“Blowing between the stems, the forest air
Had loosened the brown curls of Vivian’s hair,
Which played o’er her flushed cheeks; and her blue eyes
Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.”
ISEULT OF BRITTANY.
It was about two months after the death of Mrs. Duncan, when the
cheering news arrived at the old Vicarage, that the ship in which
Maurice Duncan was serving had reached Chatham, and was to be paid off
immediately.
The letter was indeed a sunbeam thrown upon a gloomy path. Some change
was greatly wanted at home. Mr. Duncan was a man of deep and true
piety, but of little judgment in worldly matters. It would not be easy
to find one less fitted to guide aright four girls like his daughters:
he had no idea of what was good or hurtful to them. In education,
indeed, both intellectual and religious, he could safely lead them;
but of their physical natures he was quite ignorant. He had no
quickness of perception. He did not see that Gwyneth was becoming
daily more gloomy and abstracted, yielding to fanciful terrors, all
the more powerful because she dared not speak of them. He did not
discover that Sybil was giving way to indolence and repining, loving
to indulge in visionary dreams of future happiness, or in
retrospective pictures of past bliss, but shrinking from real, actual
exertion, and the toils of every-day life. Still less did he perceive
that Hilary was working beyond her strength, and sinking under a
weight of responsibility which she felt too vividly to endure safely.
She was keenly sensible of her sisters’ defects; she felt them with an
acuteness and a self-condemnation almost morbid in its excess; it
seemed to her as if they were entirely her own fault, and she saw
that, however she might guard their health, minister to their comfort,
and promote their pleasures, she was still failing in the more
important part of her stepmother’s charge, while these evils were
allowed to increase and overshadow their characters. Yet she could do
nothing to repress them by herself, and she was not seconded by her
father. Not that he wished or intended to thwart her; he doted on her
far too much for that; but he was quite ignorant of the best manner of
training children, or of the importance due to the small points of
which Hilary thought so much. He secretly attributed the stress she
laid on such things to the over-anxiety of a new-made governess,
precise about unnecessary particulars from the scruples of a young
responsibility; and when Hilary had said as much as duty and respect
permitted, and urged her opinions with the small degree of earnestness
which diffidence and humility allowed her, he would reply with a kind
smile and a kiss, “Very true, my love; you are a good girl to think so
much about your sisters, and I hope they will be grateful. I do not
know what I should do without you.” But the things to which she
objected, the indulgences which she reprehended, were continued just
the same.
Theoretically, he would tell the children to obey Hilary; practically,
he would encourage the contrary conduct. Not that there was any
positive rebellion――there was no passion, ill-will, or disobedience
apparent; these would have been instantly suppressed; but these were
not necessary to gain her ends, Sybil found, and her nature was too
soft to use them. So when she and Hilary differed about her
occupations, her manner of employing her time, or her amusements, an
appeal to her father, a smile and a kiss, always won him to her side
of the argument, and gained for her the right of following her own
taste, rather than submitting to the act of self-denial which her
sister had proposed. Mr. Duncan only saw that both acts were alike
innocent, why then should she not take her choice? Hilary saw further;
for she not only reflected on the results of self-indulgence, but she
felt keenly how her power was annihilated, and her actual authority
annulled; all the more keenly because it was owing to an affection she
could not bear to blame, even in thought.
One of Sybil’s greatest indulgences was in drawing her father into
long conversations respecting her deceased mother, recapitulating her
virtues, and dwelling on their own loss. Had he possessed judgment
enough to turn such recollections to good effect, to increase the
child’s desire of excellence by the memory of what her mother had
been, to strengthen her faith and love by pointing out how these had
been a support in trouble and a comfort in sickness or pain, and to
incite her onward in the same course by the wish of meeting again,
there might have been more reason in his conduct; but this was not the
case, and every such discussion seemed only to soften and weaken her
nerves, make her more indolently dreamy, and bring on floods of
regretful tears, such as she ought to have checked as willful, not
encouraged as amiable and affectionate.
Conversations such as these only drove Gwyneth more completely apart,
and made her shudder in silence. If, when the girls were riding or
walking with their father, as they did almost every day, Sybil fell
into this strain, her sister would draw back, and endeavor to escape
beyond hearing; or if this were impossible, her white cheeks, and
firm-closed lips, and slightly knitted brows told plainly to Hilary
how she was inwardly suffering.
