CHAPTERXV.“When I was young, my lover stoleOne of my ringlets fair;I wept, ‘Ah no, those always part,Who, having once changed heart for heart,Change also locks of hair.’”Anonymous.The next thing that Hilary heard of Charles Huyton was, that he had quitted “the Ferns,” having dismissed his establishment, shut up the house, and intimated an intention of not returning for many months. This information was obtained by Captain Hepburn, and was received with great satisfaction, not only by Hilary, but by the reporter himself. He was very glad, as he was forced to leave her in so unprotected a situation, to feel that so violent and determined a lover as Mr. Huyton threatened to be should have removed himself from her immediate vicinity.His leave of absence, prolonged to the last possible moment, ended, of course, much too soon, and the parting was naturally painful; but Hilary’s cheerful and affectionate disposition supported her. She was certain of his love, and that was happiness enough to supply resignation and hope. Of the misery of protracted suspense, the pain of an uncertain engagement, the long anguish of patience, she knew nothing. She felt unlimited trust in her lover’s constancy, as well as his character, and a calm dependence upon that merciful Providence to whose care she committed her future prospects. She was thankful, deeply thankful that she had been saved from being captivated by the very engaging qualities of one whose principles she could not trust, and that another to whom she could look as a guardian,a director, and a guide, had been brought within the circle of her acquaintance. If there was happiness to be found in this world she believed it would be in his society; and beyond, far beyond this world, there was that sure and certain hope which could support through the most stormy scenes of life, by pointing onward to a bright and peaceful “forever” together. So she parted from Captain Hepburn with sorrow, yet with hope, and the tears which the former caused to overflow were checked by the whispers of the latter; and neither her grief nor her love made her a more careless daughter, or a less kind sister, nor occasioned any visible want of consideration for the feelings or wishes of others.How often, in her leisure moments, the short, black curl which lay in a small gold locket, his parting gift, was contemplated or kissed, it is not necessary now to say; nor is there any means of ascertaining whether it received more attention than did the long shining, wavy lock with which she parted in exchange, and which accompanied a pretty water-colored likeness of herself, originally done by Mrs. Paine for Maurice, back to thePandanus. One thing was certain, that Maurice was very good-natured and obliging, and allowed the picture which had been intended to ornament his cabin to hang in the Captain’s instead, where it may be supposed to have served as a public avowal that the owner was indeed an engaged man.Months rolled on, and brought no apparent change to the family at Hurtsdene Vicarage. Nothing more was heard of Charles Huyton, except that he was incidentally mentioned in Isabel Barham’s letters to her cousin, Mrs. Paine, as much in their society in London; then as accompanying them on a trip to Paris; then as having taken a moor in Scotland near one of her father’s estates: and of their expectations of seeing him during their autumnal residence in Argyleshire.The younger girls lamented his desertion of “the Ferns” and the loss of his library; but to Hilary these months were days of peace and happiness compared with preceding excitement; and she tried hard to persuade her sisters that Mr. Paine hadas many books as they could read, and more than they could remember.One other slight diversion they had, namely, the reappearance of Mr. Farrington, who came down for part of the long vacation, and took lodgings in the forest. He was an old acquaintance and friend of Mrs. Paine’s, and was a great deal with them at Primrose Bank, and consequently often in the society of the sisters at the Vicarage. Not quite so often, perhaps, as he could wish; for Hilary, grown wiser by experience, began to suspect that young men did not seek the society of girls entirely without an object, and became shy of encouraging a kind of intercourse, which, within her knowledge, had more often ended disastrously than otherwise. She could not help seeing that the young barrister admired Sybil exceedingly; but she knew, that though her sister was womanly in manners and appearance, she was childlike in disposition and character. Not quite sixteen, she was too young to think of matrimony; and while she continued indifferent to Mr. Farrington and quite careless about his attentions, Hilary did not wish him to become more demonstrative.Mrs. Paine agreed with her, indeed this caution originated with that lady; and one day she took on herself to communicate to the gentleman the extreme youth of the object of his admiration. This brought on a confidential conversation between the lady and the gentleman, in which he informed her that he was quite willing to wait a year or two, but that he was bent on making Sybil Duncan his wife hereafter. Then, if his business continued to flourish as it had done lately, he should by that time have a fair income to offer her, so he implored Mrs. Paine in the mean while, to give him a good character to that discreet, matronly, elder sister, who now looked as suspiciously on his attempt to be agreeable as if she had to defend from desperate fortune-hunters an heiress of ten thousand a year.Mrs. Paine laughed, and promised to speak pretty well of him; and when the vacation ended, Mr. Farrington was obliged toreturn to London, where, in spite of his love for Sybil, there seems no reason to think he was either miserable or morose.So passed the autumn and early winter. Christmas brought the Barhams to the Abbey, and Hilary was thinking with much interest and much curiosity of Dora and her feelings, for it was some weeks since she had heard from her; when a servant from the Abbey brought over a note to ask Mr. Duncan and his eldest daughter to pay them a visit, with a promise of the carriage to fetch them one day, and to take them back the next.Hilary felt doubtful about accepting the invitation, anxious as she was to see Dora; but a little postscript to Isabel’s note, not at first discovered, compelled them to decide in favor of going; it was to the effect that Mr. Barham desired to see Mr. Duncan on business, which could not be discussed in a morning visit; so an answer was written, agreeing to the proposal. Her sisters all declared it was nonsense of Hilary being so unwilling to go; it would be very pleasant; the Abbey was, probably, full of pleasant people, besides Isabel and Dora, and Mr. and Mrs. Paine, who, it was known, had gone over on Monday, and were to stay till Saturday. What more could she want to be sure of an agreeable visit?She could only repeat that she had preferred their society to any the Abbey could promise, and that home was pleasanter than any other place; at which her sisters only laughed, and said “Let her try.”To the Abbey they went, arriving there, by particular desire, in time for the two o’clock luncheon; and there they found assembled, besides Mr. Barham and his two daughters, only the Paines and another gentleman, a young clergyman, whose personal appearance immediately attracted Hilary’s notice; he being the first individual of a peculiar class with whom she had as yet met. There was something odd in the arrangement of his hair, in the appearance of his neck-cloth, and in the shape of his coat-collar, which gave an idea of singularity rather than sanctity, and made her more inclined to wonder at than admire him.She had not much time, however, to form conjectures relative to this gentleman, for the young ladies almost entirely engrossed her. Each, in her different way, appeared delightedto see her again, and really Isabel’s more measured accents, and stately welcomes, were hardly less kind and cordial than themine caressanteand endearing words of Dora, who scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry at meeting, and could not express her affection and joy with sufficient emphasis to please herself.The afternoon was fine, although it was mid-winter, and the ladies, having seen the four gentlemen adjourn to Mr. Barham’s private sitting-room, determined to go out for a refreshing walk. The sun was just setting in a clear green and amber sky, the air was sharp and frosty, with scarcely a cloud visible over-head to dim the beautiful half-moon hanging in the eastern heaven; there was no wind to make it feel cold, and the ladies soon walked themselves into warmth and spirits, such as can only be known to those who are blessed with health and strength to enable them to enjoy active exercise in the free air.“Now, Hilary,” said Dora, as they turned their faces homeward, and slackened their walk into a comfortable strolling pace, “have you the least idea why papa sent for you?”“Some kind of business with my father, I know,” replied Miss Duncan, quietly; while Isabel exclaimed,“Dora, how you talk! I wanted to see you, Hilary.”“So did I,” replied Dora, “but not a bit would that have availed, had not papa had business; it is about that Mr. Ufford, you know!”“Dora, how can you interfere! do, Fanny, tell all about it, for really Dora ought not,” again exclaimed Isabel, a little impatiently.“I did not mean to say any thing at present,” replied Mrs. Paine; “but, as Dora has said so much, I will explain. Hilary, dear, we are going to leave you!”“Leave us!” said Hilary, amazed; “dear Mrs. Paine, what do you mean?”“The Rector of Copseley is dead, and you know my husband had the promise of the living.”