CHAPTERXXIV.“I’m wearing awa’, Jean,Like snow when it’s thaw, Jean,I’m wearing awa’ to the land of the leal.“There’s no sorrow there, Jean,There’s neither cold nor care, Jean,But days are all fair in the land of the leal.“Then dry that tearful e’e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels beckon me to the land of the leal.“Then fare thee well, my ain Jean,This world’s care is vain, Jean,We’ll meet, and ay be fain, in the land of the leal.”The feelings which may be clothed in words of earth, and the love which can be depicted by mortal language, must be shallow, light, and transient at the best. Those to whom love is but a creature of the imagination, and sorrow a pleasant fiction, may delight in dressing their fancies in eloquent phrases, and in dwelling on scenes of ideal distress. But the heart which has felt the deep-stirrings of true, holy, devoted affection, and known all the sad and stern realities of grief, which ever in this world must flow from feeling, shrinks from portraying it as from sacrilege; and while it feels how vain and unreal are the most eloquent descriptions, yet holds it a profanation to lay such feelings bare to the public gaze. It was not the cry of thetruemother in her grief, “Let it be neither mine nor thine, but divide it!”A week passed away; it seemed as if skill and tenderness and rest might perchance prolong the precious life of the invalid officer. He was certainly better; stronger, with less painand weariness, and there was no longer so much opposition on the part of the doctors to the general wish of himself and his family to transport him to Southampton.Hilary longed to move him. The heat, the glare, the dust, the noise, the weariness of a town, to her eyes were indescribable; and she could not imagine the possibility of any one recovering their health without the fresh air, the sunshine and shadows, the soft breezes, the pleasant scents, and the soothing sounds of the country and the forest.Was not the whisper of trees more soothing than the angry dash or mournful murmur of the waves? and yet this was their most agreeable music, and was sweet compared to the sharp crack of musketry on the common, the louder reports of the cannon from the shipping, the wearisome notes of the bugle giving signals to the parties of soldiers drilling or parading on the open ground, the wretched street organs which haunted the vicinity, the cries of itinerant venders of oysters and such like, the squabbling of children, or the rolling of carts and drays in the back street, which shook the house to its center.For herself, she would have borne it all with indifference or patience—but for him, every jar thrilled through herframe, every discordant sound made her shrink, and every disgusting odor made her tremble for his comfort.Oh! to have him but away in their quiet cottage, where the open windows would admit only pure air, and pleasant, shadowy sunshine, and refreshing scents, and songs of birds among the trees; where their eyes could rest on green grass, and young foliage on the waving boughs, and flowers unstained by smoke, unwithered by sea-breezes!And by the end of the week it was done; Lord Dunsmore’s yacht conveyed the whole party round to Southampton, and by his and Lady Rupert’s care an invalid carriage was in waiting, which carried Captain Hepburn to the quiet, pretty home of his wife and her sisters.The back sitting-room, whose French windows opened on the little flower-garden, was appropriated to his use, and had beenpreviously arranged, through the zeal of Gwyneth and Nest, and the kind activity of their friends, in the way most suitable to his situation and infirmities.And so May and June crept by, and the birds sang, and the flowers blossomed, and the bright tints of early spring deepened into the more unvaried hue of summer; and Hilary nursed her husband with unwearied care, and hoped still, and was patient and composed. There was nothing which friendship or affection could supply, wanting to their outward comfort; and nothing of cheerful resignation, trustful endurance, hopeful fortitude, and devoted affection, failing to their mental support.Who could have guessed from Hilary’s calm brow, and sweet smile, and steady voice, as she waited on, and read, or sung to her husband, that she had the smallest foresight of the inevitable end? She seemed so cheerful, so even happy while thus employed! and she was happy too.Every day during which her precious charge was spared her, every hour that she was permitted to spend by his side, every sentence of hopeful aspiration, or gentle courage, which dropped from his lips, was received as a heaven-sent boon, a favor, as unexpected as it was precious.“I almost think you like to have me ill,” said he, smilingly, one day to her, “you take such delight in nursing me.”“Can I ever be thankful enough that you arehere?” was her reply; “think what it would have been had your illness prevented you from leaving Halifax. Had you been lingering there in the hospital.”“Or buried under those walls, which I so narrowly escaped, Hilary.”She shuddered, and then added,“Or had I not been your wife; oh, how thankful I am every time I think of that; how glad I am we married when we did.”“Are you Hilary?Iought to be, I know; butyou! I sometimes think that it was a cruel and selfish precaution on my part; I reproach myself for having bound you to one, who,instead of being a protector and support, is but a useless clog, a heavy burden, a sad incumbrance upon you.”“Ah! don’t talk so.”