It was too much for Hilary; the household cares, the anxiety for her
sisters, the watchfulness and broken rest which Nest, the youngest,
often caused her――for she had taken the little one to her room at
night, and watched her as her mother had once done; and then the
unwearied attention to her father, the arrangement of his books,
papers, and accounts, all which she took up where Mrs. Duncan had laid
them down; the superintendence of the village school; the parochial
cares; all these fell heavily on her young head――on her willing but
over-anxious mind. The discipline, however, was good for her, and
taught her many things; she saw much was beyond her power, and that
what she could not accomplish, she must be content to leave undone;
she saw many things which should not be, and from clearly ascertaining
the evil, knew better what was good to seek.
And then at length, when she had taught herself to submit with
patience, and to bear what she could not remedy, and to ask and look
for help for what she could not supply by her own power, help and
comfort were sent to her.
Maurice came home: within ten days of their hearing of his arrival in
England, his ship was paid off, and he was free; it was only for a
limited period, however, for not having yet served his time as a
midshipman, and being little more than eighteen, he had determined not
to be idle, and had applied for immediate employment. Consequently he
had but six weeks’ leave to spend at home, after an absence of nearly
four years.
The delight with which Hilary looked forward to the arrival of her
brother, was a stimulus to every power of her mind; and the ecstasy
with which she threw her arms around the tall, slight, graceful youth
on his presenting himself, seemed at the moment a compensation for all
past anxiety and wrong. Maurice was returned to her, and returned with
the same loving smile, and dancing eyes, and cheerful voice which had
dwelt in her memory for so large a portion of her life; he was the
same! could she be thankful enough for this blessing, not only for her
own, but still more for her father’s sake?
How delighted she was to watch her father’s eye brighten, and his
voice assume a more lively tone, as Maurice laughed and talked,
questioned and commented, with the gayety of youth at home and happy.
For Maurice was always happy; his boyhood had been all joy and
sunshine, so far as he could remember; his school-life had been
cheerful and pleasant; and his ship! oh, that had been the happiest on
the station; the captain the most considerate, the first lieutenant
the best fellow in the world, and all his messmates, great and small,
appeared to deserve the same character; and now, though for a short
time, the blank in their home was felt and mourned by him, and he
looked grave when he saw the empty chair and the disused work-table
placed back in a corner: yet his joyous spirit soon rose again, and
with so many blessings left, so much still unchanged, he said and felt
it would be ungrateful to repine that one had been taken.
So, when, in company of Hilary, he had visited the spot where his
step-mother was buried, and talked with his sister of her last hours,
and heard what they had since discovered from her written papers, that
she had been warned by a physician some months before, that, in all
human probability, her days were numbered, and that she would not
survive her next confinement, and when they had recounted her kindness
and her virtues, and shed tears together at the memory of past times,
and made a solemn engagement to return her affection for them as
children, if possible, in double care and attention to the interests
of her daughters, Maurice turned his thoughts to other objects, and
endeavored to show his reverence for the dead by his consideration for
the living. Cheerfulness was what was needed in his dear old home;
cheerfulness to restore the tone of his father’s spirits, to cheer
Sybil, to excite Gwyneth, and, above all, to aid and comfort and
sustain his darling Hilary.
Maurice Duncan had the happy, lively temper ascribed by common report
to sailors; but he had not the wild _insouciance_, the careless,
reckless, or coarse habits often attributed to them. He was
delicately, exquisitely refined in all his feelings; his behavior to
his father was perfect in the respectful attention, engaging
confidence, and invariable consideration he showed him. It was a sight
worth seeing, too, to view him playing with his little sisters; Nest
perched in the back of the old large arm-chair, leaning over his
shoulder, and bringing her bright dark eyes, and ebony curls, in such
charming contrast with his genuine Saxon features; while two other
elder ones each occupied a knee, and drew an arm close round their
waists. Then he would pour out long tales of India, China, or some
other distant land, of tornadoes and breakers, coral-reefs and
palm-trees, of wild shooting excursions, and narrow escapes from
danger――to all which the children listened with wonder and almost awe;
and Hilary sat smiling by, with bright eyes dancing in joy and
thankfulness, and Mr. Duncan paused over his book, and listened with
feelings scarcely less moved and excited than his children.