“Oh! I remember; I am very sorry; that is, I am glad for you, but sorry for us, for my father, for all: it will be hard to part;” and the tears came into her eyes as she spoke.“Do not trouble yourself to be glad,” said Mrs. Paine, affectionately, “I shall be most truly sorry when the time comes to part; but it will not be yet; we shall not move till the spring, I believe.”“That is a comfort,” said Hilary; “what has Mr. Ufford to do with it?”“Nothing at present,” said Isabel, quickly, as if to prevent Dora from answering. “That depends on your father, of course. But if Mr. Duncan could like him for a successor to Mr. Paine, we should be very glad!”“Oh!” was Hilary’s answer. On such a point she had little to say. She knew that Mr. Paine’s opinion would have great influence with her father; and she thought his judgment might be trusted. If he approved of Mr. Ufford, all would be right; and this she should soon learn from his wife.“Mr. Ufford is a man of very good family,” said Isabel, presently. “He is the third son of Lord Dunsmore; and though his fortune is small for his rank, I think you would find him an acquisition at Hurstdene. He is very pleasant, and really a good clergyman.”Perhaps the thought how little either fortune or rank had to do with this latter recommendation which passed through Miss Duncan’s mind, prevented her answering this rather complicated speech. She felt sure also that Mr. Barham must have some private motive for interesting himself in the curate of Hurstdene; so she resolved to wait before she gave any opinion relative to her own feelings on the subject. It was one which too nearly concerned their own domestic comfort to be lightly treated, had there been no higher motives, or more important objects connected with it.The road to the Abbey led them up a thick avenue, wherethe leafless branches of the trees threw a most perplexing checker-work of darkness across the white moonbeams as they lay on the ground, or fell on the figures of the ladies. Suddenly they saw a gentleman approaching them. Isabel uttered a little exclamation, indicative of very pleased surprise, before her companions recognized the new comer; but the next moment Hilary saw with a mixture of uncomfortable feelings that it was Mr. Huyton himself. The dread of meeting him had been one motive for her unwillingness to go to the Abbey, and great had been her relief on learning, soon after her arrival, that he was not at all expected. By what unlucky accident he chanced to come at the very time when it was least desirable, she did not know; but she saw from the manners of Miss Barham, that though very welcome, he was yet quite an unlooked-for guest.It was impossible in such a light, to mark any expression of features or changes of complexion, so Hilary’s varying color was safe from notice. How they should meet she could not guess; but nothing was left to her decision. Mr. Huyton advanced, took Isabel’s proffered hand, made his excuses with grace, spoke easily to Dora and Mrs. Paine; and added, as he turned to her,“And I have the pleasure, too, of seeing Miss Duncan. I hope you are quite well, and all your family.”If ever Hilary was surprised in her life, it was at the composure and calmness with which her hand was taken, and these words were said. She would gladly have avoided shaking hands, but that was impossible; he went through the ceremony with such perfect grace and self-possession, as prevented it being awkward even to her, but with an air of indifference which amazed her when she thought of the past. As they returned to the house along the moon-lighted terrace, she could catch indistinct glimpses of his face, while he conversed gayly and courteously with her companions; and there was neither look nor tone which could convey the impression that her presence was a matter of the smallest consequence to him. Could he havequite recovered from the infatuation of past years! had he learned to regulate his affections and govern his feelings, to acquiesce in her decisions and participate in her indifference? Might they associate on an easy footing, as friendly acquaintance, without awkwardness or reluctance? She would have gladly believed this to be the case; but she feared to trust too entirely to appearances, when she remembered that more than once before she had been misled by his assumed calmness, to believe in the extinction of feelings, which seemed to have been only the fiercer for suppression.No, she could never be comfortable with him again; she dared not trust him, so long as he continued single. If he would but marry some other woman, what a blessing she would esteem it. As she walked along musing thus, she only heard the sound of his voice mingling with the tones of her companions; she did not understand a word they said; her memory was away in the sawyer’s hut in the forest, and to her imagination, she was again listening to his threatening accents, or again clinging to that dear arm, which so tenderly supported her from the unpleasant scene. She was so engrossed in these thoughts, that when Mr. Huyton turned to her, and observed that he had seen Mr. Duncan in the house, and was glad to find him well, she really, at first, hardly knew what he was talking of, and her answers betrayed her wandering thoughts so clearly, as to make Dora and Isabel both laugh at her absence of mind.It was late enough when they reached the Abbey porch to make it quite allowable that the young ladies should retire to their several toilettes; and then Mrs. Paine begged Hilary’s company at hers for a moment, to explain some circumstances which she could not so well speak of before their hostess. It appeared that the intelligence that the living of Copseley was vacant, had reached the Paines the day after they arrived at the Abbey, and that Mr. Barham, on learning it, immediately expressed a strong wish to secure the future curacy of Hurstdene for Mr. Ufford. Why he was so anxious about it, or what particular inducement there was to place that gentleman in so retireda position, Mr. Barham did not mention; but this was avowedly his object in sending for Mr. Duncan. He wanted to settle it all immediately. That he had some ulterior motive, nobody who knew Mr. Barham could doubt, and Mrs. Paine had her own ideas on that point; but she did not think it right to mention mere conjectures; so she said she should leave Hilary to guess for herself. As to Mr. Ufford, she saw no harm in him, he seemed to be zealous, and talked well; but she was rather doubtful of his sincerity; he had a way of not speaking his opinions frankly, which made her uncomfortable, and she half-suspected him of extreme views, which might lead to injudicious innovations. But she was not sure of her own opinions, and most people were captivated by him; even Mr. Paine thought him a most excellent young man; so that it was, perhaps, bold in her to say that she did not quite like him.“But he strikes me,” continued she, “as having anidée fixeof his own extreme personal importance and dignity; and you know, Hilary, that even very good men do often go very much astray, and become exceedingly inconsistent and strange, from having an ill-balanced character; from allowing one notion to overgrow their mind, and so warp or conceal other estimable qualities.”“Very probably,” said Hilary; “but you say Mr. Paine likes him, and I expect my father will be guided by him. Oh! how I shall miss you! Mr. Ufford can never be what your husband has been to us; and there will be no compensation at all for the loss of you! Well, it is no use thinking of it; there are still three months left, I will not make them unhappy by anticipating the evil day; time enough when it comes. How do you think Dora is now? She looks very well.”“I do not know that she is otherwise; they thought her delicate in the summer, but I fancy she quite recovered both health and spirits before she joined her family in Scotland, and she has not been ailing since.”Hilary thought that this account did not agree with certain little notes she had received from time to time from Dora,speaking of a general disgust of life, an extreme want of spirits, and an inevitable tendency to a heart-broken death. But it was quite in accordance with her personal appearance, and her air of health and cheerfulness.Dinner at the Abbey was always a grand and stately affair. The guests felt they were assisting at an important and solemn ceremony, a guaranty of the respectability of the ancient house of Barham; a remnant of the feudal times and the pomps of former days, when baronial ancestors had been served by squires and pages themselves of noble birth. Clinging to almost the last remnant of those by-gone days, Mr. Barham was particular about his livery-servants: they were many, they were well-trained, and their costume was as handsome as good taste could make it. In that gorgeously lighted room, contrasting as completely as wealth and elegance could suggest, with the ancient refectory, or the convivial board of olden times, it was impossible to find a shadow of concealment; a screen of any kind, to preserve blushing cheeks or troubled eyes from the glance of the curious, or the inspection of the sharp-sighted. So Hilary found to her cost; the round table brought every one in sight of each other, and made every observation audible to the group.It was at this particular time that Mr. Huyton addressed her with a question regarding Maurice; he hoped he was well?She replied in the affirmative, trusting that no one in the circle would care enough for her brother, or so little for herself, as to pursue the subject. She was mistaken. Mr. Huyton forced her to tell him what was the name of his ship, and where