CHAPTERXX.“Let her have her proud dark eyes,And her petulant, quick replies;Let her sweep her dazzling hand,With its gesture of command,And shake back her raven hair,With the old imperious air.”Tristram and Iseult.“So Charles Huyton is really going to marry Miss Dora Barham,” said Mr. Ufford to the party at theVicarage. “I wonder whether she is satisfied now.”“How did you hear that?” was Hilary’s reply.“Oh! I had a letter from Huyton this morning, announcing his good fortune; hoping my poor brother would not take it amiss that he had succeeded where George had failed. I own I am more surprised, however, at Huyton’s proposal than at the young lady’s answer.”“You have not heard any thing more from Italy, I suppose?” inquired Hilary, to whom the other subject was distasteful.“I heard this morning that Lord and Lady Rupert, that is Dunsmore’s sister-in-law and her husband, have left Florence, and must now be at Naples with my brother.”“I am glad of that,” said Gwyneth, eagerly, “it will be a relief to our mind to know he has some one with him; and you like Lady Rupert, I think.”“Yes, I do not feel it so necessary to start immediately, and as George was so very anxious to hear that his projects are puten train, perhaps it would be better to make some definite arrangements regarding the church and school, at least before I go.”Accordingly papers were produced, plans and estimates looked over, calculations made, and statistics gone into. In the midst of all, while Gwyneth was busy noting down for Mr. Ufford some important calculations, and Hilary was explaining to her father the plan ultimately decided on, Gwyneth suddenly observed,“I wonder Dora is going to marry before Isabel; I am so surprised that she should remain so long single. What do you suppose is the reason?”“I really do not think such things are worth speculating about,” observed Mrs. Hepburn, who particularly wished to avoid the subject.“Miss Barham’s position is peculiar,” said Mr. Ufford, “and so is her character. She is too proud to marry a mean man; too rich to marry a poor one; too great for a humble man; too clever for a foolish one; too independent for a mercenary man; and too good for a bad one.”“Well, that only proves that she must have a wise, clever, rich, and noble husband,” said Gwyneth, laughing a little; “and I suppose with so many claims, aided by the addition of grace and beauty, the probability that she might meet such a one is not very small.”“Perhaps! but then, this wise, good, clever, rich noble man may not perhaps submit to be governed by his wife; and I have a notion that Miss Barham has been too long accustomed to be her own mistress, to like to give up the privilege, or to be at all ready to lay down her scepter.”“Oh, you do not do her justice!” cried Gwyneth; “besides, any woman who loved, would resign all her prerogatives readily to one who deserved them.”“Gwyneth, my love! have you finished those extracts?” said her father.Gwyneth went on with her work in silence.“There’s the Abbey carriage crossing the green,” observed Mr. Ufford presently, he having sauntered away to the window, while the young ladies managed the details of business.Hilary changed color; she felt reluctant to meet Dora. “I had no idea they were in the country!” she observed, in a voice of discomfort.“Only Miss Barham is,” replied Mr. Ufford, looking with a little curiosity at Mrs. Hepburn’s face. “Miss Dora is gone to visit some friends in Northampton, I believe with her aunt, Lady Margaret, while the happy Huyton is in Germany. The carriage is coming here.”It did come, and Isabel entered the Vicarage exactly the same as ever in appearance; her sister’s engagement had made no outward change in her. It had been a disappointment, but she was too well-bred to show it; and, except in a hasty abandonment of London, there was no perceptible effect of the news. However, Dora herself could not be much more unwilling to discuss the affair than Isabel was, so it was a mutual accommodation that the sisters should part for the present. Miss Barham found herself suddenly weary of the London season, and much in want of rest and fresh air; to face Hilary, to see Hurstdene, to exist even at home, Dora felt impossible; and she arranged a hasty plan for accompanying her aunt into Northamptonshire, hoping that change of place and entire novelty would smother the thoughts which were burning in her heart, and diminish her regret, despair, and self-reproach.Miss Barham was immediately interested in the details of the business which had just been occupying the others; and both touched and grieved by the account of the precarious state of the first projector of the alterations. She had a right, she said, to be interested in any improvements of a church, which had so long formed part of their family property, and she insisted on having it all detailed to her. Mr. Ufford accordingly went through the plans, while she listened with a most graceful and marked attention. Then she asked, in a pretty, injured tone, why her father had not been consulted; and was hardly appeased by the assurance that Mr. Barham having done so much for the chancel a few years ago, nothing more was required at present, nor could they feel justified in calling on himfor assistance in a matter of ornament which was purely the wish of Lord Dunsmore.“Was nothing more really wanted?” inquired Isabel; she should like to see the church, and judge for herself. She asked Gwyneth to walk down to it with her; Mr. Ufford, of course, accompanied them. They sauntered about there for a long time. Isabel was very enthusiastic, suggesting all sorts of expensive plans for ornament and effect; Mr. Ufford himself was quite carried away by her zeal, entering into her ideas with almost equal warmth. It was a subject that exactly suited him; ideal, imaginative, combining beauty, poetry, and all the unreal, sentimental, religious feeling, in which his spirit always delighted. He could arrange a symbolical device, and revel in an illustration of some fanciful theory, much better than he could go through a dry detail, or endure a self-denying, sober perseverance against ill-success.Isabel was mistress of the elements of her subject; she was acquainted with the fashionable theories and modern language of church architecture; she could discourse elegantly on stringcourse, and reredos, lecterns, open-sittings, equality of ranks, chants, and responses: galleries and parish clerks were her aversion, and a choral service her delight. Gwyneth could think and feel, but Isabel could talk; while the continued references to Mr. Ufford, to his taste, opinion, wish, decision, not only compelled him to listen, but were so very flattering to his own self-love, as to convince him that hitherto he had greatly undervalued Miss Barham’s good qualities.They lingered long together, and when he had handed her into her carriage, and watched her drive off, he said a hasty farewell to the family at the Vicarage, and walked home, leaving the young ladies to put away his papers at their leisure.Gwyneth was thoughtful and silent the rest of the day.The curate came the next morning to the Vicarage soon after breakfast; but hardly had poor Gwyneth time to be glad to see him, when her joy was dissipated by his words.“Oh, Mrs. Hepburn, will you give me those plans andsketches for the new buildings? Mr. Barham wants to see them, and I am going over to the Abbey this morning to consult about them with him; and shall probably not come back till to-morrow.”He went, and for some little time there was occasionally a change in his tone and manner toward Gwyneth Duncan; his words were often few, and hurried; there was no more loitering on the terrace, or dreaming over books of religious poetry with her. He did not absent himself from the Vicarage, but she was no longer always his object, even in the undecided and indolent way in which she had formerly been. His whole mind seemed engrossed in the decorations of the church, and things connected with it, including Miss Barham. Isabel promised a great deal toward providing funds; the chancel was, of course, her peculiar care: and deeply interested as she was, it was natural that she should be constantly driving over, to see how the work progressed. There was scarcely a day in which it was not necessary that the curate and the lady should meet; either at Hurstdene to consult on the spot, or in the library at the Abbey, to examine books on decorative art, or illuminations copied from old MSS.Hilary saw it all, and watched them with a careful eye. She often felt hurt at the proceedings, on her father’s account, whose tastes and wishes were perpetually over-ruled; he did not like the idea of these new decorations, he feared that the quiet gray