“And sometimes, when I have felt a little stronger, and thought that perhaps I might linger on for months or years, chained to this couch, and making you a prisoner too, wearing out the best portion of your life in this dull slavery, I have been tempted to repine, and wish the deed undone which united us; I have longed to give you liberty again! you might be happy but for me, Hilary!”“What have I done, or said, or looked, or left undone, that you should speak so, dearest? Could I be happy otherwise? or is there any thing in this wide world which I could prefer to being near you, at least, while I can be of any comfort or use?”“I know there is not, love,” fondly stroking the head which was nestled on his shoulder; “I know it, and I thank you every hour of the day for the ineffable tenderness which makes me so happy. But, Hilary, you always make a pleasure of your duty, it is your nature to throw your whole soul into your pursuits, to do your very utmost in what you feel to be right. It is this which impels you now, which makes you my good angel, my too-devoted nurse. But were you not my wife, as I should have had no claim, so you would have felt less inclination for a task, whose charm to you is, I believe, that it is your duty.”She gazed at him with her soft, loving eyes; put back the black curls from his temples, and then answered, quietly,“You know better than that; you know it is something more than duty which influences me. A hired nurse might be actuated by duty;mymotive is beyond, above that.”“You do not know yourself, Hilary: you love me well, I know it; but you would not love me so much, were it not your duty. You would not have twined all those warm feelings round me, had you not been my wife; and you would not have had to suffer the grief which I feel it will cost you, when that day, not very far distant, comes, which will part us on earth.”“Are you worse?” said she, the whiteness of her cheeks speaking her sudden alarm.“It is coming, Hilary; it came slowly, imperceptibly at first; now I can feel its advances from day to day. Can you bear it, love?—we must part!”“For a time, only for a time,” she murmured.“For a time, dear love! yes, that is the comfort, we shall meet again; but you are young, my darling wife! you have perhaps a long life before you, and I shall not trouble you many days. Do not be too unhappy when I am gone; remember your promise long ago, to bear it bravely, and when time has softened your grief, Hilary, do not think that you will please me by remaining unprotected and forlorn. Do not let your respect for my memory, fetter your will or your actions. Ah! you do not like to hear me speak of it, but by-and-by, you will remember what I have said. There, do not sob so; did you not know from the very first, that we must part soon?”“Ah, I thought—I hoped—a little, little longer—!”“And I am glad I shall not linger to see your cheek grow pale with care and watching, to keep you from rest night and day, as I do now; ah, Hilary, you have made me happy, so happy! But would you wish the deed undone which laid me here? I do not.”“No, no,” cried she, with energy, “do not be unhappy about me. God, who takes you from me, will give me strength to bear the loss. Do not think of it. While youarewith me still, let me forget all but your dear presence; we will not anticipate sorrow. To-day is ours; to-morrow is in His hands, who will do all things right.”They all saw now, the end was drawing near; Maurice, Gwyneth, Lord Dunsmore, they all noticed the increasing weakness, the gradual change; they left the sick chamber with anxiety, they returned with trembling; they feared any hour would end it all. Gwyneth especially was devoted to her sister; her unceasing cares and consideration could not be excelled by Hilary’s attention to her patient; every household duty was fulfilled,every wish almost forestalled by the thoughtful girl; and yet she fancied she did nothing, and was surprised if fear was expressed lest she should be tired.Lord Dunsmore sometimes expressed this concern, during those short intervals when Gwyneth allowed herself the relaxation of conversation with him, a conversation of which Hilary was usually the topic.“What have I to tire me?” said she; “you should see Hilary; what a wife she is!”“I admit as a wife she is unequaled,” replied he; “but I know one woman who might compare with her.”“Do you? I could hardly believe it,” said Gwyneth, innocently surprised.“That is her sister Gwyneth. Miss Duncan, if you felt for me one tithe of the love I entertain for you, you would say yes, when I asked you to be mine.”“Should I?” replied she, wondering, and yet thoughtfully. “I do not know.”“Dearest, sweetest Gwyneth! will you not?”“Oh, no, it would be too selfish, too cruel to think of such things now! Hilary wants my whole time and thoughts, and you would ask them for yourself!—I ought not—do not tempt me.”“No, I would not engross them, I would only ask to share your anxieties, and if I could, to lighten your sorrows and cares. I only wish to have a right to joy and grieve with you. Could you not love me, would you not be my wife, if all were well here!”“All is not well,” replied she, blushing crimson, and turning away, “why ask?”But her manner was so little repulsive, that Lord Dunsmore persevered, and before long, won from her an admission that she would rather he should continue to frequent their society on the understanding that she would try and like him, than that he should go away altogether from the neighborhood.“But I am so young,” said she, “I can not promise—ask Maurice.”“I will!” said her suitor.“I have still another guardian,” continued Gwyneth, with a sigh.“You have; shall I refer to him?”She assented softly, and he went immediately to Captain Hepburn. Hilary, of course, was beside him; Maurice, too, was there.