CHAPTERXVI.“Her moods, good lack! they pass like show’rs.But yesternight, and she would beAs pale and still as wither’d flow’rs;And now to-night she laughs and speaks,And has a color in her cheeks——”Iseult.Hilary knew Dora better than this wayward little thing knew herself. She came back very penitent and humble, before she could sleep; and after a great deal of kissing and crying for her crossness, she ended by insisting on sleeping with Hilary, and taking that opportunity of keeping her friend awake half the night, talking alternately of Captain Hepburn and Maurice.The morning hours after breakfast passed rather heavily away. The ladies were together in their sitting-room, the gentlemen were all invisible, nobody exactly knew where. Isabel was grave, Dora was languid, and Hilary was thoughtful.“Where’s Mr. Huyton?” yawned Dora; “how stupid of him not to come and talk to us! I am so tired. What’s become of him, Isabel?”“Really I do not know; perhaps he is in the library.”“No, I went in there, just now, and Mr. Ufford was all alone, reading St. Augustine, I believe, and making extracts. You may guess I did not disturb him. Where is your father, Hilary?”“He and Mr. Paine are together,” said Miss Duncan.“Oh, how tired I am,” said Dora, laying a very pale cheek against the crimson back of her easy chair.“Mr. Huyton never goes away in general, where can he be?”“I should not wonder if he has gone to ‘the Ferns,’” observed Mrs. Paine.Isabel looked up. “What makes you think so, Fanny?” asked she.“I heard him order his horse to be ready immediately after breakfast, and you know he left the table early.”“Ah, I dare say he had business, and that brought him down into the country,” said Miss Barham, quietly; “he feels so much at home here, that as his own house is not habitable at present, he naturally resorts to ours, when he wants a brief habitation.”From all which Hilary gathered, that when with the Barhams, either at the Abbey or elsewhere, he was accustomed generally to make himself agreeable.“I wish something would happen!” said Dora, presently, with another yawn.“What?” inquired Mrs. Paine.“Oh, any thing, an event! something to rouse and excite one; to give one a fillip. I do not quite want an earthquake, but I should like something!”“Poor child!” said Mrs. Paine, laughing; “it wants a new toy, or a nice cake.”“No, it is sick of cakes, and tired of toys,” said Dora; “it wants good wholesome food, and a little work instead of play. I should like to lose my fortune, and have to work for my bread. I think I could be happy then.”“Pretty work you would make of it!” said Isabel; “I wonder how you would begin.”“Why, really, that is a problem worth solving,” replied Dora; “I wonder too. What part of my education do you suppose was intended to fit me for the storms of adversity? which branch of the distorted and grotesque plant, which forms my small portion of the Tree of Knowledge, would be of the slightest use to me in distress? I think I might, perhaps, be capableof engaging as a ballet-dancer; but as to any thing else, I am sure I can not guess.”“How can you talk so?” exclaimed her sister; “it is quite improper. You have had a very good education for a lady!”“Well, I happened to see one of the maids cleaning the grate to-day in my room, and she looked so busy, so happy, and was chirrupping so cheerfully to herself, that I could not help stopping her to ask her what made her so merry; and she said in a frightened voice, as if excessively ashamed of herself, that she had no time to be unhappy, so she could not help it; for she had so much to do, that really, if she had a mind to fret, she should not have a minute to spare, for she was quite an underhousemaid, you see, and had to do the work, while the others looked after her. I told her I envied her.”“You ought not to put such ideas into their heads, Dora; it is republican and leveling.”“I do not think what I said will do any harm, Isabel. Hilary, if you had to work for your bread, what would you do? Should you not like it?”“I believe I do it pretty much now,” replied Miss Duncan; “and I do not particularly wish for a change.”“Well, I do,” said Dora, closing her eyes, and sinking into profound silence.The morning past, the luncheon hour arrived, and not till after that did Mr. Huyton make his appearance, nor did he publicly account for his absence, or at all explain where, or how he had spent the three or four hours during which he had disappeared. The Duncans were to return home after luncheon, and as Hilary was proceeding up the long stairs to her room, to prepare for her departure, she encountered him at the top of them.He stood back a little, as if to let her pass, but turned and joined her in the gallery.“Are you going?” said he, wistfully looking at her.“Yes, presently; you have been riding, have you not?”“I have been to Hurstdene.”Hilary looked surprised.“Yes, I spent the morning there; I longed, with an inexpressible longing, to see those scenes again, to tread those walks, look at those walls once more. You were here, my presence at the Vicarage could not disturbyou; could excite no anger in you; I ventured to gratify my wishes. To take one more view of the place I dearly loved, where I was once welcomed as a constant, and only too happy guest.”“Did you see my sisters?” asked Hilary, embarrassed and pained.“Yes, they were as kind as ever. I have at least one thing to thank you for—you have kept my secret well. Dear girls! they little knew, when they playfully reproached me for my long absence, whose wish it was it should be so! It is noble of you, Miss Duncan, to allow me to retain their good will; not to teach them to view me with aversion; not to inspire them with the cold dislike you entertain toward me yourself.”“Indeed, you do me injustice, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, gently, and pausing, in the gallery through which they were passing; “it is not aversion that I feel for you.”“And when we met yesterday by moonlight, could I not even then read the expression of your face? the chilling indifference of which it spoke, haunted me all night; and your hand, too, did it not tell the same tale? those fingers which once used to return the pressure of mine, now coldly suffer me to touch them, passively submitting to a form which is demanded by good manners, not expressive of sympathy. Do you suppose I am insensible, or indifferent to the change? Would to Heaven that I could annihilate the last eighteen months, and stand once more by your side the friend I once claimed to be!”“Would that we could, Mr. Huyton, so far as you are concerned,” replied she, gravely; “but the wish is idle and vain! we are what we have made ourselves, and feelings, words, actions, can never,neverbe recalled. Would that it were possible to begin anew our acquaintance!”