THE
OLD VICARAGE.
A NOVEL.
BY MRS. HUBBACK,
AUTHORESS OF
“THE WIFE’S SISTER,” “MAY AND DECEMBER,” ETC. ETC.
NEW YORK:
W. P. FETRIDGE & CO., PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
BOSTON:
FETRIDGE & CO., 100 WASHINGTON ST.
1856.
STEREOTYPED BY
THOMAS B. SMITH,
82 & 84 Beekman Street.
PRINTED BY
GROSSMAN AND WILLETT,
82 & 84 Beekman St.
THE OLD VICARAGE.
CHAPTER I.
“Children’s voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;
Children’s voices wild with pain,
Surely she will come again;
Call her once, and come away!”
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.
It was a summer’s evening. The yellow sunshine streamed through the
boles of the forest trees, tinting them with purple, vermilion, gold,
or the richest brown. It gave a metallic luster to the tops of the
giant oaks, and lighted up with a silvery gleam the long feathery
sprays of the graceful beech-trees, waving gently and slowly as the
soft breeze passed rustling among them. The same slanting sunbeams
fell on the dark glossy foliage of the tall groups of holly, and
twinkled like stars upon their stiff-pointed leaves.
Beneath these ancient and hoary trees, on a natural terrace clothed
with soft mossy turf, and commanding, along the glade in the forest, a
full view of the glowing west, there walked, with slow and lingering
step, two persons, who seemed too deeply engrossed in conversation to
heed the loveliness of the evening. One of these was a woman, who
might perhaps be half way between thirty and forty, but still
possessing a large share of personal beauty; tall, dark, glowing, with
bright black eyes, and hair as black as jet, parted off her forehead
in rich braids, and as she carried her bonnet in her hand, they caught
the gleaming sunshine, and seemed to turn purple in its splendor. Her
companion was a young girl, slender, fair, and rather pale, except
that as she listened to the earnest discourse of the matron, the
flitting color dyed her cheek for a moment, and then left it pale
again. Her slim figure, and girlish proportions, gave a notion of
extreme youth and delicacy, and yet her face was of that kind which
brings a feeling of trust and repose as you gaze upon it; an idea
that, young as she was, there was steadiness and principle to be read
there.
“But, dear mamma,” said the girl, “why do you talk in this way? You
will soon be about again, and able to see all these things yourself.”
And she gazed with earnest, anxious fondness at the face of her
companion, unable to realize that danger could lurk near, or death
invade a countenance so healthy, and so invariably cheerful.
“His will be done,” said Mrs. Duncan, raising her eyes, and fixing
them on the glowing west. “Life and death are in His hands; but,
Hilary, it will neither increase my danger, nor my anxiety, if I give
you such directions as may be your help and guide hereafter. It is a
great charge, a heavy responsibility which will fall on you, should I
be taken from you, but one which will not be laid on you, unless He
sees good; and received from Him in a humble, trusting, loving spirit,
the event will be blessed. In my weakness and want of faith, I shrink
from the idea, sometimes; but I know that all is, all will be right,
if you can but believe, and feel it so. Nothing He lays on us is too
heavy to bear, if we do not add to it the burden of our own selfish
repinings, mistrust, and impatience.”
“Oh! mamma, it can not be best to be without you; such a trial can not
be in store for us; for my father too――how could he bear it? and
surely be so good, so heavenly-minded, so tender as he is――oh! he can
not need affliction; do not talk so, mamma, do not fancy such things;
you will do yourself harm by dwelling on it.”
Mrs. Duncan’s eyes filled, and her lip quivered for a minute; she was
silent a little space, and then she spoke again, calmly, firmly,
gravely.
“Hilary, ever since I have filled your mother’s place, I have met with
the duty and affection of a daughter from you. I came to you when you
were too young to understand my claims, but I have never had to
complain, so far as our relationship is concerned. Be ever the same!
do not now, by giving way to your feelings, make it more difficult for
me to control my own. Try to listen to what may be my last wishes.”
Hilary clasped her step-mother’s hand, struggled with her rising
tears, swallowed down a sob or two, and then turning quietly round,
said――“Go on, dear mother! I will attend, and endeavor to remember.”
“Young as you are, Hilary, I do not fear to trust you, for I know that
you have that within you which will lead you right. Experience,
indeed, you can not have, and you may mistake sometimes; but with your
earnest love of truth, your simplicity, candor, gentleness, and
humility, you can not go very far wrong; and I would rather confide my
girls to you, than to many an elder head. I know that you will lean on
the true, unfailing Support――that you will not trust your own
understanding.”