church, so dear to him in its serene simplicity, might assume too fanciful an appearance under their plans. The coloring of the walls and ceiling, talked of by them, he thought unsuitable. But he loved peace and hated dissension; and when Mr. Ufford argued on one hand, and Isabel coaxed on the other, he could not resist, but gave them their way.As yet, however, the greater part of the decorations were only existing in idea, much repair was needed first of a substantial and important character, and it appeared probable that the autumn and winter must pass before Fancy could exercise her power on the colored decorations and ornamentalscrolls. Meanwhile, Isabel drew patterns, and Mr. Ufford applauded.Gwyneth Duncan had at first noticed this unexpected coalition with considerable uneasiness; the fear she felt of Isabel as a rival, showed her how much her own feelings were interested in Mr. Ufford’s. She wondered that nothing more was said of the journey to Italy, and wished most heartily that the curate had set out before Miss Duncan’s return to the country. By degrees, however, she became more easy; he resumed much of his old manner to her; when Miss Barham was not by, he sought her opinion, claimed her services, and courted her approval almost as much as formerly; and she began to hope that, however he might admire Miss Barham, or be flattered by her condescending notice, that his real preference was confined to her. She was very quiet, and more reserved than ever; not even her sister could penetrate her secret; she never became demonstrative, least of all to him.Anxiety for Gwyneth’s happiness, and concern for Mr. Ufford’s uncertain conduct, were not the only sources of trouble to Hilary’s mind at that time. Her thoughts would follow her absent sailors. Love would make the heart tremble, although faith whispered of patience and hope, and her husband’s spirit, his devotion to the cause of duty, his calm courage and high aspirations, inspired her too: but yet they could not always check the intruding chills which woman’s weakness threw over her. Generally, however, she was calm and trustful, although the blank of his absence was a sorrow which constant exertion, and devotion to the good of others, could alone alleviate. But for Maurice, poor Maurice, there was more painful thoughts still. His first letter was at once longed for, dreaded, and received with a mixture of feelings which it would be difficult to analyze.TheErratichad remained some days at Plymouth, quite long enough for Hilary’s letters, with the news of Dora’s engagement, to reach her brother. She had written with the tenderest concern, the most sympathizing sorrow, and yet, fearfulof augmenting his disappointment, she had hardly dared to express what she really felt. To her husband she could confide all; but to Maurice, it seemed to her, that either to pity or to blame, to question Dora’s past or her present feelings, to suppose her faithless or deceitful, untrue either to him or his rival, would be equally inappropriate, unkind, or unwise. She dared hardly do more than state facts, and express anxiety regarding his feelings. Then came his letter, like himself, generous, warm-hearted, high-minded, loving. He had, he said, no right to complain, she had broken no faith to him; he had asked for none; they had parted on the understanding that she was free, disengaged. He had never deserved her, and it would be unjust, then, to claim a place in her memory as any thing beyond a friend; he had no wish to make her unhappy, and since their union appeared to her impossible, she was at perfect liberty to act as she had done. It was like herself, too, if she had endeavored to please her father; it was an engagement which he, no doubt, would perfectly approve; and there was much offered by it to influence and tempt her beyond common inducements. That she would not marry for the sake of rank or fortune alone, she had already proved; beyond a doubt, she had good reasons for her conduct. His most earnest wishes for her happiness, his constant prayers for her, were all he could now give; these she should have. He charged Hilary not to allow her to suppose he felt ill-used, or that he judged her harshly, or blamed her; nor need her affectionate heart grieve for him; she had done him no injustice, no wrong; and the inevitable evils of life he hoped he could bear. A sailor must expect storms in his voyage, and should know what to do under them. A sudden tornado had come down on him, catching him, perhaps, with too much canvas spread, going on too gayly before a light breeze; but should he therefore give up all for lost, and allow the hurricane to overwhelm him without an effort? No, he would shorten sail at once, and trust, by vigorous and timely exertion, to remedy the danger to which incautiousness in fair weather had exposed him.“Not that I can ever forget her,” continued he, in conclusion, “or am at all likely to find one to fill her place. Her memory will live in mine, as we think of one dead; and her name will ever have a charm for me beyond all other feminine appellations. But do not fret on my account, dear Hilary; you have enough care, without taking another load on your shoulders for my sake.”But Captain Hepburn told his wife how great was the struggle in the mind of Maurice, how severe the shock had been, and how glad he should be when they had left England, as this weary detention from day to day, kept them all in an irritating state of idle uncertainty. Hilary knew Maurice must feel, yet his letter was a comfort too. If he could so bravely face his disappointment, the severity of the blow would be greatly lessened. If no angry feelings were lurking there, he would escape the bitterest portion of disappointed love; and perhaps, after all, the abandoned lover might be less an object of pity than his successful rival.Affairs went on at home, for some weeks, much as has been described. Isabel Barham was the most devoted friend to Gwyneth; constantly at the Vicarage, to talk over the building plans, or consult about the embroidery she was occupied with for the church. Penelope’s web hardly gave rise to more discussion and anxiety than did the cushions which Isabel thought she was working. They traveled backward and forward, several times a week, between the Abbey and the Vicarage, in Miss Barham’s britchska; that young lady always expecting to find time to set a few stitches during her visit, and generally proving mistaken in the result; so that the only progress the work made was when Gwyneth sometimes herself took it in hand; indeed, the cushions might be said to live chiefly on the road, if they had actually any other existence than in the imagination of their projectors.The curate was not excluded from the cabinet councils held on these topics, and he rarely absented himself. None of the lookers-on could at all make out the meaning of the several parties; even Hilary doubted what were Mr. Ufford’s views andintentions; and as to Miss Barham, when at Hurstdene, she seemed to care little for any thing but the vicar’s daughter. The accounts from Naples, meanwhile, were most unfavorable; there seemed scarcely a hope of Lord Dunsmore’s life, which faded and flickered apparently like a dying lamp; but as his sister-in-law and her husband were devoted to him, his brother was content to remain in England.It was a wild and stormy day, such as not unfrequently breaks up the fine weather at the commencement of August; the curate had not presented himself the whole morning at the Vicarage, and the family supposed him confined to his house by the tempest.The church bell began to toll, and its long, mournful vibrations seemed to come sadly and awfully, with a warning sound, across the furious blast; sometimes swelling loud in a transient lull, sometimes almost swept away by the violence of the roaring gale.“That is old Martha Blake’s funeral,” observed Hilary; “what a day for the poor people.”“Yes; and Mr. Ufford, too,” observed Gwyneth.The bell tolled on, and by-and-by Nest, who was watching from the window, remarked that the party had just appeared. Slowly, and with difficulty, the black group made their way across the green, the wind violently opposing their progress, and threatening at every moment to overpower their feeble and tottering steps. Gwyneth’s eyes were fixed on the procession as it wound its way along; she expected to see Mr. Ufford issue from the church to meet the mourners; but they paused at the Lychgate, set down the corpse, and sheltered themselves as well as they could beneath the walls. It was evident the clergyman had not yet arrived. Five minutes passed; ten, a quarter of an hour; still the bell tolled on; and still the mourners stood huddled together by the gate of the dead.