But, above all, it was beautiful to see how he would wait on Hilary,
attend to her least wish, accommodate himself to her habits and
occupations, relieve her of every burden he could take upon himself,
or share it with her by his sympathy when he could not. Without any
verbal communication, he discovered in what respects she was
overworked, and to some extent contrived to remedy the evil.
Without seeming to find fault, he contrived to arouse his father’s
attention to what was wrong, to what was unfair on her, or pressed too
much on one so young. His devoted attention to her wishes, the
importance he attached to instant obedience to her words, had a great
effect on the younger ones; be the game ever so amusing, the romp ever
so exciting, or the tale ever so deeply interesting, all was quitted
the moment Hilary spoke; and this conduct in one older and much taller
than Hilary herself, could not fail to produce most beneficial results
on the children’s habits and actions. Long after he was gone, his
sister felt the good effects of his care and kindness.
No summer sea sparkling in the sunshine was ever more bright and
buoyant than his spirit; and not even those same waves could exceed
his determined energy of character, his steady perseverance in right,
or the gradual but resistless force with which he won his way through
impediments, and silently swept away obstructions and prejudices.
One Saturday afternoon, the young people all set out together for a
long ramble through the forest, the two girls on their ponies, Hilary
and Maurice arm-in-arm, an arrangement which suited them admirably, as
affording pleasure to the young ones, and securing at the same time
the luxury of confidential communication between the brother and
sister. Thus they strolled along, the children choosing the way, and
leading them down beautiful glades carpeted with mossy turf, and
over-arched by the old elms, and beech, and oak, where thickets of
holly, underwood, and fern made what Maurice called reefs,
promontories, islands, or sheltering bays; winding about sometimes in
one direction, sometimes in another, at length they were entirely
beyond the knowledge of any of the party, and it suddenly became a
matter of doubt which way they were to turn. Hilary had gone on,
leaning, figuratively as well as actually, on her brother; and it had
never occurred to her, that with all his experience, and knowledge,
and learning, he might not be so well qualified to guide them as to
deserve this implicit credit. They all came to a stand-still at last,
and looked about them with different degrees of wonder and uneasiness.
There was no track, no mark of foot-steps, no sound of man to guide
them. Hilary sat down on a fallen tree, puzzled and yet amused, while
Maurice and her sisters made little excursions in different
directions, to endeavor to discover some leading indications. They had
gone a little out of sight, and she was looking toward the point from
which she expected them to return, when she heard footsteps
approaching, and turning round, saw, through a thicket of thorn,
hazel, and holly, a person whom at first she believed to be her
brother.
“Maurice, have you found the path?” exclaimed she, eagerly; but the
next moment she perceived it was a stranger who advanced, and who,
springing over the intervening underwood of fern and bramble,
presently stood by her side.
“I beg your pardon,” said Hilary, as she looked at him; “I thought it
was my brother when I spoke.”
She addressed him with an easy grace and courtesy, which was very
attractive; and the intruder replied, with as much eagerness as
politeness permitted,
“I have not seen your brother; can I be of any service to you? may I
infer from your question that you have lost your way?”
“Indeed we have,” replied Hilary, frankly; “well as I know the forest
generally, I am quite puzzled now, and my brother and sisters are gone
a little way to try and find a path.”
“If you will allow me to remain with you till their return,” replied
the stranger, “I shall be most happy to act as your guide. In which
direction do you wish to proceed?”
“We belong to Hurstdene,” replied Hilary; “I am the clergyman’s
daughter; perhaps you know the name of Mr. Duncan?”
“Perfectly; though I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance; but
you are a long way from Hurstdene; five miles, I should think, at
least.”
“I have no idea where we are,” replied Miss Duncan, looking round; “I
never was so far on this side of the wood. Is there any hamlet or
village near us?”
“I think my house must be the nearest inhabited spot,” said the
gentleman; “perhaps you may know that by the name, ‘the Ferns,’ and
that may give you some idea where you are.”
“Oh, yes, I know the gates and fences of ‘the Ferns’ very well,”
answered Hilary, looking with a sort of modified and restrained
curiosity at her companion; “but I had no idea it was inhabited; I
thought the owner was abroad still.”
“I was abroad,” said he, smiling, “until very lately; but just at
present I am living on my own domain. Is this your brother
approaching?”
Hilary looked round: Maurice and the children approached quickly,
evidently surprised to find she had a companion.