she then was, which she could hardly do without naming Captain Hepburn, although to speak before him of her lover was peculiarly distressing. On this, Mr. Barham took up the subject, by asking if he had not seen the young man at “the Ferns;” a talk, dark man, about thirty; older a good deal than Miss Duncan? Hilary, blushing exceedingly, and conscious that more eyes were fixed on her than she liked to meet, saidthatwas not her brother; he was young and fair.On this Isabel, smiling graciously, observed that she thoughtpapa was thinking of Mr. Duncan’s captain, not himself; to which Mr. Barham observed, with his usual majesty, that it was by no means improbable: who might his captain be?Hilary gave an imploring look at Isabel, but for some occult reason she did not choose to speak. Mrs. Paine’s attention at the moment was not directed that way, nor, indeed, had she been disengaged, instead of listening to a remark of Mr. Ufford’s, could she have interposed without awkwardness. Dora’s eyes were on her china plate, which she was minutely examining, and Mr. Barham was looking at Miss Duncan for an answer. How she wished her father had been present to have answered for her, but he did not dine with them, as he had a nervous dread of being troublesome or unpleasant from his infirmity. She felt she must reply; indeed, it was but a moment that she hesitated; a moment was enough to feel a great deal of embarrassment; another, to resolve to brave it all; and although conscious that Charles Huyton’s eyes were reading her countenance with a deliberate intentness, which she thought quite cruel, she answered her host’s question with sufficient distinctness, that his captain’s name was Hepburn.“Hepburn! Hepburn! that’s a good name, an old family name, Miss Duncan, one long distinguished in Scotch history,” observed Mr. Barham. “Did we not meet somebody of that name in Scotland, Isabel? You who are such a genealogist and historian, you must remember, I am sure.”Isabel did remember accurately the whole genealogical table of the gentleman in question; and while she was relating some interesting historical anecdotes connected with the family, Hilary’s cheeks had time to cool, and she trusted the name of her lover would not again be forced from her.But when Isabel had finished her graceful little narrations, her father again turned to Miss Duncan with a question as to whether she knew if her brother’s captain belonged to this ancient house. It was important, perhaps, for Mr. Barham’s comfort, since he had done Captain Hepburn the honor of recollecting him, that he should be proved worthy of so great acompliment, by possessing the lineage of a gentleman. Hilary replied briefly, that she believed so.To her very great astonishment, Charles Huyton spoke.“Whether Captain Hepburn can prove his descent from honorable ancestors or not by genealogical records, he certainly does by his chivalrous conduct and noble bearing, if honor and courage are the attributes of high birth. He is as brave and gallant a man as I have ever seen.”Hilary gave one quick, grateful glance at hervis-à-vis, as he spoke these words, which was not thrown away. She knew better than any one else the effort it must cost him.“Ah! I know to what you allude,” said Isabel, with a sweet smile; “but if I remember rightly, Captain Hepburn was not the only one who displayed courage and daring on that occasion. Even Hilary must admit that there was another strong arm and bold heart then and there. The spectators at least saw both performers, although the immediate actors in the scene were, perhaps, only conscious of a part of what passed.”Hilary again looked up timidly at Mr. Huyton. She felt that thus appealed to, she ought to make some response; but she hardly knew what it would be safe to say. There was a shade on his brow, a sort of frown, as if Isabel’s words called up some bitter thought—as if he were struggling with painful feelings.“You are quite right, Isabel, it was an occasion when it would be invidious to draw comparisons, or to do any thing but give equal thanks to the one who saved my sister, and to the one who saved myself.”Hilary’s voice trembled slightly as she spoke.“If that had been the only occasion on which Captain Hepburn had shown his courage and dauntless spirit,” replied Charles, “I should still say that he was first in honor, for he led the way; I did but follow his example. But I know this is not the case; I know that it is only one of several such instances. I have heard that he has dared a leap into a wild tossing sea, in a dark and stormy day, to save a helpless fellow-creature. Is not that the fact, Miss Duncan?”With glowing cheeks and quivering eyelids, Hilary assented.“Perhaps,” said Isabel, “there are braver acts done quietly and almost unnoticed even than that, heroic as it seems. Acts which require a more generous heart and noble nature than the human courage which would lead a sailor to dare the storm, to help a shipmate in distress.”Mr. Huyton rather looked than asked for an explanation. Isabel went on.“To throw oneself from the pedestal of glory in order to place another there, to refuse the honorable distinction due to courage that it may be transferred to a companion in exertion, is a quiet heroism, a generous self-devotion, which requires a firmer and braver heart than the mere defiance of bodily danger.”Mr. Huyton bent down his eyes upon the damask table-cloth, and only showed, by the silence that followed, that he understood the lady’s meaning. Hilary could not avoid looking at him; she knew better than Isabel the extent of generosity which could induce him to praise a successful rival. No words which he could have spoken could have so moved her heart toward him as this commendation of one whom she had supposed him to dislike. It was noble, candid, high-minded; she had not given him credit for such feelings; she had been unjust to him in her imagination; she wished to make amends. She gave him a look which expressed some part of her feeling; and while with lips trembling with emotion, and eyes sparkling with pleasure, she glanced at him, he suddenly raised his own eyes, met hers, and read her heart.Isabel Barham little suspected the hidden emotions of the man to whom she was carefully studying to be agreeable. If she had at one time, for a short period, feared the influence of Hilary, such fears were entirely dissipated by the intelligence which had reached her, of her friend’s engagement. She little dreamed how often the Vicar’s daughter had refused the hand to which she was so willing to reach out her own; or that theaffections she would so gladly have won, had long been passionately and hopelessly devoted to another.The heiress of the Abbey would not have deigned to stoop for a heart which her inferior rival had refused to accept; she would have scorned the acquisition had she really understood the position of affairs. Had shelovedMr. Huyton, her feelings would have been different; but love had nothing to do with the matter; it was a desirable connection, that was all. She might be capable of loving, perhaps, if she had the temptation; but as yet it had never occurred, and Charles Huyton was not the man to captivate her nature. The vagaries of affections are incomprehensible, and unaccountable by any rule; but the effects of ambition, love of importance, and worldly position, are much more easy to calculate. By these, at the present moment, Miss Barham was governed.The dinner was over at last, and Hilary, released from the positionvis-à-visto Mr. Huyton, rejoiced to devote her attention to her father, who was waiting for them in the drawing-room. The rest of the evening went by without emotion of any trying nature. Mr. Huyton had a good deal of conversation with Mr. Duncan, during which Hilary escaped to the other end of the room; she had no wish to throw herself in the way of the young man, although she was pleased that he should show attentive deference to her father. Isabel Barham was also carefully kind to the clergyman, and it was a pretty contrast to see her standing beside his chair, with her graceful figure, and queenly air, talking with elegant animation, reading in the best-modulated voice in the world short passages from some new book she was discussing, and raising her head occasionally, to put back the long, dark ringlets which swept her well-turned shoulders, and would fall over her cheeks, as she stooped to refer to the work before her.Mr. Ufford joined Hilary at the table where she was standing, turning over a book of prints, and entered into conversation on the topic of Hurstdene, its village, population, schools, church, and such particulars as might naturally be consideredinteresting to him. She found him, as Mrs. Paine had said, pleasing and gentle in manners, with a peculiar way of winning from those he conversed with their opinions; while he seldom committed himself by stating his own. It did not strike her at the time so much, but when she subsequently came to reflect upon their conversation, she found that she literally knew nothing more of his tastes, habits, opinions, and inclinations, than might be gathered from the courtesy with which he had listened to hers. It rather seemed, on review, as if he had been judging her, and for that purpose had succeeded in inducing her to develop her own views and feelings. She was not sure that she liked him; she hardly thought this fair, and she resolved, if they met again, to preserve greater equality in their steps toward a friendly acquaintance.They kept rather late hours at the Abbey; it was midnight before the party broke up, although there was nothing particular doing to entertain them. When, however, the ladies did retire, Hilary watched, with an indescribable interest, the greeting between Isabel and Charles Huyton; she could not keep her fancy from speculating on, and her heart from seriously wishing for their union, and she half hoped that the long conversation which had engrossed them both, after Mr. Duncan had left the drawing-room at his usual hour, might be indicative of an approach to the sentiments which she desired.His last words to her were spoken as easily, and in as disengaged a tone, as to Mrs. Paine herself, and Hilary went to her room, with a persuasion that the meeting was less uncomfortable than she could have expected. She drew a low chair to the fire, and sat down to think; but her reverie was soon interrupted by a light tap at the door she had not previously noticed, which, on opening,disclosed Dora Barham in her dressing-gown, with her long hair all hanging about her shoulders.