“I would still be your friend, Hilary,” said he, in a moregentle voice; “may I not be that, may I not sometimes see you on these terms?”“I believe you would; I know you are generous and noble; I can not forget your words last night, and I can honor the feeling that dictated them.”A flash of joy passed across his face at these words, and fixing his eyes on her, he said:“And may I hope that you will still see me, receive me as a friend—let me sometimes visit your father, sometimes converse with you?”She shook her head. “Not now; not under present circumstances.”“Not for your father’s sake? he loves me, you know,” said he, persuasively.“I dare not.”“Dare not! which then is it that you will not trust, my honor or yours, Hilary?” There was a shadow gathering on his brow.“Why should we peril either,” replied she; “mine, yours, or that of another who is far away? You know my faith is pledged to him, to what end thenourmeeting, until you too have chosen another object for the love you have so unfortunately misplaced? Then wemaymeet perhaps as friends. Till then, let us part as friends.”“You have nothing more to fear from me, from my love,” replied he, bending down his eyes to conceal their expression. “But neither has any one aught to hope from it! For me to love again is impossible. Let it be enough that I resolve to extinguish a vain, hopeless passion. I ask now to be trusted as a friend only. Can you not believe me so far as that?”“It is wisest not to try,” said she, slowly.“What makes you so mistrustful?” questioned he, looking earnestly at her.“Experience!” was her answer; while the color deepened on her cheeks, as she thought of past scenes.“Are you quite candid now, Miss Duncan? is it not, rather,the injunction, the wish, perhaps, I should say, ofhim, of Captain Hepburn? Did not he bid you shun me? It can not be your own nature to be so newly suspicious; tell me it is his.”“No, indeed, he laid no restriction on me: he trusted entirely to my prudence, and I will show I deserved it.”“I would rather it had been his wish; I could have borne his suspicions better,” said Charles, sadly. “But surely, could he see me now, he would not fear me. I only aspire to be your friend, I only ask for calm and quiet intercourse; I have no pretensions now which could create jealousy, or make him suppose me a rival. I own his superiority, I admire, I esteem him; my own hopes being gone, I may at least rejoice that one worthy of you has won you; I am resigned to my loss; why should you make it more bitter than necessity requires?”She was silent, but she drew back when he tried to take her hand.“If he did not mistrust me, why should you?He, at least, knows us both better, does more justice both to you and me. Why should you hesitate? It is such a small favor I ask. For your father’s sake, let me come sometimes and see him.”“No, Mr. Huyton, I can not. Unlimited trust deserves unwavering prudence. Do not ask again, it is decided. At Hurstdene, and on purpose, I will not meet you. Let me say now, farewell. It is hard to refuse one to whom I owe so much; it is hard to seem ungrateful; but it is best. But you shall always have my best wishes, my earnest prayers for your happiness; I will never forget that the hand I hold assisted to save my life.”“Would that I had perished then and there!” cried he, losing self-control for a moment. “Would that the water had closed upon us both—that I had gone down with you in my arms, rather than—” he stopped abruptly; footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, he was recalled to a thought of where he was; he only stayed one moment to press her hand in both of his, to kiss it with a warmth, a passionate ardor, which did not speak of cold friendship; to give her one sad,reproachful look, and then he rushed toward his own dressing-room, which was in an adjoining corridor, leaving Hilary to enter her apartment, near the door of which they had been standing, and there to conceal her excitement and her fears.She had proceeded but a little way in her preparations for departure, when Dora rushed into the room, her bonnet in one hand, and her cloak in the other.“I am going with you, Hilary, for the drive,” cried she; “the horses must stop there to rest; for I have made papa agree that it was more civil I should go home with you.”She seemed in great spirits, and danced about at intervals, while she was pretending to dress.“You are awake now, Dora,” said her friend, smiling; but her voice betrayed at once that her own tears were not far off.“What is the matter?” exclaimed Dora, stopping to look anxiously at her friend; “what have you been crying about, Hilary, tell me?”“Nothing worth talking of—my own folly,” replied Miss Duncan, turning away, and stooping to look at the lock of a carpet bag.“I have long known,” said Dora, gravely, “that you were a very foolish child, always crying about nonsense and trifles; so I can easily believe you. No doubt you hurt your foot against a step, or pricked your finger with your brooch, and that made you cry.”Hilary laughed a little, and did not answer otherwise.“I want to come and stay with you at the Vicarage for some days,” continued Dora, in another voice. “Do ask me, I should so like it. Tell papa you want me.”“I am afraid Mr. Barham would think I was taking too great a liberty in asking you, Dora.”“Oh, no, he would not mind; you ask me, and he will let me go. You do want me, do you not?”“Very much,” said Miss Duncan, kindly; “it would give me great pleasure indeed to have you there, but I hardly think you are likely to be permitted.”“Oh, we will see,” said Dora; “now I am ready; are you? then come down.”Mr. Huyton was down stairs with the other visitors when the girls descended; calm, self-possessed, and courteous; listening gracefully to Isabel, who was discussing a question on political economy with Mr. Ufford; while Mr. Barham sat by with a look of paternal pride.Hilary ventured to make the request dictated by Dora; it was graciously received, treated as a very great kindness and honor, and if Miss Duncan liked to trouble herself with such a wild, thoughtless little child as Dora, he should be very happy at some future time; they would think of it.