CHAPTERXVIII.“Love, I feel thy bitter smartWildly throbbing through my heart,Waking, sleeping,Smiling, weeping,Still I think of thee!”Mr. Barham and his daughters were in London at this time, and a few days after the Duncans’ arrival, Hilary and Sybil went together to call on them. The girls were very cordial and glad to meet, especially Dora, who had ascertained that thePandanushad arrived in England, and was, in consequence, in a desperate state of internal anxiety to hear some news of Maurice.While they were chatting together, Mr. Barham himself walked in, very gracefully gracious when he discovered who the visitors were; quite surprised to learn that they were visiting Sybil, and in London, without his knowledge, and taking some civil interest in the present object of their chief concern.“I do not know any thing about these new steamers,” observed he, “I have never had an opportunity of studying these subjects; yet it is an important one, one which deserves the attention of those who hold a large stake in their country’s welfare; being a subject which must strongly affect the interest of a great naval power. I must take the matter into consideration.”“I am sure my brother would be happy to show you his new ship, if you would honor theErraticwith a visit,” observed Sybil, very proud of Maurice and his steamer also.“Well, Mrs. Farrington, that would be a good idea; what doyou say, Isabel? suppose we were to make an excursion to Woolwich!” observed he.“It really would be worth while,” said Miss Barham; “as you say, sir, one ought to know something about the great means of defense for our nation. I think it would be a proper thing to do; and as we know both the captain and lieutenant a little we could not have a better opportunity than now.”“Be it so, then,” was his answer. “How shall we arrange about time? it might be we should go at an inconvenient hour, without some previous arrangement. How can you communicate with your brother, Mrs. Farrington?”“He will be up with us this afternoon, I expect,” replied Sybil; “shall I send him to you if he comes? That would be simple.”“Exactly! that would simplify the matter, as you say. Isabel, the gentleman might dine with us, I think. The table will not be too full.”Hilary listened and said not a word; Dora, too, sat in silence, but her deep interest in the subject could not be concealed from one who suspected its existence. Finally, it was settled without her intervention, that Maurice should be there for a seven o’clock dinner, and if he liked, Miss Barham added, to accompany them to the opera afterward, they would be very much honored. Would not Hilary join their party? They would be nearly alone, only Mr. Huyton would be with them.It was fortunate she mentioned him, or the temptation to accompany Maurice would have been irresistible; but that name was enough. Hilary decidedly declined, and wondering much what the result would be, the ladies took leave, and returned home.“I can not go, Hilary,” said Maurice, when he heard the invitation; “must I?” He looked exceedingly disturbed. Sybil, perfectly unaware of any private reasons, pressed it warmly. He must, it would be so rude if he had no reason to give; and then it did not matter, however dull it might be to go, he could not escape this visit to the ship, and it would be much betterto be civil, and they were always kind, even though Mr. Barham was tiresome; and he would like to meet Mr. Huyton, who was to be there, and really the two young ladies were worth seeing, they were so pretty!Maurice laughed off his embarrassment, by declaring Sybil’s arguments were exemplarynon-sequiturs; but at the same time suffered himself to be persuaded into what he wished above all things.His ideas of time that evening before setting out, were somewhat wild, and the pains that he took at his toilette were not to be told. He succeeded in reaching the house rather early, and found, as he had perhaps guessed by intuition that he should, Dora alone in her drawing-room! Their meeting had all the flutter and emotion of forbidden pleasure; time had not changed his feelings in the least, and although hers had by no means been so invariably constant, she fancied that they had, and told him so, and that did pretty nearly as well. The sight of the handsome lieutenant, with his pleasant smile, and captivating manner, revived her somewhat declining affections, and the conviction that during two years of absence, she had yet retained all her former power over him, gratified her vanity, as well as her tenderness toward him.Their interview was short; another knock at the door warned them of intruders, and sent Dora hastily from the room, while Maurice turned round to greet Charles Huyton, whose entrance he had been prepared to expect. Dora did not reappear until the moment dinner was announced, just in time to be consigned by her father to Mr. Duncan’s protection, and she had pretty well recovered her complexion and her serenity when they took their places at table.How delightfully the evening went, need not be told; the delicious little momentary interviews, while cloaking the ladies for the Opera, the whispered words, the meeting of hands with a thrilling emotion, the pleasure of sitting beside each other in the carriage, the intervals when other persons claimed Isabel’s attention, and allowed Maurice leisure to devote himself toDora; the stolen glances, the intelligent, and yet hidden smiles, in fact, all the dear and dangerous sweets of a clandestine affection, need not be dwelt on. Then there was the grand, crowning hope of another meeting, the plan for the excursion to Woolwich, which was fixed for the ensuing Tuesday, when it was settled that a large party should unite to inspect theErratic; affording Mr. Barham and Isabel, and such patriots as were concerned for the good of the nation, an opportunity of improving their knowledge on an important subject, and providing for others who were satisfied with more personal and less philanthropic views, an occasion of a pleasant social meeting, and an agreeable refreshment. The Duncans, of course, were to join the party, and Mr. Farrington, if he could steal a day from briefs and business. Charles Huyton was to be there also. Isabel asked him; they were to go down by water, and the point of rendezvous, the hour, and the various other particulars were all settled with accuracy by Mr. Barham himself.It was not destined, however, to take place quite so soon. A slight indisposition on Mr. Barham’s part obliged him to defer the engagement; for however anxious he might be to benefit the nation at large, by his practical knowledge regarding screw steamers, yet he believed himself to be conferring a still more important advantage on society, in taking care of his own health; at least, this was the reason assigned for the change of plan, which considerably disappointed some of the party concerned.Be his reason good or bad, the excursion was put off for a week, and in the mean time, each day that Maurice happened to be in town, he considered it his positive duty to go and call in Eaton-place, to learn how the invalid was, and when it would suit him to fulfill his promise. Once or twice too, it happened, through some contrivance of Mr. Huyton’s and Dora’s, the families met in excursions for other objects, and Hilary was occasionally thrown into company with Charles; but as there was never any thing in his behavior to distress her, she was beginningto feel hardened regarding such meetings, and to view them with much indifference.Indeed, her feelings were too deeply engrossed by other matters to have much thought to bestow on her former lover. Dora and Maurice made her very uncomfortable; they seemed perfectly infatuated now; were more desperately in love than ever; and Hilary could not help expecting that some grand discovery and consequent domestic disturbance would be the result. She wondered neither Isabel nor Mr. Barham appeared to notice it. That Charles Huyton had, she knew, for he had hinted it to her, with a significance and expression not to be mistaken. But it was not really so evident as her fears and consciousness made her imagine; Charles discovered it partly by former observations of his own, but more now, by watching her eyes, and reading their anxious