“Our rooms adjoin, you see, dear Hilary,” said she, closing the door, and coming up to her friend. “I have sent my maid to bed, and now let me talk to you.”She threw herself on the carpet at her feet, laid her arm inHilary’s lap, and looked up in her face with a wistful expression.“Oh, I am so unhappy! I do not the least know what to do. What ought I to do?—do tell me?”“My dearest Dora! how can I?” replied Miss Duncan, caressing the soft round cheek, and lovingly putting back the glossy hair which spread over her knee.“Oh, you do know a great deal. They want me to marry, and I can not, will not; you know why. But they do so want me to marry.”“Who do?”“Papa and Isabel, and Lady Margaret. Oh, it’s dreadful; you do not know what I have gone through these six months.”“To marry!” said Hilary; “what, to marry in a general way, or is there some one in particular? You talk vaguely.”“Oh, one man in particular: Mr. Ufford!”“What, this clergyman?”“Oh, no, his elder brother, a much older man, a widower, too, with one little girl; think of wanting to make me a step-mother.”“And do you not like this gentleman?”“No, not much, pretty well; he is pleasant, and good, and kind. I like him better than his brother here; he is much more open and generous; only if he would have been so obliging as not to fancy himself in love with me, I should have liked him much better.”“And now, where is he? is he still wanting to marry you?”“He says, of course, if I am so averse, he will not press his suit; but he shall and must love me to the end of time; and papa says I am a silly child, and do not know my own mind. And oh, Hilary, he said—‘Dora, if you loved another, I would not have pressed you to accept this offer; but since your heart is disengaged, there is no reason that you should not marry a man of such a character and such a position as Mr. Ufford!’”“And what did you say, Dora?”Dora hid her face and sobbed, thensaid—“I complained of his age, his daughter, my youth, my indifference, but I got no pity. They would not admit these to be objections.”“Then you could not plead that your affections were pre-engaged, Dora?”Again the face was hidden, and there was silence.“Dora!” said Hilary, stooping and kissing her, “do not be ashamed to say so, if you are indifferent tohim; I shall not blame you, if you have conquered an imprudent inclination; speak to me, say is that the case?”“No,” cried she, with vehemence, and raising her flushed face suddenly, “I have not. I love your brother better than ever; absence, time, separation, make no difference. I love him now, and I shall love him forever!”“Then why not tell your father? had you owned it then, you would have been able to explain all.”“I was going to. I intended to have told him; I was only thinking how to begin, when he silenced me by adding, ‘I say this, Dora, because I feel assured any daughter of mine would be incapable of forming or owning to an unworthy passion; of encouraging an affection beneath her, of consulting wild and childish fancies, rather than the claims of her family, the advancement of her best interests, and the maintenance of that elevated position in society, in which she has been placed by her birth and fortune.’ What could I say after that, Hilary? Own that I loved a poor lieutenant! I dared not.”There followed a long silence. To urge on her friend measures which, if they did not altogether embroil her with her father, would be so much more advantageous to Maurice than to Dora, was impossible for Hilary. She had given her opinion of right and wrong, she could do no more; so the two girls sat together, looking at the fire, and each plunged in thought.“What must I do?” at last sighed Dora. “I sometimes think of going into a convent; if I were only a Roman Catholic, I would.”“My dear Dora!”“Then,” continued the willful little penitent, “I think of telling Mr. Ufford that I love another, and so getting him to give me up. What do you think of that?”“I do not know.”“Hilary, would you, for all the riches and titles in the world, marry any other than Captain Hepburn? tell me.”“Certainly not; I could not.”“Nor will I than Maurice; our cases are exactly similar.”“Not quite.”“Yes, they are; we each love one, and that feeling makes it wrong to engage ourselves to another. There is no difference.”“A little. I have my father’s consent to my affection and engagement. If I had not, I should try to obtain it.”“And if you could not?”“I should try to conquer my affection.”“What! and leave your lover to suppose you faithless, changeable, treacherous? I will not.”“Yes. If it is not right to love, it matters little what he thinks of you, in comparison of doing right. Your duty is to conquer an improper, unauthorized affection, and the sooner the better.”“But it is not improper; it is right to love as I do.”“Then tell your father, Dora.”“I dare not—hewill not think it right.”“Nay, then it is wrong.”“Cruel, cruel Hilary!”“I am sorry to seem so, dear Dora; but it appears to me so plain. There are but two things to do. Own your attachment and abide by the consequences; or conquer it, and give Maurice up entirely.”“I have nothing to give up; I am not bound to him, nor he to me, except in unalterable affection. That is all.”“A most unhappy affection. How much better for you both, if you could renounce it entirely. Continued as it is, it canonly make you discontented, miserable, unable to adopt any path in life. If you could but overcome and forget it!”“And marry Mr. Ufford? Never!”Hilary was silent again.“I never thought to hear such words from you, Hilary,” continued Dora. “Have you no regard for honor and principle, that you advise me to marry without love? have you no affection left for Maurice that you bid me abandon him? none for me, that you desire me to perjure myself? Oh, shame, shame on you, Hilary! You do not deserve to be Maurice’s sister.”“I do not deserve such reproaches,” replied Miss Duncan steadily, looking at her friend’s glowing face, as she started to her feet before her. “I never proposed, or prompted such ideas.”“What did you mean, then?”“That you should really and honestly try to conquer your unfortunate predilection for my brother. Surely there is no virtue in obstinate constancy; the passion denominated love, has no such merit in itself, that it should be clung to at the expense of all other good qualities; that candor, and filial affection, and self-denial, and self-control, are all to be sacrificed to it. What is it, after all, but often a merely selfish inclination, a determined perseverance in our own way, this constancy which is so much praised and extolled? And as to making one happy, what can be a greater delusion! It seems to me that persisting in an unfortunate attachment, is very like persisting in entertaining some wearing illness, which makes you uncomfortable in yourself, and uneasy to those around you.”“But, Hilary, one can not help these things; love may be a disease, but it is an incurable one—at least, in cases where the infection is really taken.”“I do not believe that, Dora. We are not sent into this world to be the sport of our passions; and I am convinced that our natural affections need no more be fatal to us, than our necessary acts, such as eating and drinking. We may, by mismanagement,bring our bodies or our minds into such a state, that the things which should conduce to our health and happiness, may produce fatal consequences; but then who is to blame? Consider the end and object of this life; to prepare for a better, a peaceful, blissful state, where darkness, doubt, and distress can not come; where tears shall disappear forever: and can you suppose that we are necessary victims to deplorable passions which must so entirely interfere with this great object? that love, which is intended to assist us onward, can of its own nature be ungovernable and incurable? Oh, no; we may learn to command every passion, even the strongest, if we seek aright.”“You are just talking enigmas to me; you know very well I never learned any thing about self-control; and Maurice loves me as I am. I shall go and take the first opportunity of telling Mr. Ufford I love another; for I never could bear to be step-mother to a girl of twelve years old. It is too absurd of papa to expect it at all.”She quitted the room, leaving Hilary to meditate at leisure on what had passed; to grieve over the mutual infatuation of her brother and her friend, and to comfort herself that at least Dora’s pettish injustice would not last, for she could not bear to quarrel with her.
“When I was young, my lover stoleOne of my ringlets fair;I wept, ‘Ah no, those always part,Who, having once changed heart for heart,Change also locks of hair.’”Anonymous.
“When I was young, my lover stoleOne of my ringlets fair;I wept, ‘Ah no, those always part,Who, having once changed heart for heart,Change also locks of hair.’”Anonymous.
