CHAPTERXXV.“His long rambles by the shoreOn winter evenings when the roarOf the near waves came sadly grandThrough the dark, up the drowned sand.Tristram and Iseult.“And she is happy? does she see unmovedThe days in which she might have lived and lovedSlip without bringing bliss slowly away,One after one, to-morrow like to-day?”Iseult of Brittany.“You heard from Gwyneth this morning, dear,” said Captain Duncan to his sister one evening, as they sat together after tea. They had been in their new home about two years.“Yes, here is the letter.”“Hurstdene Vicarage.“Dear Hilary,“You know how little I wished to come here, but George thought it right, and so we came; and the old place is so changed that it is not so very painful; only the date above looks like old times, and reminds me, more than any thing else, of the past. It is a fine large house, but I hope all future vicars will be rich, or I do not know what they will do. Isabel complains of it as cramped and small, however; it was too small to ask nurse and baby here, so my boy is at home. She considers it unhealthy too!“The church is finished quite. It would not have been, but for ‘my lord’s’ perseverance and purse; and as Isabel’s extravagant plans were abandoned, it looks very nice. The graves at the east end are fresh and well-cared for; that dear old spot!You may guess how I went there first; and the seat under the lime-tree is carefully painted, and a date cut on it, of the day before we left Hurstdene. Why?“I asked James who had done that? He did not know, but old Martin told me it was Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns’—again I ask why? He is still abroad, poor man! and oh! poor,poorDora! she is much the same, yet they fancy there are dawnings of intellect sometimes. I have seen her companion, Miss Lightfoot; I am not allowed to see her. Lady Margaret, you know, lives at the Abbey. Poor Mr. Barham is so changed; he looks humbled and heart-broken.“After all, Hilary, real sorrow may be a great blessing; and can those who have never known grief—a grief they were not ashamed to feel and acknowledge, can they know how to feel for others? I think not.“Lord D. went round with me, and visited all the old people; they seemed quite glad to see me again, and asked, oh! so many questions about you all. The curate is very good and attentive; I don’t fancy they see much of the vicar; I wonder why I ever supposed him such a devoted clergyman; yet he seems always immersed in business, desperately occupied. I believe it issystemhe wants; I am sure our parish at Ufford is much better managed; but then with two such heads as ‘my lord’s,’ and Mr. Barton’s, no wonder.“Things have certainly got wrong somehow. Isabel would have made a better wife to a peer than a priest, and there can not be a doubt but that George would have been a better clergyman than his brother; though to fill his own station better than Lord D. does would be quite impossible. I must not write any more, he is calling me to walk—”Maurice listened in silence to this letter, and after some meditation, he observed,“How happy Gwyneth is!”Just then Nest entered the room.“How it blows,” she observed, as she sat down; “and it is sodark; I looked out just now, to try and catch a glimpse of the sea, but every thing was as black as pitch; and, oh, such a roar of waves!”“Just the night for me to visit the South Point Station,” observed Maurice, rising; “and it is time I was gone, too; but this pleasant fire and good tea make one lazy, Nest.”“Must you ride all along those cliffs to-night, Maurice?—it is such a storm!” observed Hilary.She had not yet become accustomed to the night-work, so as to see him depart without anxiety.“Oh, that’s nothing!” said he, as he put on his great pilot coat; “and this is a fine night for smugglers: suppose I were to intercept a cargo to-night.”The horse was brought round, and his sisters both went to the door to see him mount. They stood within the shelter of the porch, shading a candle as well as they could from the draft, while its flickering streams of light fell on exterior objects, forming grotesque shadows and strange contrasts, and then losing themselves in the dark back-ground.Maurice kissed them both, and bade them go to bed, then mounted and trotted off over the hill.They listened till the horse-hoofs had died on the ear, then they turned together to the house.“Let me stay with you to-night, Hilary—do,” said Nest, coaxingly; “it will be so melancholy for you to sit here all alone, and listen to the great roar of the waves.”Hilary smiled an assent, and they sat down together.It was not quite nine o’clock when Maurice left them; but as they could not expect him back for more than a couple of hours, Mrs. Hepburn did not intend that her younger sister, who was now growing into a tall girl of thirteen, somewhat delicate and fragile, should remain watching till nearly midnight. It was true that she herself felt unusually nervous and uncomfortable to-night, but these were foolish tremors, to which it would not do to give way; and Nest’s health must not be sacrificed to her own idle fancies; she resolved that no persuasion should induce her to prolong their joint vigil.The wildness of the night seemed to have affected even Nest’s spirits; instead of chatting in her usual lively manner, she was almost silent, only now and then exclaiming as a louder burst of wind seemed to roll over the house, or a heavier wave dashed against the rocks below. Hilary had learned to love the deep roar, the hollow murmur, and the angry rush of the ocean-wave; they spoke to her of other times, in a strange language which was intelligible only to the finer feelings. What the connection was between their voices and the memory of the lost one, she could not have explained; but she never heard the one without musing on the other; and now her heart had traveled away to by-gone hours, as she sat by the fire, until roused by the clock striking ten, she begged Nest to go to bed.But Nest still remonstrated, and entreated to stay; and to beguile the time, began asking questions of their old home, and leading Hilary to talk of her childhood; and so the minutes flew by, until it was really time to look for Maurice home; and Hilary again urged Nest to retire; Maurice would be vexed to find her up so late.Still Nest said, no, he would not; he would not mind it for once; she must let her sit up, and when he came home they would have a little comfortable supper together.While they were discussing this point, the younger, with a decided disinclination to leave her sister, and the elder almost equally unwilling to let her go, they heard, during a lull, the sound of a horse approaching at a rapid pace.