and troubled looks.But the hour of parting was drawing near: theErraticwas almost ready for sea; the crew were on board, and she was reported fit to sail in four days more. Now then must be the Woolwich party, or never. Mr. Barham was well—agreed to the plan once more—the weather was fine—the day and hour came, and they started. It was not to be expected that Mr. Barham would expose his daughters to the contaminating mixture of society to be met with in an ordinary river steamer; they had one hired expressly for the occasion, and every thing was in as first-rate a style as possible.Fair shone the sun on the river Thames, as they steamed down its waters, so famous as a channel of commerce and a subject of indignant complaint to the citizens of London; and merrily the party were dashed along, while Mr. Barham descanted learnedly on the subject of trade and landholders, Britain’s position, privileges, and duties, and the grand part which a resident proprietor, and one who did his duty to his country, filled in the vast affairs of the nation; while Isabel leaned on his arm and approved, and Charles Huyton cast anxious glances at Hilary, and longed to place himself beside her; and the others moved about, and talked nonsense at random, and with great enjoyment.They reached their destination at last, landed, and were met, as had been agreed on, by the captain of theErratic, who conducted them forthwith to the dock where the steamer still lay. The happy first lieutenant received them at the gangway, authorized by every circumstance to take Dora under his peculiar care, even as her elder sister was the natural charge, for the time being, of the captain.To the quarter-deck they went first, where they all remained to chat and discuss their voyage, to peep over the bulwarks, and ask questions about the vessels lying alongside; or to gaze up with admiration and wonder at the complicated ropes and spars towering overhead.The Barhams were quite new to such a scene, and Isabel was rather more ignorant of the realities of sailor-life than Dora, who was supposed never to know any thing at all, so that Captain Hepburn had his time and attention fully occupied by the questions and observations of Miss Barham and her father, and could only contemplate Hilary from a distance. Maurice had lost nothing in personal appearance by his uniform, which Dora, for the first time, saw him wear; his crisp brown hair looked particularly fascinating, curling out from under the gold-laced cap which sat so gracefully, she thought, upon his head. Hilary, too, looked at her lover with feelings of admiration; but it was not merely for his personal charms; she loved to watch the quick motion of those fine dark eyes, the intelligence and kindness they conveyed, agreeing so well with the firm, yet sweet expression of the mouth; she loved, best of all, to see those eyes settle on her with a deep, grave look, and to know that it was concern for her interest, and anxiety for her happiness, which filled them with such unutterable tenderness; a tenderness that would have prompted him, she knew, to sacrifice any thing of this world, any pleasure, any advantage, any hope to secure her happiness and welfare.Admiration for Maurice’s handsome face had much to do with Dora’s love, but Hilary’s admiration was rather the result than the source of hers.A summons to luncheon in the captain’s cabin called them to the first serious concern for their visit; and when the repast was concluded, it was judged appropriate to perambulate the whole ship, and inspect every thing worth seeing. This ceremony concluded, the party landed, determined to walk round the dock-yard, and see some of the works carried on there.Out of his own vessel, Captain Hepburn by no means considered that duty any longer attached him to Miss Barham, and by a little skillful arrangement, and judicious patience, he succeeded, for the first time, in securing Hilary as his own companion. Sybil was tired, and wished to sit down, while the greater part of the visitors continued their investigations; and her elder sister was not unwilling to remain with her under the special guardianship of Captain Hepburn, whose uniform was a certain protection against the inquiries and suspicions of correct policemen, anxious to secure her Majesty’s dockyard from the possible evil designs of unknown ladies and civilians.“Now, Hilary, I have one thing to say, one request to make, which, had I time to spare, I would either omit, or produce with a proper preface; but I can not do either.”So began he, as soon as the others were out of hearing. Hilary raised her eyes to his face with a look of questioning anxiety.“Sybil, I trust you will support my petition,” continued he, “so I shall speak before you without hesitation; Hilary, my prayer is, that you will become my wife before I leave England.”“Captain Hepburn!” ejaculated she, coloring.“Why not? you have already promised one day to be so; why not fulfill that promise at once, and let me know you irrevocably mine before I leave you?”“Do you doubt me, then? do you mistrust my faith?” asked she, hesitatingly.“If I did, Hilary, I should never have urged such a request; ifIthought you would change, I should have small wish to make you my wife. No, it is no selfish desire to secure anygood to myself, or to gratify a jealous and mistrustful affection, dearest; it is your own comfort and welfare which occupy my mind.”“I believe it,” said she, frankly, placing her hand in his; “and as I have promised to be one day your wife, I will make no foolish and idle objections. But—”“But what, love?”“I do not see the reason, the occasion, the propriety of this step; so sudden—I had not thought of it.”“I am aware that there are objections, but they seem to me slight compared with the advantages of the measure,” said he, gravely. “What say you, Sybil, does it shock you so much?”“No, indeed!” cried she, speaking with all the enthusiasm of a happy young wife, “I think there would be no harm, if there is time.”“We could manage that, unless Hilary is very particular about her gown and bonnet,” said he, smiling; “and even such things can be got in London, on the shortest notice, if she wants them.”“Ah, no, I do not care for that,” said Hilary; “but tell me what you ask, and why, and give me time to think and breathe; if I were to—to do this—I can not leave my father, even to follow you, Captain Hepburn.”“No, that is not what I mean; don’t be so frightened, and look so pale, dear Hilary; we move out of dock and drop down the river on Saturday, probably about the middle of the day; what I ask is, that early on that morning, you would meet me at the church here, and become my wife; the business part I will arrange. Your whole party could come with you to Woolwich, your father and all; and Maurice would be there too; surely that would secure respectability enough! and then when I leave you, you shall be as much your own mistress with regard to your movements as ever. Hurstdene can be your home during your father’s life, Hilary; but should you lose that, before I return, you would have at least the additional protection which the name of a married woman can confer;and in this country that is of no small importance. And, Hilary, then you would be forever safe from the intrusions, the attentions, the insidious friendship of Mr. Huyton.”“Do you fear him?” said she, looking up.“I mistrust him; as tofear, that is not the word. Once my wife, and you will be safe, there will be nothing for him to hope more, and, perhaps his passion will really expire; but till then, I am certain he will continue to haunt you, and his disposition makes me tremble.”“You judge him hardly,” said Sybil; “you are a prejudiced rival.”“Not a jealous one, at least, Sybil: but I watched him to-day; I saw his face darken and his very lips grow pale, as his eyes fell on the portrait of Hilary, in my cabin. I saw a world of evil and envious passions pass over his brow as he stood and gazed at it. He said the truth when he declared in the hut in the forest, that while you continued single he would never cease trying to win you. Let me place one insurmountable barrier between you and him, and let us extinguish the last faint hope of your changing. He will then leave you in peace.”Hilary paused, pondered, and hesitated. “It is so soon,” was all that she could say in objection, there really seemed no other to urge.