“Dear Mrs. Hepburn,” said Lord Dunsmore, “do you remember the wish I once ventured to express to you about your sister?”“Gwyneth! oh, yes!” said Hilary, eagerly.“And you do not retract?”“No, no indeed!”“And will you then plead my cause with these two?” looking from Maurice to his brother-in-law; the latter lay with his fine eyes fixed on him, listening, with the most lively interest, to the conversation, but evidently without surprise; while the former evinced considerable astonishment.“Ask for yourself, Lord Dunsmore,” said Hilary.“I will. Will you two guardians trust your ward to me? Give me Gwyneth?”“Ah, with pleasure!” said Maurice, “if she saysyesherself.”“You have had my best wishes for these two months,” replied Captain Hepburn; then turning to his wife, he added, “Do you think she would come here, Hilary? ask her.”“You would frighten her,” said the lover, anxiously; but Hilary went to look for her at once.“I am so glad,” said Captain Hepburn, “I hoped to see this settled; it is my last concern on earth, and I shall leave her with confidence in your charge, my lord. Hilary told me.”It was an effort to him to speak, and his words were faint and slow.Hilary found her gazing from the window, but her black eyes were dim with tears, and at the sight of her sister, she threw herself into her arms, with an entreaty that she would not think her cruel and selfish; much as she liked Lord Dunsmore, she cared more a hundred times for her.Mrs. Hepburn smiled, and soothed and caressed her, and whispered her own joy and congratulations, and led her to the other room; and there the blushing and trembling Gwyneth had her hand placed in her suitor’s by the feeble fingers of her brother-in-law, while in few, but affectionate words, he assured her of his satisfaction, his good wishes, and his fraternal regard for both.Maurice too kissed and caressed her, but he said little; it was impossible to feel otherwise than deeply touched by the strong contrast between the look and the situation of those two sisters.Gwyneth’s black eyes were bent down and bright drops trembled on the long lashes; her color came and went like the flashes of the northern lights in the clear winter sky. She was excited, hoping, fearing, trembling between present pain and future joy; looking forward with a shy gladness into the prospect just opening, and then hurriedly calling back the glance, because to her dearest companions the hopeful view was closed; she could scarcely welcome the possible happiness which they might not share.Hilary, on the contrary, stood by, with her calm, serene eyes fixed on her sister with a quiet but heartfelt pleasure; a satisfaction springing from the very depths of the soul, at the hope that Gwyneth might, perchance, have one long, plentiful draught of that cup of happiness of which her own short taste had been so sweet. She knew the full luxury of loving and being beloved, and what was denied to herself she rejoiced in anticipating for another. And when she had gone over in her mind all the bright visions which the future presented to Gwyneth, and joyed in her promised joy, she turned her eyes once more on her husband, and the thought flashed across her how great had been the blessings of her own lot, and how the privilege of having been his friend, companion, and solace during the last two months, was well worth the purchase, even though it were to be followed by a long life of solitary bereavement.She was happy: not the happiness of this world, not thehappiness which those of this world can understand; a happiness above all selfish joy, such as words could vainly endeavor to depict, unspeakable in its depth and purity: for in her earnest anticipation of peace and rest for him, she forgot herself; she saw him to her fancy encircled with the crown of martyrdom; and would she have robbed him of one ray of that future glory for her own selfish indulgence, or her transitory comfort? Oh no!But to others, to the eyes of observers, her feelings were a mystery; and to outward view she stood there, another proof of the fading nature of all earthly happiness. Hers was the deepening gloom of twilight, Gwyneth’s the rising of the glorious day-break. Life is full of such sharp contrasts, ever telling of change and decay to such thoughtful minds as can raise their eyes beyond their own footsteps.Human feelings, indeed, afford but a quivering, changeful gleam, by which to view the edifice of life; as pleasantly deceptive, as unreal in their lights and shadows as moonbeams on a picturesque ruin; but there is a Light which does not mislead, which brings out each object in its true perspective, and decides the value of all earthly possessions; and it was by this pure Light that Hilary was now gazing on life; and so her heart failed not in that trying hour.Gwyneth never forgot her sad betrothal; it was good for her to remember it; and afterward, in gayer hours, when surrounded by luxuries, and allured by the soul-engrossing littleness of rank and wealth, the recollection of the trembling fingers, faint accents, and calm, holy eyes, of her dying brother-in-law, hovered round her heart, and his memory, like her guardian angel, still came between her and temptations to cold selfishness and pride.His approval spoken, and his blessing given, Captain Hepburn begged to be left alone with Hilary; so Lord Dunsmore led his young betrothed to the next room, and then there followed on his part, such an out-pouring of long-cherished feelings, suppressed and concealed from regard to his brother, asGwyneth had little expected to hear; and which she now listened to in wonder, as she thought of the girlish infatuation which had made her blind to his merits, and had just missed making a wreck of her happiness for life.They talked till twilight came down upon them, and then remembering the world beyond themselves, they wondered to hear no sound or movement in the next room; but fearing to intrude, they waited anxiously, till Maurice returning from a walk, ventured to enter that quiet chamber. All there was still, profoundly still; for Hilary, with her hand clasping the cold fingers of a stiffened corpse, was lying in a death-like swoon beside her husband’s couch.