“When I was young, my lover stole
One of my ringlets fair;
I wept, ‘Ah no, those always part,
Who, having once changed heart for heart,
Change also locks of hair.’”
Anonymous.
The next thing that Hilary heard of Charles Huyton was, that he had quitted “the Ferns,” having dismissed his establishment, shut up the house, and intimated an intention of not returning for many months. This information was obtained by Captain Hepburn, and was received with great satisfaction, not only by Hilary, but by the reporter himself. He was very glad, as he was forced to leave her in so unprotected a situation, to feel that so violent and determined a lover as Mr. Huyton threatened to be should have removed himself from her immediate vicinity.
His leave of absence, prolonged to the last possible moment, ended, of course, much too soon, and the parting was naturally painful; but Hilary’s cheerful and affectionate disposition supported her. She was certain of his love, and that was happiness enough to supply resignation and hope. Of the misery of protracted suspense, the pain of an uncertain engagement, the long anguish of patience, she knew nothing. She felt unlimited trust in her lover’s constancy, as well as his character, and a calm dependence upon that merciful Providence to whose care she committed her future prospects. She was thankful, deeply thankful that she had been saved from being captivated by the very engaging qualities of one whose principles she could not trust, and that another to whom she could look as a guardian,a director, and a guide, had been brought within the circle of her acquaintance. If there was happiness to be found in this world she believed it would be in his society; and beyond, far beyond this world, there was that sure and certain hope which could support through the most stormy scenes of life, by pointing onward to a bright and peaceful “forever” together. So she parted from Captain Hepburn with sorrow, yet with hope, and the tears which the former caused to overflow were checked by the whispers of the latter; and neither her grief nor her love made her a more careless daughter, or a less kind sister, nor occasioned any visible want of consideration for the feelings or wishes of others.
How often, in her leisure moments, the short, black curl which lay in a small gold locket, his parting gift, was contemplated or kissed, it is not necessary now to say; nor is there any means of ascertaining whether it received more attention than did the long shining, wavy lock with which she parted in exchange, and which accompanied a pretty water-colored likeness of herself, originally done by Mrs. Paine for Maurice, back to thePandanus. One thing was certain, that Maurice was very good-natured and obliging, and allowed the picture which had been intended to ornament his cabin to hang in the Captain’s instead, where it may be supposed to have served as a public avowal that the owner was indeed an engaged man.
Months rolled on, and brought no apparent change to the family at Hurtsdene Vicarage. Nothing more was heard of Charles Huyton, except that he was incidentally mentioned in Isabel Barham’s letters to her cousin, Mrs. Paine, as much in their society in London; then as accompanying them on a trip to Paris; then as having taken a moor in Scotland near one of her father’s estates: and of their expectations of seeing him during their autumnal residence in Argyleshire.
The younger girls lamented his desertion of “the Ferns” and the loss of his library; but to Hilary these months were days of peace and happiness compared with preceding excitement; and she tried hard to persuade her sisters that Mr. Paine hadas many books as they could read, and more than they could remember.
One other slight diversion they had, namely, the reappearance of Mr. Farrington, who came down for part of the long vacation, and took lodgings in the forest. He was an old acquaintance and friend of Mrs. Paine’s, and was a great deal with them at Primrose Bank, and consequently often in the society of the sisters at the Vicarage. Not quite so often, perhaps, as he could wish; for Hilary, grown wiser by experience, began to suspect that young men did not seek the society of girls entirely without an object, and became shy of encouraging a kind of intercourse, which, within her knowledge, had more often ended disastrously than otherwise. She could not help seeing that the young barrister admired Sybil exceedingly; but she knew, that though her sister was womanly in manners and appearance, she was childlike in disposition and character. Not quite sixteen, she was too young to think of matrimony; and while she continued indifferent to Mr. Farrington and quite careless about his attentions, Hilary did not wish him to become more demonstrative.
Mrs. Paine agreed with her, indeed this caution originated with that lady; and one day she took on herself to communicate to the gentleman the extreme youth of the object of his admiration. This brought on a confidential conversation between the lady and the gentleman, in which he informed her that he was quite willing to wait a year or two, but that he was bent on making Sybil Duncan his wife hereafter. Then, if his business continued to flourish as it had done lately, he should by that time have a fair income to offer her, so he implored Mrs. Paine in the mean while, to give him a good character to that discreet, matronly, elder sister, who now looked as suspiciously on his attempt to be agreeable as if she had to defend from desperate fortune-hunters an heiress of ten thousand a year.
Mrs. Paine laughed, and promised to speak pretty well of him; and when the vacation ended, Mr. Farrington was obliged toreturn to London, where, in spite of his love for Sybil, there seems no reason to think he was either miserable or morose.
So passed the autumn and early winter. Christmas brought the Barhams to the Abbey, and Hilary was thinking with much interest and much curiosity of Dora and her feelings, for it was some weeks since she had heard from her; when a servant from the Abbey brought over a note to ask Mr. Duncan and his eldest daughter to pay them a visit, with a promise of the carriage to fetch them one day, and to take them back the next.
Hilary felt doubtful about accepting the invitation, anxious as she was to see Dora; but a little postscript to Isabel’s note, not at first discovered, compelled them to decide in favor of going; it was to the effect that Mr. Barham desired to see Mr. Duncan on business, which could not be discussed in a morning visit; so an answer was written, agreeing to the proposal. Her sisters all declared it was nonsense of Hilary being so unwilling to go; it would be very pleasant; the Abbey was, probably, full of pleasant people, besides Isabel and Dora, and Mr. and Mrs. Paine, who, it was known, had gone over on Monday, and were to stay till Saturday. What more could she want to be sure of an agreeable visit?
She could only repeat that she had preferred their society to any the Abbey could promise, and that home was pleasanter than any other place; at which her sisters only laughed, and said “Let her try.”
To the Abbey they went, arriving there, by particular desire, in time for the two o’clock luncheon; and there they found assembled, besides Mr. Barham and his two daughters, only the Paines and another gentleman, a young clergyman, whose personal appearance immediately attracted Hilary’s notice; he being the first individual of a peculiar class with whom she had as yet met. There was something odd in the arrangement of his hair, in the appearance of his neck-cloth, and in the shape of his coat-collar, which gave an idea of singularity rather than sanctity, and made her more inclined to wonder at than admire him.
She had not much time, however, to form conjectures relative to this gentleman, for the young ladies almost entirely engrossed her. Each, in her different way, appeared delightedto see her again, and really Isabel’s more measured accents, and stately welcomes, were hardly less kind and cordial than themine caressanteand endearing words of Dora, who scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry at meeting, and could not express her affection and joy with sufficient emphasis to please herself.
The afternoon was fine, although it was mid-winter, and the ladies, having seen the four gentlemen adjourn to Mr. Barham’s private sitting-room, determined to go out for a refreshing walk. The sun was just setting in a clear green and amber sky, the air was sharp and frosty, with scarcely a cloud visible over-head to dim the beautiful half-moon hanging in the eastern heaven; there was no wind to make it feel cold, and the ladies soon walked themselves into warmth and spirits, such as can only be known to those who are blessed with health and strength to enable them to enjoy active exercise in the free air.
“Now, Hilary,” said Dora, as they turned their faces homeward, and slackened their walk into a comfortable strolling pace, “have you the least idea why papa sent for you?”
“Some kind of business with my father, I know,” replied Miss Duncan, quietly; while Isabel exclaimed,
“Dora, how you talk! I wanted to see you, Hilary.”
“So did I,” replied Dora, “but not a bit would that have availed, had not papa had business; it is about that Mr. Ufford, you know!”
“Dora, how can you interfere! do, Fanny, tell all about it, for really Dora ought not,” again exclaimed Isabel, a little impatiently.
“I did not mean to say any thing at present,” replied Mrs. Paine; “but, as Dora has said so much, I will explain. Hilary, dear, we are going to leave you!”
“Leave us!” said Hilary, amazed; “dear Mrs. Paine, what do you mean?”