“However long you defer it, if your wedding day is ever to come at all, we shall eventually come within four days of it,” observed he, smiling a little.“So sudden!” ejaculated she again.“I thought you had been contemplating it these two years past—I am sure I have,” was his answer.This time she could not forbear smiling a little herself, and the day was won by her lover.“Really,” observed Sybil, “I think you are quite right, nobody can call it sudden after an engagement of two years; and if the next three days allow all necessary arrangements to be made, the time is as good as a month or two.”“I do not suppose many people will concern themselves about our wedding,” replied he; “and those who do, may have facts explained to them.”It was agreed to before the rest of the party rejoined them, and the thanks and gratitude of the gentleman were also sufficiently expressed.It made Hilary very grave and thoughtful for the whole way home, although Captain Hepburn was by her side, and trying to cheer her. She was reviewing what she had undertaken; yet it was by no means alarming. There was no new anxiety or responsibility thrown on her at present; nothing which need break in on her quiet course of life, or disturb her care for her father and sisters. His absence would not be more painful, nor occasion greater uneasiness, and she should at least bear his dear name, have an open, acknowledged claim to care for him, an avowed interest in his welfare and prosperity. And at some future time, she might hope for protection, support, assistance from him, to guard and guide her through life’s troubles when they came. Such were her thoughts, as she leaned upon his arm, and spent the time in a dream which left her no notice to bestow on those around her.When the plan was announced in the family party that evening, it was highly approved by all; even Mr. Farrington gave his opinion in favor of the arrangement, especially after he had some private conversation with Captain Hepburn respecting settlements and such lawyer-like affairs. To arrange these matters effectually before Saturday, was impossible; but the lover had no intention of profiting by the haste he urged in a pecuniary way.Hilary’s portion, being her share of her mother’s fortune, was five thousand pounds; and the whole of this, with an addition that nearly doubled it from himself, he promised to settle on her, empowering his future brother-in-law to see the business arranged, and granting him such legal authority as he recommended, to proceed about it. But of these matters Hilary knew nothing, and she never gave the subject a thought;whether she would be richer or poorer for the marriage, she did not know; the wealth of love and protection she was acquiring satisfying her for the present.Had there been no peculiar necessity for haste, in the conclusion of the marriage, nothing would have been further from Miss Duncan’s wish than to have a public wedding. A cortège of bridesmaids, a splendid breakfast, a grand assembly of fine bonnets, and fine dresses, seemed to her simple and youthful mind altogether inconsistent with a solemn religious ceremony, although perfectly befitting the more worldly view in which this engagement is too often considered. Quietness, simplicity, and solemnity, would have been her objects, such as would neither invite criticism, call for observation, nor serve as a display for vanity and pomp. She would have been the last to desire to publish their intentions, or to call on her neighbors for congratulations or envy. But the same delicacy which would have made her shrink from display now acted somewhat differently, in producing a fear that a clandestine appearance might be the result of this haste. There were few, indeed, who would concern themselves about her or her proceedings; but it was these very few whose opinions she valued, or whose censure she wished to avoid. It was this feeling which induced her to impart her intended marriage to Miss Barham and her sister when they met on the Thursday afternoon. The young ladies were extremely interested in the narration, and expressed a great desire to be present at the ceremony themselves. Dora first started this idea, but Isabel was pleased with it, and finally it was settled that if their father did not object they should join the wedding party; although Gwyneth and Sybil both laughingly declared they would never be able to rise early enough.“Rather than not do that,” exclaimed Dora, “I would sit up all night!”Hilary thought she understood the secret of Dora’s extreme anxiety, and hardly knew whether to be most sorry or glad that Maurice and she should have the dangerous pleasure of another meeting. It seemed to her to be only laying up additional storesof sorrowful remembrance and hopeless regret. But the company of the sisters was offered and pressed in such a way as to leave little real choice to her on the occasion. Yet, why Isabel Barham should so wish to be present, as to propose taking the trouble of rising much earlier than usual, and driving all the way to Woolwich before ten o’clock, was a little incomprehensible. Sybil said privately that Isabel liked a freak as well as any body where it did not compromise her dignity, and that this little exertion had a degree of novelty about it which made it irresistible to one weary with the platitudes of polite society and elegant decorums. Even Isabel had her portion of romance in her character, and though she would never do any thing incorrect herself, she yet enjoyed the sort of secrecy and mystery which naturally attended the present affair.Mr. Barham made no objection to his daughters’ plans, and according to the latest arrangements, the carriage from Eaton-place brought the two young ladies over to Mrs. Farrington’s in very good time to take an early, though rather hurried breakfast, with the bridal party, before starting on their long drive to Woolwich.It all seemed unreal and strange to Hilary, as she sat by her father’s side during that drive. Her thoughts were very busy, and yet would not settle on any thing steadily. The purpose of the present meeting, the engagement she was about to contract, occupied her less than the parting which must immediately follow. Happiness was very far from her heart; patience and hope were what she needed. The most unwavering confidence, the most perfect dependence and trust prevented her having any misgivings as to the step she was taking. She had no hesitation in bestowing her hand where her heart had long preceded it. Up to that point her path was easy and bright, and could he but have remained with her she would not have had a shadow to dim her serenity. But that inevitable absence, what a chasm, what a dark, impenetrable abyss it seemed; what an abrupt termination to the sunshiny road she had been lately treading; how uncertain its length and its depth? All sheknew of it was that it was dark and dreary in prospect, and that she must pass it as best she could, bridging it over with hope, and faith, and patience, and an earnest steady perseverance in daily duties. These would bring her to that other side, which now seemed so dim, so uncertain, so distant, and yet which appeared to the fancy, through all the mists of futurity, fair and pleasant in prospect.So her mind wandered away while her eyes were fixed on the passing houses and the flying trees, to scenes where all would be certainty, and enjoyment, and peace; and as she looked upward at the clear, blue sky; unsullied by the smoke, and undisturbed by the noise and bustle of the vast city, whose long suburbs they were traversing, she thought of that future which alone may be depended on, that love which never wearies or grows cold, that protecting care which can not err nor cease. She remembered that her lover and herself had alike anchored their hearts there, with the sure anchor of Hope, her restless fears dispersed, and her heart grew calm and quiet.There was no hinderance, no delay; the drive to Woolwich had been so accurately calculated, that they reached the church within two minutes of the time appointed; the gentlemen were ready, waiting their arrival, and after a very brief interval