds, and watching those flitting gleams of brighter sky which occasionally seemed to promise a clearing up. Still the rain went on, and as drops began to penetrate through the slight roof where she stood, he said,
“Come further in, Miss Duncan; it will not clear the quicker for your watching; and here is a nice block of wood, which will form a seat for you, where it is quite dry.”
The easiest thing to do was to comply; she sat down accordingly, and he placed himself beside her. Then a sudden conviction came over her that something was to follow; and with a sort of desperate hope of stopping him, of avoiding a renewal of what was so painful, she began to talk of other things, the season,the harvest, the people, any thing for a subject. He listened in silence; his eyes were fixed on the open doorway; he might have been counting the drops which fell from the eaves, so steadily did he gaze that way. Her ideas, unsupported by any help from him, necessarily came to an end; and when she paused, it was his turn to speak.
“Hilary, tell me, once more let me speak; has my changeless devotion no influence on you?”
She shook her head.
“None! yet of late you have seemed to encourage me; you have accepted—at least you have not repelled—my attentions; you have allowed me to distinguish you as my first object; you have permitted those advances from my family which were intended to show how they would welcome you as one of themselves; you have graced myfêtewith your presence; your name has already been whispered round the neighborhood as the object, as the recipient of my vows: has not all this given me a right to hope; does all this go for nothing, for unmeaning form with you?”
“I do not understand your language, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, in great suprise; “your tone and manner are alike new and unpleasant. May I ask you to drop this subject while we are compelled to remain together here!”
“You would ask in vain; my happiness, my welfare in life, every hope here and hereafter is bound up in the thoughts of you, in the wish to make you my wife!”
She tried to stop him as he spoke, but her gentle interruption was quite unheeded as he poured out his vehement declarations.
“Why have you refused to see me, shut yourself up, and banished me from your house? What makes you, one so tender, loving, gentle as you, what makes you so hard, so unpersuadable to me? What have I done that you will not love me? What is there in me, about me, belonging to me, that makes me disagreeable? And why this coquetry; at one time readily listening, calmly permitting, if not encouraging, my devotion,then denying me all interest, all concern; repulsing me entirely? Is this fair! just! right! Hilary! Do you think those who witnessed your peril, and your rescue, in my park, doubted the motives which nerved my arm and warmed my heart? Do you think their plaudits were valued for any thing besides the worth they might give me in your eyes? And, Hilary, is my reward to be ever the no! no! no! which dooms me to misery, despair, and heartless solitude?”
Mr. Huyton rose as he spoke, and stood before her in magnificent desperation. She looked at him amazed; he was strangely altered. He was no longer the humble suppliant; he seemed to think he had earned a right other, that she was his in equity.
“Mr. Huyton, you are unjust, and such language as this is strangely unpleasant to hear. I do not know what claim you have to speak so. I have never intentionally done any thing to give you hopes that I should change as you wish. Again, I must ask you to be silent, or I shall leave this shelter; I would rather encounter the storm without, than listen to such words.”
“You do not know my claim? It is the claim of love, constant, unchanging love, the love of years. Not the feeble growth of a week’s intercourse; the every-day admiration, which at one moment distinguishes its object, the next leaves it without a sigh or a struggle; it is the passionate glowing devotion which rises beyond every earthly consideration, which sets neither honor nor duty above it—which knows no honor, owns no duty except that of loving unchangeably and deeply. This is my claim, who can produce a better? who has striven harder, longer, more devotedly, to make this love apparent?”
“I will neither listen to, nor answer such language,” replied she, decidedly; “let me pass.”
“I will not,” said he, placing himself in the door-way; “do you suppose I would allow you to go out in this storm, expose yourself to such risk? Sit still.”
“Then,” said Hilary, reseating herself, “as you are a man and a gentleman, be silent.”
“You were not always so sternly resolute, Hilary!”
“Nor you so—” she stopped.
“So what? speak out, say what you mean at once,” said he, advancing close to her.
“No, I shall not,” replied she, more gently; “I am sure that you do not wish to give me pain, and that this unpleasant topic will be dropped henceforth.”
“But do you not pity me?” ejaculated he, seating himself again by her side, and clasping her hand so firmly that she could not withdraw it.
“Yes.”
“And nothing more, Hilary? esteem, regard, kindly feelings, are all these gone, or did you never entertain them toward me?”
“You did not ask for these, Mr. Huyton; you asked for love, which alone I could not give.”
“Are you sure?” said he, gazing intently at her. “Are you certain that it is not pride of consistency, or ignorance of your own feelings which misleads you? Do you know what love is, Hilary?”
“I do,” said she, in desperation, resolved, even at the risk of raising an indignant jealousy, which she instinctively dreaded, to end his painful importunity. “I know what love is, and that I do not feel it for you.”
“Hilary! Hilary!” cried he, in the wildest excitement, and more firmly than ever grasping her hand; “do you mean!—what am I to understand by that avowal?”
“That I have no love to give you, Mr. Huyton—my hand and my heart are another’s.” Her blushes confirmed her words.
“And who has dared to step between me and my object?” said he, slowly, while his face grew dark with rising passion and jealousy. “Is it, can it be Captain Hepburn?—there is no other.”
“It is,” she tried to say, but the words hardly passed her lips; she was frightened by his look and tone.
“Hashedared!—what, when he was warned, when he knewmy wishes, my intentions; ah, he did not knowme! Did he think I would be balked of my object? Does he think it is safe to come between me and my aim? Hilary, dearly shall you rue the day that you give your hand to that beggarly sailor. Bitterly shall you repent the deed! While you are still Hilary Duncan, you are unspeakably dear to me, and for love’s sake, while there is hope, I will be whatever you may wish; but once destroy that hope, once take from me all possibility of winning you, and I tell you, you will wish rather that a demon had crossed your path, than that you had thwarted me.”