“The Rector of Copseley is dead, and you know my husband had the promise of the living.”
“Oh! I remember; I am very sorry; that is, I am glad for you, but sorry for us, for my father, for all: it will be hard to part;” and the tears came into her eyes as she spoke.
“Do not trouble yourself to be glad,” said Mrs. Paine, affectionately, “I shall be most truly sorry when the time comes to part; but it will not be yet; we shall not move till the spring, I believe.”
“That is a comfort,” said Hilary; “what has Mr. Ufford to do with it?”
“Nothing at present,” said Isabel, quickly, as if to prevent Dora from answering. “That depends on your father, of course. But if Mr. Duncan could like him for a successor to Mr. Paine, we should be very glad!”
“Oh!” was Hilary’s answer. On such a point she had little to say. She knew that Mr. Paine’s opinion would have great influence with her father; and she thought his judgment might be trusted. If he approved of Mr. Ufford, all would be right; and this she should soon learn from his wife.
“Mr. Ufford is a man of very good family,” said Isabel, presently. “He is the third son of Lord Dunsmore; and though his fortune is small for his rank, I think you would find him an acquisition at Hurstdene. He is very pleasant, and really a good clergyman.”
Perhaps the thought how little either fortune or rank had to do with this latter recommendation which passed through Miss Duncan’s mind, prevented her answering this rather complicated speech. She felt sure also that Mr. Barham must have some private motive for interesting himself in the curate of Hurstdene; so she resolved to wait before she gave any opinion relative to her own feelings on the subject. It was one which too nearly concerned their own domestic comfort to be lightly treated, had there been no higher motives, or more important objects connected with it.
The road to the Abbey led them up a thick avenue, wherethe leafless branches of the trees threw a most perplexing checker-work of darkness across the white moonbeams as they lay on the ground, or fell on the figures of the ladies. Suddenly they saw a gentleman approaching them. Isabel uttered a little exclamation, indicative of very pleased surprise, before her companions recognized the new comer; but the next moment Hilary saw with a mixture of uncomfortable feelings that it was Mr. Huyton himself. The dread of meeting him had been one motive for her unwillingness to go to the Abbey, and great had been her relief on learning, soon after her arrival, that he was not at all expected. By what unlucky accident he chanced to come at the very time when it was least desirable, she did not know; but she saw from the manners of Miss Barham, that though very welcome, he was yet quite an unlooked-for guest.
It was impossible in such a light, to mark any expression of features or changes of complexion, so Hilary’s varying color was safe from notice. How they should meet she could not guess; but nothing was left to her decision. Mr. Huyton advanced, took Isabel’s proffered hand, made his excuses with grace, spoke easily to Dora and Mrs. Paine; and added, as he turned to her,
“And I have the pleasure, too, of seeing Miss Duncan. I hope you are quite well, and all your family.”
If ever Hilary was surprised in her life, it was at the composure and calmness with which her hand was taken, and these words were said. She would gladly have avoided shaking hands, but that was impossible; he went through the ceremony with such perfect grace and self-possession, as prevented it being awkward even to her, but with an air of indifference which amazed her when she thought of the past. As they returned to the house along the moon-lighted terrace, she could catch indistinct glimpses of his face, while he conversed gayly and courteously with her companions; and there was neither look nor tone which could convey the impression that her presence was a matter of the smallest consequence to him. Could he havequite recovered from the infatuation of past years! had he learned to regulate his affections and govern his feelings, to acquiesce in her decisions and participate in her indifference? Might they associate on an easy footing, as friendly acquaintance, without awkwardness or reluctance? She would have gladly believed this to be the case; but she feared to trust too entirely to appearances, when she remembered that more than once before she had been misled by his assumed calmness, to believe in the extinction of feelings, which seemed to have been only the fiercer for suppression.
No, she could never be comfortable with him again; she dared not trust him, so long as he continued single. If he would but marry some other woman, what a blessing she would esteem it. As she walked along musing thus, she only heard the sound of his voice mingling with the tones of her companions; she did not understand a word they said; her memory was away in the sawyer’s hut in the forest, and to her imagination, she was again listening to his threatening accents, or again clinging to that dear arm, which so tenderly supported her from the unpleasant scene. She was so engrossed in these thoughts, that when Mr. Huyton turned to her, and observed that he had seen Mr. Duncan in the house, and was glad to find him well, she really, at first, hardly knew what he was talking of, and her answers betrayed her wandering thoughts so clearly, as to make Dora and Isabel both laugh at her absence of mind.
It was late enough when they reached the Abbey porch to make it quite allowable that the young ladies should retire to their several toilettes; and then Mrs. Paine begged Hilary’s company at hers for a moment, to explain some circumstances which she could not so well speak of before their hostess. It appeared that the intelligence that the living of Copseley was vacant, had reached the Paines the day after they arrived at the Abbey, and that Mr. Barham, on learning it, immediately expressed a strong wish to secure the future curacy of Hurstdene for Mr. Ufford. Why he was so anxious about it, or what particular inducement there was to place that gentleman in so retireda position, Mr. Barham did not mention; but this was avowedly his object in sending for Mr. Duncan. He wanted to settle it all immediately. That he had some ulterior motive, nobody who knew Mr. Barham could doubt, and Mrs. Paine had her own ideas on that point; but she did not think it right to mention mere conjectures; so she said she should leave Hilary to guess for herself. As to Mr. Ufford, she saw no harm in him, he seemed to be zealous, and talked well; but she was rather doubtful of his sincerity; he had a way of not speaking his opinions frankly, which made her uncomfortable, and she half-suspected him of extreme views, which might lead to injudicious innovations. But she was not sure of her own opinions, and most people were captivated by him; even Mr. Paine thought him a most excellent young man; so that it was, perhaps, bold in her to say that she did not quite like him.
“But he strikes me,” continued she, “as having anidée fixeof his own extreme personal importance and dignity; and you know, Hilary, that even very good men do often go very much astray, and become exceedingly inconsistent and strange, from having an ill-balanced character; from allowing one notion to overgrow their mind, and so warp or conceal other estimable qualities.”
“Very probably,” said Hilary; “but you say Mr. Paine likes him, and I expect my father will be guided by him. Oh! how I shall miss you! Mr. Ufford can never be what your husband has been to us; and there will be no compensation at all for the loss of you! Well, it is no use thinking of it; there are still three months left, I will not make them unhappy by anticipating the evil day; time enough when it comes. How do you think Dora is now? She looks very well.”
“I do not know that she is otherwise; they thought her delicate in the summer, but I fancy she quite recovered both health and spirits before she joined her family in Scotland, and she has not been ailing since.”
Hilary thought that this account did not agree with certain little notes she had received from time to time from Dora,speaking of a general disgust of life, an extreme want of spirits, and an inevitable tendency to a heart-broken death. But it was quite in accordance with her personal appearance, and her air of health and cheerfulness.
Dinner at the Abbey was always a grand and stately affair. The guests felt they were assisting at an important and solemn ceremony, a guaranty of the respectability of the ancient house of Barham; a remnant of the feudal times and the pomps of former days, when baronial ancestors had been served by squires and pages themselves of noble birth. Clinging to almost the last remnant of those by-gone days, Mr. Barham was particular about his livery-servants: they were many, they were well-trained, and their costume was as handsome as good taste could make it. In that gorgeously lighted room, contrasting as completely as wealth and elegance could suggest, with the ancient refectory, or the convivial board of olden times, it was impossible to find a shadow of concealment; a screen of any kind, to preserve blushing cheeks or troubled eyes from the glance of the curious, or the inspection of the sharp-sighted. So Hilary found to her cost; the round table brought every one in sight of each other, and made every observation audible to the group.
It was at this particular time that Mr. Huyton addressed her with a question regarding Maurice; he hoped he was well?