“Mrs. Paine returns to Primrose Bank on Saturday,” suggested Dora, “let me go then to the Vicarage; it would suit Hilary very well, I know.”Dora settled it all her own way; Isabel did not disapprove; it was true that Mr. Ufford was to leave them also in company with the Paines, but Mr. Huyton had promised to remain some time longer, and she was just as well pleased that her sister shouldnotbe there during this visit; for so carefully did Charles balance his attentions, and so strictly impartial was he to both sisters, that the eldest never actually felt sure whether she was or was not the one preferred.Very glad indeed was Hilary to be back in her own home, and away from the grandeur and restraints of Drewhurst Abbey. She never felt so much at ease with Mr. Barham as with any one else, and the sight of Charles Huyton made her unhappy. The great surprise which her sisters expected to afford her, turned out a failure; for she had already heard of their visitor; but it was news to Dora, who had not guessed where he had been, and who did not fail on her return home to charge him with it.Saturday came, and brought the younger Miss Barham to take up her abode at the Vicarage, as she had promised, much to the delight of the sisters there, who could not make enough of her. She was in great spirits, laughing and chatting ratherwildly, and making them all laugh, too, with her nonsense. Her grief and anxiety sat lightly indeed on her. The Paines and Mr. Ufford accompanied her, the latter to be introduced to the Vicarage; he was to preach the next morning. Mr. Duncan appeared extremely pleased with him, and there was every prospect that Mr. Barham’s plans would be carried out.Two or three days passed; Dora was still at the Vicarage, very happy and amusing, when, one morning, Hilary returning to the drawing-room, after a brief absence, found two visitors there, one of whom was a stranger. However, from his resemblance to his companion, she guessed him to be the elder Mr. Ufford, before Dora, with some blushes and embarrassment, introduced him as such.He was a pleasing and sensible-looking man, with an air of elegance becoming his birth, but with nothing in the slightest degree affected, or wearing the appearance of dandyism. He was simply in the best sense a gentleman, and a very good-looking one, too. Hilary liked him very much. Neither was he so immensely old, as Dora had represented him; to look at him, you could hardly believe him eight-and-twenty; and but for the certainty of his having a daughter, she would never have given him credit for a greater age. Possibly the representations of Dora had overstepped the facts, and this obnoxious child might not be quite so much as twelve years old.Mr. James Ufford, the clergyman, was the bearer of a message from Mrs. Paine, who was desirous to see Miss Duncan on some parochial matters, but was detained at home by cold and headache: he had, accordingly, set off to bring this message; and on the way had been overtaken by his brother, who had ridden over from Drewhurst Abbey that morning. It was proposed, partly on Dora’s suggestion, that they should all walk over to Primrose Bank together, and accordingly they presently set out, Hilary and Gwyneth with Mr. Ufford, junior; Dora under the care of the elder brother.These two did not attempt to keep up with the others, and Hilary soon lost sight of them. Perhaps, concern for herbrother made her quick-sighted, but she could not help fancying that, in spite of her assertions, Dora was by no means unwilling to receive the admiration or permit the attentions of her companion, and she could not anticipate any other conclusion to the affair than what Captain Hepburn had predicted as most probable.She was so much engrossed by these considerations as to afford but indifferent company to Mr. James Ufford, who, in consequence, devoted himself to Gwyneth, and succeeded in convincing that young lady that he was, without exception, the most delightful man in the world, even before they reached Primrose Bank.Hilary went straight in-doors, and sought Mrs. Paine, who was in her own room; but the other two, tempted by the fineness of the day, lingered on the little lawn, looking at the blossoms of the laurustinus bushes, and planning imaginary changes in the flower-beds, until they were rejoined by the others, who loitered behind.Mrs. Paine and Miss Duncan having finished their business, came down stairs together, when they found the drawing-room full. Besides those for whose presence they were prepared, Charles Huyton was there, whose visit was unexpected by either; he had, however, come over from the Abbey in company with George Ufford, and while the latter had followed his brother, he had been wandering about with Mr. Paine, inspecting the outhouses, which wanted some alterations, and planning other improvements in the place.He was now gayly conversing with Dora Barham, and even after he had advanced to greet the two ladies, he again returned to her side; while she, with more coquetry than Hilary had suspected her of feeling, seemed encouraging him, either from actual preference, or to pique George Ufford; it was not easy to decide which. Miss Duncan made up her mind that day, that constancy and earnestness were not a part of Dora’s nature; that her conduct depended on her feelings; while her feelingsappeared entirely under the influence of chance or accident varying at every turn.Perhaps Dora was afraid of her friend’s reproaches, for after their return home, where they were escorted by James Ufford alone, the other gentlemen being obliged to ride back to the Abbey, she carefully avoided any occasion of having a confidential discussion of the past. In a very few more days she was to return home, and Hilary hoped sincerely they might part without any further reference to her personal affairs. But this was not the case. Miss Duncan discovered accidentally that in a letter Gwyneth had been writing to Maurice, Dora had persuaded her to insert so many messages, so much of reminiscence and kindness, as must tend to delude Maurice, as it perhaps deluded herself, into the idea that she was still constant to him in her affections, and unchangeably bent on loving him alone.Hilary felt obliged to remonstrate.“Please don’t, Dora, another time. It is not right to any one; to Gwyneth, or to Maurice, or yourself, or your father; if I had known it in time, I should have stopped the letter.”Dora looked half-vexed and half-foolish.“You are so precise, Hilary; you are not like any body else.”“Perhaps not; but we are not talking of myself, but of Maurice and you.”“I quite wonder you consider it correct to put us in the same sentence, when you seem so determined to keep us apart,” continued Dora.“Now, please, dear Dora, do be reasonable,” said Hilary, imploringly; “can I ask you to come here that you may carry on a clandestine correspondence with my brother? What would your father say?”“My dear Hilary, every body has their peculiarities; yours is to be haunted with the idea that every body is doing something improper, unless they will proclaim their deeds at the market cross.”“What is clandestine must be wrong,” said Hilary, decidedly.“But can you not comprehend, my dear young friend, that there is a difference between secrecy and improper concealment? It is not necessary to publish every thing one knows, neither is it wrong to avoid some topics. Even to a father there may be things which it is better not to repeat; there may be subjects concealed from the best of motives.”