more, the couple stood side by side, and hand in hand, to answer those words which bound them for life to each other.Concentrating every feeling in the present moment, giving her whole heart and soul to the words she was repeating, and the prayers in which she was called on to join, the bride forgot all that was immediately to follow, and went through with a calm, grave, self-possession her part in the short and yet impressive ceremony.And they were pronounced to be man and wife; and it was over, and the party gathered in the vestry to sign the register, and whisper a few subdued words of good wishes (for who could talk of congratulations or joy at that moment?) and Hilary awoke to a consciousness that it was all real. She leaned against the end of the table, while her husband held herhand in silent, speechless, subdued emotion; as if nerving his whole frame, gathering all his strength of mind for the great trial before them. It needed not words to tell her how he felt; she knew it in the close and tender clasp of those fingers on her own; she read it in the grave, sad look of his eyes, in the lines of emotion about his mouth, which his utmost efforts could not conceal.However, the parting need not be immediately, there was yet an hour of reprieve; the tide would not serve till afternoon for the steamer to leave the dock, and it had been before arranged, that the wedding guests should all go to the hotel, where a second breakfast, most acceptable to those who had left London so early, was prepared for them by the bridegroom’s orders; as in theErratic, in her present state, it was not convenient to receive such a party. But what was the use of lingering at such a time? true, every minute was precious, and yet every minute was pain. Little mirth and little conversation was there at that board, where even yet the time, though dull, went all too fast.They rose from the table, and, as if by one consent, the guests betook themselves to the balcony overlooking the river, that the parting between the husband and wife might at least be undisturbed. None remained with them, save the blind father, who was sitting, as if in a reverie, in a large arm-chair.Hilary hung on her husband’s neck in speechless grief; ah! this was a different thing from parting two years ago; and yet why? now that he was all her own, why did it make it so infinitely harder to let him leave her?“My wife, my own dear wife! we shall meet again!”She tried to smile a “yes,” but tongue and lips alike disobeyed, and tears alone answered her best efforts to be calm.“Hilary, your brother-in-law will tell you about settlements, what, as my wife, your income will be; I can not speak of money now; only I am thankful that I can assure you an independence, which to your moderate wishes will be comfort,and almost wealth. Now farewell, my own, my best-beloved, my darling!Godguide and bless you—once, and once more! and now farewell!”He placed her on a sofa, hurried to the balcony to see his other friends, whispered to Sybil to take care of her precious sister, and wrung the hands of all the bridesmaids in silent sorrow and repressed feeling; then he returned to the parlor. Hilary sat as he had left her, absorbed in an endeavor to conquer her despairing grief, by thoughts of hope and aspirations for patience. She heard her father call Captain Hepburn to him. She heard the warmest blessings invoked upon his head; she listened almost as if in a dream, as if it concerned some other than herself; but when her husband’s step again approached her, she roused herself at once; with a short exclamation, speaking of unutterable struggles within, she sprang up, threw herself into his arms, held him for one moment in silence, and then withdrawing calmly from his embrace, she said, withenergy—“Now go! I will never be a hinderance to you in the path of duty. Go, we shall meet again in happier times, and then!—”“And then: ah, Hilary!—”Eyes and lips finished the sentence, but not with words, and he was gone!Maurice must go next; there had been but little intercourse between him and Dora; he had seemed to shun her, and to devote himself to his younger sisters. This was very natural, perhaps, certainly very prudent; for Dora’s share of self-control was small, and she would easily have been betrayed into exhibitions of feeling, equally unwise and unsafe. But Dora could not reason calmly, and was as unwilling to allow that others had higher claims on Maurice than herself, as she would have been to admit her influence was declining. Foolish and excitable, she felt angry and ill-used, that he should shun her, or that when she had taken that early drive for his sake, he should have either looks or thoughts for his sisters in preference to herself.What right had he to be more cautious than herself? why should he draw back when she advanced? In her desperation at the idea of parting, she had rather wished that their secret should be discovered; though she had not dared to tell it, she would have liked that it should be found out; and now he was, all of a sudden, so careful, so reserved, so cold. Ah! she would be cold too. She tried, but not very successfully; she could not assume the tone of indifference she wished; then she grew angry; vexed with herself and her feelings, which she fancied so much warmer than his; she became careless, flighty, and wild in manner; she laughed and talked one moment in an idle way, the next she was silent and dull; to him she was absolutely cross, and very nearly rude; yet he was calm and unmoved, as she thought, only turning with a graver, lower, more subdued tone toward his sisters, or his father, and decidedly avoiding her. What he was really suffering, the various emotions and changeful feelings which were torturing his heart, she did not know: she gave him no credit for an endurance which was little short of martyrdom; and was indignant at a self-control assumed almost entirely for her own sake. Not to compromise her any further was his object, and although he greatly feared that she was displeased, he had resolved that before the eyes of Isabel, no demonstration on his part should betray a secret she had but recently enjoined him to keep at all hazards.The very last time they had met, he had again ventured to urge an explanation with her father, fearful from a chance remark of Charles Huyton’s, that their secret might otherwise be betrayed to him; but this she had again forbidden; and his earnest prayers and expostulations had been silenced and set aside. He had been disappointed, and though forced to yield, he had warned her that evil would come of it. It was this which had made her so eager to go to the wedding, and it was this which so bitterly affronted her, when she found him coldly reserved. She thought him sullen, but he was only firm, and thus they parted; she with her girlish heart swelling with prideand mortified feeling, a sense of wrong on her own part, unavowed to herself, and therefore rankling deeply; a wounded conscience, to which she would not attempt to apply the only balm that could have cured her. He with pain and grief, doubled and trebled as he calculated all the circumstances; a pain greater than quitting his sisters, severer than saying a long farewell to his father; the pain of a noble mind, feeling it has done wrong, and condemned to suffer and repent in silence. He saw she was angry, and he writhed under the notion, but what could he do? she had forbidden him the step which could alone make reparation for his conduct; the alternative to renounce all claim on her he had fairly stated, and although she had denied the necessity of so doing, she could not alter his determination.So they parted, with formal phrases of courtesy from him, with averted eyes, and unwillingly extended hand, and tones of coldest civility from her; and he dashed away, to busy himself in professional duties, while she drove back to Eaton-place, with a flushed cheek, and an aching brow, and a heart wildly throbbing with a strange mixture of remorse, anger, and regret.
“Love, I feel thy bitter smartWildly throbbing through my heart,Waking, sleeping,Smiling, weeping,Still I think of thee!”
“Love, I feel thy bitter smartWildly throbbing through my heart,Waking, sleeping,Smiling, weeping,Still I think of thee!”