“We can not see any path,” cried Gwyneth; “what shall we do? we are
quite lost.” She looked exceedingly frightened.
“Maurice,” said Hilary, stepping forward to meet him, “this is Mr.
Huyton, of ‘the Ferns.’ I believe I am right,” added she, looking with
a sort of apologetic smile at the stranger.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Duncan,” said he, frankly
holding out his hand, “and still more happy to think that I can be of
service to your party. I learn from Miss Duncan that you have lost
your way, and I believe I can direct you to the road home. But do you
know how far you are?”
“I am so great a stranger here,” replied Maurice, “that it is easy for
me to lose myself, and I have no bearings to direct me: so we shall be
really obliged if you can set us right.”
“But will Miss Duncan be able to walk back five or six miles?”
inquired Mr. Huyton.
“Hilary, dear, you can not do that, I am sure,” said Maurice,
anxiously.
“Necessity knows no law,” was Hilary’s cheerful reply. “I am not so
very tired; besides, I can ride a little to rest myself, you know;
neither Sybil nor Gwyneth have walked at all!”
Both girls, who had been gazing most attentively at the stranger, now
cried out that Hilary should ride when she liked; all the way, if she
liked.
“Then your shortest way home,” replied Mr. Huyton, “is through my
park, and out into the road which skirts the side of it; that will
lead you direct to Hurstdene.”
The children looked delighted, and whispered, audibly enough, how they
should like to go through the “the Ferns;” they had never been inside
the gates.
This point was soon settled, and he led them along a green alley of
the forest, until they came to the park palings. The fence was of the
wildest description. Ivy, clematis, and woodbine, mixed in the utmost
profusion with bryony, bind-weed, and other climbing plants,
overshadowed by gigantic ferns and gorse, which might almost be
classed among trees. Over these, huge forest trees swung their ancient
branches, and made a sort of twilight of the spot. The children
wondered what would come next; but Mr. Huyton, drawing a key from his
pocket, and pushing aside a tangled screen of green boughs, soon threw
open a little door, which at first had hardly been perceptible, and
the party found themselves within the park.
A narrow path, which seemed but rarely trodden, leading between
thickets of tall fern, picturesque old thorns, and ancient hollies,
opened before them. Eager and amused, the girls pressed their ponies
along at a quick pace; Hilary still leaned on her brother’s arm, while
Mr. Huyton walked by her side, and assisted Maurice to hold back the
encroaching brambles, or overhanging prickly branches, which might
have impeded her progress.
A turn in the path brought them suddenly in sight of the house, and
then the owner, turning to Hilary, said,
“If you will trust yourself to the wild style of housekeeping which a
bachelor hermit’s establishment affords, you will come in and rest
yourself, Miss Duncan?”
Hilary at first declined, but her companion would not be refused, and
Maurice was so charmed with the manners of their new acquaintance, and
with the style of his conversation, that he seconded his proposal,
when, of course, Hilary yielded.
“Thank you, very much,” exclaimed Mr. Huyton, warmly; “but I must tell
you that to rest in my house is but a part of my plan. You must let me
have the pleasure of taking you all home in my carriage, I am sure
Miss Duncan is too fatigued for more exertion; and perhaps the young
ladies would not mind exchanging their saddle for a seat in the
britschka?”
“Oh, no; we can not think of giving such trouble,” exclaimed Hilary
quite shocked at the idea.
“Besides, there are the ponies!” suggested Maurice.
“Never mind them, the groom shall bring them home in the evening,”
replied Mr. Huyton; and without listening to any further objections,
he called to a man who was standing by the gate of the stable-yard,
close to which their path led them, and gave orders for the carriage
to be got ready.
Their path now emerged into a beautiful triple avenue, which extended
at least half a mile from the front of the house, along which Hilary’s
eye glanced with intense admiration, and a low exclamation of
“beautiful!” escaped her.
“My ancestors must have loved trees,” said Mr. Huyton; “there are
avenues extending from each side of this huge, unwieldy house. I
should like to show them to you some day.”
“Is this the front?” inquired Maurice.
“Yes; I fancy this is; but the house is square, and either side looks
like the front; each has an entrance in the same heavy, substantial
style; but I like the south rooms, so I have chosen this part for my
residence. Let me welcome you to my domicile,” added he, smiling with
captivating grace on Hilary, as he pushed open the door, and ushered
her into a broad entrance passage. He then turned to assist the others
from their ponies, and after directing a stable helper to lead off the
animals, he took the hands of the girls and led them in.