“This is all very true, perhaps, but the difference between discretion and dissimulation is positive, Dora. If you feel sure that when he knows your conduct he will approve it, and consider your secrecy was justifiable and proper, you may venture to practice it, I suppose, without fear.”Dora was silent.“Neither is it fair to Maurice,” continued Hilary; “you are misleading him; I do not blame you for learning to prefer another, but—”“No,” interrupted Dora, “you could hardly do that, at least with justice, since it is not the case.”“Dora, you deceive yourself, surely; your manners to Mr. Ufford—”“Dear Hilary, don’t tell me my manners encouragehim,” cried she, rather alarmed; “I assure you I do not mean it in the least; but what can I do? He is so gentle and amiable, I can not be cross to him, and you would not have me rude, I am sure; so then I turn round and flirt with Mr. Huyton to get rid of the other, and you look at me with such fault-finding eyes: are you jealous, Hilary, it is that? I believe Mr. Huyton loves you all the time. Oh, Hilary! what a blush, my dear girl! you are jealous, then: what will Captain Hepburn say?”“If I did not know that you were talking all this nonsense merely to get rid of my remonstrances, I should be seriously displeased with such foolish language, Dora; as it is—”“As it is, Hilary, you must bear with me! I love Maurice, and Maurice only, but Mr. Huyton amuses me when I am dying ofennui; he is pleasant and clever, and I know well that he has no heart to bestow, to have any dread of entangling it. Do you think I have not seen how he loves you! how he followsyou with his eyes, listens to your voice, even while he is talking to others; worships your shadow, and haunts your footsteps? I never could make out why you did not like him; for although I do not myself, I think you might suit him, and he you.”“All this has nothing to do with what I was talking of, Dora; you know Mr. Huyton is nothing to me; but while I retain any regard for you (and that must be always), I can not help wishing to prevent your doing wrong, and deceiving yourself and Maurice.”“Well, I will not deceive Mr. Ufford; I will tell him plainly my opinion the very first opportunity!”“Are you quite sure what your opinion is? are you certain that when you send him away, you shall not regret what you have done? Do you really wish to give him up?”“I would give up twenty such men for Maurice.”“Consider, Dora, if you were to marry my brother, you would become the wife of a poor man, one who must immediately curtail all the luxuries and indulgence which have become habit to you. Are you seriously bent on this—prepared for it?”“I should like poverty—riches and luxury disgust me; I am weary of indulgence.”“But think what it would be to lose your place in society, which you must do when you ceased to be Miss Barham, of Drewhurst Abbey, to step down into retirement and neglect; to lay aside your elegant style of toilette, to give up your horses, your carriages, your journeys here and there at pleasure; your multitude of attendants, your luxurious rooms. To have to wait on yourself, order your own dinners, put up with indifferent and awkward servants, consider before you spent even five shillings, calculate which joint of meat is most economical, and how to make it last longest and go furthest; perhaps even to repair your own wardrobe, certainly to walk about on foot; and to live in small rooms, with the certainty of not being able to travel for change or diversion. Could you patiently put up with all this, and smile away difficulties andennuiin such circumstances?”“I suppose I could as well as another woman, unless you mean to infer that your brother and his wife must be unhappy; I do not see that I should be more so than any other.”“You might, because you would have so much to renounce; while all these things would be natural, and therefore easy, to one brought up as I have been. You say you would like poverty, Dora; try. Allow yourself the gratification of no whim, deny yourself every superfluity which arrests your fancy, rise early, live plainly, do some useful work; for instance, make a flannel petticoat for a poor woman, or a cotton frock for a baby, and try for a month, or a fortnight even, how you like such a life. It would be sad to make a mistake, and find it out too late.”“But it would be quite different, Hilary, to play at being poor myself, or to be really so with Maurice.”“I admit that; you could go back at any time to riches; the step would not be inevitable.”“And so it would be unreal, and therefore could do no good. The motive would be wanting.”“I do not see that; the motive would be to try whether you could manage without riches; to understand yourself, and form a right judgment of the value you set on wealth. If you could not do without indulgence to this modified extent, and for so short a time, you would have no right to engage in such a situation for life.”“Besides,” said Dora, “I do not believe it can be necessary; for though Maurice is not rich, I should have my own fortune, which will, probably, be large. Papa told me he would give me handsome settlements if I married Mr. Ufford.”“And how much would he give you if you married Mr. Duncan?” inquired Hilary, significantly.“Oh, I don’t know! The same I suppose! why not?”Hilary looked doubtful. Dora went on.“And then, after all, nobody in my station really is poor; it is all a romance of your imagination. I dare say Maurice would contrive as other people do, to get along and keep up arespectable appearance. I need not have bad servants, I would hire good ones; and I would manage my ménage so that it should be no trouble, and I should rather like the pleasure of ordering dinner, and contriving nice little surprises for him in the way of eating. I am sure I could be happy.”“Of one thing, Dora, we are quite sure; without your father’s consent, you will never try the experiment; and if he wishes you to marry Mr. Ufford, he is not likely to approve of your engaging yourself to Maurice.”“You dreadfully matter-of-fact girl! how you knock down all my delightful castles. Oh! Hilary, I wish you had been crossed in love, and then you would have had some pity for me.”And so the discussion ended. Hilary had not learned as yet, that to contradict a youthful passion, to argue against it, to overwhelm it with unanswerable reasons, and endeavor to extinguish it with detailed proofs of its absurdity or unfitness, is certain to strengthen and increase its power; so red-hot iron is hardened into tempered steel by plunging it suddenly into cold water.
“Her moods, good lack! they pass like show’rs.But yesternight, and she would beAs pale and still as wither’d flow’rs;And now to-night she laughs and speaks,And has a color in her cheeks——”Iseult.
“Her moods, good lack! they pass like show’rs.But yesternight, and she would beAs pale and still as wither’d flow’rs;And now to-night she laughs and speaks,And has a color in her cheeks——”Iseult.