She replied in the affirmative, trusting that no one in the circle would care enough for her brother, or so little for herself, as to pursue the subject. She was mistaken. Mr. Huyton forced her to tell him what was the name of his ship, and where she then was, which she could hardly do without naming Captain Hepburn, although to speak before him of her lover was peculiarly distressing. On this, Mr. Barham took up the subject, by asking if he had not seen the young man at “the Ferns;” a talk, dark man, about thirty; older a good deal than Miss Duncan? Hilary, blushing exceedingly, and conscious that more eyes were fixed on her than she liked to meet, saidthatwas not her brother; he was young and fair.
On this Isabel, smiling graciously, observed that she thoughtpapa was thinking of Mr. Duncan’s captain, not himself; to which Mr. Barham observed, with his usual majesty, that it was by no means improbable: who might his captain be?
Hilary gave an imploring look at Isabel, but for some occult reason she did not choose to speak. Mrs. Paine’s attention at the moment was not directed that way, nor, indeed, had she been disengaged, instead of listening to a remark of Mr. Ufford’s, could she have interposed without awkwardness. Dora’s eyes were on her china plate, which she was minutely examining, and Mr. Barham was looking at Miss Duncan for an answer. How she wished her father had been present to have answered for her, but he did not dine with them, as he had a nervous dread of being troublesome or unpleasant from his infirmity. She felt she must reply; indeed, it was but a moment that she hesitated; a moment was enough to feel a great deal of embarrassment; another, to resolve to brave it all; and although conscious that Charles Huyton’s eyes were reading her countenance with a deliberate intentness, which she thought quite cruel, she answered her host’s question with sufficient distinctness, that his captain’s name was Hepburn.
“Hepburn! Hepburn! that’s a good name, an old family name, Miss Duncan, one long distinguished in Scotch history,” observed Mr. Barham. “Did we not meet somebody of that name in Scotland, Isabel? You who are such a genealogist and historian, you must remember, I am sure.”
Isabel did remember accurately the whole genealogical table of the gentleman in question; and while she was relating some interesting historical anecdotes connected with the family, Hilary’s cheeks had time to cool, and she trusted the name of her lover would not again be forced from her.
But when Isabel had finished her graceful little narrations, her father again turned to Miss Duncan with a question as to whether she knew if her brother’s captain belonged to this ancient house. It was important, perhaps, for Mr. Barham’s comfort, since he had done Captain Hepburn the honor of recollecting him, that he should be proved worthy of so great acompliment, by possessing the lineage of a gentleman. Hilary replied briefly, that she believed so.
To her very great astonishment, Charles Huyton spoke.
“Whether Captain Hepburn can prove his descent from honorable ancestors or not by genealogical records, he certainly does by his chivalrous conduct and noble bearing, if honor and courage are the attributes of high birth. He is as brave and gallant a man as I have ever seen.”
Hilary gave one quick, grateful glance at hervis-à-vis, as he spoke these words, which was not thrown away. She knew better than any one else the effort it must cost him.
“Ah! I know to what you allude,” said Isabel, with a sweet smile; “but if I remember rightly, Captain Hepburn was not the only one who displayed courage and daring on that occasion. Even Hilary must admit that there was another strong arm and bold heart then and there. The spectators at least saw both performers, although the immediate actors in the scene were, perhaps, only conscious of a part of what passed.”
Hilary again looked up timidly at Mr. Huyton. She felt that thus appealed to, she ought to make some response; but she hardly knew what it would be safe to say. There was a shade on his brow, a sort of frown, as if Isabel’s words called up some bitter thought—as if he were struggling with painful feelings.
“You are quite right, Isabel, it was an occasion when it would be invidious to draw comparisons, or to do any thing but give equal thanks to the one who saved my sister, and to the one who saved myself.”
Hilary’s voice trembled slightly as she spoke.
“If that had been the only occasion on which Captain Hepburn had shown his courage and dauntless spirit,” replied Charles, “I should still say that he was first in honor, for he led the way; I did but follow his example. But I know this is not the case; I know that it is only one of several such instances. I have heard that he has dared a leap into a wild tossing sea, in a dark and stormy day, to save a helpless fellow-creature. Is not that the fact, Miss Duncan?”
With glowing cheeks and quivering eyelids, Hilary assented.
“Perhaps,” said Isabel, “there are braver acts done quietly and almost unnoticed even than that, heroic as it seems. Acts which require a more generous heart and noble nature than the human courage which would lead a sailor to dare the storm, to help a shipmate in distress.”
Mr. Huyton rather looked than asked for an explanation. Isabel went on.
“To throw oneself from the pedestal of glory in order to place another there, to refuse the honorable distinction due to courage that it may be transferred to a companion in exertion, is a quiet heroism, a generous self-devotion, which requires a firmer and braver heart than the mere defiance of bodily danger.”
Mr. Huyton bent down his eyes upon the damask table-cloth, and only showed, by the silence that followed, that he understood the lady’s meaning. Hilary could not avoid looking at him; she knew better than Isabel the extent of generosity which could induce him to praise a successful rival. No words which he could have spoken could have so moved her heart toward him as this commendation of one whom she had supposed him to dislike. It was noble, candid, high-minded; she had not given him credit for such feelings; she had been unjust to him in her imagination; she wished to make amends. She gave him a look which expressed some part of her feeling; and while with lips trembling with emotion, and eyes sparkling with pleasure, she glanced at him, he suddenly raised his own eyes, met hers, and read her heart.
Isabel Barham little suspected the hidden emotions of the man to whom she was carefully studying to be agreeable. If she had at one time, for a short period, feared the influence of Hilary, such fears were entirely dissipated by the intelligence which had reached her, of her friend’s engagement. She little dreamed how often the Vicar’s daughter had refused the hand to which she was so willing to reach out her own; or that theaffections she would so gladly have won, had long been passionately and hopelessly devoted to another.
The heiress of the Abbey would not have deigned to stoop for a heart which her inferior rival had refused to accept; she would have scorned the acquisition had she really understood the position of affairs. Had shelovedMr. Huyton, her feelings would have been different; but love had nothing to do with the matter; it was a desirable connection, that was all. She might be capable of loving, perhaps, if she had the temptation; but as yet it had never occurred, and Charles Huyton was not the man to captivate her nature. The vagaries of affections are incomprehensible, and unaccountable by any rule; but the effects of ambition, love of importance, and worldly position, are much more easy to calculate. By these, at the present moment, Miss Barham was governed.
The dinner was over at last, and Hilary, released from the positionvis-à-visto Mr. Huyton, rejoiced to devote her attention to her father, who was waiting for them in the drawing-room. The rest of the evening went by without emotion of any trying nature. Mr. Huyton had a good deal of conversation with Mr. Duncan, during which Hilary escaped to the other end of the room; she had no wish to throw herself in the way of the young man, although she was pleased that he should show attentive deference to her father. Isabel Barham was also carefully kind to the clergyman, and it was a pretty contrast to see her standing beside his chair, with her graceful figure, and queenly air, talking with elegant animation, reading in the best-modulated voice in the world short passages from some new book she was discussing, and raising her head occasionally, to put back the long, dark ringlets which swept her well-turned shoulders, and would fall over her cheeks, as she stooped to refer to the work before her.
Mr. Ufford joined Hilary at the table where she was standing, turning over a book of prints, and entered into conversation on the topic of Hurstdene, its village, population, schools, church, and such particulars as might naturally be consideredinteresting to him. She found him, as Mrs. Paine had said, pleasing and gentle in manners, with a peculiar way of winning from those he conversed with their opinions; while he seldom committed himself by stating his own. It did not strike her at the time so much, but when she subsequently came to reflect upon their conversation, she found that she literally knew nothing more of his tastes, habits, opinions, and inclinations, than might be gathered from the courtesy with which he had listened to hers. It rather seemed, on review, as if he had been judging her, and for that purpose had succeeded in inducing her to develop her own views and feelings. She was not sure that she liked him; she hardly thought this fair, and she resolved, if they met again, to preserve greater equality in their steps toward a friendly acquaintance.