* * * * *Three months passed away.It was autumn again, a beautiful October morning, and the yellow sunshine which fell on the green-sward between the boles of the old trees, like bars of gold, streamed also gladly into the pretty chamber where Hilary, in her widow’s dress, was attiring Gwyneth for her bridal. It was Mrs. Hepburn’s earnest wish that it should not longer be delayed; it had been her husband’s last act to join their hands, and till the union was accomplished, she felt his will was but half fulfilled. “Let it be then,” she said, “that autumn;” and so it was to be; they could not have resisted her calm, sweet request, even had she demanded a sacrifice of them; and when she only bade them be happy, who could say no?But it was really to be a very quiet wedding; Sybil and her husband came to them; and Lord and Lady Rupert joined the party; that was all; no pomp of gay bridesmaids, only little Nest—no grandeur, no display. Hilary’s weeds were too deep to grace a wedding, too recent to be laid aside even for a day; no one asked her to be present, no one thought of it; but her absence was a blank; it toned down gay spirits, it was thefennel-leaf in the cup, the skeleton at the feast, the thorn to the rose of love, which else had blossomed so sweetly for the married pair.Maurice, anxious to remain with his sisters, had applied for an appointment to the Coast Guard; and through the interest of Lord Dunsmore and the Governor of Nova Scotia, just then in England, had obtained his request; and immediately after the marriage, they were to remove to his station, which was at a distance.Mrs. Hepburn was very glad of the prospect of employment for him; he needed something to occupy his time, and engross his mind; and active as his duties would be, they would not take him from her, which was a blessing. The solitude of their future home was no evil to her; and as to Nest, when old enough to need society, she could go to her other sisters for a time.So Gwyneth was married; and it was, perhaps, no small increase to Mrs. James Ufford’s matrimonial discomforts, to learn as she did, about that time, how far her own manœuvers had contributed to place the late Vicar’s daughter in the situation she now filled; for Mr. Ufford affirmed, that but for her intervention he should have made Gwyneth his wife. So he said, at least, and so he believed, whether truly or falsely, who can venture to tell, when we reflect on the inconsistency of human feelings.It was a comfort to Lady Dunsmore’s womanly feelings at last, when she heard from her husband’s lips, that her brother-in-law, when appealed to on the subject by him, before the journey to Italy, had avowed an intention of proposing to her; since it proved that the feelings of girlish tenderness which she had wasted on him, had not been unsought, although undeserved.Indignation at James’s fickleness, and concern for Miss Duncan’s feelings, heightened by very warm personal regard for herself, had hurried Lord Dunsmore straight home from Italy to Hurstdene, to find her; and the result was happy for both.Mrs. James Ufford never forgave her brother-in-law for not having died in Italy; but she knew that family quarrels were ungraceful and unbecoming, so she abstained from them; and welcomed her dear Gwyneth with a cordiality and affection which deceived every one except their respective husbands.In a house on the outskirts of a small town, on one of the most wildly picturesque shores of the kingdom, Captain Duncan and his two sisters soon settled themselves. There the days passed in the quiet but busy monotony, which makes time fly so fast. Affection and unreserved confidence were their solace; and Maurice, occupied daily, and often nightly, by his situation, soon recovered the cheerful tone of mind which, when springing from a right source, is one of life’s best blessings.As to Hilary, her resignation was calm, perfect, and even cheerful too; and strangers little guessed the history of her feelings from her face. They saw the surface only, and could not look into the depths of her heart; and yet, even that surface told as clearly of the peace of her mind as the waveless sea reflects the blue heaven which looks down upon it.Nest was the glancing sunbeam of their house, and to make her happy was a sufficient object to excite the energy of both her affectionate guardians.
“I’m wearing awa’, Jean,Like snow when it’s thaw, Jean,I’m wearing awa’ to the land of the leal.“There’s no sorrow there, Jean,There’s neither cold nor care, Jean,But days are all fair in the land of the leal.“Then dry that tearful e’e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels beckon me to the land of the leal.“Then fare thee well, my ain Jean,This world’s care is vain, Jean,We’ll meet, and ay be fain, in the land of the leal.”
“I’m wearing awa’, Jean,Like snow when it’s thaw, Jean,I’m wearing awa’ to the land of the leal.“There’s no sorrow there, Jean,There’s neither cold nor care, Jean,But days are all fair in the land of the leal.“Then dry that tearful e’e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels beckon me to the land of the leal.“Then fare thee well, my ain Jean,This world’s care is vain, Jean,We’ll meet, and ay be fain, in the land of the leal.”