“Her moods, good lack! they pass like show’rs.
But yesternight, and she would be
As pale and still as wither’d flow’rs;
And now to-night she laughs and speaks,
And has a color in her cheeks——”
Iseult.
Hilary knew Dora better than this wayward little thing knew herself. She came back very penitent and humble, before she could sleep; and after a great deal of kissing and crying for her crossness, she ended by insisting on sleeping with Hilary, and taking that opportunity of keeping her friend awake half the night, talking alternately of Captain Hepburn and Maurice.
The morning hours after breakfast passed rather heavily away. The ladies were together in their sitting-room, the gentlemen were all invisible, nobody exactly knew where. Isabel was grave, Dora was languid, and Hilary was thoughtful.
“Where’s Mr. Huyton?” yawned Dora; “how stupid of him not to come and talk to us! I am so tired. What’s become of him, Isabel?”
“Really I do not know; perhaps he is in the library.”
“No, I went in there, just now, and Mr. Ufford was all alone, reading St. Augustine, I believe, and making extracts. You may guess I did not disturb him. Where is your father, Hilary?”
“He and Mr. Paine are together,” said Miss Duncan.
“Oh, how tired I am,” said Dora, laying a very pale cheek against the crimson back of her easy chair.
“Mr. Huyton never goes away in general, where can he be?”
“I should not wonder if he has gone to ‘the Ferns,’” observed Mrs. Paine.
Isabel looked up. “What makes you think so, Fanny?” asked she.
“I heard him order his horse to be ready immediately after breakfast, and you know he left the table early.”
“Ah, I dare say he had business, and that brought him down into the country,” said Miss Barham, quietly; “he feels so much at home here, that as his own house is not habitable at present, he naturally resorts to ours, when he wants a brief habitation.”
From all which Hilary gathered, that when with the Barhams, either at the Abbey or elsewhere, he was accustomed generally to make himself agreeable.
“I wish something would happen!” said Dora, presently, with another yawn.
“What?” inquired Mrs. Paine.
“Oh, any thing, an event! something to rouse and excite one; to give one a fillip. I do not quite want an earthquake, but I should like something!”
“Poor child!” said Mrs. Paine, laughing; “it wants a new toy, or a nice cake.”
“No, it is sick of cakes, and tired of toys,” said Dora; “it wants good wholesome food, and a little work instead of play. I should like to lose my fortune, and have to work for my bread. I think I could be happy then.”
“Pretty work you would make of it!” said Isabel; “I wonder how you would begin.”
“Why, really, that is a problem worth solving,” replied Dora; “I wonder too. What part of my education do you suppose was intended to fit me for the storms of adversity? which branch of the distorted and grotesque plant, which forms my small portion of the Tree of Knowledge, would be of the slightest use to me in distress? I think I might, perhaps, be capableof engaging as a ballet-dancer; but as to any thing else, I am sure I can not guess.”
“How can you talk so?” exclaimed her sister; “it is quite improper. You have had a very good education for a lady!”
“Well, I happened to see one of the maids cleaning the grate to-day in my room, and she looked so busy, so happy, and was chirrupping so cheerfully to herself, that I could not help stopping her to ask her what made her so merry; and she said in a frightened voice, as if excessively ashamed of herself, that she had no time to be unhappy, so she could not help it; for she had so much to do, that really, if she had a mind to fret, she should not have a minute to spare, for she was quite an underhousemaid, you see, and had to do the work, while the others looked after her. I told her I envied her.”
“You ought not to put such ideas into their heads, Dora; it is republican and leveling.”
“I do not think what I said will do any harm, Isabel. Hilary, if you had to work for your bread, what would you do? Should you not like it?”
“I believe I do it pretty much now,” replied Miss Duncan; “and I do not particularly wish for a change.”
“Well, I do,” said Dora, closing her eyes, and sinking into profound silence.
The morning past, the luncheon hour arrived, and not till after that did Mr. Huyton make his appearance, nor did he publicly account for his absence, or at all explain where, or how he had spent the three or four hours during which he had disappeared. The Duncans were to return home after luncheon, and as Hilary was proceeding up the long stairs to her room, to prepare for her departure, she encountered him at the top of them.
He stood back a little, as if to let her pass, but turned and joined her in the gallery.
“Are you going?” said he, wistfully looking at her.
“Yes, presently; you have been riding, have you not?”
“I have been to Hurstdene.”
Hilary looked surprised.
“Yes, I spent the morning there; I longed, with an inexpressible longing, to see those scenes again, to tread those walks, look at those walls once more. You were here, my presence at the Vicarage could not disturbyou; could excite no anger in you; I ventured to gratify my wishes. To take one more view of the place I dearly loved, where I was once welcomed as a constant, and only too happy guest.”
“Did you see my sisters?” asked Hilary, embarrassed and pained.
“Yes, they were as kind as ever. I have at least one thing to thank you for—you have kept my secret well. Dear girls! they little knew, when they playfully reproached me for my long absence, whose wish it was it should be so! It is noble of you, Miss Duncan, to allow me to retain their good will; not to teach them to view me with aversion; not to inspire them with the cold dislike you entertain toward me yourself.”
“Indeed, you do me injustice, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, gently, and pausing, in the gallery through which they were passing; “it is not aversion that I feel for you.”
“And when we met yesterday by moonlight, could I not even then read the expression of your face? the chilling indifference of which it spoke, haunted me all night; and your hand, too, did it not tell the same tale? those fingers which once used to return the pressure of mine, now coldly suffer me to touch them, passively submitting to a form which is demanded by good manners, not expressive of sympathy. Do you suppose I am insensible, or indifferent to the change? Would to Heaven that I could annihilate the last eighteen months, and stand once more by your side the friend I once claimed to be!”