“Love, I feel thy bitter smart
Wildly throbbing through my heart,
Waking, sleeping,
Smiling, weeping,
Still I think of thee!”
Mr. Barham and his daughters were in London at this time, and a few days after the Duncans’ arrival, Hilary and Sybil went together to call on them. The girls were very cordial and glad to meet, especially Dora, who had ascertained that thePandanushad arrived in England, and was, in consequence, in a desperate state of internal anxiety to hear some news of Maurice.
While they were chatting together, Mr. Barham himself walked in, very gracefully gracious when he discovered who the visitors were; quite surprised to learn that they were visiting Sybil, and in London, without his knowledge, and taking some civil interest in the present object of their chief concern.
“I do not know any thing about these new steamers,” observed he, “I have never had an opportunity of studying these subjects; yet it is an important one, one which deserves the attention of those who hold a large stake in their country’s welfare; being a subject which must strongly affect the interest of a great naval power. I must take the matter into consideration.”
“I am sure my brother would be happy to show you his new ship, if you would honor theErraticwith a visit,” observed Sybil, very proud of Maurice and his steamer also.
“Well, Mrs. Farrington, that would be a good idea; what doyou say, Isabel? suppose we were to make an excursion to Woolwich!” observed he.
“It really would be worth while,” said Miss Barham; “as you say, sir, one ought to know something about the great means of defense for our nation. I think it would be a proper thing to do; and as we know both the captain and lieutenant a little we could not have a better opportunity than now.”
“Be it so, then,” was his answer. “How shall we arrange about time? it might be we should go at an inconvenient hour, without some previous arrangement. How can you communicate with your brother, Mrs. Farrington?”
“He will be up with us this afternoon, I expect,” replied Sybil; “shall I send him to you if he comes? That would be simple.”
“Exactly! that would simplify the matter, as you say. Isabel, the gentleman might dine with us, I think. The table will not be too full.”
Hilary listened and said not a word; Dora, too, sat in silence, but her deep interest in the subject could not be concealed from one who suspected its existence. Finally, it was settled without her intervention, that Maurice should be there for a seven o’clock dinner, and if he liked, Miss Barham added, to accompany them to the opera afterward, they would be very much honored. Would not Hilary join their party? They would be nearly alone, only Mr. Huyton would be with them.
It was fortunate she mentioned him, or the temptation to accompany Maurice would have been irresistible; but that name was enough. Hilary decidedly declined, and wondering much what the result would be, the ladies took leave, and returned home.
“I can not go, Hilary,” said Maurice, when he heard the invitation; “must I?” He looked exceedingly disturbed. Sybil, perfectly unaware of any private reasons, pressed it warmly. He must, it would be so rude if he had no reason to give; and then it did not matter, however dull it might be to go, he could not escape this visit to the ship, and it would be much betterto be civil, and they were always kind, even though Mr. Barham was tiresome; and he would like to meet Mr. Huyton, who was to be there, and really the two young ladies were worth seeing, they were so pretty!
Maurice laughed off his embarrassment, by declaring Sybil’s arguments were exemplarynon-sequiturs; but at the same time suffered himself to be persuaded into what he wished above all things.
His ideas of time that evening before setting out, were somewhat wild, and the pains that he took at his toilette were not to be told. He succeeded in reaching the house rather early, and found, as he had perhaps guessed by intuition that he should, Dora alone in her drawing-room! Their meeting had all the flutter and emotion of forbidden pleasure; time had not changed his feelings in the least, and although hers had by no means been so invariably constant, she fancied that they had, and told him so, and that did pretty nearly as well. The sight of the handsome lieutenant, with his pleasant smile, and captivating manner, revived her somewhat declining affections, and the conviction that during two years of absence, she had yet retained all her former power over him, gratified her vanity, as well as her tenderness toward him.
Their interview was short; another knock at the door warned them of intruders, and sent Dora hastily from the room, while Maurice turned round to greet Charles Huyton, whose entrance he had been prepared to expect. Dora did not reappear until the moment dinner was announced, just in time to be consigned by her father to Mr. Duncan’s protection, and she had pretty well recovered her complexion and her serenity when they took their places at table.
How delightfully the evening went, need not be told; the delicious little momentary interviews, while cloaking the ladies for the Opera, the whispered words, the meeting of hands with a thrilling emotion, the pleasure of sitting beside each other in the carriage, the intervals when other persons claimed Isabel’s attention, and allowed Maurice leisure to devote himself toDora; the stolen glances, the intelligent, and yet hidden smiles, in fact, all the dear and dangerous sweets of a clandestine affection, need not be dwelt on. Then there was the grand, crowning hope of another meeting, the plan for the excursion to Woolwich, which was fixed for the ensuing Tuesday, when it was settled that a large party should unite to inspect theErratic; affording Mr. Barham and Isabel, and such patriots as were concerned for the good of the nation, an opportunity of improving their knowledge on an important subject, and providing for others who were satisfied with more personal and less philanthropic views, an occasion of a pleasant social meeting, and an agreeable refreshment. The Duncans, of course, were to join the party, and Mr. Farrington, if he could steal a day from briefs and business. Charles Huyton was to be there also. Isabel asked him; they were to go down by water, and the point of rendezvous, the hour, and the various other particulars were all settled with accuracy by Mr. Barham himself.
It was not destined, however, to take place quite so soon. A slight indisposition on Mr. Barham’s part obliged him to defer the engagement; for however anxious he might be to benefit the nation at large, by his practical knowledge regarding screw steamers, yet he believed himself to be conferring a still more important advantage on society, in taking care of his own health; at least, this was the reason assigned for the change of plan, which considerably disappointed some of the party concerned.
Be his reason good or bad, the excursion was put off for a week, and in the mean time, each day that Maurice happened to be in town, he considered it his positive duty to go and call in Eaton-place, to learn how the invalid was, and when it would suit him to fulfill his promise. Once or twice too, it happened, through some contrivance of Mr. Huyton’s and Dora’s, the families met in excursions for other objects, and Hilary was occasionally thrown into company with Charles; but as there was never any thing in his behavior to distress her, she was beginningto feel hardened regarding such meetings, and to view them with much indifference.
Indeed, her feelings were too deeply engrossed by other matters to have much thought to bestow on her former lover. Dora and Maurice made her very uncomfortable; they seemed perfectly infatuated now; were more desperately in love than ever; and Hilary could not help expecting that some grand discovery and consequent domestic disturbance would be the result. She wondered neither Isabel nor Mr. Barham appeared to notice it. That Charles Huyton had, she knew, for he had hinted it to her, with a significance and expression not to be mistaken. But it was not really so evident as her fears and consciousness made her imagine; Charles discovered it partly by former observations of his own, but more now, by watching her eyes, and reading their anxious and troubled looks.