“I’m wearing awa’, Jean,
Like snow when it’s thaw, Jean,
I’m wearing awa’ to the land of the leal.
“There’s no sorrow there, Jean,There’s neither cold nor care, Jean,But days are all fair in the land of the leal.“Then dry that tearful e’e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels beckon me to the land of the leal.
“There’s no sorrow there, Jean,
There’s neither cold nor care, Jean,
But days are all fair in the land of the leal.
“Then dry that tearful e’e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels beckon me to the land of the leal.
“Then fare thee well, my ain Jean,This world’s care is vain, Jean,We’ll meet, and ay be fain, in the land of the leal.”
“Then fare thee well, my ain Jean,
This world’s care is vain, Jean,
We’ll meet, and ay be fain, in the land of the leal.”
The feelings which may be clothed in words of earth, and the love which can be depicted by mortal language, must be shallow, light, and transient at the best. Those to whom love is but a creature of the imagination, and sorrow a pleasant fiction, may delight in dressing their fancies in eloquent phrases, and in dwelling on scenes of ideal distress. But the heart which has felt the deep-stirrings of true, holy, devoted affection, and known all the sad and stern realities of grief, which ever in this world must flow from feeling, shrinks from portraying it as from sacrilege; and while it feels how vain and unreal are the most eloquent descriptions, yet holds it a profanation to lay such feelings bare to the public gaze. It was not the cry of thetruemother in her grief, “Let it be neither mine nor thine, but divide it!”
A week passed away; it seemed as if skill and tenderness and rest might perchance prolong the precious life of the invalid officer. He was certainly better; stronger, with less painand weariness, and there was no longer so much opposition on the part of the doctors to the general wish of himself and his family to transport him to Southampton.
Hilary longed to move him. The heat, the glare, the dust, the noise, the weariness of a town, to her eyes were indescribable; and she could not imagine the possibility of any one recovering their health without the fresh air, the sunshine and shadows, the soft breezes, the pleasant scents, and the soothing sounds of the country and the forest.
Was not the whisper of trees more soothing than the angry dash or mournful murmur of the waves? and yet this was their most agreeable music, and was sweet compared to the sharp crack of musketry on the common, the louder reports of the cannon from the shipping, the wearisome notes of the bugle giving signals to the parties of soldiers drilling or parading on the open ground, the wretched street organs which haunted the vicinity, the cries of itinerant venders of oysters and such like, the squabbling of children, or the rolling of carts and drays in the back street, which shook the house to its center.
For herself, she would have borne it all with indifference or patience—but for him, every jar thrilled through herframe, every discordant sound made her shrink, and every disgusting odor made her tremble for his comfort.
Oh! to have him but away in their quiet cottage, where the open windows would admit only pure air, and pleasant, shadowy sunshine, and refreshing scents, and songs of birds among the trees; where their eyes could rest on green grass, and young foliage on the waving boughs, and flowers unstained by smoke, unwithered by sea-breezes!
And by the end of the week it was done; Lord Dunsmore’s yacht conveyed the whole party round to Southampton, and by his and Lady Rupert’s care an invalid carriage was in waiting, which carried Captain Hepburn to the quiet, pretty home of his wife and her sisters.
The back sitting-room, whose French windows opened on the little flower-garden, was appropriated to his use, and had beenpreviously arranged, through the zeal of Gwyneth and Nest, and the kind activity of their friends, in the way most suitable to his situation and infirmities.
And so May and June crept by, and the birds sang, and the flowers blossomed, and the bright tints of early spring deepened into the more unvaried hue of summer; and Hilary nursed her husband with unwearied care, and hoped still, and was patient and composed. There was nothing which friendship or affection could supply, wanting to their outward comfort; and nothing of cheerful resignation, trustful endurance, hopeful fortitude, and devoted affection, failing to their mental support.
Who could have guessed from Hilary’s calm brow, and sweet smile, and steady voice, as she waited on, and read, or sung to her husband, that she had the smallest foresight of the inevitable end? She seemed so cheerful, so even happy while thus employed! and she was happy too.
Every day during which her precious charge was spared her, every hour that she was permitted to spend by his side, every sentence of hopeful aspiration, or gentle courage, which dropped from his lips, was received as a heaven-sent boon, a favor, as unexpected as it was precious.
“I almost think you like to have me ill,” said he, smilingly, one day to her, “you take such delight in nursing me.”
“Can I ever be thankful enough that you arehere?” was her reply; “think what it would have been had your illness prevented you from leaving Halifax. Had you been lingering there in the hospital.”
“Or buried under those walls, which I so narrowly escaped, Hilary.”