“Would that we could, Mr. Huyton, so far as you are concerned,” replied she, gravely; “but the wish is idle and vain! we are what we have made ourselves, and feelings, words, actions, can never,neverbe recalled. Would that it were possible to begin anew our acquaintance!”
“I would still be your friend, Hilary,” said he, in a moregentle voice; “may I not be that, may I not sometimes see you on these terms?”
“I believe you would; I know you are generous and noble; I can not forget your words last night, and I can honor the feeling that dictated them.”
A flash of joy passed across his face at these words, and fixing his eyes on her, he said:
“And may I hope that you will still see me, receive me as a friend—let me sometimes visit your father, sometimes converse with you?”
She shook her head. “Not now; not under present circumstances.”
“Not for your father’s sake? he loves me, you know,” said he, persuasively.
“I dare not.”
“Dare not! which then is it that you will not trust, my honor or yours, Hilary?” There was a shadow gathering on his brow.
“Why should we peril either,” replied she; “mine, yours, or that of another who is far away? You know my faith is pledged to him, to what end thenourmeeting, until you too have chosen another object for the love you have so unfortunately misplaced? Then wemaymeet perhaps as friends. Till then, let us part as friends.”
“You have nothing more to fear from me, from my love,” replied he, bending down his eyes to conceal their expression. “But neither has any one aught to hope from it! For me to love again is impossible. Let it be enough that I resolve to extinguish a vain, hopeless passion. I ask now to be trusted as a friend only. Can you not believe me so far as that?”
“It is wisest not to try,” said she, slowly.
“What makes you so mistrustful?” questioned he, looking earnestly at her.
“Experience!” was her answer; while the color deepened on her cheeks, as she thought of past scenes.
“Are you quite candid now, Miss Duncan? is it not, rather,the injunction, the wish, perhaps, I should say, ofhim, of Captain Hepburn? Did not he bid you shun me? It can not be your own nature to be so newly suspicious; tell me it is his.”
“No, indeed, he laid no restriction on me: he trusted entirely to my prudence, and I will show I deserved it.”
“I would rather it had been his wish; I could have borne his suspicions better,” said Charles, sadly. “But surely, could he see me now, he would not fear me. I only aspire to be your friend, I only ask for calm and quiet intercourse; I have no pretensions now which could create jealousy, or make him suppose me a rival. I own his superiority, I admire, I esteem him; my own hopes being gone, I may at least rejoice that one worthy of you has won you; I am resigned to my loss; why should you make it more bitter than necessity requires?”
She was silent, but she drew back when he tried to take her hand.
“If he did not mistrust me, why should you?He, at least, knows us both better, does more justice both to you and me. Why should you hesitate? It is such a small favor I ask. For your father’s sake, let me come sometimes and see him.”
“No, Mr. Huyton, I can not. Unlimited trust deserves unwavering prudence. Do not ask again, it is decided. At Hurstdene, and on purpose, I will not meet you. Let me say now, farewell. It is hard to refuse one to whom I owe so much; it is hard to seem ungrateful; but it is best. But you shall always have my best wishes, my earnest prayers for your happiness; I will never forget that the hand I hold assisted to save my life.”
“Would that I had perished then and there!” cried he, losing self-control for a moment. “Would that the water had closed upon us both—that I had gone down with you in my arms, rather than—” he stopped abruptly; footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, he was recalled to a thought of where he was; he only stayed one moment to press her hand in both of his, to kiss it with a warmth, a passionate ardor, which did not speak of cold friendship; to give her one sad,reproachful look, and then he rushed toward his own dressing-room, which was in an adjoining corridor, leaving Hilary to enter her apartment, near the door of which they had been standing, and there to conceal her excitement and her fears.
She had proceeded but a little way in her preparations for departure, when Dora rushed into the room, her bonnet in one hand, and her cloak in the other.
“I am going with you, Hilary, for the drive,” cried she; “the horses must stop there to rest; for I have made papa agree that it was more civil I should go home with you.”
She seemed in great spirits, and danced about at intervals, while she was pretending to dress.
“You are awake now, Dora,” said her friend, smiling; but her voice betrayed at once that her own tears were not far off.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed Dora, stopping to look anxiously at her friend; “what have you been crying about, Hilary, tell me?”
“Nothing worth talking of—my own folly,” replied Miss Duncan, turning away, and stooping to look at the lock of a carpet bag.
“I have long known,” said Dora, gravely, “that you were a very foolish child, always crying about nonsense and trifles; so I can easily believe you. No doubt you hurt your foot against a step, or pricked your finger with your brooch, and that made you cry.”
Hilary laughed a little, and did not answer otherwise.
“I want to come and stay with you at the Vicarage for some days,” continued Dora, in another voice. “Do ask me, I should so like it. Tell papa you want me.”
“I am afraid Mr. Barham would think I was taking too great a liberty in asking you, Dora.”
“Oh, no, he would not mind; you ask me, and he will let me go. You do want me, do you not?”
“Very much,” said Miss Duncan, kindly; “it would give me great pleasure indeed to have you there, but I hardly think you are likely to be permitted.”
“Oh, we will see,” said Dora; “now I am ready; are you? then come down.”
Mr. Huyton was down stairs with the other visitors when the girls descended; calm, self-possessed, and courteous; listening gracefully to Isabel, who was discussing a question on political economy with Mr. Ufford; while Mr. Barham sat by with a look of paternal pride.
Hilary ventured to make the request dictated by Dora; it was graciously received, treated as a very great kindness and honor, and if Miss Duncan liked to trouble herself with such a wild, thoughtless little child as Dora, he should be very happy at some future time; they would think of it.
“Mrs. Paine returns to Primrose Bank on Saturday,” suggested Dora, “let me go then to the Vicarage; it would suit Hilary very well, I know.”