“How wrong to keep those poor people waiting there,” said Hilary, a little indignantly.“I dare say there is some mistake about time,” replied Gwyneth;“and I am sure they have often kept Mr. Ufford for an hour or more.”Still time went on; at length, after a long hour, a messenger came to the Vicarage, to ask what should be done; they had sent to Primrose Bank, but the clergyman was out, and had left word that he need not be expected back.“Then I must go and bury my old parishioner,” said the vicar, rising up. “Hilary, my hat and coat, please, love; old Martin will guide me down to the church; so do not disturb yourself.”Hilary was thunderstruck; for her father to go out in such weather might be fatal; he had not been so well as usual for some days. She knew not what to do; ah, could she but have exposed herself for him! Vain wish; she watched him preparing with a sad presentiment, then resolutely threw on her own black cloak, and determined to accompany him. The storm which he must encounter, she too would brave; perhaps she might assist, or shelter him from its fury.With many sorrowful charges from her to Gwyneth to have a fire lighted, and dry, warm clothes in readiness, the couple took their way together, although the father earnestly remonstrated against Hilary’s exposing herself to such needless inconvenience. It was vain to attempt to hold an umbrella; petticoats flapped wildly in the wind, and caught the dashing torrents of rain as they fell; but under the churchyard wall, there was a little shelter, and rain alone comparatively inconvenienced them, during the out-of-door service.When it was over, Hilary, bidding the poor women, all so wet and draggled, to come up to the Vicarage to dry and warm themselves, hurried her father home as fast as infirmity and tempest would allow him; and wet, breathless, exhausted by the contest with the elements, they reached the house at last. But the struggle had almost overpowered him, and on his arrival, he was attacked with a sort of faintness which greatly alarmed his daughters. He revived after a short time, and smiled at their solicitude; but although he seemed to rally, he complainedonce or twice in the evening of extreme chilliness, and before night it was quite evident he had caught a violent cold.Morning did not bring the comfort which he had endeavored to persuade his daughters would accompany it; sore throat and fever were apparent, and Hilary, in great alarm, dispatched a hurried messenger for the doctor. Gwyneth was most miserable; her father’s illness overpowered her feelings, and that it should be caused by the apparent neglect of Mr. Ufford, aggravated her distress. She wearied herself in inventing unsatisfactory excuses for his absence, each one of which was abandoned as unlikely, after being entertained for a short period; and the conviction that he would call that morning to excuse his absence, was so strong, that every moment she fancied she heard the latch of the wicket-gate.The doctor came, prescribed for his patient, shook his head, and avoided giving a definite opinion; contenting himself with observing, he had taken a chill, and they must make him better if they could. Hilary kept her own thoughts to herself, unwilling prematurely to alarm her sisters; but she wrote to Sybil. The vacation was so near, that she thought Mrs. Farrington would easily arrange to hurry her departure, even if she were obliged to leave her husband behind for a few days.The day passed heavily away; the storm had ceased, but the sky was dull, and the earth damp and dreary; and the exterior dullness was well answered by the blank within. All there was dull indeed.Many parishioners came toward evening to make anxious inquiries for their pastor, and Gwyneth had to see and answer them; and many and deep, though not loud, were the murmurs that his reverence, who never spared himself, should have been forced out in such a storm, through the inattention of one, who—Gwyneth had to stop them abruptly, to charge them not to judge hastily, to make excuses, and invent possible reasons for the mistake; which sometimes brought her such an answer as,“Ah, well, miss, I dare say you doant like to hear ’umblamed, but ’ees not like his reverence, and will never fill his shoes.”An observation which brought the color into her cheeks more than once.“Belike, miss, ye doant know Mr. Ufford was gone over to the Abbey yesterday?” said one old gossip to her; to which Gwyneth replied, with as much unconcern as possible, she did not: but there was something in the tone and manner which startled her.The second morning of Mr. Duncan’s illness brought Gwyneth a note from Isabel. She was sitting with Hilary beside her father’s bed, when it was placed in her hand. She opened and read it; then silently laying it down before her sister, she left the room.Mrs. Hepburn hurriedly perused it. It was to announce, in most graceful and well-chosen words, the fact that she was engaged to Mr. Ufford. She was sure the intelligence would interest her friends at the Vicarage.Hilary had hardly time to understand this announcement, and none at all to calculate its effects on Gwyneth, when her attention was called to her father. He awoke suddenly, in such intense pain, that every thought had to be given to his relief. She was obliged to summon more help, and Gwyneth, hearing the subdued bustle, came out of her room. Her countenance was white as marble, and almost as composed as a statue; there was no other sign of emotion than the shadow under her eyes; her whole attention was devoted to her father; and her energy was astonishing. The alarm of the daughters was great, though intensely quiet; and an urgent message was sent to the apothecary to come immediately. Much to their relief, he was met near the house, and hurried forward. Every application which skill could devise, or care employ, was made use of to relieve the patient; but for hours the sisters, though working with untiring energy, saw no beneficial result. At length, however, there came a cessation of pain, followed by sleep.Now Gwyneth insisted Hilary should rest. She had been upthe whole of the preceding night; she must take repose. Gwyneth’s black eyes burned with a fever fire as she spoke; her cheeks were white, but her hand did not tremble, nor her lip falter.“And you, Gwyneth,” said Hilary, kissing her, as she listened to her low, yet impressive whispers; “do you not want rest?”“No, not now, not yet; when I am tired I will rest, but it would be useless to try now, and I would rather be doing something.”“There are carriage wheels,” said Hilary, listening. Gwyneth’s face flushed for one moment, but the color died away as her sister said: “It must be Sybil!”It was Sybil, not alone either; she was accompanied by her husband’s uncle, a physician whom she had brought with her from London, a gentleman they all knew and liked exceedingly. The relief which the sight of the travelers afforded was very great; but as the patient was sleeping quietly, there was nothing else to be done but to welcome and refresh them.Mr. Wild, the apothecary, was to call again in an hour or two; he had already hinted at the propriety of calling in more advice, and would, no doubt, be glad to have Dr. Symons to share his responsibility.The sisters clustered together round the drawing-room fire, for the evening was so chilly that the travelers were glad of its warmth, and spoke in low, anxious tones of their hopes and fears. Sybil’s indignation at the cause of this illness was less suppressed than her sisters; and murmurs of “careless,” “thoughtless,” “unpardonable,” crossed her lips.Then came Mr. Wild again, and a consultation between him and the physician; and then the sinking spirits with which they listened to the faint encouragements and doubtful words of the doctors. However, it was no time to give way; feeling and fear must be crushed down into the smallest possible space, anticipation must be prohibited, action and energy were whatwere now required. Gwyneth took the watch; her sisters were to sleep, and they could sleep all the more quietly, knowing that Dr. Symons was within call, if necessary.There was scarce a shadow of amendment the next day, to cheer them; but there were no worse symptoms in the sick man; he slept much and heavily in the night, but when awake, pain was lessened, and consciousness more alive. The day passed in slow hours, marked by the changes in the sick room, as one sister after the other took her seat beside the bed. Gwyneth’s restlessness increased hourly, when not stationed there; nothing else seemed to afford her a moment’s quiet. Whatever of active exertion was required, she was the doer of it; she never tired, except of being unemployed, and her quickness of eye, readiness of thought, and lightness of finger, were much praised by Dr. Symons, who little guessed the source whence this unfailing activity sprung.It was on the afternoon of Saturday, the third of Mr. Duncan’s illness, when, as Gwyneth was crossing the vestibule, the pleasant sunshine streaming in at the open door, tempted her for a short space to pause in the porch. She lingered a minute, the next, as she turned away, a step caught her ear; it was Mr. Ufford. Her first inclination was to draw back, her next, and the governing one, was to advance composedly with extended hand.There was, perhaps, a little confusion in his countenance as he looked at her; a little surprise at the deadly whiteness of her cheeks, the strange glance of her dark eyes, as he greeted her.