“It is Maurice!” said Hilary.“No, that is not his riding; he went out on Acorn, and he never gallops him so hard,” replied Nest, listening.Hilary looked uneasy; ever since the one great shock she had received, her nerves were as easily agitated as a compass-needle, and though like it, too equally balanced to be moved from the center of rest, still they“Turned at the touch of joy or woe,And turning, trembled too.”“It is perhaps some messenger come to fetch Maurice,” said the quick-witted Nest, who saw that her sister was uneasy; “for he is certainly coming here.”As she spoke the sounds approached quite close, and in another minute they had stopped at the gate. The sisters ran out, and threw open the door; a stranger was there, who advanced, and touched his cap to the ladies.“Please, madam, I bring a note from the captain, and am to take back an answer.”“Nothing the matter?” asked Hilary, breathless, scanning the messenger’s countenance, as she took the note.“Nothing with the captain,” was the answer.And Hilary, retreating to the light, opened the twisted paper andread—“Dear Hilary—“Don’t be frightened; I want some linen for a man who has been hurt here: some forhim, some for hisbed, he has nothing! the messenger can tell you about the facts. I must stay and take care of him to-night. I hope you will not mind.“Yours, M. D.”“I will get what Captain Duncan wants, immediately,” said Mrs. Hepburn; “come in and sit down while I do it.” She put the note into Nest’s hands, saying, “Ask for an explanation, dear,” and hurried up stairs.The man, while he gladly spread his hands to the parlor fire, and refused to sit down on the chairs, which looked too refined for his society, told Miss Duncan that a yacht had appeared off the coast in the morning, and that the preventive men, after watching it for some time, saw a boat put off for the shore, with only one person in her. As there was a heavy ground-swell, and the landing was extremely dangerous, although the sea at the time, a hundred yards from the shore, was like glass, they signaled the boat not to approach. Whether the signals were unseen or unintelligible, they could not tell; the boat made forthe beach, immediately below the preventive station. As might be expected, no sooner did she come within the influence of the rolling sea, than she was caught on the crest of a wave, thrown violently on the shore, capsized, stove, and the gentleman, for such he was, was dashed into the surf, from which he was with difficulty rescued by the coast-guard men, half-drowned, with a broken arm, and other terrible injuries to his head and person. He had been carried into a small public-house hard by, and after some hours they had succeeded in obtaining a doctor to dress his wounds; the remote part of the coast making it a matter of great difficulty to procure help of any kind, until the fortunate arrival of the captain, who had told them what to do, and was now with the wounded man.“And who is he?” exclaimed Nest.“Nobody knows, miss; the yacht had been cruising about a while, but when the gale rose so heavily, she was obliged to stand off, and was out of sight before night-fall. The coast is so dangerous, you see, miss, she would be obliged to run for shelter to some better harbor, or keep out to sea for more room. It would never do to be knocking about here in these long dark nights.”“And you don’t think they were smugglers, then?” said Nest, whose ideas of romance were all running in that line, and who was little interested in a matter-of-fact gentleman.He assured her they had no suspicions of the sort; and Hilary coming down at the moment with the requisite articles, the man mounted, and rode off without delay. Nest had been both right and wrong; it was her brother’s horse, though he was not the rider.The sisters agreed now to go to bed at once, as Maurice was not coming home till morning; and when Nest had repeated the story she had heard, in every variety of way which her fancy could suggest, she allowed her sister to go to sleep.As soon as breakfast was over, the next morning, as the day was fair, Hilary resolved to drive over to the station at South Point, and see whether any thing more was required for thesufferer there. Nest begged to go too; full of excitement and interest on the occasion.It was a very lonely place; the small public house, into which the stranger had been carried, stood low down on the beach, beneath high, beetling rocks, above which was the preventive station, and it seemed only fit to be the resort of fishers, or men of the same class. Mrs. Hepburn and her sister, on entering found only the hostess below, and desiring Nest to remain with her, the elder made her way up the steep, ladder-like steps to a room above, where her brother was nursing the sick man.The door and the window were both open, and the pleasant breeze streamed in with the morning sunbeams, which fell on Hilary as she stood contemplating the couple within the room. Her brother was sitting beside the bed, holding the hand of his patient, but his back was to the door.Supported by pillows, and evidently laboring for breath, the sick man lay with his face toward her; but as his eyes were closed, he was not aware of her presence. The flush of fever was on his cheek, the contraction of pain on his brow; his countenance seemed the home of sad unquiet thoughts; a thick curled beard and moustache of dark auburn concealed the lower part of his face, while a bandage across his forehead gave a more ghastly expression to his sunken eyes. Yet even in those worn and pain-struck features, she thought she recognized a something familiar, a something which sent her memory back to her girlhood and her forest-home. He slowly opened his eyes, and said, in a low, feeblevoice—“Maurice, I should like to see—Hilary!” added he, in a tone of wild surprise, starting from his pillows, as his eyes fell on her. The effort was too much, he sank back, overpowered by weakness, while shadows of agony and terror seemed to cross his face.