“Dear mother, if I have any good principle or right habit, I owe it to
you and papa; what should I have been, had you not led me so kindly
and gently in childhood?” said Hilary, blushing at the praise which
she could not believe she deserved.
“But my girls are not like you, Hilary,” continued the mother, “and
their characters have cost me many an anxious hour. Heaven knows how
earnestly I have prayed sometimes, to be spared as their guide; but
this is self-will, and self-conceit, perhaps; now my only prayer is,
that, in whose hands soever they may fall, whatever troubles may come
upon them, they may be brought home safe at last. We are so
unbelieving, we would fain choose our own path, and the paths of our
dear ones also; as if our narrow view could be better trusted than
His, who has told us so plainly what we ought to seek, and what we may
then hope for. All will be right at last, and now I trust them
entirely to the Will which can not err: yet not the less would I warn
you, Hilary, of the care and discipline they need. Sybil is tender,
loving, feeble, clinging for support to those around her; do not act
for her, my love; make her feel her own responsibility, or the
realities and cares of life will fall with a crushing force on her.
Look at the clematis which garlands this lime――such is she; take away
her support, and the long wreaths will droop and sink to the earth,
and may be trampled by every careless foot.”
“But we can not change the nature of the clematis, mamma; we can only
prop it up, and guard it carefully, and rejoice even in its clinging,
graceful fragility, which gives a beauty to the bare and rugged stem,
or the unpoetical wall and trellis.”
“True, you can not change the clematis, Hilary; but therein a
Christian differs from a soulless plant; her nature may be
strengthened by attention and discipline, till she may be firm and yet
flexible; yielding and yet self-supporting; regaining with elastic
vigor the upward tendency, even after the hand has bent it down, or
the breeze turned it aside. You can not make a clematis into a willow,
but you may teach a feeble mind and drooping heart where to find
strength of purpose and constancy of aim. Teach Sybil that the weakest
may have strength sufficient to their need, but not in earthly things;
earthly props break and crumble away, or are removed in kindness, lest
we lean too much upon them. Trust to the One above. He never fails.
Poor Sybil! she is very far from knowing this as yet!”
They were both silent for some time; then Mrs. Duncan seated herself,
and continued, as Hilary nestled close to her side.
“As to Gwyneth, she is different; she has all the passionate and hasty
nature of my country. Welsh blood runs in her veins, and along with
this warmth she has much self-will and presumption; she doubts not her
own opinion, and can not bear to have it questioned; yet she is so
young that I have every reason to hope that attention may check what
is wrong, and religion lead her to true strength and confidence. And
then for my little Nest――the darling! who can tell what that little
black-eyed, bewitching fairy may turn out? Heaven help me! but it is
hard to think of leaving her.”
Mrs. Duncan shuddered, and closed her eyes, as if struggling with some
deep emotion.
“Why should you?” said Hilary, anxiously. “Dearest mother, do you feel
ill now? It is so long since you have had one of your bad attacks of
pain; not for months now; I am sure you need not be alarmed.”
Mrs. Duncan smiled; a faint smile it was, as if she would rather put
aside a subject of discussion than enter on it. Then, after a pause,
she added, “I believe you will find all my papers and accounts quite
clear, and for the rest, dear Hilary, you are well able to take my
place in the parish now; and whatever may occur, you must do it for a
month at least. But there are horses’ feet upon the turf; your father
and sisters are coming home. Say nothing at present of what I have
told you, and let us go to meet them!”