“You have been long coming,” said she gravely; “my father has asked for you several times.”“I am sorry; I am but just returned from the Abbey. I will go to him now,” he said, in great confusion and haste.“No, you can not, he is asleep, now; Sybil just told me so; and Dr. Symons would not have him disturbed for the world.” She spoke with an effort; she dared scarcely allow her breath to come, lest it should overpower her self-command. Eachnerve was stretched, each muscle rigid in the exertion to seem calm.“Asleep—Dr. Symons! Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired he, startled into forgetting his own concerns, and really thinking of her words.“Do you not know?” she paused. “Walk in, I will tell you when I can!” Another pause, during which she tried to strangle some heaving sobs, she overpowered some rebellious flutterings. “I think I will call Hilary!” she added, quickly, as a last resource, and hurried away from the room door. He entered. Nest was there alone. She rose, but would hardly speak or come forward.“What is the matter, Nest?” exclaimed he, abruptly.“Papa is no better,” replied the child, looking down; “no better at all; and Dr. Symons, who came here yesterday, does not know how to make him better, and Sybil says, Mr. Ufford, it is all your fault!”“My fault!” cried he; “how in the world? what have I to do with it?”“Your being away, and obliging him to go out on Wednesday to the funeral, in all that storm; nobody knew where to find you, so poor papa had to do it himself.”A very unpleasant conviction accompanied the light which his understanding received by Nest’s plain speaking. He colored, sat down, and was silent for some minutes.“How long has he been ill?” said he, at last.“Ever since Wednesday evening, when he caught cold; but here is Hilary.”Mr. Ufford rose, feeling singularly uncomfortable and embarrassed.“I can not tell you how shocked I have been, Mrs. Hepburn, to hear of Mr. Duncan’s sudden illness,” said he; “I had no idea of it!”“Did you not receive a message from me? we sent yesterday to beg you would come as soon as you could, as my father asked for you several times.”“I am but just returned from the Abbey!”Hilary was silent and grave. Her looks were more of a reproach than any words she could have uttered; they spoke so plainly of grief, anxiety, and patience. He felt obliged to say something in excuse or apology; and with ever-increasing embarrassment, he said:“I am so sorry it should have happened; but I quite forgot the notice, and all about the funeral—it was most unfortunate!”Still Mrs. Hepburn was silent.“My housekeeper ought to have reminded me, when I told her I was going out,” continued he; “it was excessively careless of her to forget; I shall speak to her about it.”“If you usually depend upon her for those sort of things—” began Hilary, and then stopped suddenly.“Besides, who could ever have supposed that people would be so mad as to go out in such weather at all?” added he, determined to be angry with somebody. “These old women have no more sense than a post; it was irrational, and I really think they must have intended to vex and annoy me.”“I think they are hardly to blame for keeping an appointment,” said she; “they could not tell you would not be there, and, perhaps, were as much inconvenienced by the weather as you could have been, had you been present.”“I don’t know that; they are used to rough it; and there is a sad spirit of spite and ill-will prevalent among them; a more selfish, ungrateful, thankless, obstinate set, I never met with. They are equally devoid of sense and affection.”“You do them injustice, I am sure; you would not doubt their affectionate feeling, if you heard their anxiety for my father. But I can not stay with you now. Can you wait here on the chance of my father’s waking, or will you call in again by-and-by?”Mr. Ufford was too glad to make his escape at that moment, and promising to call again in an hour’s time, he walked off, trying to drown his own sense of wrong, by throwing the blame on every body in the parish except himself.Mr. Duncan’s attack proved an influenza of a most dangerous nature; and no skill or care from physicians or nurses, could arrest its progress or prevent its effects. He lingered on for nearly three weeks, and then darkness and silence fell on the Vicarage, sorrow and tears filled the village dwellings, for the father was taken from his children, and the pastor from his people, and the place that had known him would know him no more.The sisters sat together in the gloomy rooms during those long summer days which intervened between the death and the funeral, each, perhaps, going over in silence in her own mind the scenes of childhood so deeply impressed on memory; the happy hours, the kindly-given lesson, the birth-day treat, the pleasant surprise, all coming from him who was now gone from them; each one a joy that never could recur again, but which, although now receding into the shadowy regions of the past, was yet even in recollection a thing to be valued and to be grateful for.They had some great comforts also. Mr. Paine and his wife contrived to come to them, and he was dearly welcomed, both as friend and priest, and she was an unspeakable solace to Hilary. Their brother-in-law had joined them the week after Sybil came, and his presence relieved them of the painful intrusions which funeral arrangements gave rise to.Hilary knew that support and comfort would come alone from a higher source than earthly friendship, or domestic affection; but the gift of these latter was received as a favor to deserve gratitude, a token that He who provided even for temporal blessings, would not forsake his children, nor withdraw from them the necessary help.Her greatest anxiety was for Gwyneth now; and, perhaps, her bitterest sorrow was caused by Mr. Ufford.The latter, indeed, had deeply disappointed her by the coldness and reserve which, like a damp, wrapping mist, had crept over him. His visits had been few and hurried, except when absolutely sent for; his words cold, stiff, and unwillingly given.His time was principally devoted to riding over to the Abbey, which swallowed up most days in the week. His own prospects, of course, chiefly occupied him, and, no doubt, the visits at the Vicarage were painful for more than one reason; yet, when they remembered the past, their father’s kindness to him, his previous conduct, and friendly professions, and his connection with their sad loss, they all felt that something more was due from him than they received; perhaps he, too, was conscious of ingratitude, which made the sight of former friends unpleasant; perhaps he was simply self-engrossed, and thoughtless regarding the sorrows which did not touch him.But Gwyneth was a nearer, deeper trouble, and Hilary could not look at her without fear. The same stony composure wrapped her still. Ever since her father’s death she had shed no tear; but her dark eyes looked blacker than ever by contrast with her white cheeks; she spoke little, never of her feelings; she rested little; but with a strange, untiring energy, she seemed always engrossed by some object for the good of others. An ordinary observer would never have guessed the amount of agony and endurance that pallid brow concealed; but Hilary read it in her silence, in her downcast eyes, and in the burning touch of her fevered fingers, and she read it with fear; for such unnatural suppression of feeling, such intense and over-wrought calmness must, she knew, break down at last: and what would be the end of it?
“Let her have her proud dark eyes,And her petulant, quick replies;Let her sweep her dazzling hand,With its gesture of command,And shake back her raven hair,With the old imperious air.”Tristram and Iseult.
“Let her have her proud dark eyes,And her petulant, quick replies;Let her sweep her dazzling hand,With its gesture of command,And shake back her raven hair,With the old imperious air.”Tristram and Iseult.