But the hour of parting was drawing near: theErraticwas almost ready for sea; the crew were on board, and she was reported fit to sail in four days more. Now then must be the Woolwich party, or never. Mr. Barham was well—agreed to the plan once more—the weather was fine—the day and hour came, and they started. It was not to be expected that Mr. Barham would expose his daughters to the contaminating mixture of society to be met with in an ordinary river steamer; they had one hired expressly for the occasion, and every thing was in as first-rate a style as possible.
Fair shone the sun on the river Thames, as they steamed down its waters, so famous as a channel of commerce and a subject of indignant complaint to the citizens of London; and merrily the party were dashed along, while Mr. Barham descanted learnedly on the subject of trade and landholders, Britain’s position, privileges, and duties, and the grand part which a resident proprietor, and one who did his duty to his country, filled in the vast affairs of the nation; while Isabel leaned on his arm and approved, and Charles Huyton cast anxious glances at Hilary, and longed to place himself beside her; and the others moved about, and talked nonsense at random, and with great enjoyment.
They reached their destination at last, landed, and were met, as had been agreed on, by the captain of theErratic, who conducted them forthwith to the dock where the steamer still lay. The happy first lieutenant received them at the gangway, authorized by every circumstance to take Dora under his peculiar care, even as her elder sister was the natural charge, for the time being, of the captain.
To the quarter-deck they went first, where they all remained to chat and discuss their voyage, to peep over the bulwarks, and ask questions about the vessels lying alongside; or to gaze up with admiration and wonder at the complicated ropes and spars towering overhead.
The Barhams were quite new to such a scene, and Isabel was rather more ignorant of the realities of sailor-life than Dora, who was supposed never to know any thing at all, so that Captain Hepburn had his time and attention fully occupied by the questions and observations of Miss Barham and her father, and could only contemplate Hilary from a distance. Maurice had lost nothing in personal appearance by his uniform, which Dora, for the first time, saw him wear; his crisp brown hair looked particularly fascinating, curling out from under the gold-laced cap which sat so gracefully, she thought, upon his head. Hilary, too, looked at her lover with feelings of admiration; but it was not merely for his personal charms; she loved to watch the quick motion of those fine dark eyes, the intelligence and kindness they conveyed, agreeing so well with the firm, yet sweet expression of the mouth; she loved, best of all, to see those eyes settle on her with a deep, grave look, and to know that it was concern for her interest, and anxiety for her happiness, which filled them with such unutterable tenderness; a tenderness that would have prompted him, she knew, to sacrifice any thing of this world, any pleasure, any advantage, any hope to secure her happiness and welfare.
Admiration for Maurice’s handsome face had much to do with Dora’s love, but Hilary’s admiration was rather the result than the source of hers.
A summons to luncheon in the captain’s cabin called them to the first serious concern for their visit; and when the repast was concluded, it was judged appropriate to perambulate the whole ship, and inspect every thing worth seeing. This ceremony concluded, the party landed, determined to walk round the dock-yard, and see some of the works carried on there.
Out of his own vessel, Captain Hepburn by no means considered that duty any longer attached him to Miss Barham, and by a little skillful arrangement, and judicious patience, he succeeded, for the first time, in securing Hilary as his own companion. Sybil was tired, and wished to sit down, while the greater part of the visitors continued their investigations; and her elder sister was not unwilling to remain with her under the special guardianship of Captain Hepburn, whose uniform was a certain protection against the inquiries and suspicions of correct policemen, anxious to secure her Majesty’s dockyard from the possible evil designs of unknown ladies and civilians.
“Now, Hilary, I have one thing to say, one request to make, which, had I time to spare, I would either omit, or produce with a proper preface; but I can not do either.”
So began he, as soon as the others were out of hearing. Hilary raised her eyes to his face with a look of questioning anxiety.
“Sybil, I trust you will support my petition,” continued he, “so I shall speak before you without hesitation; Hilary, my prayer is, that you will become my wife before I leave England.”
“Captain Hepburn!” ejaculated she, coloring.
“Why not? you have already promised one day to be so; why not fulfill that promise at once, and let me know you irrevocably mine before I leave you?”
“Do you doubt me, then? do you mistrust my faith?” asked she, hesitatingly.
“If I did, Hilary, I should never have urged such a request; ifIthought you would change, I should have small wish to make you my wife. No, it is no selfish desire to secure anygood to myself, or to gratify a jealous and mistrustful affection, dearest; it is your own comfort and welfare which occupy my mind.”
“I believe it,” said she, frankly, placing her hand in his; “and as I have promised to be one day your wife, I will make no foolish and idle objections. But—”
“But what, love?”
“I do not see the reason, the occasion, the propriety of this step; so sudden—I had not thought of it.”
“I am aware that there are objections, but they seem to me slight compared with the advantages of the measure,” said he, gravely. “What say you, Sybil, does it shock you so much?”
“No, indeed!” cried she, speaking with all the enthusiasm of a happy young wife, “I think there would be no harm, if there is time.”
“We could manage that, unless Hilary is very particular about her gown and bonnet,” said he, smiling; “and even such things can be got in London, on the shortest notice, if she wants them.”
“Ah, no, I do not care for that,” said Hilary; “but tell me what you ask, and why, and give me time to think and breathe; if I were to—to do this—I can not leave my father, even to follow you, Captain Hepburn.”
“No, that is not what I mean; don’t be so frightened, and look so pale, dear Hilary; we move out of dock and drop down the river on Saturday, probably about the middle of the day; what I ask is, that early on that morning, you would meet me at the church here, and become my wife; the business part I will arrange. Your whole party could come with you to Woolwich, your father and all; and Maurice would be there too; surely that would secure respectability enough! and then when I leave you, you shall be as much your own mistress with regard to your movements as ever. Hurstdene can be your home during your father’s life, Hilary; but should you lose that, before I return, you would have at least the additional protection which the name of a married woman can confer;and in this country that is of no small importance. And, Hilary, then you would be forever safe from the intrusions, the attentions, the insidious friendship of Mr. Huyton.”
“Do you fear him?” said she, looking up.
“I mistrust him; as tofear, that is not the word. Once my wife, and you will be safe, there will be nothing for him to hope more, and, perhaps his passion will really expire; but till then, I am certain he will continue to haunt you, and his disposition makes me tremble.”
“You judge him hardly,” said Sybil; “you are a prejudiced rival.”