She shuddered, and then added,
“Or had I not been your wife; oh, how thankful I am every time I think of that; how glad I am we married when we did.”
“Are you Hilary?Iought to be, I know; butyou! I sometimes think that it was a cruel and selfish precaution on my part; I reproach myself for having bound you to one, who,instead of being a protector and support, is but a useless clog, a heavy burden, a sad incumbrance upon you.”
“Ah! don’t talk so.”
“And sometimes, when I have felt a little stronger, and thought that perhaps I might linger on for months or years, chained to this couch, and making you a prisoner too, wearing out the best portion of your life in this dull slavery, I have been tempted to repine, and wish the deed undone which united us; I have longed to give you liberty again! you might be happy but for me, Hilary!”
“What have I done, or said, or looked, or left undone, that you should speak so, dearest? Could I be happy otherwise? or is there any thing in this wide world which I could prefer to being near you, at least, while I can be of any comfort or use?”
“I know there is not, love,” fondly stroking the head which was nestled on his shoulder; “I know it, and I thank you every hour of the day for the ineffable tenderness which makes me so happy. But, Hilary, you always make a pleasure of your duty, it is your nature to throw your whole soul into your pursuits, to do your very utmost in what you feel to be right. It is this which impels you now, which makes you my good angel, my too-devoted nurse. But were you not my wife, as I should have had no claim, so you would have felt less inclination for a task, whose charm to you is, I believe, that it is your duty.”
She gazed at him with her soft, loving eyes; put back the black curls from his temples, and then answered, quietly,
“You know better than that; you know it is something more than duty which influences me. A hired nurse might be actuated by duty;mymotive is beyond, above that.”
“You do not know yourself, Hilary: you love me well, I know it; but you would not love me so much, were it not your duty. You would not have twined all those warm feelings round me, had you not been my wife; and you would not have had to suffer the grief which I feel it will cost you, when that day, not very far distant, comes, which will part us on earth.”
“Are you worse?” said she, the whiteness of her cheeks speaking her sudden alarm.
“It is coming, Hilary; it came slowly, imperceptibly at first; now I can feel its advances from day to day. Can you bear it, love?—we must part!”
“For a time, only for a time,” she murmured.
“For a time, dear love! yes, that is the comfort, we shall meet again; but you are young, my darling wife! you have perhaps a long life before you, and I shall not trouble you many days. Do not be too unhappy when I am gone; remember your promise long ago, to bear it bravely, and when time has softened your grief, Hilary, do not think that you will please me by remaining unprotected and forlorn. Do not let your respect for my memory, fetter your will or your actions. Ah! you do not like to hear me speak of it, but by-and-by, you will remember what I have said. There, do not sob so; did you not know from the very first, that we must part soon?”
“Ah, I thought—I hoped—a little, little longer—!”
“And I am glad I shall not linger to see your cheek grow pale with care and watching, to keep you from rest night and day, as I do now; ah, Hilary, you have made me happy, so happy! But would you wish the deed undone which laid me here? I do not.”
“No, no,” cried she, with energy, “do not be unhappy about me. God, who takes you from me, will give me strength to bear the loss. Do not think of it. While youarewith me still, let me forget all but your dear presence; we will not anticipate sorrow. To-day is ours; to-morrow is in His hands, who will do all things right.”
They all saw now, the end was drawing near; Maurice, Gwyneth, Lord Dunsmore, they all noticed the increasing weakness, the gradual change; they left the sick chamber with anxiety, they returned with trembling; they feared any hour would end it all. Gwyneth especially was devoted to her sister; her unceasing cares and consideration could not be excelled by Hilary’s attention to her patient; every household duty was fulfilled,every wish almost forestalled by the thoughtful girl; and yet she fancied she did nothing, and was surprised if fear was expressed lest she should be tired.
Lord Dunsmore sometimes expressed this concern, during those short intervals when Gwyneth allowed herself the relaxation of conversation with him, a conversation of which Hilary was usually the topic.
“What have I to tire me?” said she; “you should see Hilary; what a wife she is!”
“I admit as a wife she is unequaled,” replied he; “but I know one woman who might compare with her.”
“Do you? I could hardly believe it,” said Gwyneth, innocently surprised.
“That is her sister Gwyneth. Miss Duncan, if you felt for me one tithe of the love I entertain for you, you would say yes, when I asked you to be mine.”
“Should I?” replied she, wondering, and yet thoughtfully. “I do not know.”
“Dearest, sweetest Gwyneth! will you not?”
“Oh, no, it would be too selfish, too cruel to think of such things now! Hilary wants my whole time and thoughts, and you would ask them for yourself!—I ought not—do not tempt me.”
“No, I would not engross them, I would only ask to share your anxieties, and if I could, to lighten your sorrows and cares. I only wish to have a right to joy and grieve with you. Could you not love me, would you not be my wife, if all were well here!”