“Oh, how charming!” cried both Sybil and Gwyneth, as they glanced
along the passage which opened into a great hall, occupying the center
of the house. They caught sight of a wide branching staircase with a
heavy balustrade; of sundry trophies of the chase, and ancient arms
and armor, of various unknown articles, and not a few packing-cases
and great boxes, standing about in extraordinary confusion.
Mr. Huyton seemed amused at their wondering admiration. He opened a
door on the right. “Here is my room,” said he, “no other is quite
habitable yet; I have not been home long enough to get another
furnished.”
“We never heard you were at home at all,” said Sybil; “when did you
come, sir?”
“About a month ago,” replied he, as he pushed up a large easy chair,
and made Hilary seat herself in it; “I will tell you all about it
presently, but you must let me attend to your sister’s comfort first,
will you not?”
He rang the bell as he spoke, and then looked round to see what more
he could do for her convenience, bringing her a foot-stool, and
drawing down the blind, that the sun might not shine on her head; and
showing, by his whole air and manner, how anxious he felt for her
comfort.
“Bring some wine and biscuits, or bread and butter, or something,”
said he, as a servant presented himself at the door.
“Not for us, Mr. Huyton,” exclaimed Hilary, eagerly; “pray do not take
the trouble; we _never_ touch wine, except Maurice, and I do not
suppose _he_ would either, now.”
“Some ladies do not, I know,” replied he, gently; “then bring coffee
as soon as possible, and tell Leblanc to make it, that it may be
good.”
The servant disappeared, and Hilary found it vain to contend against
such politeness and hospitality,
“Those are beautiful specimens of wood-carving, are they not?” said
their host to Maurice, who was examining some book-shelves at one end
of the room; “they are for my library――nothing is in its place about
the house. Indeed I have hardly had time to get my things unpacked
yet.”
“You have always been abroad, Mr. Huyton?” said Sybil, coming up to
his side.
“Yes,” was his reply, with a smile, as he looked at her face of
curiosity. “I have spent twenty-five years, my whole life indeed,
abroad; but I mean to settle in England now, and make this my home.
Look at these beautiful cameos, shall we show them to your sister?
would she like to see them?”
“Oh, yes! Hilary has some of her own, which I know she likes very
much,” replied Sybil, eagerly.
“But she would like these best,” said Gwyneth, decidedly; pointing to
a book of drawings, between the leaves of which she had furtively
peeped. It was a collection of drawings, copied from some of the most
celebrated works of good artists, all done in a masterly style.
“She shall have her choice,” replied their host, looking much pleased;
“you bring the book, and I will carry the case of cameos.”
Again Hilary begged him not to trouble himself, but without any
effect: a small table was placed beside her, and one article after
another produced for her amusement. Her admiration of the colored
drawings was extreme, and evidently highly gratifying to her host.
“How much my father would enjoy these,” said she to Maurice.
“If you think them worth the trouble of carrying home with you,” said
Mr. Huyton, “I shall be only too much flattered to lend them to you. I
can see, by your careful handling of them, the book would be as safe
with you as with me.”
“They are exquisitely beautiful,” said Hilary, gazing with intense
admiration at a copy of one of Raphael’s best works. “Who was the
artist?”
“I made the copies myself,” was his reply; an answer which brought
Hilary’s eyes on him with a look of reverence and admiration.
The coffee was soon brought in, most excellent of its kind; indeed,
whatever they saw, belonging to Mr. Huyton, which could be supposed
finished, appeared as perfect as possible. Although it was evident
that as yet hardly any thing was in its place, and the whole house had
the air of having been so long neglected, that Hilary could not wonder
that its progress towards order and classification had gone on slowly.
“I shall get on by degrees,” said he, in answer to some observation of
hers relative to the labor before him. “By-and-by, when the library
has been new floored and cleaned, we will have these carved
book-frames put up, of which that is a specimen. But I like to
superintend the whole. It doubles the value of a place to arrange it
all oneself: unless one had the happiness of falling in with some
second mind and fancy, which could sympathize with and enter into
one’s own peculiarities and wishes.”
“And do you not find the noise and bustle of workmen disagreeable, Mr.
Huyton?” asked Hilary.