“My mind wanders,” said he, placing his hand over his brow; “Maurice, I thought I saw your sister—just as she was in the forest—the first time we met.”No wonder he was thus deluded; for as she stood there, withthe glow on her cheek from the fresh morning air, with her brown hair smoothly parted on her forehead, her simple bonnet, and plain black dress, she looked so calm, so youthful, so like the Hilary of his happiest hours, he could hardly suppose her a reality; could years have made so little change in her, so much in himself?She approached, and placed her fingers on the only hand he had at liberty; the other lay helpless by his side.“It is I, myself,” said she, in her low, gentle voice. “Do not be disturbed, Mr. Huyton.”She saw it all at once; it was the friend of his youth, the very man who had so deeply injured him, that Maurice had been nursing all night.“Areyoucome too?” said he, in a broken voice, as he fixed his dark, glowing eyes on her; “are you come to see me die? Angel, whom I have so deeply injured; whose sad path in life I have made still sadder! Are you come to bless or to curse me with your presence? Can you forgive me now?”“Forgive! ah yes—as I would be forgiven—long, long ago I forgave!”“What a wretch I have been; yet I thought I loved you! and itwaslove, earnest, real love, till your rejection turned it into bitterness. Oh, if I had but listened to your pleading; yielded to your mild remonstrances. Maurice, tell her that I have repented.”“Hilary will believe it, I am sure, Charles,” replied Maurice; “do not exhaust yourself by emotion.”“Let me talk, my end is near. Listen. I was wild, frantic with grief and remorse; horror-stricken at the wreck I had made of Dora’s happiness, vainly repenting when too late—when—ah Hilary! forgive me—when, as you were once more free, I found myself fettered to her—poor thing! Miserable, I wandered from country to country—till I met with one who taught me better, a true minister of the Gospel, who taught me better, and sent me home to my duty—too long neglected. I intended to do right—I meant to try and remedy,so far as I could, the miserable past; my first step was to see Maurice, and ask his pardon. I came here, and now I am dying—it is the only thing which can really repair my crimes. To hear him speak forgiveness has been my best comfort. Now let me die!”Hilary’s tears fell fast over the hand she held in hers.“Must he die, Maurice?” whispered she.Captain Duncan shook his head sadly.Charles again opened his eyes, which he had closed as sharp pains shot through him. The cold drops of agony which stood on his forehead his friend wiped gently away.“Yes, I must die,” whispered he again to Hilary; “I know it; this pain will only cease when mortification begins. I must die; and I am thankful for it. I do not deserve it; a long life of penitence and sorrow would have been my fitting fate; I have no right even to ask for a speedy release. But for you, for others, it is better I should go; if I could only repair my mad folly, my savage wickedness; if I could only, in giving Dora liberty, give her back the reason I frightened away; oh, I would suffer twenty times more pain, could I restore her to you, Maurice, as she was.”“God’s will be done!” said Maurice, gravely; “He gave, He took away! Since she has been your wife, Charles, she has ceased to be the Dora of my fancy.”“You are weeping for me Hilary—how many tears I have made you shed. I do not deserve one gentle thought: it was in mercy, undeserved mercy, you were sent here, that I might hear you say you forgive me.”“I do, indeed, from my soul.”“And ifyoudo, you, who might have felt resentment—a fellow mortal—I hope—I trust—I believe the Most High will hear my penitence—and for that dear love which died for us all—” his voice failed him again, in a fit of agonizing pain, terrible to see.The injuries had been principally internal, and during the hours which had passed before medical aid was procured, inflammationhad commenced, which it was now evident must end in death.“Leave me,” said he, when he again had power to speak; “leave me, Hilary, I do not deserve to give you pain; you suffer in seeing me suffer.”“No, let me stay,” she said, calmly; “let me nurse you.”“Leave me; I once loved you better than life, than duty, than Heaven; but I have struggled with a passion, wrong in its excess, criminal in the husband of another. I have learned to govern it—to subdue it; but do not come between me and better thoughts, do not drag me back to earthly feelings. Let me voluntarily renounce the dearest, sweetest thing on earth; let me prove my sincerity to myself. Leave me!”She rose, and though she longed to linger there, she passed from the bed-side, after one soft pressure of his feverish fingers.“Farewell, till we meet above,” said she, and went from the room. She did not, however, leave the house; but as soon as she went down stairs, she sent off Nest and the servant, who had driven them, over to the town to find the parish priest, and beg him to visit the dying man.Whatever friendship could suggest to soothe his pain, or pastoral prayer and counsel could afford to support and guide him aright, was granted him. But it was not till toward the afternoon, that the fierce pain subsided, and he became calm. Then they knew that death was rapidly advancing.In the gray twilight, Hilary and Maurice returned home together, leaving the friend and companion of their youth a quiet corpse. After years of disappointment, anger, remorse, and repentance, he slept in peace.Hilary cried quietly nearly the whole drive home; she could not help it. It was not only painful regret, or sorrow for the dead; but old thoughts had been revived, old