Dora settled it all her own way; Isabel did not disapprove; it was true that Mr. Ufford was to leave them also in company with the Paines, but Mr. Huyton had promised to remain some time longer, and she was just as well pleased that her sister shouldnotbe there during this visit; for so carefully did Charles balance his attentions, and so strictly impartial was he to both sisters, that the eldest never actually felt sure whether she was or was not the one preferred.
Very glad indeed was Hilary to be back in her own home, and away from the grandeur and restraints of Drewhurst Abbey. She never felt so much at ease with Mr. Barham as with any one else, and the sight of Charles Huyton made her unhappy. The great surprise which her sisters expected to afford her, turned out a failure; for she had already heard of their visitor; but it was news to Dora, who had not guessed where he had been, and who did not fail on her return home to charge him with it.
Saturday came, and brought the younger Miss Barham to take up her abode at the Vicarage, as she had promised, much to the delight of the sisters there, who could not make enough of her. She was in great spirits, laughing and chatting ratherwildly, and making them all laugh, too, with her nonsense. Her grief and anxiety sat lightly indeed on her. The Paines and Mr. Ufford accompanied her, the latter to be introduced to the Vicarage; he was to preach the next morning. Mr. Duncan appeared extremely pleased with him, and there was every prospect that Mr. Barham’s plans would be carried out.
Two or three days passed; Dora was still at the Vicarage, very happy and amusing, when, one morning, Hilary returning to the drawing-room, after a brief absence, found two visitors there, one of whom was a stranger. However, from his resemblance to his companion, she guessed him to be the elder Mr. Ufford, before Dora, with some blushes and embarrassment, introduced him as such.
He was a pleasing and sensible-looking man, with an air of elegance becoming his birth, but with nothing in the slightest degree affected, or wearing the appearance of dandyism. He was simply in the best sense a gentleman, and a very good-looking one, too. Hilary liked him very much. Neither was he so immensely old, as Dora had represented him; to look at him, you could hardly believe him eight-and-twenty; and but for the certainty of his having a daughter, she would never have given him credit for a greater age. Possibly the representations of Dora had overstepped the facts, and this obnoxious child might not be quite so much as twelve years old.
Mr. James Ufford, the clergyman, was the bearer of a message from Mrs. Paine, who was desirous to see Miss Duncan on some parochial matters, but was detained at home by cold and headache: he had, accordingly, set off to bring this message; and on the way had been overtaken by his brother, who had ridden over from Drewhurst Abbey that morning. It was proposed, partly on Dora’s suggestion, that they should all walk over to Primrose Bank together, and accordingly they presently set out, Hilary and Gwyneth with Mr. Ufford, junior; Dora under the care of the elder brother.
These two did not attempt to keep up with the others, and Hilary soon lost sight of them. Perhaps, concern for herbrother made her quick-sighted, but she could not help fancying that, in spite of her assertions, Dora was by no means unwilling to receive the admiration or permit the attentions of her companion, and she could not anticipate any other conclusion to the affair than what Captain Hepburn had predicted as most probable.
She was so much engrossed by these considerations as to afford but indifferent company to Mr. James Ufford, who, in consequence, devoted himself to Gwyneth, and succeeded in convincing that young lady that he was, without exception, the most delightful man in the world, even before they reached Primrose Bank.
Hilary went straight in-doors, and sought Mrs. Paine, who was in her own room; but the other two, tempted by the fineness of the day, lingered on the little lawn, looking at the blossoms of the laurustinus bushes, and planning imaginary changes in the flower-beds, until they were rejoined by the others, who loitered behind.
Mrs. Paine and Miss Duncan having finished their business, came down stairs together, when they found the drawing-room full. Besides those for whose presence they were prepared, Charles Huyton was there, whose visit was unexpected by either; he had, however, come over from the Abbey in company with George Ufford, and while the latter had followed his brother, he had been wandering about with Mr. Paine, inspecting the outhouses, which wanted some alterations, and planning other improvements in the place.
He was now gayly conversing with Dora Barham, and even after he had advanced to greet the two ladies, he again returned to her side; while she, with more coquetry than Hilary had suspected her of feeling, seemed encouraging him, either from actual preference, or to pique George Ufford; it was not easy to decide which. Miss Duncan made up her mind that day, that constancy and earnestness were not a part of Dora’s nature; that her conduct depended on her feelings; while her feelingsappeared entirely under the influence of chance or accident varying at every turn.
Perhaps Dora was afraid of her friend’s reproaches, for after their return home, where they were escorted by James Ufford alone, the other gentlemen being obliged to ride back to the Abbey, she carefully avoided any occasion of having a confidential discussion of the past. In a very few more days she was to return home, and Hilary hoped sincerely they might part without any further reference to her personal affairs. But this was not the case. Miss Duncan discovered accidentally that in a letter Gwyneth had been writing to Maurice, Dora had persuaded her to insert so many messages, so much of reminiscence and kindness, as must tend to delude Maurice, as it perhaps deluded herself, into the idea that she was still constant to him in her affections, and unchangeably bent on loving him alone.
Hilary felt obliged to remonstrate.
“Please don’t, Dora, another time. It is not right to any one; to Gwyneth, or to Maurice, or yourself, or your father; if I had known it in time, I should have stopped the letter.”
Dora looked half-vexed and half-foolish.
“You are so precise, Hilary; you are not like any body else.”
“Perhaps not; but we are not talking of myself, but of Maurice and you.”
“I quite wonder you consider it correct to put us in the same sentence, when you seem so determined to keep us apart,” continued Dora.
“Now, please, dear Dora, do be reasonable,” said Hilary, imploringly; “can I ask you to come here that you may carry on a clandestine correspondence with my brother? What would your father say?”
“My dear Hilary, every body has their peculiarities; yours is to be haunted with the idea that every body is doing something improper, unless they will proclaim their deeds at the market cross.”
“What is clandestine must be wrong,” said Hilary, decidedly.