They rose, and advanced toward the house; crossing a part of the
garden, of which the terrace where they had been walking formed the
eastern boundary. Dividing the lawn from an open green space which lay
in front of the old rectory, was a line of wooden palings nearly
covered by ivy, honeysuckle, roses, and many flowering shrubs, and
over this they saw, approaching through a shadowy glade, three forest
ponies; the tallest bore Mr. Duncan, an elderly man, whose figure was,
however, active and upright, and his countenance marked with the glow
of health and the look of peace; the other two riders were girls, the
Sybil and Gwyneth already mentioned, whose black eyes, and long waving
locks flowing from beneath their broad-brimmed straw hats, immediately
reminded you of their mother. The children, for they were only girls
of twelve and thirteen, sprung from their little ponies, and rushed up
to the garden gate, just as Mrs. Duncan and Hilary reached it; and
before their father had descended in his more leisurely way, and
consigned the animals to the old gray-headed servant who came forward
to receive them, they had advanced far in the history of their ride,
its adventures, delights, and novelties. They had found a new path,
had come to a beautiful stream; Gwyneth had leaped her horse across
before papa came up; Sybil was afraid, and had hung back, even when
encouraged by him; then they had seen such a lovely dell, all
surrounded with trees――oh! such a place for a gipsey party; mamma must
come there some day, and they would have tea out there, under the huge
oaks and beech, beside that broken mossy bank, out of which such a
bright tiny stream trickled from under a gray stone. Up came papa, and
listened to the eager speaker, as Gwyneth, with her cheeks glowing,
and her bright eyes glittering, dwelt with rather too much
complacency, perhaps, upon the courage she had shown, until her father
reminded her, with laughing but affectionate manner, how Gwyneth
herself had shrunk and trembled when, as they were leading their
ponies down a steep and precipitous path, a large toad had crossed the
road, and hopped toward her; while Sybil’s only care had been that the
creature should not be hurt by foot or hoof; and after that, Gwyneth
held her tongue for a while.
They sat in the large wide porch, which, with its projecting gable and
curiously-carved roof, formed so conspicuous an ornament to the front
of the Vicarage, and harmonized so well with the many angles,
overhanging eaves, mullioned windows, and twisted chimneys of that
quaint old house. It was a building well suited to the forest scenery
on which it closely bordered, with its time-mellowed red-brick, and
gray stone coignings, and huge oaken beams, whose ends were
grotesquely carved. From that porch you could see the old church, half
concealed in a grove of trees, principally lime and sycamore; and
further off, the houses scattered on the village green, or retreating
back amid the clumps of oak and holly; while to the south, through a
long vista in the forest, you caught a view of distant hills, blue and
shadowy, and a winding river, and a wide extended plain.
Here they sat and chatted gayly, while the young girls ate the fruit
and cake, for which their ride had given them an appetite, and which
Hilary brought out to them in an old-fashioned china basket, until the
hour of bed-time arrived, and the children left them; and then the
others returned to the cool parlor, where Hilary made tea, and smiled
and chatted with her father; Mrs. Duncan meanwhile resting quietly on
the sofa, nearly silent, and perhaps engrossed in thought.
Hilary’s was the hopeful as well as the trustful temper of youth,
unaccustomed to the vicissitudes of life; the storm of which she saw
no symptoms could not alarm her; and although her step-mother’s
presentiments had at first raised a vague terror, she had recovered
from this feeling, and was now tranquil.
The trust which she felt that all would be for the best, conspired to
increase this peaceful state, for to her young mind, it seemed
impossible that good could spring from such sorrow as the loss of the
only mother she had known, would occasion her and her family;
therefore this loss was not to be expected or feared. Hers was the
youthful idea of divine protection, and fatherly care; years of
experience alone can teach us that “His ways are not as ours,” and
that it is not exemption from suffering which is promised to His
children, but such discipline as shall strengthen, and purify, and
elevate their hearts.
It was a cheerful family party on which the bright summer moon peeped
in through the old windows that evening; and Hilary, as she penned a
few words at night, of the journal which she always kept for her only
brother Maurice, recorded with a grateful heart, that hers was indeed
a happy lot.
Yet scarce was the ink dry on the paper where she wrote these lines,
than her pleasant dreams were suddenly dissipated, and the very sorrow
which she had refused to consider as probable, was presented to her
mind. Mrs. Duncan was ill――very ill――alarmingly so; and before that
sun which had set in such glory, returned to their view, the eyes that
had gazed on it so earnestly were closed in death, and the spirit
which had looked out so clear and loving but twelve hours before, had
fled to that land which needs no sun to lighten it, and which knows
neither change, nor time, nor darkness.
The mother just now in all the prime of womanhood, in her glorious
beauty, was cold, and white, and silent, and on her arm lay the tiny
marble face of that little being, whose entrance to this world had
cost his parents such a price, and whose stay had been so short, that
you wondered why he came at all.
On Hilary devolved the task of making her young sisters acquainted
with their loss; of communicating to them the sad change that one
night had occasioned; for this, when all was over, and her father had
withdrawn to the solitude of his own study, she crept softly to their
sleeping apartment, and sitting down beside the bed, watched patiently
and silently for their first awaking.