feelings, buried happiness, vanished hopes, the gay visions of youth, all seemed suddenly awakened at this painful meeting. And it is an awful thing to stand by the bed of one whose wild passions, ungovernedtemper, and wasted youth, have brought on disappointment and death, even though we may hope they have ended in true penitence and faith. We may hope, but we must tremble too!Mr. Barham was sitting one afternoon with his youngest daughter, who was amusing herself, with childish pleasure, over some brilliant flowers, when the second post came in, and brought him a letter from Maurice.Captain Duncan wrote him for directions as to the corpse of his son-in-law. His yacht had come into harbor the day after the storm, and the captain suggested that they should carry the deceased owner round to Bristol, as to the nearest port to “the Ferns,” from whence the corpse could be transferred, according to Mr. Barham’s pleasure. They waited his orders, as the guardian of Charles Huyton’s widow.The letter contained the detail of his sad and yet hopeful end. It dropped from Mr. Barham’s hands after he had read it, and crossing his arms on the desk before him, he laid down his head and groaned aloud. The manly, feeling tone of the letter, and all the sad thoughts it had called up, oppressed him deeply.His daughter looking up and seeing his emotion, went close to his chair, and stroking his head as a child might do, she said, in a fondling voice:“Poor papa! poor papa! what is the matter?”This completely overpowered him, he sobbed like a boy.“Don’t cry, papa—yes, do—I wish I could, too: I never cry now—I have no tears left—if I could only cry, the great weight on my head might go.”Then, in her childish way, she took the letter he had dropped, and said: “I think I will read it too.”She did so, for her father was too much overwhelmed to think.“Father,” said she, “I think—I remember—did I dream it, or was it true, that I once married Charles Huyton—that I was called his wife?”Her tone was altered, it was her own voice; her father raised his head in amazement, and looked at her. Strange gleams of thought flitted across her face, like lights and shadows on a still ocean; memory and mind were struggling with the dull torpor of disease. Her brain was awaking! she slowly read again the touching words of Maurice Duncan; she looked on his name at the conclusion of the letter. She thought—she felt—she remembered the past.“He was my husband,” said she.“He was, dear child,” replied her father, trembling.“Why did he leave me?” said she, dreamily; he feared her intellect was fading again.“You have been ill, my darling, we have been nursing you long,” said he, drawing her down toward him.“Stop, let me think;” she put her hand to her forehead; “he is dead they say—dead—poor Charles!—and did not see me first. I am his widow then—” again her mind appeared in her working countenance. “Ah, I remember all now; he did not loveme, he loved Hilary Duncan, and there was Maurice who loved me—and we parted! poor Maurice—and he was with him when he died—oh, papa—”She threw herself on the ground at his feet, and laying her head against his knee, she shed the first tears she had wept for years. Her father kissed and caressed her fondly, making her tears flow faster and faster, until she had wept away the mist from her mind, the torpor from her faculties, and was reasonable, rational, and quiet.Extreme exhaustion ensued; but by incessant care, and the most skillful treatment, her strength slowly returned, and with her strength came perfect memory and command of her faculties.Slowly she learned to appreciate her position, to interest herself in her property, to assume her station as the mistress of “the Ferns,” the widow of Charles Huyton; and when a year had passed away there remained no traces of her illness, except the steadiness and gravity which now marked her manners, in striking contrast with her girlish habits.* * * * *“Hilary, dear,” said Dora Duncan one day to her sister-in-law, as they strolled together under the old lime-trees at “the Ferns,” while Nest, a tall, graceful young woman, was playing with her little nephew, Maurice, “Hilary, why are you not happy?”“Happy! I am, content, peaceful, happy, as one can be in this world, dear Dora.”“But you have none to love youbest,” said Dora.“I have enough: you, Maurice, my sisters, and the children; I am rich in love, and loving hearts.”“And do they satisfy you?”“No, I should be sorry if they did. Nothing of this world can, in itself: it is only as it partakes of the nature of Heaven, that it can fill the soul. But, Dora, the one whom I loved best in this world is at peace, his longing for perfection is satisfied, his hunger for righteousness is filled now; no sorrow can touch him, no pain, no trouble more; and I shall join him, I trust, at last. What else have I to wish for now?”“Still, Hilary, it seems sad.”“Who, going through the vale of misery, use it for a well, and the pools are filled with water,” continued Hilary; “do you remember what follows, Dora? My best treasure is safe, and for the rest, though I can joy and weep with you all, I can not attach my heart to earth again. But does my gravity distress you?”“Oh no, no, no! you are not sad to look at, you are all love, and peace, and sympathy; what should we do without you?”“That is my happiness, so far as earth is concerned, to love and to serve here below, in the hope that in my home above I may serve and love forever.”THE END.
“His long rambles by the shoreOn winter evenings when the roarOf the near waves came sadly grandThrough the dark, up the drowned sand.Tristram and Iseult.“And she is happy? does she see unmovedThe days in which she might have lived and lovedSlip without bringing bliss slowly away,One after one, to-morrow like to-day?”Iseult of Brittany.
“His long rambles by the shoreOn winter evenings when the roarOf the near waves came sadly grandThrough the dark, up the drowned sand.Tristram and Iseult.“And she is happy? does she see unmovedThe days in which she might have lived and lovedSlip without bringing bliss slowly away,One after one, to-morrow like to-day?”Iseult of Brittany.