“Let her have her proud dark eyes,
And her petulant, quick replies;
Let her sweep her dazzling hand,
With its gesture of command,
And shake back her raven hair,
With the old imperious air.”
Tristram and Iseult.
“So Charles Huyton is really going to marry Miss Dora Barham,” said Mr. Ufford to the party at theVicarage. “I wonder whether she is satisfied now.”
“How did you hear that?” was Hilary’s reply.
“Oh! I had a letter from Huyton this morning, announcing his good fortune; hoping my poor brother would not take it amiss that he had succeeded where George had failed. I own I am more surprised, however, at Huyton’s proposal than at the young lady’s answer.”
“You have not heard any thing more from Italy, I suppose?” inquired Hilary, to whom the other subject was distasteful.
“I heard this morning that Lord and Lady Rupert, that is Dunsmore’s sister-in-law and her husband, have left Florence, and must now be at Naples with my brother.”
“I am glad of that,” said Gwyneth, eagerly, “it will be a relief to our mind to know he has some one with him; and you like Lady Rupert, I think.”
“Yes, I do not feel it so necessary to start immediately, and as George was so very anxious to hear that his projects are puten train, perhaps it would be better to make some definite arrangements regarding the church and school, at least before I go.”
Accordingly papers were produced, plans and estimates looked over, calculations made, and statistics gone into. In the midst of all, while Gwyneth was busy noting down for Mr. Ufford some important calculations, and Hilary was explaining to her father the plan ultimately decided on, Gwyneth suddenly observed,
“I wonder Dora is going to marry before Isabel; I am so surprised that she should remain so long single. What do you suppose is the reason?”
“I really do not think such things are worth speculating about,” observed Mrs. Hepburn, who particularly wished to avoid the subject.
“Miss Barham’s position is peculiar,” said Mr. Ufford, “and so is her character. She is too proud to marry a mean man; too rich to marry a poor one; too great for a humble man; too clever for a foolish one; too independent for a mercenary man; and too good for a bad one.”
“Well, that only proves that she must have a wise, clever, rich, and noble husband,” said Gwyneth, laughing a little; “and I suppose with so many claims, aided by the addition of grace and beauty, the probability that she might meet such a one is not very small.”
“Perhaps! but then, this wise, good, clever, rich noble man may not perhaps submit to be governed by his wife; and I have a notion that Miss Barham has been too long accustomed to be her own mistress, to like to give up the privilege, or to be at all ready to lay down her scepter.”
“Oh, you do not do her justice!” cried Gwyneth; “besides, any woman who loved, would resign all her prerogatives readily to one who deserved them.”
“Gwyneth, my love! have you finished those extracts?” said her father.
Gwyneth went on with her work in silence.
“There’s the Abbey carriage crossing the green,” observed Mr. Ufford presently, he having sauntered away to the window, while the young ladies managed the details of business.
Hilary changed color; she felt reluctant to meet Dora. “I had no idea they were in the country!” she observed, in a voice of discomfort.
“Only Miss Barham is,” replied Mr. Ufford, looking with a little curiosity at Mrs. Hepburn’s face. “Miss Dora is gone to visit some friends in Northampton, I believe with her aunt, Lady Margaret, while the happy Huyton is in Germany. The carriage is coming here.”
It did come, and Isabel entered the Vicarage exactly the same as ever in appearance; her sister’s engagement had made no outward change in her. It had been a disappointment, but she was too well-bred to show it; and, except in a hasty abandonment of London, there was no perceptible effect of the news. However, Dora herself could not be much more unwilling to discuss the affair than Isabel was, so it was a mutual accommodation that the sisters should part for the present. Miss Barham found herself suddenly weary of the London season, and much in want of rest and fresh air; to face Hilary, to see Hurstdene, to exist even at home, Dora felt impossible; and she arranged a hasty plan for accompanying her aunt into Northamptonshire, hoping that change of place and entire novelty would smother the thoughts which were burning in her heart, and diminish her regret, despair, and self-reproach.
Miss Barham was immediately interested in the details of the business which had just been occupying the others; and both touched and grieved by the account of the precarious state of the first projector of the alterations. She had a right, she said, to be interested in any improvements of a church, which had so long formed part of their family property, and she insisted on having it all detailed to her. Mr. Ufford accordingly went through the plans, while she listened with a most graceful and marked attention. Then she asked, in a pretty, injured tone, why her father had not been consulted; and was hardly appeased by the assurance that Mr. Barham having done so much for the chancel a few years ago, nothing more was required at present, nor could they feel justified in calling on himfor assistance in a matter of ornament which was purely the wish of Lord Dunsmore.
“Was nothing more really wanted?” inquired Isabel; she should like to see the church, and judge for herself. She asked Gwyneth to walk down to it with her; Mr. Ufford, of course, accompanied them. They sauntered about there for a long time. Isabel was very enthusiastic, suggesting all sorts of expensive plans for ornament and effect; Mr. Ufford himself was quite carried away by her zeal, entering into her ideas with almost equal warmth. It was a subject that exactly suited him; ideal, imaginative, combining beauty, poetry, and all the unreal, sentimental, religious feeling, in which his spirit always delighted. He could arrange a symbolical device, and revel in an illustration of some fanciful theory, much better than he could go through a dry detail, or endure a self-denying, sober perseverance against ill-success.
Isabel was mistress of the elements of her subject; she was acquainted with the fashionable theories and modern language of church architecture; she could discourse elegantly on stringcourse, and reredos, lecterns, open-sittings, equality of ranks, chants, and responses: galleries and parish clerks were her aversion, and a choral service her delight. Gwyneth could think and feel, but Isabel could talk; while the continued references to Mr. Ufford, to his taste, opinion, wish, decision, not only compelled him to listen, but were so very flattering to his own self-love, as to convince him that hitherto he had greatly undervalued Miss Barham’s good qualities.
They lingered long together, and when he had handed her into her carriage, and watched her drive off, he said a hasty farewell to the family at the Vicarage, and walked home, leaving the young ladies to put away his papers at their leisure.
Gwyneth was thoughtful and silent the rest of the day.
The curate came the next morning to the Vicarage soon after breakfast; but hardly had poor Gwyneth time to be glad to see him, when her joy was dissipated by his words.
“Oh, Mrs. Hepburn, will you give me those plans andsketches for the new buildings? Mr. Barham wants to see them, and I am going over to the Abbey this morning to consult about them with him; and shall probably not come back till to-morrow.”
He went, and for some little time there was occasionally a change in his tone and manner toward Gwyneth Duncan; his words were often few, and hurried; there was no more loitering on the terrace, or dreaming over books of religious poetry with her. He did not absent himself from the Vicarage, but she was no longer always his object, even in the undecided and indolent way in which she had formerly been. His whole mind seemed engrossed in the decorations of the church, and things connected with it, including Miss Barham. Isabel promised a great deal toward providing funds; the chancel was, of course, her peculiar care: and deeply interested as she was, it was natural that she should be constantly driving over, to see how the work progressed. There was scarcely a day in which it was not necessary that the curate and the lady should meet; either at Hurstdene to consult on the spot, or in the library at the Abbey, to examine books on decorative art, or illuminations copied from old MSS.