Her grief was very quiet, although very deep. In idea she tried to
follow the departed, and to realize what she now was, so far as mortal
fancy might paint it; and the glad, solemn, mysterious thought, that
that dear one had felt her last grief, suffered her last pain, heaved
her last sigh forever, made it seem even a profanation to indulge
regret. It was when she permitted her thoughts to anticipate, that she
shuddered and mourned; it was the future for herself, her sisters, her
father, which made her tremble. How barren and blank it seemed; the
sweet voice which had taught and soothed her, silent now; the bright
smile vanished forever; the sunshine of the house gone; who would fill
her place? Could it be that she so young, so simple, so inexperienced,
that she should be called on to attempt this heavy duty? did it
devolve on her to soothe, instruct, watch over her sisters, to think
for the household, to comfort her bereaved father, assist in
lightening his cares, or sharing his anxieties? _She_ had told her
such would be her duty――had bid her reflect on the responsibilities
laid on her; had warned, encouraged, and comforted her――and as she had
spoken so, Hilary had felt strong and trustful; but now――oh! how
miserably weak, ignorant, helpless, and deficient she appeared to
herself; the memory of all her own girlish faults, indolence,
thoughtlessness, ignorance, selfish indulgences, idle ways, all the
many failings for which she daily judged and condemned herself, rose
up in her mind, and seemed to say, “impossible;” seemed to whisper to
her that her task was harder than she could endure; that such a life
of carefulness and watching, and thought for others, and denial of
self, as her mother had depicted for her, _could_ not be expected of
one so young; it would wither her youth, and blight her spirit, and
darken all the gay happiness which ought to be hers!
Nay, but it was her duty! it was _God’s_ will, and as such, it could
not be too hard; her burden would not be greater than she could bear;
more would not be expected of her than she would have power to
perform; could she but fix her eyes aright, and draw strength from the
Source of everlasting strength, she should not find it fail; weak,
trembling, insufficient as she was, she need not fear, if she only
trusted all to Him, and nothing to herself. And then a voice seemed to
whisper to her heart,
“Child of my love, how have I wearied thee,
Why wilt thou err from me?”
and half unconsciously she repeated to herself the succeeding lines of
the same hymn; there was soothing in the thought.
Yet ever and again, as she grew calmer, came rushing in the painful
memory of her loss; and while she doubted not the wisdom and mercy
which had ordered all, and accepted meekly the burden of care which
seemed laid on her, her heart ached in bitterness when she remembered
what had been, and what was.
That hour of watching and waiting was intensely trying. She had been
occupied all the night, so eagerly and energetically, as to exclude
thought or anticipation; now she could only sit in silence, and weary,
worn out, sorrowful, and yet striving to be patient, remain quietly
expecting the painful task before her.
She wished to keep awake, and opening her Bible, she tried to fix her
eyes and thoughts upon it, and determined so to pass the time; but
blessed sleep stole over her so softly, that she knew not of its
approaches, and the tearful eyes closed, the heavy head dropped upon
the pillow beside it, and a deep unconsciousness, a perfect dreamless
repose wrapped all the past in oblivion, and brought the refreshment
which that young, but willing spirit needed to fulfil her destined
task. “He giveth His beloved sleep.”
Gwyneth was astonished that morning, when, on unclosing her eyes, she
discovered her eldest sister, half sitting, half lying on her pillow,
dressed as last night, and yet sleeping profoundly, even though tears
trembled on her eye-lashes, while her long and glossy brown hair lay
unbound and unbraided over her neck and cheek.
With the thoughtless impulse of her nature, she at once woke her up,
and eagerly inquired why she was there, what was the matter, what had
made her cry.
That sudden waking bewildered Hilary; the vague, puzzled feeling which
so often follows deep sleep, at an unusual time, or in an unaccustomed
place, came over her, and for a minute she could remember nothing; not
where she was, nor what had happened, nor why she found herself so
strangely sleeping there. She pressed her hands over her eyes; the
full tide of thought and memory came back, and she shrank from the
pain she was about to give. But it must be done! yes, and done by her
too, or the task would fall on her father, perhaps; and done at once,
that the first wild agony of tears and grief might be stilled and
composed in part before it came to add to that father’s pain and
desolation.