“His long rambles by the shore
On winter evenings when the roar
Of the near waves came sadly grand
Through the dark, up the drowned sand.
Tristram and Iseult.
“And she is happy? does she see unmovedThe days in which she might have lived and lovedSlip without bringing bliss slowly away,One after one, to-morrow like to-day?”Iseult of Brittany.
“And she is happy? does she see unmoved
The days in which she might have lived and loved
Slip without bringing bliss slowly away,
One after one, to-morrow like to-day?”
Iseult of Brittany.
“You heard from Gwyneth this morning, dear,” said Captain Duncan to his sister one evening, as they sat together after tea. They had been in their new home about two years.
“Yes, here is the letter.”
“Hurstdene Vicarage.
“Dear Hilary,
“You know how little I wished to come here, but George thought it right, and so we came; and the old place is so changed that it is not so very painful; only the date above looks like old times, and reminds me, more than any thing else, of the past. It is a fine large house, but I hope all future vicars will be rich, or I do not know what they will do. Isabel complains of it as cramped and small, however; it was too small to ask nurse and baby here, so my boy is at home. She considers it unhealthy too!
“The church is finished quite. It would not have been, but for ‘my lord’s’ perseverance and purse; and as Isabel’s extravagant plans were abandoned, it looks very nice. The graves at the east end are fresh and well-cared for; that dear old spot!You may guess how I went there first; and the seat under the lime-tree is carefully painted, and a date cut on it, of the day before we left Hurstdene. Why?
“I asked James who had done that? He did not know, but old Martin told me it was Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns’—again I ask why? He is still abroad, poor man! and oh! poor,poorDora! she is much the same, yet they fancy there are dawnings of intellect sometimes. I have seen her companion, Miss Lightfoot; I am not allowed to see her. Lady Margaret, you know, lives at the Abbey. Poor Mr. Barham is so changed; he looks humbled and heart-broken.
“After all, Hilary, real sorrow may be a great blessing; and can those who have never known grief—a grief they were not ashamed to feel and acknowledge, can they know how to feel for others? I think not.
“Lord D. went round with me, and visited all the old people; they seemed quite glad to see me again, and asked, oh! so many questions about you all. The curate is very good and attentive; I don’t fancy they see much of the vicar; I wonder why I ever supposed him such a devoted clergyman; yet he seems always immersed in business, desperately occupied. I believe it issystemhe wants; I am sure our parish at Ufford is much better managed; but then with two such heads as ‘my lord’s,’ and Mr. Barton’s, no wonder.
“Things have certainly got wrong somehow. Isabel would have made a better wife to a peer than a priest, and there can not be a doubt but that George would have been a better clergyman than his brother; though to fill his own station better than Lord D. does would be quite impossible. I must not write any more, he is calling me to walk—”
Maurice listened in silence to this letter, and after some meditation, he observed,
“How happy Gwyneth is!”
Just then Nest entered the room.
“How it blows,” she observed, as she sat down; “and it is sodark; I looked out just now, to try and catch a glimpse of the sea, but every thing was as black as pitch; and, oh, such a roar of waves!”
“Just the night for me to visit the South Point Station,” observed Maurice, rising; “and it is time I was gone, too; but this pleasant fire and good tea make one lazy, Nest.”
“Must you ride all along those cliffs to-night, Maurice?—it is such a storm!” observed Hilary.
She had not yet become accustomed to the night-work, so as to see him depart without anxiety.
“Oh, that’s nothing!” said he, as he put on his great pilot coat; “and this is a fine night for smugglers: suppose I were to intercept a cargo to-night.”
The horse was brought round, and his sisters both went to the door to see him mount. They stood within the shelter of the porch, shading a candle as well as they could from the draft, while its flickering streams of light fell on exterior objects, forming grotesque shadows and strange contrasts, and then losing themselves in the dark back-ground.
Maurice kissed them both, and bade them go to bed, then mounted and trotted off over the hill.
They listened till the horse-hoofs had died on the ear, then they turned together to the house.
“Let me stay with you to-night, Hilary—do,” said Nest, coaxingly; “it will be so melancholy for you to sit here all alone, and listen to the great roar of the waves.”
Hilary smiled an assent, and they sat down together.
It was not quite nine o’clock when Maurice left them; but as they could not expect him back for more than a couple of hours, Mrs. Hepburn did not intend that her younger sister, who was now growing into a tall girl of thirteen, somewhat delicate and fragile, should remain watching till nearly midnight. It was true that she herself felt unusually nervous and uncomfortable to-night, but these were foolish tremors, to which it would not do to give way; and Nest’s health must not be sacrificed to her own idle fancies; she resolved that no persuasion should induce her to prolong their joint vigil.
The wildness of the night seemed to have affected even Nest’s spirits; instead of chatting in her usual lively manner, she was almost silent, only now and then exclaiming as a louder burst of wind seemed to roll over the house, or a heavier wave dashed against the rocks below. Hilary had learned to love the deep roar, the hollow murmur, and the angry rush of the ocean-wave; they spoke to her of other times, in a strange language which was intelligible only to the finer feelings. What the connection was between their voices and the memory of the lost one, she could not have explained; but she never heard the one without musing on the other; and now her heart had traveled away to by-gone hours, as she sat by the fire, until roused by the clock striking ten, she begged Nest to go to bed.