Hilary saw it all, and watched them with a careful eye. She often felt hurt at the proceedings, on her father’s account, whose tastes and wishes were perpetually over-ruled; he did not like the idea of these new decorations, he feared that the quiet gray church, so dear to him in its serene simplicity, might assume too fanciful an appearance under their plans. The coloring of the walls and ceiling, talked of by them, he thought unsuitable. But he loved peace and hated dissension; and when Mr. Ufford argued on one hand, and Isabel coaxed on the other, he could not resist, but gave them their way.
As yet, however, the greater part of the decorations were only existing in idea, much repair was needed first of a substantial and important character, and it appeared probable that the autumn and winter must pass before Fancy could exercise her power on the colored decorations and ornamentalscrolls. Meanwhile, Isabel drew patterns, and Mr. Ufford applauded.
Gwyneth Duncan had at first noticed this unexpected coalition with considerable uneasiness; the fear she felt of Isabel as a rival, showed her how much her own feelings were interested in Mr. Ufford’s. She wondered that nothing more was said of the journey to Italy, and wished most heartily that the curate had set out before Miss Duncan’s return to the country. By degrees, however, she became more easy; he resumed much of his old manner to her; when Miss Barham was not by, he sought her opinion, claimed her services, and courted her approval almost as much as formerly; and she began to hope that, however he might admire Miss Barham, or be flattered by her condescending notice, that his real preference was confined to her. She was very quiet, and more reserved than ever; not even her sister could penetrate her secret; she never became demonstrative, least of all to him.
Anxiety for Gwyneth’s happiness, and concern for Mr. Ufford’s uncertain conduct, were not the only sources of trouble to Hilary’s mind at that time. Her thoughts would follow her absent sailors. Love would make the heart tremble, although faith whispered of patience and hope, and her husband’s spirit, his devotion to the cause of duty, his calm courage and high aspirations, inspired her too: but yet they could not always check the intruding chills which woman’s weakness threw over her. Generally, however, she was calm and trustful, although the blank of his absence was a sorrow which constant exertion, and devotion to the good of others, could alone alleviate. But for Maurice, poor Maurice, there was more painful thoughts still. His first letter was at once longed for, dreaded, and received with a mixture of feelings which it would be difficult to analyze.
TheErratichad remained some days at Plymouth, quite long enough for Hilary’s letters, with the news of Dora’s engagement, to reach her brother. She had written with the tenderest concern, the most sympathizing sorrow, and yet, fearfulof augmenting his disappointment, she had hardly dared to express what she really felt. To her husband she could confide all; but to Maurice, it seemed to her, that either to pity or to blame, to question Dora’s past or her present feelings, to suppose her faithless or deceitful, untrue either to him or his rival, would be equally inappropriate, unkind, or unwise. She dared hardly do more than state facts, and express anxiety regarding his feelings. Then came his letter, like himself, generous, warm-hearted, high-minded, loving. He had, he said, no right to complain, she had broken no faith to him; he had asked for none; they had parted on the understanding that she was free, disengaged. He had never deserved her, and it would be unjust, then, to claim a place in her memory as any thing beyond a friend; he had no wish to make her unhappy, and since their union appeared to her impossible, she was at perfect liberty to act as she had done. It was like herself, too, if she had endeavored to please her father; it was an engagement which he, no doubt, would perfectly approve; and there was much offered by it to influence and tempt her beyond common inducements. That she would not marry for the sake of rank or fortune alone, she had already proved; beyond a doubt, she had good reasons for her conduct. His most earnest wishes for her happiness, his constant prayers for her, were all he could now give; these she should have. He charged Hilary not to allow her to suppose he felt ill-used, or that he judged her harshly, or blamed her; nor need her affectionate heart grieve for him; she had done him no injustice, no wrong; and the inevitable evils of life he hoped he could bear. A sailor must expect storms in his voyage, and should know what to do under them. A sudden tornado had come down on him, catching him, perhaps, with too much canvas spread, going on too gayly before a light breeze; but should he therefore give up all for lost, and allow the hurricane to overwhelm him without an effort? No, he would shorten sail at once, and trust, by vigorous and timely exertion, to remedy the danger to which incautiousness in fair weather had exposed him.
“Not that I can ever forget her,” continued he, in conclusion, “or am at all likely to find one to fill her place. Her memory will live in mine, as we think of one dead; and her name will ever have a charm for me beyond all other feminine appellations. But do not fret on my account, dear Hilary; you have enough care, without taking another load on your shoulders for my sake.”
But Captain Hepburn told his wife how great was the struggle in the mind of Maurice, how severe the shock had been, and how glad he should be when they had left England, as this weary detention from day to day, kept them all in an irritating state of idle uncertainty. Hilary knew Maurice must feel, yet his letter was a comfort too. If he could so bravely face his disappointment, the severity of the blow would be greatly lessened. If no angry feelings were lurking there, he would escape the bitterest portion of disappointed love; and perhaps, after all, the abandoned lover might be less an object of pity than his successful rival.
Affairs went on at home, for some weeks, much as has been described. Isabel Barham was the most devoted friend to Gwyneth; constantly at the Vicarage, to talk over the building plans, or consult about the embroidery she was occupied with for the church. Penelope’s web hardly gave rise to more discussion and anxiety than did the cushions which Isabel thought she was working. They traveled backward and forward, several times a week, between the Abbey and the Vicarage, in Miss Barham’s britchska; that young lady always expecting to find time to set a few stitches during her visit, and generally proving mistaken in the result; so that the only progress the work made was when Gwyneth sometimes herself took it in hand; indeed, the cushions might be said to live chiefly on the road, if they had actually any other existence than in the imagination of their projectors.
The curate was not excluded from the cabinet councils held on these topics, and he rarely absented himself. None of the lookers-on could at all make out the meaning of the several parties; even Hilary doubted what were Mr. Ufford’s views andintentions; and as to Miss Barham, when at Hurstdene, she seemed to care little for any thing but the vicar’s daughter. The accounts from Naples, meanwhile, were most unfavorable; there seemed scarcely a hope of Lord Dunsmore’s life, which faded and flickered apparently like a dying lamp; but as his sister-in-law and her husband were devoted to him, his brother was content to remain in England.
It was a wild and stormy day, such as not unfrequently breaks up the fine weather at the commencement of August; the curate had not presented himself the whole morning at the Vicarage, and the family supposed him confined to his house by the tempest.
The church bell began to toll, and its long, mournful vibrations seemed to come sadly and awfully, with a warning sound, across the furious blast; sometimes swelling loud in a transient lull, sometimes almost swept away by the violence of the roaring gale.
“That is old Martha Blake’s funeral,” observed Hilary; “what a day for the poor people.”
“Yes; and Mr. Ufford, too,” observed Gwyneth.
The bell tolled on, and by-and-by Nest, who was watching from the window, remarked that the party had just appeared. Slowly, and with difficulty, the black group made their way across the green, the wind violently opposing their progress, and threatening at every moment to overpower their feeble and tottering steps. Gwyneth’s eyes were fixed on the procession as it wound its way along; she expected to see Mr. Ufford issue from the church to meet the mourners; but they paused at the Lychgate, set down the corpse, and sheltered themselves as well as they could beneath the walls. It was evident the clergyman had not yet arrived. Five minutes passed; ten, a quarter of an hour; still the bell tolled on; and still the mourners stood huddled together by the gate of the dead.