She drew the two rosy faces toward her, for Sybil was awake now, and
pressing each in her arms, as they knelt or crouched upon the bed, she
faltered out the words, through her tears,
“Mamma has been ill in the night!”
Gwyneth fixed her full dark eyes upon her sister’s face with a gaze
which seemed to ask for more, for some explanation. Sybil gave a
frightened start, and said,
“Oh, Hilary, and how is she now?――has she been very ill?”
“Very,” replied Hilary, forcing back her tears, and speaking gravely,
calmly, but very sadly; “very ill indeed; but, Sybil, she is better
now!”
Gwyneth still stared at Hilary. “Then why were you crying?” was her
question.
“Let me go to her,” said Sybil, struggling to release herself from her
sister’s clasp, which, however, now bound her the closer for her
efforts to move. Sybil was quiet without a word, only glancing
apprehensively at the face hanging over her, with brimming eyelids and
quivering lips. Gwyneth exclaimed again impatiently,
“Speak, Hilary, or let me go;――nay, I _will_ go to mamma.”
“No, Gwyneth, you can not,” said the elder sister, laying her forehead
down on her sister’s black curls.
“Who says so?――did she? she never refuses to see us! how unkind you
are, Hilary.”
“A higher hand than mine, dear Gwyneth――be quiet; you can not see
mamma now, because――” and such a deep, heartfelt sob stopped her
words, that Sybil saw it all in one moment, and quietly turning from
them both, laid her head among the pillows, and, except for a slight
convulsive shiver now and then, was still and silent.
“Why, why, where is mamma?” cried Gwyneth, fighting with the wild,
incomprehensible terror which was overpowering her.
“In heaven, we trust,” said Hilary, regaining her composure in a
wonderful way; she pressed one hand upon her heart, made a strong
physical effort to put away her grief, and then endeavored to draw
Sybil toward her, hoping that the sight of her tears would touch
Gwyneth’s heart. For Gwyneth sat still now, with wide open, tearless
eyes, and parted lips, and cheeks as colorless as her neck; and her
breath came slowly and with difficulty, and in deep, sobbing
inspirations, and yet there was no tear; it was not like childish
grief, it was the stillness of despair――her face might have belonged
to a woman of thirty, so old it looked at that moment.
Hilary felt helpless at first; then her whole heart was raised in
prayer; words not her own came to her mind, to express her thoughts
and wants, as she prayed that in all her troubles she might put her
whole trust and confidence in that mercy which would not, could not
fail.
Sense and feeling returned to Gwyneth, and with it the self-will, the
passionate independence of her character. Hilary’s arms had relaxed
their hold: she seized the opportunity, escaped from the grasp, and
springing from the bed, ran out of the room without so much as pausing
to put her feet into her slippers. She crossed the broad passage, and
rushing to the door of her mother’s chamber, tried violently to force
it open. It was locked. Hilary had followed the willful child, and now
laid her hand upon her arm. But Gwyneth screamed, bursting into a
furious passion, and uttering cries which resounded through the
otherwise silent house. It was a mixture of feelings, terror
undefined, and therefore the more oppressive, grief, vexation,
anger――she could not well have told what it was; but the utterance of
these wild screams for a moment relieved her, and appeared to throw
off the weight on her heart.
In vain Hilary tried to soothe, to quiet, to command; her gentle voice
was unheard, and Gwyneth, clinging to the handle of the door, and
hiding her face on her arms, continued to scream with increasing
energy. The old nurse appeared, and tried what she could do; but
interjectory addresses, supplications, and entreaties, were unnoticed,
and force made matters worse; when suddenly the door unclosed from the
inside, and Gwyneth was only saved from falling on the floor by being
caught in her father’s arms.
The screams stopped instantly; she gave one glance at his pale, sad
face, then hid her own upon his shoulder, and indulged in a copious
and passionate burst of tears. He held her quietly and gravely,
without a word. Hilary stood with the feelings of a culprit; it seemed
to her as if in her very first endeavor, she had failed entirely of
all she ought to have done; she blamed herself for her sister’s
willfulness, and changing color and trembling, waited for what might
follow.
By degrees Gwyneth’s sobs subsided, and she lay quiet in her father’s
arms.
“What is all this?” said he at length, glancing at his eldest
daughter. She could not answer.
Gwyneth whispered, “Mamma――I want mamma.” Hilary looked up hastily and
fearfully at her father’s face. A sadder shade swept over it, like the
darkening gloom which precedes the heavy shower; then it passed away,
and the quivering lip was still.