But Nest still remonstrated, and entreated to stay; and to beguile the time, began asking questions of their old home, and leading Hilary to talk of her childhood; and so the minutes flew by, until it was really time to look for Maurice home; and Hilary again urged Nest to retire; Maurice would be vexed to find her up so late.
Still Nest said, no, he would not; he would not mind it for once; she must let her sit up, and when he came home they would have a little comfortable supper together.
While they were discussing this point, the younger, with a decided disinclination to leave her sister, and the elder almost equally unwilling to let her go, they heard, during a lull, the sound of a horse approaching at a rapid pace.
“It is Maurice!” said Hilary.
“No, that is not his riding; he went out on Acorn, and he never gallops him so hard,” replied Nest, listening.
Hilary looked uneasy; ever since the one great shock she had received, her nerves were as easily agitated as a compass-needle, and though like it, too equally balanced to be moved from the center of rest, still they
“Turned at the touch of joy or woe,And turning, trembled too.”
“Turned at the touch of joy or woe,And turning, trembled too.”
“Turned at the touch of joy or woe,
And turning, trembled too.”
“It is perhaps some messenger come to fetch Maurice,” said the quick-witted Nest, who saw that her sister was uneasy; “for he is certainly coming here.”
As she spoke the sounds approached quite close, and in another minute they had stopped at the gate. The sisters ran out, and threw open the door; a stranger was there, who advanced, and touched his cap to the ladies.
“Please, madam, I bring a note from the captain, and am to take back an answer.”
“Nothing the matter?” asked Hilary, breathless, scanning the messenger’s countenance, as she took the note.
“Nothing with the captain,” was the answer.
And Hilary, retreating to the light, opened the twisted paper andread—
“Dear Hilary—
“Don’t be frightened; I want some linen for a man who has been hurt here: some forhim, some for hisbed, he has nothing! the messenger can tell you about the facts. I must stay and take care of him to-night. I hope you will not mind.
“Yours, M. D.”
“I will get what Captain Duncan wants, immediately,” said Mrs. Hepburn; “come in and sit down while I do it.” She put the note into Nest’s hands, saying, “Ask for an explanation, dear,” and hurried up stairs.
The man, while he gladly spread his hands to the parlor fire, and refused to sit down on the chairs, which looked too refined for his society, told Miss Duncan that a yacht had appeared off the coast in the morning, and that the preventive men, after watching it for some time, saw a boat put off for the shore, with only one person in her. As there was a heavy ground-swell, and the landing was extremely dangerous, although the sea at the time, a hundred yards from the shore, was like glass, they signaled the boat not to approach. Whether the signals were unseen or unintelligible, they could not tell; the boat made forthe beach, immediately below the preventive station. As might be expected, no sooner did she come within the influence of the rolling sea, than she was caught on the crest of a wave, thrown violently on the shore, capsized, stove, and the gentleman, for such he was, was dashed into the surf, from which he was with difficulty rescued by the coast-guard men, half-drowned, with a broken arm, and other terrible injuries to his head and person. He had been carried into a small public-house hard by, and after some hours they had succeeded in obtaining a doctor to dress his wounds; the remote part of the coast making it a matter of great difficulty to procure help of any kind, until the fortunate arrival of the captain, who had told them what to do, and was now with the wounded man.
“And who is he?” exclaimed Nest.
“Nobody knows, miss; the yacht had been cruising about a while, but when the gale rose so heavily, she was obliged to stand off, and was out of sight before night-fall. The coast is so dangerous, you see, miss, she would be obliged to run for shelter to some better harbor, or keep out to sea for more room. It would never do to be knocking about here in these long dark nights.”
“And you don’t think they were smugglers, then?” said Nest, whose ideas of romance were all running in that line, and who was little interested in a matter-of-fact gentleman.
He assured her they had no suspicions of the sort; and Hilary coming down at the moment with the requisite articles, the man mounted, and rode off without delay. Nest had been both right and wrong; it was her brother’s horse, though he was not the rider.
The sisters agreed now to go to bed at once, as Maurice was not coming home till morning; and when Nest had repeated the story she had heard, in every variety of way which her fancy could suggest, she allowed her sister to go to sleep.
As soon as breakfast was over, the next morning, as the day was fair, Hilary resolved to drive over to the station at South Point, and see whether any thing more was required for thesufferer there. Nest begged to go too; full of excitement and interest on the occasion.
It was a very lonely place; the small public house, into which the stranger had been carried, stood low down on the beach, beneath high, beetling rocks, above which was the preventive station, and it seemed only fit to be the resort of fishers, or men of the same class. Mrs. Hepburn and her sister, on entering found only the hostess below, and desiring Nest to remain with her, the elder made her way up the steep, ladder-like steps to a room above, where her brother was nursing the sick man.
The door and the window were both open, and the pleasant breeze streamed in with the morning sunbeams, which fell on Hilary as she stood contemplating the couple within the room. Her brother was sitting beside the bed, holding the hand of his patient, but his back was to the door.