“Not a jealous one, at least, Sybil: but I watched him to-day; I saw his face darken and his very lips grow pale, as his eyes fell on the portrait of Hilary, in my cabin. I saw a world of evil and envious passions pass over his brow as he stood and gazed at it. He said the truth when he declared in the hut in the forest, that while you continued single he would never cease trying to win you. Let me place one insurmountable barrier between you and him, and let us extinguish the last faint hope of your changing. He will then leave you in peace.”
Hilary paused, pondered, and hesitated. “It is so soon,” was all that she could say in objection, there really seemed no other to urge.
“However long you defer it, if your wedding day is ever to come at all, we shall eventually come within four days of it,” observed he, smiling a little.
“So sudden!” ejaculated she again.
“I thought you had been contemplating it these two years past—I am sure I have,” was his answer.
This time she could not forbear smiling a little herself, and the day was won by her lover.
“Really,” observed Sybil, “I think you are quite right, nobody can call it sudden after an engagement of two years; and if the next three days allow all necessary arrangements to be made, the time is as good as a month or two.”
“I do not suppose many people will concern themselves about our wedding,” replied he; “and those who do, may have facts explained to them.”
It was agreed to before the rest of the party rejoined them, and the thanks and gratitude of the gentleman were also sufficiently expressed.
It made Hilary very grave and thoughtful for the whole way home, although Captain Hepburn was by her side, and trying to cheer her. She was reviewing what she had undertaken; yet it was by no means alarming. There was no new anxiety or responsibility thrown on her at present; nothing which need break in on her quiet course of life, or disturb her care for her father and sisters. His absence would not be more painful, nor occasion greater uneasiness, and she should at least bear his dear name, have an open, acknowledged claim to care for him, an avowed interest in his welfare and prosperity. And at some future time, she might hope for protection, support, assistance from him, to guard and guide her through life’s troubles when they came. Such were her thoughts, as she leaned upon his arm, and spent the time in a dream which left her no notice to bestow on those around her.
When the plan was announced in the family party that evening, it was highly approved by all; even Mr. Farrington gave his opinion in favor of the arrangement, especially after he had some private conversation with Captain Hepburn respecting settlements and such lawyer-like affairs. To arrange these matters effectually before Saturday, was impossible; but the lover had no intention of profiting by the haste he urged in a pecuniary way.
Hilary’s portion, being her share of her mother’s fortune, was five thousand pounds; and the whole of this, with an addition that nearly doubled it from himself, he promised to settle on her, empowering his future brother-in-law to see the business arranged, and granting him such legal authority as he recommended, to proceed about it. But of these matters Hilary knew nothing, and she never gave the subject a thought;whether she would be richer or poorer for the marriage, she did not know; the wealth of love and protection she was acquiring satisfying her for the present.
Had there been no peculiar necessity for haste, in the conclusion of the marriage, nothing would have been further from Miss Duncan’s wish than to have a public wedding. A cortège of bridesmaids, a splendid breakfast, a grand assembly of fine bonnets, and fine dresses, seemed to her simple and youthful mind altogether inconsistent with a solemn religious ceremony, although perfectly befitting the more worldly view in which this engagement is too often considered. Quietness, simplicity, and solemnity, would have been her objects, such as would neither invite criticism, call for observation, nor serve as a display for vanity and pomp. She would have been the last to desire to publish their intentions, or to call on her neighbors for congratulations or envy. But the same delicacy which would have made her shrink from display now acted somewhat differently, in producing a fear that a clandestine appearance might be the result of this haste. There were few, indeed, who would concern themselves about her or her proceedings; but it was these very few whose opinions she valued, or whose censure she wished to avoid. It was this feeling which induced her to impart her intended marriage to Miss Barham and her sister when they met on the Thursday afternoon. The young ladies were extremely interested in the narration, and expressed a great desire to be present at the ceremony themselves. Dora first started this idea, but Isabel was pleased with it, and finally it was settled that if their father did not object they should join the wedding party; although Gwyneth and Sybil both laughingly declared they would never be able to rise early enough.
“Rather than not do that,” exclaimed Dora, “I would sit up all night!”
Hilary thought she understood the secret of Dora’s extreme anxiety, and hardly knew whether to be most sorry or glad that Maurice and she should have the dangerous pleasure of another meeting. It seemed to her to be only laying up additional storesof sorrowful remembrance and hopeless regret. But the company of the sisters was offered and pressed in such a way as to leave little real choice to her on the occasion. Yet, why Isabel Barham should so wish to be present, as to propose taking the trouble of rising much earlier than usual, and driving all the way to Woolwich before ten o’clock, was a little incomprehensible. Sybil said privately that Isabel liked a freak as well as any body where it did not compromise her dignity, and that this little exertion had a degree of novelty about it which made it irresistible to one weary with the platitudes of polite society and elegant decorums. Even Isabel had her portion of romance in her character, and though she would never do any thing incorrect herself, she yet enjoyed the sort of secrecy and mystery which naturally attended the present affair.
Mr. Barham made no objection to his daughters’ plans, and according to the latest arrangements, the carriage from Eaton-place brought the two young ladies over to Mrs. Farrington’s in very good time to take an early, though rather hurried breakfast, with the bridal party, before starting on their long drive to Woolwich.
It all seemed unreal and strange to Hilary, as she sat by her father’s side during that drive. Her thoughts were very busy, and yet would not settle on any thing steadily. The purpose of the present meeting, the engagement she was about to contract, occupied her less than the parting which must immediately follow. Happiness was very far from her heart; patience and hope were what she needed. The most unwavering confidence, the most perfect dependence and trust prevented her having any misgivings as to the step she was taking. She had no hesitation in bestowing her hand where her heart had long preceded it. Up to that point her path was easy and bright, and could he but have remained with her she would not have had a shadow to dim her serenity. But that inevitable absence, what a chasm, what a dark, impenetrable abyss it seemed; what an abrupt termination to the sunshiny road she had been lately treading; how uncertain its length and its depth? All sheknew of it was that it was dark and dreary in prospect, and that she must pass it as best she could, bridging it over with hope, and faith, and patience, and an earnest steady perseverance in daily duties. These would bring her to that other side, which now seemed so dim, so uncertain, so distant, and yet which appeared to the fancy, through all the mists of futurity, fair and pleasant in prospect.
So her mind wandered away while her eyes were fixed on the passing houses and the flying trees, to scenes where all would be certainty, and enjoyment, and peace; and as she looked upward at the clear, blue sky; unsullied by the smoke, and undisturbed by the noise and bustle of the vast city, whose long suburbs they were traversing, she thought of that future which alone may be depended on, that love which never wearies or grows cold, that protecting care which can not err nor cease. She remembered that her lover and herself had alike anchored their hearts there, with the sure anchor of Hope, her restless fears dispersed, and her heart grew calm and quiet.