“Hilary, love, does she not know?” said he, gently, and drawing her
close to him.
Hilary conquered the rising inclination to give way to tears; it was a
hard struggle first, however, but she felt she must answer, and to her
own surprise her voice came.
“I tried, papa, to tell her; but she would not believe――she can not
understand――she is so young, and feels so acutely; oh, papa! it was my
fault, I did not know how!”
“My poor child,” said he, as he stooped and kissed her forehead, after
anxiously scanning her pale cheeks and weary eyes; “you have had no
rest; you have overtasked yourself: you should have gone to bed.”
“Never mind me, papa dear! I shall do well enough, but let me take
Gwyneth back, she will be cold. Come Gwyneth.”
But the child rebelled again, clung to her father, and seemed about to
renew her shrieks.
“Hush, hush! this will not do,” said he, “this must not be. Be still,
Gwyneth, and you shall see your mother once more.”
He stepped into the darkened room, whose grave and solemn aspect
hushed the mourner’s emotion at once. He opened one shutter a little
way; the bright morning sun streamed in upon the white bed-curtains,
and danced upon the toilet-glass. He brought his young daughter,
clinging to his arms, to the bed, drew back the curtain, lifted the
sheet, and Gwyneth’s eyes fell on the cold, still face of her, for
whom she had called in vain.
Words can not describe the feelings of a child thus brought face to
face with death. The dead flower appears as a shriveled atom――the
extinguished fire presents an uncouth heap of ashes――the setting sun
vanishes from our sight――these speak for themselves, here the change
is real, perceptible, obvious; but the soul departed leaves the body
the same, and yet how different, how slight, yet how immense the
alteration. Lost in wonder, unable to realize what is gone, the child
gazes in unspeakable awe at what remains――death, is that death? it
looks but too like a profound and happy sleep; for a moment the eye is
deceived: but to the touch the truth is at once revealed, and the
young finger shrinks, and never again forgets the strange, cold,
unyielding, icy feeling of the dead. For years it will thrill through
her frame.
Perhaps it was a hazardous experiment, to place that young and
susceptible girl in such a presence. Mr. Duncan did not know what he
was doing; he was one of those individuals who can not in the least
understand childhood, its deep feelings, its mysterious impulses, its
strange associations, its superstitions taught by Nature herself, its
heavenly breathings, to which it can give neither form nor words. He
believed the experiment was perfectly successful, for Gwyneth’s tears
and cries alike ceased in that solemn presence, and she gazed in
quiet, awestruck, breathless surprise at the form before her.
Softly and gently her father talked to her, whispering of the absent
spirit which had gone away for a time, but which might even now be
near, how near to them they could not tell; and of that day when this
spirit should return again, and that fair form, now motionless, cold,
inanimate as marble itself, should arise once more to everlasting
life. And then he knelt with Gwyneth in his arms, and prayed that they
might all meet hereafter in that home of everlasting peace, where no
partings come. She was very still and subdued as he carried her back
from the room, and gave her to the nurse’s charge, and they did not
know the effect that sight had produced on her, for she could not
speak of her feelings; but sleeping or waking, that face for weeks was
before her eyes, and the coldness of death seemed over her lips and
cheeks, such as she had felt it, when, at her father’s bidding, she
had pressed a last kiss on the corpse; and she would shrink into
corners of the house or garden, to cry and shudder alone, when none
saw her, and muse in silence upon what her mother was.
Sybil was different; she clung to Hilary, she hardly dared to be
alone; but with a pallid face, and swimming eyes, and little trembling
hands, she followed her sister all day long; and never wearied of
talking of her mother; of her wishes, her tastes, her goodness; every
action seemed referred to that object; and she spoke of her as one
that was absent only for a short time, who would soon return to claim
their obedience again.
Gwyneth would turn pale, shiver, and, if possible, quit the room at
the slightest mention of her mother’s name; nor could Hilary’s utmost
efforts win from her the feelings that oppressed her.
Of course, as time passed, it brought the usual mitigation of acute
sorrow. Sybil learned to speak with dry eyes of the departed, Gwyneth
taught herself to bear the thought without visible demonstration of
feeling; but the effect remained upon their characters; Sybil was more
soft and dependent, Gwyneth more reserved in her general demeanor,
while the fire which burned below that outward crust of indifference
and calmness was but the fiercer for its concealment.