“All is not well,” replied she, blushing crimson, and turning away, “why ask?”
But her manner was so little repulsive, that Lord Dunsmore persevered, and before long, won from her an admission that she would rather he should continue to frequent their society on the understanding that she would try and like him, than that he should go away altogether from the neighborhood.
“But I am so young,” said she, “I can not promise—ask Maurice.”
“I will!” said her suitor.
“I have still another guardian,” continued Gwyneth, with a sigh.
“You have; shall I refer to him?”
She assented softly, and he went immediately to Captain Hepburn. Hilary, of course, was beside him; Maurice, too, was there.
“Dear Mrs. Hepburn,” said Lord Dunsmore, “do you remember the wish I once ventured to express to you about your sister?”
“Gwyneth! oh, yes!” said Hilary, eagerly.
“And you do not retract?”
“No, no indeed!”
“And will you then plead my cause with these two?” looking from Maurice to his brother-in-law; the latter lay with his fine eyes fixed on him, listening, with the most lively interest, to the conversation, but evidently without surprise; while the former evinced considerable astonishment.
“Ask for yourself, Lord Dunsmore,” said Hilary.
“I will. Will you two guardians trust your ward to me? Give me Gwyneth?”
“Ah, with pleasure!” said Maurice, “if she saysyesherself.”
“You have had my best wishes for these two months,” replied Captain Hepburn; then turning to his wife, he added, “Do you think she would come here, Hilary? ask her.”
“You would frighten her,” said the lover, anxiously; but Hilary went to look for her at once.
“I am so glad,” said Captain Hepburn, “I hoped to see this settled; it is my last concern on earth, and I shall leave her with confidence in your charge, my lord. Hilary told me.”
It was an effort to him to speak, and his words were faint and slow.
Hilary found her gazing from the window, but her black eyes were dim with tears, and at the sight of her sister, she threw herself into her arms, with an entreaty that she would not think her cruel and selfish; much as she liked Lord Dunsmore, she cared more a hundred times for her.
Mrs. Hepburn smiled, and soothed and caressed her, and whispered her own joy and congratulations, and led her to the other room; and there the blushing and trembling Gwyneth had her hand placed in her suitor’s by the feeble fingers of her brother-in-law, while in few, but affectionate words, he assured her of his satisfaction, his good wishes, and his fraternal regard for both.
Maurice too kissed and caressed her, but he said little; it was impossible to feel otherwise than deeply touched by the strong contrast between the look and the situation of those two sisters.
Gwyneth’s black eyes were bent down and bright drops trembled on the long lashes; her color came and went like the flashes of the northern lights in the clear winter sky. She was excited, hoping, fearing, trembling between present pain and future joy; looking forward with a shy gladness into the prospect just opening, and then hurriedly calling back the glance, because to her dearest companions the hopeful view was closed; she could scarcely welcome the possible happiness which they might not share.
Hilary, on the contrary, stood by, with her calm, serene eyes fixed on her sister with a quiet but heartfelt pleasure; a satisfaction springing from the very depths of the soul, at the hope that Gwyneth might, perchance, have one long, plentiful draught of that cup of happiness of which her own short taste had been so sweet. She knew the full luxury of loving and being beloved, and what was denied to herself she rejoiced in anticipating for another. And when she had gone over in her mind all the bright visions which the future presented to Gwyneth, and joyed in her promised joy, she turned her eyes once more on her husband, and the thought flashed across her how great had been the blessings of her own lot, and how the privilege of having been his friend, companion, and solace during the last two months, was well worth the purchase, even though it were to be followed by a long life of solitary bereavement.
She was happy: not the happiness of this world, not thehappiness which those of this world can understand; a happiness above all selfish joy, such as words could vainly endeavor to depict, unspeakable in its depth and purity: for in her earnest anticipation of peace and rest for him, she forgot herself; she saw him to her fancy encircled with the crown of martyrdom; and would she have robbed him of one ray of that future glory for her own selfish indulgence, or her transitory comfort? Oh no!
But to others, to the eyes of observers, her feelings were a mystery; and to outward view she stood there, another proof of the fading nature of all earthly happiness. Hers was the deepening gloom of twilight, Gwyneth’s the rising of the glorious day-break. Life is full of such sharp contrasts, ever telling of change and decay to such thoughtful minds as can raise their eyes beyond their own footsteps.
Human feelings, indeed, afford but a quivering, changeful gleam, by which to view the edifice of life; as pleasantly deceptive, as unreal in their lights and shadows as moonbeams on a picturesque ruin; but there is a Light which does not mislead, which brings out each object in its true perspective, and decides the value of all earthly possessions; and it was by this pure Light that Hilary was now gazing on life; and so her heart failed not in that trying hour.