“But can you not comprehend, my dear young friend, that there is a difference between secrecy and improper concealment? It is not necessary to publish every thing one knows, neither is it wrong to avoid some topics. Even to a father there may be things which it is better not to repeat; there may be subjects concealed from the best of motives.”
“This is all very true, perhaps, but the difference between discretion and dissimulation is positive, Dora. If you feel sure that when he knows your conduct he will approve it, and consider your secrecy was justifiable and proper, you may venture to practice it, I suppose, without fear.”
Dora was silent.
“Neither is it fair to Maurice,” continued Hilary; “you are misleading him; I do not blame you for learning to prefer another, but—”
“No,” interrupted Dora, “you could hardly do that, at least with justice, since it is not the case.”
“Dora, you deceive yourself, surely; your manners to Mr. Ufford—”
“Dear Hilary, don’t tell me my manners encouragehim,” cried she, rather alarmed; “I assure you I do not mean it in the least; but what can I do? He is so gentle and amiable, I can not be cross to him, and you would not have me rude, I am sure; so then I turn round and flirt with Mr. Huyton to get rid of the other, and you look at me with such fault-finding eyes: are you jealous, Hilary, it is that? I believe Mr. Huyton loves you all the time. Oh, Hilary! what a blush, my dear girl! you are jealous, then: what will Captain Hepburn say?”
“If I did not know that you were talking all this nonsense merely to get rid of my remonstrances, I should be seriously displeased with such foolish language, Dora; as it is—”
“As it is, Hilary, you must bear with me! I love Maurice, and Maurice only, but Mr. Huyton amuses me when I am dying ofennui; he is pleasant and clever, and I know well that he has no heart to bestow, to have any dread of entangling it. Do you think I have not seen how he loves you! how he followsyou with his eyes, listens to your voice, even while he is talking to others; worships your shadow, and haunts your footsteps? I never could make out why you did not like him; for although I do not myself, I think you might suit him, and he you.”
“All this has nothing to do with what I was talking of, Dora; you know Mr. Huyton is nothing to me; but while I retain any regard for you (and that must be always), I can not help wishing to prevent your doing wrong, and deceiving yourself and Maurice.”
“Well, I will not deceive Mr. Ufford; I will tell him plainly my opinion the very first opportunity!”
“Are you quite sure what your opinion is? are you certain that when you send him away, you shall not regret what you have done? Do you really wish to give him up?”
“I would give up twenty such men for Maurice.”
“Consider, Dora, if you were to marry my brother, you would become the wife of a poor man, one who must immediately curtail all the luxuries and indulgence which have become habit to you. Are you seriously bent on this—prepared for it?”
“I should like poverty—riches and luxury disgust me; I am weary of indulgence.”
“But think what it would be to lose your place in society, which you must do when you ceased to be Miss Barham, of Drewhurst Abbey, to step down into retirement and neglect; to lay aside your elegant style of toilette, to give up your horses, your carriages, your journeys here and there at pleasure; your multitude of attendants, your luxurious rooms. To have to wait on yourself, order your own dinners, put up with indifferent and awkward servants, consider before you spent even five shillings, calculate which joint of meat is most economical, and how to make it last longest and go furthest; perhaps even to repair your own wardrobe, certainly to walk about on foot; and to live in small rooms, with the certainty of not being able to travel for change or diversion. Could you patiently put up with all this, and smile away difficulties andennuiin such circumstances?”
“I suppose I could as well as another woman, unless you mean to infer that your brother and his wife must be unhappy; I do not see that I should be more so than any other.”
“You might, because you would have so much to renounce; while all these things would be natural, and therefore easy, to one brought up as I have been. You say you would like poverty, Dora; try. Allow yourself the gratification of no whim, deny yourself every superfluity which arrests your fancy, rise early, live plainly, do some useful work; for instance, make a flannel petticoat for a poor woman, or a cotton frock for a baby, and try for a month, or a fortnight even, how you like such a life. It would be sad to make a mistake, and find it out too late.”
“But it would be quite different, Hilary, to play at being poor myself, or to be really so with Maurice.”
“I admit that; you could go back at any time to riches; the step would not be inevitable.”
“And so it would be unreal, and therefore could do no good. The motive would be wanting.”
“I do not see that; the motive would be to try whether you could manage without riches; to understand yourself, and form a right judgment of the value you set on wealth. If you could not do without indulgence to this modified extent, and for so short a time, you would have no right to engage in such a situation for life.”
“Besides,” said Dora, “I do not believe it can be necessary; for though Maurice is not rich, I should have my own fortune, which will, probably, be large. Papa told me he would give me handsome settlements if I married Mr. Ufford.”
“And how much would he give you if you married Mr. Duncan?” inquired Hilary, significantly.
“Oh, I don’t know! The same I suppose! why not?”
Hilary looked doubtful. Dora went on.
“And then, after all, nobody in my station really is poor; it is all a romance of your imagination. I dare say Maurice would contrive as other people do, to get along and keep up arespectable appearance. I need not have bad servants, I would hire good ones; and I would manage my ménage so that it should be no trouble, and I should rather like the pleasure of ordering dinner, and contriving nice little surprises for him in the way of eating. I am sure I could be happy.”
“Of one thing, Dora, we are quite sure; without your father’s consent, you will never try the experiment; and if he wishes you to marry Mr. Ufford, he is not likely to approve of your engaging yourself to Maurice.”
“You dreadfully matter-of-fact girl! how you knock down all my delightful castles. Oh! Hilary, I wish you had been crossed in love, and then you would have had some pity for me.”
And so the discussion ended. Hilary had not learned as yet, that to contradict a youthful passion, to argue against it, to overwhelm it with unanswerable reasons, and endeavor to extinguish it with detailed proofs of its absurdity or unfitness, is certain to strengthen and increase its power; so red-hot iron is hardened into tempered steel by plunging it suddenly into cold water.