There was no hinderance, no delay; the drive to Woolwich had been so accurately calculated, that they reached the church within two minutes of the time appointed; the gentlemen were ready, waiting their arrival, and after a very brief interval more, the couple stood side by side, and hand in hand, to answer those words which bound them for life to each other.
Concentrating every feeling in the present moment, giving her whole heart and soul to the words she was repeating, and the prayers in which she was called on to join, the bride forgot all that was immediately to follow, and went through with a calm, grave, self-possession her part in the short and yet impressive ceremony.
And they were pronounced to be man and wife; and it was over, and the party gathered in the vestry to sign the register, and whisper a few subdued words of good wishes (for who could talk of congratulations or joy at that moment?) and Hilary awoke to a consciousness that it was all real. She leaned against the end of the table, while her husband held herhand in silent, speechless, subdued emotion; as if nerving his whole frame, gathering all his strength of mind for the great trial before them. It needed not words to tell her how he felt; she knew it in the close and tender clasp of those fingers on her own; she read it in the grave, sad look of his eyes, in the lines of emotion about his mouth, which his utmost efforts could not conceal.
However, the parting need not be immediately, there was yet an hour of reprieve; the tide would not serve till afternoon for the steamer to leave the dock, and it had been before arranged, that the wedding guests should all go to the hotel, where a second breakfast, most acceptable to those who had left London so early, was prepared for them by the bridegroom’s orders; as in theErratic, in her present state, it was not convenient to receive such a party. But what was the use of lingering at such a time? true, every minute was precious, and yet every minute was pain. Little mirth and little conversation was there at that board, where even yet the time, though dull, went all too fast.
They rose from the table, and, as if by one consent, the guests betook themselves to the balcony overlooking the river, that the parting between the husband and wife might at least be undisturbed. None remained with them, save the blind father, who was sitting, as if in a reverie, in a large arm-chair.
Hilary hung on her husband’s neck in speechless grief; ah! this was a different thing from parting two years ago; and yet why? now that he was all her own, why did it make it so infinitely harder to let him leave her?
“My wife, my own dear wife! we shall meet again!”
She tried to smile a “yes,” but tongue and lips alike disobeyed, and tears alone answered her best efforts to be calm.
“Hilary, your brother-in-law will tell you about settlements, what, as my wife, your income will be; I can not speak of money now; only I am thankful that I can assure you an independence, which to your moderate wishes will be comfort,and almost wealth. Now farewell, my own, my best-beloved, my darling!Godguide and bless you—once, and once more! and now farewell!”
He placed her on a sofa, hurried to the balcony to see his other friends, whispered to Sybil to take care of her precious sister, and wrung the hands of all the bridesmaids in silent sorrow and repressed feeling; then he returned to the parlor. Hilary sat as he had left her, absorbed in an endeavor to conquer her despairing grief, by thoughts of hope and aspirations for patience. She heard her father call Captain Hepburn to him. She heard the warmest blessings invoked upon his head; she listened almost as if in a dream, as if it concerned some other than herself; but when her husband’s step again approached her, she roused herself at once; with a short exclamation, speaking of unutterable struggles within, she sprang up, threw herself into his arms, held him for one moment in silence, and then withdrawing calmly from his embrace, she said, withenergy—
“Now go! I will never be a hinderance to you in the path of duty. Go, we shall meet again in happier times, and then!—”
“And then: ah, Hilary!—”
Eyes and lips finished the sentence, but not with words, and he was gone!
Maurice must go next; there had been but little intercourse between him and Dora; he had seemed to shun her, and to devote himself to his younger sisters. This was very natural, perhaps, certainly very prudent; for Dora’s share of self-control was small, and she would easily have been betrayed into exhibitions of feeling, equally unwise and unsafe. But Dora could not reason calmly, and was as unwilling to allow that others had higher claims on Maurice than herself, as she would have been to admit her influence was declining. Foolish and excitable, she felt angry and ill-used, that he should shun her, or that when she had taken that early drive for his sake, he should have either looks or thoughts for his sisters in preference to herself.
What right had he to be more cautious than herself? why should he draw back when she advanced? In her desperation at the idea of parting, she had rather wished that their secret should be discovered; though she had not dared to tell it, she would have liked that it should be found out; and now he was, all of a sudden, so careful, so reserved, so cold. Ah! she would be cold too. She tried, but not very successfully; she could not assume the tone of indifference she wished; then she grew angry; vexed with herself and her feelings, which she fancied so much warmer than his; she became careless, flighty, and wild in manner; she laughed and talked one moment in an idle way, the next she was silent and dull; to him she was absolutely cross, and very nearly rude; yet he was calm and unmoved, as she thought, only turning with a graver, lower, more subdued tone toward his sisters, or his father, and decidedly avoiding her. What he was really suffering, the various emotions and changeful feelings which were torturing his heart, she did not know: she gave him no credit for an endurance which was little short of martyrdom; and was indignant at a self-control assumed almost entirely for her own sake. Not to compromise her any further was his object, and although he greatly feared that she was displeased, he had resolved that before the eyes of Isabel, no demonstration on his part should betray a secret she had but recently enjoined him to keep at all hazards.
The very last time they had met, he had again ventured to urge an explanation with her father, fearful from a chance remark of Charles Huyton’s, that their secret might otherwise be betrayed to him; but this she had again forbidden; and his earnest prayers and expostulations had been silenced and set aside. He had been disappointed, and though forced to yield, he had warned her that evil would come of it. It was this which had made her so eager to go to the wedding, and it was this which so bitterly affronted her, when she found him coldly reserved. She thought him sullen, but he was only firm, and thus they parted; she with her girlish heart swelling with prideand mortified feeling, a sense of wrong on her own part, unavowed to herself, and therefore rankling deeply; a wounded conscience, to which she would not attempt to apply the only balm that could have cured her. He with pain and grief, doubled and trebled as he calculated all the circumstances; a pain greater than quitting his sisters, severer than saying a long farewell to his father; the pain of a noble mind, feeling it has done wrong, and condemned to suffer and repent in silence. He saw she was angry, and he writhed under the notion, but what could he do? she had forbidden him the step which could alone make reparation for his conduct; the alternative to renounce all claim on her he had fairly stated, and although she had denied the necessity of so doing, she could not alter his determination.
So they parted, with formal phrases of courtesy from him, with averted eyes, and unwillingly extended hand, and tones of coldest civility from her; and he dashed away, to busy himself in professional duties, while she drove back to Eaton-place, with a flushed cheek, and an aching brow, and a heart wildly throbbing with a strange mixture of remorse, anger, and regret.