Gwyneth never forgot her sad betrothal; it was good for her to remember it; and afterward, in gayer hours, when surrounded by luxuries, and allured by the soul-engrossing littleness of rank and wealth, the recollection of the trembling fingers, faint accents, and calm, holy eyes, of her dying brother-in-law, hovered round her heart, and his memory, like her guardian angel, still came between her and temptations to cold selfishness and pride.
His approval spoken, and his blessing given, Captain Hepburn begged to be left alone with Hilary; so Lord Dunsmore led his young betrothed to the next room, and then there followed on his part, such an out-pouring of long-cherished feelings, suppressed and concealed from regard to his brother, asGwyneth had little expected to hear; and which she now listened to in wonder, as she thought of the girlish infatuation which had made her blind to his merits, and had just missed making a wreck of her happiness for life.
They talked till twilight came down upon them, and then remembering the world beyond themselves, they wondered to hear no sound or movement in the next room; but fearing to intrude, they waited anxiously, till Maurice returning from a walk, ventured to enter that quiet chamber. All there was still, profoundly still; for Hilary, with her hand clasping the cold fingers of a stiffened corpse, was lying in a death-like swoon beside her husband’s couch.
* * * * *
Three months passed away.
It was autumn again, a beautiful October morning, and the yellow sunshine which fell on the green-sward between the boles of the old trees, like bars of gold, streamed also gladly into the pretty chamber where Hilary, in her widow’s dress, was attiring Gwyneth for her bridal. It was Mrs. Hepburn’s earnest wish that it should not longer be delayed; it had been her husband’s last act to join their hands, and till the union was accomplished, she felt his will was but half fulfilled. “Let it be then,” she said, “that autumn;” and so it was to be; they could not have resisted her calm, sweet request, even had she demanded a sacrifice of them; and when she only bade them be happy, who could say no?
But it was really to be a very quiet wedding; Sybil and her husband came to them; and Lord and Lady Rupert joined the party; that was all; no pomp of gay bridesmaids, only little Nest—no grandeur, no display. Hilary’s weeds were too deep to grace a wedding, too recent to be laid aside even for a day; no one asked her to be present, no one thought of it; but her absence was a blank; it toned down gay spirits, it was thefennel-leaf in the cup, the skeleton at the feast, the thorn to the rose of love, which else had blossomed so sweetly for the married pair.
Maurice, anxious to remain with his sisters, had applied for an appointment to the Coast Guard; and through the interest of Lord Dunsmore and the Governor of Nova Scotia, just then in England, had obtained his request; and immediately after the marriage, they were to remove to his station, which was at a distance.
Mrs. Hepburn was very glad of the prospect of employment for him; he needed something to occupy his time, and engross his mind; and active as his duties would be, they would not take him from her, which was a blessing. The solitude of their future home was no evil to her; and as to Nest, when old enough to need society, she could go to her other sisters for a time.
So Gwyneth was married; and it was, perhaps, no small increase to Mrs. James Ufford’s matrimonial discomforts, to learn as she did, about that time, how far her own manœuvers had contributed to place the late Vicar’s daughter in the situation she now filled; for Mr. Ufford affirmed, that but for her intervention he should have made Gwyneth his wife. So he said, at least, and so he believed, whether truly or falsely, who can venture to tell, when we reflect on the inconsistency of human feelings.
It was a comfort to Lady Dunsmore’s womanly feelings at last, when she heard from her husband’s lips, that her brother-in-law, when appealed to on the subject by him, before the journey to Italy, had avowed an intention of proposing to her; since it proved that the feelings of girlish tenderness which she had wasted on him, had not been unsought, although undeserved.
Indignation at James’s fickleness, and concern for Miss Duncan’s feelings, heightened by very warm personal regard for herself, had hurried Lord Dunsmore straight home from Italy to Hurstdene, to find her; and the result was happy for both.
Mrs. James Ufford never forgave her brother-in-law for not having died in Italy; but she knew that family quarrels were ungraceful and unbecoming, so she abstained from them; and welcomed her dear Gwyneth with a cordiality and affection which deceived every one except their respective husbands.
In a house on the outskirts of a small town, on one of the most wildly picturesque shores of the kingdom, Captain Duncan and his two sisters soon settled themselves. There the days passed in the quiet but busy monotony, which makes time fly so fast. Affection and unreserved confidence were their solace; and Maurice, occupied daily, and often nightly, by his situation, soon recovered the cheerful tone of mind which, when springing from a right source, is one of life’s best blessings.
As to Hilary, her resignation was calm, perfect, and even cheerful too; and strangers little guessed the history of her feelings from her face. They saw the surface only, and could not look into the depths of her heart; and yet, even that surface told as clearly of the peace of her mind as the waveless sea reflects the blue heaven which looks down upon it.
Nest was the glancing sunbeam of their house, and to make her happy was a sufficient object to excite the energy of both her affectionate guardians.