Supported by pillows, and evidently laboring for breath, the sick man lay with his face toward her; but as his eyes were closed, he was not aware of her presence. The flush of fever was on his cheek, the contraction of pain on his brow; his countenance seemed the home of sad unquiet thoughts; a thick curled beard and moustache of dark auburn concealed the lower part of his face, while a bandage across his forehead gave a more ghastly expression to his sunken eyes. Yet even in those worn and pain-struck features, she thought she recognized a something familiar, a something which sent her memory back to her girlhood and her forest-home. He slowly opened his eyes, and said, in a low, feeblevoice—
“Maurice, I should like to see—Hilary!” added he, in a tone of wild surprise, starting from his pillows, as his eyes fell on her. The effort was too much, he sank back, overpowered by weakness, while shadows of agony and terror seemed to cross his face.
“My mind wanders,” said he, placing his hand over his brow; “Maurice, I thought I saw your sister—just as she was in the forest—the first time we met.”
No wonder he was thus deluded; for as she stood there, withthe glow on her cheek from the fresh morning air, with her brown hair smoothly parted on her forehead, her simple bonnet, and plain black dress, she looked so calm, so youthful, so like the Hilary of his happiest hours, he could hardly suppose her a reality; could years have made so little change in her, so much in himself?
She approached, and placed her fingers on the only hand he had at liberty; the other lay helpless by his side.
“It is I, myself,” said she, in her low, gentle voice. “Do not be disturbed, Mr. Huyton.”
She saw it all at once; it was the friend of his youth, the very man who had so deeply injured him, that Maurice had been nursing all night.
“Areyoucome too?” said he, in a broken voice, as he fixed his dark, glowing eyes on her; “are you come to see me die? Angel, whom I have so deeply injured; whose sad path in life I have made still sadder! Are you come to bless or to curse me with your presence? Can you forgive me now?”
“Forgive! ah yes—as I would be forgiven—long, long ago I forgave!”
“What a wretch I have been; yet I thought I loved you! and itwaslove, earnest, real love, till your rejection turned it into bitterness. Oh, if I had but listened to your pleading; yielded to your mild remonstrances. Maurice, tell her that I have repented.”
“Hilary will believe it, I am sure, Charles,” replied Maurice; “do not exhaust yourself by emotion.”
“Let me talk, my end is near. Listen. I was wild, frantic with grief and remorse; horror-stricken at the wreck I had made of Dora’s happiness, vainly repenting when too late—when—ah Hilary! forgive me—when, as you were once more free, I found myself fettered to her—poor thing! Miserable, I wandered from country to country—till I met with one who taught me better, a true minister of the Gospel, who taught me better, and sent me home to my duty—too long neglected. I intended to do right—I meant to try and remedy,so far as I could, the miserable past; my first step was to see Maurice, and ask his pardon. I came here, and now I am dying—it is the only thing which can really repair my crimes. To hear him speak forgiveness has been my best comfort. Now let me die!”
Hilary’s tears fell fast over the hand she held in hers.
“Must he die, Maurice?” whispered she.
Captain Duncan shook his head sadly.
Charles again opened his eyes, which he had closed as sharp pains shot through him. The cold drops of agony which stood on his forehead his friend wiped gently away.
“Yes, I must die,” whispered he again to Hilary; “I know it; this pain will only cease when mortification begins. I must die; and I am thankful for it. I do not deserve it; a long life of penitence and sorrow would have been my fitting fate; I have no right even to ask for a speedy release. But for you, for others, it is better I should go; if I could only repair my mad folly, my savage wickedness; if I could only, in giving Dora liberty, give her back the reason I frightened away; oh, I would suffer twenty times more pain, could I restore her to you, Maurice, as she was.”
“God’s will be done!” said Maurice, gravely; “He gave, He took away! Since she has been your wife, Charles, she has ceased to be the Dora of my fancy.”
“You are weeping for me Hilary—how many tears I have made you shed. I do not deserve one gentle thought: it was in mercy, undeserved mercy, you were sent here, that I might hear you say you forgive me.”
“I do, indeed, from my soul.”
“And ifyoudo, you, who might have felt resentment—a fellow mortal—I hope—I trust—I believe the Most High will hear my penitence—and for that dear love which died for us all—” his voice failed him again, in a fit of agonizing pain, terrible to see.
The injuries had been principally internal, and during the hours which had passed before medical aid was procured, inflammationhad commenced, which it was now evident must end in death.
“Leave me,” said he, when he again had power to speak; “leave me, Hilary, I do not deserve to give you pain; you suffer in seeing me suffer.”
“No, let me stay,” she said, calmly; “let me nurse you.”
“Leave me; I once loved you better than life, than duty, than Heaven; but I have struggled with a passion, wrong in its excess, criminal in the husband of another. I have learned to govern it—to subdue it; but do not come between me and better thoughts, do not drag me back to earthly feelings. Let me voluntarily renounce the dearest, sweetest thing on earth; let me prove my sincerity to myself. Leave me!”
She rose, and though she longed to linger there, she passed from the bed-side, after one soft pressure of his feverish fingers.
“Farewell, till we meet above,” said she, and went from the room. She did not, however, leave the house; but as soon as she went down stairs, she sent off Nest and the servant, who had driven them, over to the town to find the parish priest, and beg him to visit the dying man.