Indignant and offended, she raised her eyes to bid him leave her instantly, and they fell on the figure of Captain Hepburn himself, whose step on the wet turf had been inaudible, but who now stood in the door-way looking at them. Her start and exclamation made Charles release her hand and turn round too; and Hilary, profiting by her freedom, sprang toward her lover, and clasped his arm as if to claim his protection.
“Take me away,” she whispered, in an agitated voice.
Silently and gravely, he threw round her a cloak which he carried, and carefully wrapping her in it, he drew her hand under his arm, and prepared to leave the shed.
She gave one glance at Charles; he was standing with his arms crossed, and a look of haughty indifference, which she believed to be affected. In another moment they had turned away, and were taking the path homeward; but before they had gone a hundred yards, they heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs at a sharp gallop, dashing along the road to “the Ferns.” The sounds died in the distance, and Hilary, relieved and overpowered at once, very nearly burst into tears.
The storm was passing away, the rain had not quite ceased, but the sunbeams were struggling through the clouds, and every tree and shrub was fringed with glittering drops of light, while the effect of the flitting shadows chasing each other over the distant landscape was beautiful to see.
“There is no hurry,” said Captain Hepburn, gently checking the impetuous steps with which Hilary had at first proceeded.“Do not agitate yourself, we are quite safe. The storm is all but over now, and you may walk quietly. It is pleasant to be together here, Hilary.”
A gentle pressure of the arm on which she leaned, was her only answer, she had not quite self-command enough to speak.
“I wish I had come a little sooner to look for you,” added he; “had you been long there?”
“I don’t know; it seemed long, it was so disagreeable,” and her voice was checked by a sob. But recovering by an effort, she added immediately: “However, it is over now, and we need not refer to it.”
He did not answer for a little while, but at last he said, very gently, but with a manner which seemed to indicate that his mind was made up on the point. “Hilary, I do not think that is right, either by me or yourself, in our relative situations. If I were to remain with you, to protect and watch over you, I would not ask your confidence on that point. I could act for myself and you too. But since I must leave you so soon, and in the neighborhood of that man, whose bad passions are all raised by your refusal of his addresses, at least let me know all. Let me understand exactly what has passed, that I may form some idea of what there is to dread. Indistinctness of outline always magnifies objects. Let us view the matter calmly and clearly.”
“How much do you know?” said she, looking up at him. “I never told you that.”
“You did not, dear, but Miss Fielding told me at ‘the Ferns,’ that her cousin had been in love with you for years, had been refused by you once, but that he still hoped to win your love; and that thefêtewhich so nearly cost you your life, was devised and carried out as a compliment to yourself.”
“Had I suspected that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “do you think any persuasion would have induced me to go there? Oh, no!”
“I thought that at the time, dear Hilary; and but for the abrupt conclusion to your share in the amusements, I shouldhave taken the opportunity that afternoon, there in the very midst of my rival’s splendor and all the riches and temptations which he displayed to bribe or buy your love, to offer you my hand, and a share in my humble fortunes.”
“What consummate vanity!” said Hilary, smiling up at him with eyes that told a very different tale from her words; “could not your triumph in forcing me to like you be complete without the glory of such a contrast?”
“Presumption I would plead guilty to; but if you knew the doubt and hesitation with which I contemplated the effort, you would not think it was the easy feeling of satisfied vanity, Hilary. To plunge after you into the lake was a trifle, compared to the plunge I meditated at the moment. But now I will not be baffled by smiles; tell me, if you love me, all that passed between Mr. Huyton and you just now.”
With crimson cheeks, she repeated as well as she could the dialogue in the shed, until he stopped her by saying, “His last speech I heard! I never liked him or his cousin; there was a something of intrigue and manœuver in her which shocked me; and forhim—perhaps I was unjust, however. But his unmanly violence to you now, is hard to forgive. Is that what he calls love? or can he suppose affection is won by threats? Dear Hilary! for your own sake, I am glad you did not love him.”
“There never was any danger that I should,” said she, calmly.
“Yes, there was great danger; young, simple-minded, and inexperienced as you are; too pure to suspect evil, too ignorant to know it, there was the greatest danger that this man, handsome, clever, rich, ardent, devoted, with every advantage which seclusion and leisure, time and place could supply, should have won your heart before you could rightly read his character. That your affections should have continued disengaged until I had gained them appears to me a wonder, and a thing to fill me with gratitude. Dearest Hilary! how can I be thankful enough?”
“You can not imagine,” said Hilary, after a pause of gratifiedfeeling, “how great a shock it has been to me to find that he has shown himself what he is; I never could have loved him, but I did esteem and like him. I thought well of him in many respects, and to find that he is so desperate, so self-willed, so violent, has really given me great pain. Oh, I hope he will leave the country now, that we shall never meet again!”
“It was ungoverned temper, Hilary, made him speak as he did; a disposition quite unaccustomed to be checked or thwarted. It will wear off. When he really sees that it is hopeless, I do not think he will continue to vex himself about it. The quick, fiery passions which explode so vehemently are not those which are the most lasting and effectual in their results. Do not vex yourself, dearest, about it. Time will smooth down his asperity, perhaps. At any rate, he can do you no harm, he can not alter my trust in you, nor, I should hope, shake your confidence in me.”
Hilary’s smile showed how entirely she agreed with her lover’s opinion, which accordingly they continued to discuss, with great satisfaction, till they reached home.