They kept rather late hours at the Abbey; it was midnight before the party broke up, although there was nothing particular doing to entertain them. When, however, the ladies did retire, Hilary watched, with an indescribable interest, the greeting between Isabel and Charles Huyton; she could not keep her fancy from speculating on, and her heart from seriously wishing for their union, and she half hoped that the long conversation which had engrossed them both, after Mr. Duncan had left the drawing-room at his usual hour, might be indicative of an approach to the sentiments which she desired.
His last words to her were spoken as easily, and in as disengaged a tone, as to Mrs. Paine herself, and Hilary went to her room, with a persuasion that the meeting was less uncomfortable than she could have expected. She drew a low chair to the fire, and sat down to think; but her reverie was soon interrupted by a light tap at the door she had not previously noticed, which, on opening,disclosed Dora Barham in her dressing-gown, with her long hair all hanging about her shoulders.
“Our rooms adjoin, you see, dear Hilary,” said she, closing the door, and coming up to her friend. “I have sent my maid to bed, and now let me talk to you.”
She threw herself on the carpet at her feet, laid her arm inHilary’s lap, and looked up in her face with a wistful expression.
“Oh, I am so unhappy! I do not the least know what to do. What ought I to do?—do tell me?”
“My dearest Dora! how can I?” replied Miss Duncan, caressing the soft round cheek, and lovingly putting back the glossy hair which spread over her knee.
“Oh, you do know a great deal. They want me to marry, and I can not, will not; you know why. But they do so want me to marry.”
“Who do?”
“Papa and Isabel, and Lady Margaret. Oh, it’s dreadful; you do not know what I have gone through these six months.”
“To marry!” said Hilary; “what, to marry in a general way, or is there some one in particular? You talk vaguely.”
“Oh, one man in particular: Mr. Ufford!”
“What, this clergyman?”
“Oh, no, his elder brother, a much older man, a widower, too, with one little girl; think of wanting to make me a step-mother.”
“And do you not like this gentleman?”
“No, not much, pretty well; he is pleasant, and good, and kind. I like him better than his brother here; he is much more open and generous; only if he would have been so obliging as not to fancy himself in love with me, I should have liked him much better.”
“And now, where is he? is he still wanting to marry you?”
“He says, of course, if I am so averse, he will not press his suit; but he shall and must love me to the end of time; and papa says I am a silly child, and do not know my own mind. And oh, Hilary, he said—‘Dora, if you loved another, I would not have pressed you to accept this offer; but since your heart is disengaged, there is no reason that you should not marry a man of such a character and such a position as Mr. Ufford!’”
“And what did you say, Dora?”
Dora hid her face and sobbed, thensaid—
“I complained of his age, his daughter, my youth, my indifference, but I got no pity. They would not admit these to be objections.”
“Then you could not plead that your affections were pre-engaged, Dora?”
Again the face was hidden, and there was silence.
“Dora!” said Hilary, stooping and kissing her, “do not be ashamed to say so, if you are indifferent tohim; I shall not blame you, if you have conquered an imprudent inclination; speak to me, say is that the case?”
“No,” cried she, with vehemence, and raising her flushed face suddenly, “I have not. I love your brother better than ever; absence, time, separation, make no difference. I love him now, and I shall love him forever!”
“Then why not tell your father? had you owned it then, you would have been able to explain all.”
“I was going to. I intended to have told him; I was only thinking how to begin, when he silenced me by adding, ‘I say this, Dora, because I feel assured any daughter of mine would be incapable of forming or owning to an unworthy passion; of encouraging an affection beneath her, of consulting wild and childish fancies, rather than the claims of her family, the advancement of her best interests, and the maintenance of that elevated position in society, in which she has been placed by her birth and fortune.’ What could I say after that, Hilary? Own that I loved a poor lieutenant! I dared not.”
There followed a long silence. To urge on her friend measures which, if they did not altogether embroil her with her father, would be so much more advantageous to Maurice than to Dora, was impossible for Hilary. She had given her opinion of right and wrong, she could do no more; so the two girls sat together, looking at the fire, and each plunged in thought.
“What must I do?” at last sighed Dora. “I sometimes think of going into a convent; if I were only a Roman Catholic, I would.”
“My dear Dora!”
“Then,” continued the willful little penitent, “I think of telling Mr. Ufford that I love another, and so getting him to give me up. What do you think of that?”
“I do not know.”
“Hilary, would you, for all the riches and titles in the world, marry any other than Captain Hepburn? tell me.”
“Certainly not; I could not.”
“Nor will I than Maurice; our cases are exactly similar.”
“Not quite.”
“Yes, they are; we each love one, and that feeling makes it wrong to engage ourselves to another. There is no difference.”
“A little. I have my father’s consent to my affection and engagement. If I had not, I should try to obtain it.”
“And if you could not?”
“I should try to conquer my affection.”
“What! and leave your lover to suppose you faithless, changeable, treacherous? I will not.”
“Yes. If it is not right to love, it matters little what he thinks of you, in comparison of doing right. Your duty is to conquer an improper, unauthorized affection, and the sooner the better.”
“But it is not improper; it is right to love as I do.”
“Then tell your father, Dora.”
“I dare not—hewill not think it right.”
“Nay, then it is wrong.”
“Cruel, cruel Hilary!”
“I am sorry to seem so, dear Dora; but it appears to me so plain. There are but two things to do. Own your attachment and abide by the consequences; or conquer it, and give Maurice up entirely.”
“I have nothing to give up; I am not bound to him, nor he to me, except in unalterable affection. That is all.”
“A most unhappy affection. How much better for you both, if you could renounce it entirely. Continued as it is, it canonly make you discontented, miserable, unable to adopt any path in life. If you could but overcome and forget it!”
“And marry Mr. Ufford? Never!”
Hilary was silent again.
“I never thought to hear such words from you, Hilary,” continued Dora. “Have you no regard for honor and principle, that you advise me to marry without love? have you no affection left for Maurice that you bid me abandon him? none for me, that you desire me to perjure myself? Oh, shame, shame on you, Hilary! You do not deserve to be Maurice’s sister.”
“I do not deserve such reproaches,” replied Miss Duncan steadily, looking at her friend’s glowing face, as she started to her feet before her. “I never proposed, or prompted such ideas.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“That you should really and honestly try to conquer your unfortunate predilection for my brother. Surely there is no virtue in obstinate constancy; the passion denominated love, has no such merit in itself, that it should be clung to at the expense of all other good qualities; that candor, and filial affection, and self-denial, and self-control, are all to be sacrificed to it. What is it, after all, but often a merely selfish inclination, a determined perseverance in our own way, this constancy which is so much praised and extolled? And as to making one happy, what can be a greater delusion! It seems to me that persisting in an unfortunate attachment, is very like persisting in entertaining some wearing illness, which makes you uncomfortable in yourself, and uneasy to those around you.”
“But, Hilary, one can not help these things; love may be a disease, but it is an incurable one—at least, in cases where the infection is really taken.”
“I do not believe that, Dora. We are not sent into this world to be the sport of our passions; and I am convinced that our natural affections need no more be fatal to us, than our necessary acts, such as eating and drinking. We may, by mismanagement,bring our bodies or our minds into such a state, that the things which should conduce to our health and happiness, may produce fatal consequences; but then who is to blame? Consider the end and object of this life; to prepare for a better, a peaceful, blissful state, where darkness, doubt, and distress can not come; where tears shall disappear forever: and can you suppose that we are necessary victims to deplorable passions which must so entirely interfere with this great object? that love, which is intended to assist us onward, can of its own nature be ungovernable and incurable? Oh, no; we may learn to command every passion, even the strongest, if we seek aright.”
“You are just talking enigmas to me; you know very well I never learned any thing about self-control; and Maurice loves me as I am. I shall go and take the first opportunity of telling Mr. Ufford I love another; for I never could bear to be step-mother to a girl of twelve years old. It is too absurd of papa to expect it at all.”
She quitted the room, leaving Hilary to meditate at leisure on what had passed; to grieve over the mutual infatuation of her brother and her friend, and to comfort herself that at least Dora’s pettish injustice would not last, for she could not bear to quarrel with her.