Whatever friendship could suggest to soothe his pain, or pastoral prayer and counsel could afford to support and guide him aright, was granted him. But it was not till toward the afternoon, that the fierce pain subsided, and he became calm. Then they knew that death was rapidly advancing.
In the gray twilight, Hilary and Maurice returned home together, leaving the friend and companion of their youth a quiet corpse. After years of disappointment, anger, remorse, and repentance, he slept in peace.
Hilary cried quietly nearly the whole drive home; she could not help it. It was not only painful regret, or sorrow for the dead; but old thoughts had been revived, old feelings, buried happiness, vanished hopes, the gay visions of youth, all seemed suddenly awakened at this painful meeting. And it is an awful thing to stand by the bed of one whose wild passions, ungovernedtemper, and wasted youth, have brought on disappointment and death, even though we may hope they have ended in true penitence and faith. We may hope, but we must tremble too!
Mr. Barham was sitting one afternoon with his youngest daughter, who was amusing herself, with childish pleasure, over some brilliant flowers, when the second post came in, and brought him a letter from Maurice.
Captain Duncan wrote him for directions as to the corpse of his son-in-law. His yacht had come into harbor the day after the storm, and the captain suggested that they should carry the deceased owner round to Bristol, as to the nearest port to “the Ferns,” from whence the corpse could be transferred, according to Mr. Barham’s pleasure. They waited his orders, as the guardian of Charles Huyton’s widow.
The letter contained the detail of his sad and yet hopeful end. It dropped from Mr. Barham’s hands after he had read it, and crossing his arms on the desk before him, he laid down his head and groaned aloud. The manly, feeling tone of the letter, and all the sad thoughts it had called up, oppressed him deeply.
His daughter looking up and seeing his emotion, went close to his chair, and stroking his head as a child might do, she said, in a fondling voice:
“Poor papa! poor papa! what is the matter?”
This completely overpowered him, he sobbed like a boy.
“Don’t cry, papa—yes, do—I wish I could, too: I never cry now—I have no tears left—if I could only cry, the great weight on my head might go.”
Then, in her childish way, she took the letter he had dropped, and said: “I think I will read it too.”
She did so, for her father was too much overwhelmed to think.
“Father,” said she, “I think—I remember—did I dream it, or was it true, that I once married Charles Huyton—that I was called his wife?”
Her tone was altered, it was her own voice; her father raised his head in amazement, and looked at her. Strange gleams of thought flitted across her face, like lights and shadows on a still ocean; memory and mind were struggling with the dull torpor of disease. Her brain was awaking! she slowly read again the touching words of Maurice Duncan; she looked on his name at the conclusion of the letter. She thought—she felt—she remembered the past.
“He was my husband,” said she.
“He was, dear child,” replied her father, trembling.
“Why did he leave me?” said she, dreamily; he feared her intellect was fading again.
“You have been ill, my darling, we have been nursing you long,” said he, drawing her down toward him.
“Stop, let me think;” she put her hand to her forehead; “he is dead they say—dead—poor Charles!—and did not see me first. I am his widow then—” again her mind appeared in her working countenance. “Ah, I remember all now; he did not loveme, he loved Hilary Duncan, and there was Maurice who loved me—and we parted! poor Maurice—and he was with him when he died—oh, papa—”
She threw herself on the ground at his feet, and laying her head against his knee, she shed the first tears she had wept for years. Her father kissed and caressed her fondly, making her tears flow faster and faster, until she had wept away the mist from her mind, the torpor from her faculties, and was reasonable, rational, and quiet.
Extreme exhaustion ensued; but by incessant care, and the most skillful treatment, her strength slowly returned, and with her strength came perfect memory and command of her faculties.
Slowly she learned to appreciate her position, to interest herself in her property, to assume her station as the mistress of “the Ferns,” the widow of Charles Huyton; and when a year had passed away there remained no traces of her illness, except the steadiness and gravity which now marked her manners, in striking contrast with her girlish habits.
* * * * *
“Hilary, dear,” said Dora Duncan one day to her sister-in-law, as they strolled together under the old lime-trees at “the Ferns,” while Nest, a tall, graceful young woman, was playing with her little nephew, Maurice, “Hilary, why are you not happy?”
“Happy! I am, content, peaceful, happy, as one can be in this world, dear Dora.”
“But you have none to love youbest,” said Dora.
“I have enough: you, Maurice, my sisters, and the children; I am rich in love, and loving hearts.”
“And do they satisfy you?”
“No, I should be sorry if they did. Nothing of this world can, in itself: it is only as it partakes of the nature of Heaven, that it can fill the soul. But, Dora, the one whom I loved best in this world is at peace, his longing for perfection is satisfied, his hunger for righteousness is filled now; no sorrow can touch him, no pain, no trouble more; and I shall join him, I trust, at last. What else have I to wish for now?”
“Still, Hilary, it seems sad.”
“Who, going through the vale of misery, use it for a well, and the pools are filled with water,” continued Hilary; “do you remember what follows, Dora? My best treasure is safe, and for the rest, though I can joy and weep with you all, I can not attach my heart to earth again. But does my gravity distress you?”
“Oh no, no, no! you are not sad to look at, you are all love, and peace, and sympathy; what should we do without you?”
“That is my happiness, so far as earth is concerned, to love and to serve here below, in the hope that in my home above I may serve and love forever.”
THE END.