“How wrong to keep those poor people waiting there,” said Hilary, a little indignantly.
“I dare say there is some mistake about time,” replied Gwyneth;“and I am sure they have often kept Mr. Ufford for an hour or more.”
Still time went on; at length, after a long hour, a messenger came to the Vicarage, to ask what should be done; they had sent to Primrose Bank, but the clergyman was out, and had left word that he need not be expected back.
“Then I must go and bury my old parishioner,” said the vicar, rising up. “Hilary, my hat and coat, please, love; old Martin will guide me down to the church; so do not disturb yourself.”
Hilary was thunderstruck; for her father to go out in such weather might be fatal; he had not been so well as usual for some days. She knew not what to do; ah, could she but have exposed herself for him! Vain wish; she watched him preparing with a sad presentiment, then resolutely threw on her own black cloak, and determined to accompany him. The storm which he must encounter, she too would brave; perhaps she might assist, or shelter him from its fury.
With many sorrowful charges from her to Gwyneth to have a fire lighted, and dry, warm clothes in readiness, the couple took their way together, although the father earnestly remonstrated against Hilary’s exposing herself to such needless inconvenience. It was vain to attempt to hold an umbrella; petticoats flapped wildly in the wind, and caught the dashing torrents of rain as they fell; but under the churchyard wall, there was a little shelter, and rain alone comparatively inconvenienced them, during the out-of-door service.
When it was over, Hilary, bidding the poor women, all so wet and draggled, to come up to the Vicarage to dry and warm themselves, hurried her father home as fast as infirmity and tempest would allow him; and wet, breathless, exhausted by the contest with the elements, they reached the house at last. But the struggle had almost overpowered him, and on his arrival, he was attacked with a sort of faintness which greatly alarmed his daughters. He revived after a short time, and smiled at their solicitude; but although he seemed to rally, he complainedonce or twice in the evening of extreme chilliness, and before night it was quite evident he had caught a violent cold.
Morning did not bring the comfort which he had endeavored to persuade his daughters would accompany it; sore throat and fever were apparent, and Hilary, in great alarm, dispatched a hurried messenger for the doctor. Gwyneth was most miserable; her father’s illness overpowered her feelings, and that it should be caused by the apparent neglect of Mr. Ufford, aggravated her distress. She wearied herself in inventing unsatisfactory excuses for his absence, each one of which was abandoned as unlikely, after being entertained for a short period; and the conviction that he would call that morning to excuse his absence, was so strong, that every moment she fancied she heard the latch of the wicket-gate.
The doctor came, prescribed for his patient, shook his head, and avoided giving a definite opinion; contenting himself with observing, he had taken a chill, and they must make him better if they could. Hilary kept her own thoughts to herself, unwilling prematurely to alarm her sisters; but she wrote to Sybil. The vacation was so near, that she thought Mrs. Farrington would easily arrange to hurry her departure, even if she were obliged to leave her husband behind for a few days.
The day passed heavily away; the storm had ceased, but the sky was dull, and the earth damp and dreary; and the exterior dullness was well answered by the blank within. All there was dull indeed.
Many parishioners came toward evening to make anxious inquiries for their pastor, and Gwyneth had to see and answer them; and many and deep, though not loud, were the murmurs that his reverence, who never spared himself, should have been forced out in such a storm, through the inattention of one, who—Gwyneth had to stop them abruptly, to charge them not to judge hastily, to make excuses, and invent possible reasons for the mistake; which sometimes brought her such an answer as,
“Ah, well, miss, I dare say you doant like to hear ’umblamed, but ’ees not like his reverence, and will never fill his shoes.”
An observation which brought the color into her cheeks more than once.
“Belike, miss, ye doant know Mr. Ufford was gone over to the Abbey yesterday?” said one old gossip to her; to which Gwyneth replied, with as much unconcern as possible, she did not: but there was something in the tone and manner which startled her.
The second morning of Mr. Duncan’s illness brought Gwyneth a note from Isabel. She was sitting with Hilary beside her father’s bed, when it was placed in her hand. She opened and read it; then silently laying it down before her sister, she left the room.
Mrs. Hepburn hurriedly perused it. It was to announce, in most graceful and well-chosen words, the fact that she was engaged to Mr. Ufford. She was sure the intelligence would interest her friends at the Vicarage.
Hilary had hardly time to understand this announcement, and none at all to calculate its effects on Gwyneth, when her attention was called to her father. He awoke suddenly, in such intense pain, that every thought had to be given to his relief. She was obliged to summon more help, and Gwyneth, hearing the subdued bustle, came out of her room. Her countenance was white as marble, and almost as composed as a statue; there was no other sign of emotion than the shadow under her eyes; her whole attention was devoted to her father; and her energy was astonishing. The alarm of the daughters was great, though intensely quiet; and an urgent message was sent to the apothecary to come immediately. Much to their relief, he was met near the house, and hurried forward. Every application which skill could devise, or care employ, was made use of to relieve the patient; but for hours the sisters, though working with untiring energy, saw no beneficial result. At length, however, there came a cessation of pain, followed by sleep.
Now Gwyneth insisted Hilary should rest. She had been upthe whole of the preceding night; she must take repose. Gwyneth’s black eyes burned with a fever fire as she spoke; her cheeks were white, but her hand did not tremble, nor her lip falter.
“And you, Gwyneth,” said Hilary, kissing her, as she listened to her low, yet impressive whispers; “do you not want rest?”
“No, not now, not yet; when I am tired I will rest, but it would be useless to try now, and I would rather be doing something.”
“There are carriage wheels,” said Hilary, listening. Gwyneth’s face flushed for one moment, but the color died away as her sister said: “It must be Sybil!”
It was Sybil, not alone either; she was accompanied by her husband’s uncle, a physician whom she had brought with her from London, a gentleman they all knew and liked exceedingly. The relief which the sight of the travelers afforded was very great; but as the patient was sleeping quietly, there was nothing else to be done but to welcome and refresh them.
Mr. Wild, the apothecary, was to call again in an hour or two; he had already hinted at the propriety of calling in more advice, and would, no doubt, be glad to have Dr. Symons to share his responsibility.
The sisters clustered together round the drawing-room fire, for the evening was so chilly that the travelers were glad of its warmth, and spoke in low, anxious tones of their hopes and fears. Sybil’s indignation at the cause of this illness was less suppressed than her sisters; and murmurs of “careless,” “thoughtless,” “unpardonable,” crossed her lips.
Then came Mr. Wild again, and a consultation between him and the physician; and then the sinking spirits with which they listened to the faint encouragements and doubtful words of the doctors. However, it was no time to give way; feeling and fear must be crushed down into the smallest possible space, anticipation must be prohibited, action and energy were whatwere now required. Gwyneth took the watch; her sisters were to sleep, and they could sleep all the more quietly, knowing that Dr. Symons was within call, if necessary.
There was scarce a shadow of amendment the next day, to cheer them; but there were no worse symptoms in the sick man; he slept much and heavily in the night, but when awake, pain was lessened, and consciousness more alive. The day passed in slow hours, marked by the changes in the sick room, as one sister after the other took her seat beside the bed. Gwyneth’s restlessness increased hourly, when not stationed there; nothing else seemed to afford her a moment’s quiet. Whatever of active exertion was required, she was the doer of it; she never tired, except of being unemployed, and her quickness of eye, readiness of thought, and lightness of finger, were much praised by Dr. Symons, who little guessed the source whence this unfailing activity sprung.
It was on the afternoon of Saturday, the third of Mr. Duncan’s illness, when, as Gwyneth was crossing the vestibule, the pleasant sunshine streaming in at the open door, tempted her for a short space to pause in the porch. She lingered a minute, the next, as she turned away, a step caught her ear; it was Mr. Ufford. Her first inclination was to draw back, her next, and the governing one, was to advance composedly with extended hand.
There was, perhaps, a little confusion in his countenance as he looked at her; a little surprise at the deadly whiteness of her cheeks, the strange glance of her dark eyes, as he greeted her.
“You have been long coming,” said she gravely; “my father has asked for you several times.”
“I am sorry; I am but just returned from the Abbey. I will go to him now,” he said, in great confusion and haste.
“No, you can not, he is asleep, now; Sybil just told me so; and Dr. Symons would not have him disturbed for the world.” She spoke with an effort; she dared scarcely allow her breath to come, lest it should overpower her self-command. Eachnerve was stretched, each muscle rigid in the exertion to seem calm.
“Asleep—Dr. Symons! Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired he, startled into forgetting his own concerns, and really thinking of her words.
“Do you not know?” she paused. “Walk in, I will tell you when I can!” Another pause, during which she tried to strangle some heaving sobs, she overpowered some rebellious flutterings. “I think I will call Hilary!” she added, quickly, as a last resource, and hurried away from the room door. He entered. Nest was there alone. She rose, but would hardly speak or come forward.
“What is the matter, Nest?” exclaimed he, abruptly.
“Papa is no better,” replied the child, looking down; “no better at all; and Dr. Symons, who came here yesterday, does not know how to make him better, and Sybil says, Mr. Ufford, it is all your fault!”
“My fault!” cried he; “how in the world? what have I to do with it?”
“Your being away, and obliging him to go out on Wednesday to the funeral, in all that storm; nobody knew where to find you, so poor papa had to do it himself.”
A very unpleasant conviction accompanied the light which his understanding received by Nest’s plain speaking. He colored, sat down, and was silent for some minutes.
“How long has he been ill?” said he, at last.
“Ever since Wednesday evening, when he caught cold; but here is Hilary.”
Mr. Ufford rose, feeling singularly uncomfortable and embarrassed.
“I can not tell you how shocked I have been, Mrs. Hepburn, to hear of Mr. Duncan’s sudden illness,” said he; “I had no idea of it!”
“Did you not receive a message from me? we sent yesterday to beg you would come as soon as you could, as my father asked for you several times.”
“I am but just returned from the Abbey!”
Hilary was silent and grave. Her looks were more of a reproach than any words she could have uttered; they spoke so plainly of grief, anxiety, and patience. He felt obliged to say something in excuse or apology; and with ever-increasing embarrassment, he said:
“I am so sorry it should have happened; but I quite forgot the notice, and all about the funeral—it was most unfortunate!”
Still Mrs. Hepburn was silent.
“My housekeeper ought to have reminded me, when I told her I was going out,” continued he; “it was excessively careless of her to forget; I shall speak to her about it.”
“If you usually depend upon her for those sort of things—” began Hilary, and then stopped suddenly.
“Besides, who could ever have supposed that people would be so mad as to go out in such weather at all?” added he, determined to be angry with somebody. “These old women have no more sense than a post; it was irrational, and I really think they must have intended to vex and annoy me.”
“I think they are hardly to blame for keeping an appointment,” said she; “they could not tell you would not be there, and, perhaps, were as much inconvenienced by the weather as you could have been, had you been present.”
“I don’t know that; they are used to rough it; and there is a sad spirit of spite and ill-will prevalent among them; a more selfish, ungrateful, thankless, obstinate set, I never met with. They are equally devoid of sense and affection.”
“You do them injustice, I am sure; you would not doubt their affectionate feeling, if you heard their anxiety for my father. But I can not stay with you now. Can you wait here on the chance of my father’s waking, or will you call in again by-and-by?”
Mr. Ufford was too glad to make his escape at that moment, and promising to call again in an hour’s time, he walked off, trying to drown his own sense of wrong, by throwing the blame on every body in the parish except himself.
Mr. Duncan’s attack proved an influenza of a most dangerous nature; and no skill or care from physicians or nurses, could arrest its progress or prevent its effects. He lingered on for nearly three weeks, and then darkness and silence fell on the Vicarage, sorrow and tears filled the village dwellings, for the father was taken from his children, and the pastor from his people, and the place that had known him would know him no more.
The sisters sat together in the gloomy rooms during those long summer days which intervened between the death and the funeral, each, perhaps, going over in silence in her own mind the scenes of childhood so deeply impressed on memory; the happy hours, the kindly-given lesson, the birth-day treat, the pleasant surprise, all coming from him who was now gone from them; each one a joy that never could recur again, but which, although now receding into the shadowy regions of the past, was yet even in recollection a thing to be valued and to be grateful for.
They had some great comforts also. Mr. Paine and his wife contrived to come to them, and he was dearly welcomed, both as friend and priest, and she was an unspeakable solace to Hilary. Their brother-in-law had joined them the week after Sybil came, and his presence relieved them of the painful intrusions which funeral arrangements gave rise to.
Hilary knew that support and comfort would come alone from a higher source than earthly friendship, or domestic affection; but the gift of these latter was received as a favor to deserve gratitude, a token that He who provided even for temporal blessings, would not forsake his children, nor withdraw from them the necessary help.
Her greatest anxiety was for Gwyneth now; and, perhaps, her bitterest sorrow was caused by Mr. Ufford.
The latter, indeed, had deeply disappointed her by the coldness and reserve which, like a damp, wrapping mist, had crept over him. His visits had been few and hurried, except when absolutely sent for; his words cold, stiff, and unwillingly given.His time was principally devoted to riding over to the Abbey, which swallowed up most days in the week. His own prospects, of course, chiefly occupied him, and, no doubt, the visits at the Vicarage were painful for more than one reason; yet, when they remembered the past, their father’s kindness to him, his previous conduct, and friendly professions, and his connection with their sad loss, they all felt that something more was due from him than they received; perhaps he, too, was conscious of ingratitude, which made the sight of former friends unpleasant; perhaps he was simply self-engrossed, and thoughtless regarding the sorrows which did not touch him.
But Gwyneth was a nearer, deeper trouble, and Hilary could not look at her without fear. The same stony composure wrapped her still. Ever since her father’s death she had shed no tear; but her dark eyes looked blacker than ever by contrast with her white cheeks; she spoke little, never of her feelings; she rested little; but with a strange, untiring energy, she seemed always engrossed by some object for the good of others. An ordinary observer would never have guessed the amount of agony and endurance that pallid brow concealed; but Hilary read it in her silence, in her downcast eyes, and in the burning touch of her fevered fingers, and she read it with fear; for such unnatural suppression of feeling, such intense and over-wrought calmness must, she knew, break down at last: and what would be the end of it?