“I do not mind it; and when I am tired I go out in the forest, or
stroll about, and form plans for the ground and gardens.”
“There used to be a famous garden here always,” observed Maurice;
“many a time have I bought peaches and nectarines at the Lodge gates
in former years.”
“These windows look up that beautiful avenue, I see,” said Hilary;
“what magnificent timber you have about here.”
“Yes, and so quaintly planted,” replied he; “one wonders at the taste.
Straight rows seem the prevailing idea. Rows of oaks, rows of cedars,
rows of larch trees, varied by quadrangles of enormous yews, or of
double rows of limes, which must be delicious in summer. Miss Duncan,
I do not wish to hurry you away, but whenever you please, the carriage
is at your service.”
Hilary rose to prepare for her departure. The children cast many a
longing, lingering look towards the unexplored regions of the house,
which Mr. Huyton observing, told them that they should come again some
other day, and they would have a good game at hide-and-seek all over
the house; a promise which they resolved not to allow him to forget.
The most unqualified admiration was excited by the beautiful horses
and carriage which stood at the door, Sybil declaring they were just
what he ought to have, and Gwyneth whispering to Maurice that the
afternoon’s adventure was quite like a fairy tale.
“Are you going to drive, Mr. Huyton?” asked Sybil, as he was preparing
to hand Hilary in.
“Not if you can make room for me inside,” was his answer; “do you
think you two little girls could sit by your sister without squeezing
her too much?”
“Easily, easily,” cried Sybil, springing up and down on the elastic
cushions of the carriage. “Oh, Hilary, is it not delicious? if we had
but such a carriage as this for every day!”
Maurice preferred going on the box, when it came to the point, so that
after all there was plenty of room; and Sybil and Gwyneth were able to
change sides in the carriage every five minutes, a process which any
one less patiently indulgent than Hilary would soon have stopped.
Mr. Huyton, however, sitting opposite to her, kept her in such
pleasant conversation on really interesting subjects, that she had not
much time to be worried by any restlessness of her sisters; and the
half-hour’s drive passed only too rapidly. He was as enthusiastic an
admirer of scenery as she herself, and with an eye and taste
cultivated by familiarity with the best examples; yet he did not
despise or look down contemptuously on English scenery, or an English
climate, because the one could not show the Alps, nor the other boast
of the bright suns of Italy or Greece. The small specimen that he had
seen was enough to give him most favorable impressions; and he was
equally prepared to like the women of his country. His expectations
were high, but he had not as yet met with a disappointment.
“I am so glad of that,” replied Hilary, with a simplicity and candor
which told how little she suspected that she was the first English
lady he had conversed with since his return from abroad. The idea of
his intending a compliment to her was as far as possible from her
mind.
Mr. Duncan was naturally a good deal surprised when he perceived the
style in which his children had returned home; but nothing could be
more cordial and grateful than his thanks and his invitation to their
new acquaintance to walk in and share their tea. Sybil and Gwyneth,
too, seconded the invitation with all their might; but Hilary was
engrossed with little Nest, and either did not or would not attend; he
was not sure which was the case.
“I must say good evening,” said he, approaching the end of the room,
where she was sitting on the end of the sofa, with her arms around the
little one. “Is this another of your sisters, Miss Duncan? I never saw
more lovely children; and yet how unlike they are to you!”
Nest fixed her large black eyes on Mr. Huyton, with a perfect
appreciation of his compliment. Her sister colored, looked grave, and
then rising, held out her hand, only replying, “Good evening, then,
and we are so much obliged to you!”
“The obligation is to me,” replied he, gracefully; then stooping down
to kiss the beautiful little face, which, half-shyly,
half-coquettishly, rested against Hilary’s shoulder, he added, “It has
been a bright afternoon to me, and the acquaintance I have formed I
shall not easily relinquish!”
No sooner was he gone, than the whole party joined in one unanimous
chorus in praise of their new friend, his house, his trees, his
manners, his carriage, and his coffee.
Maurice was as enthusiastic as the girls, and the whole of tea-time
was spent in recapitulating the charms and virtues of Mr. Huyton. In
short, the entire thing had so much the air of a romance, and they had
so rarely met with any adventure before, that enough could not be said
in praise, or delight.
After tea, Hilary produced the book of drawings, and they were
thoroughly appreciated by Mr. Duncan, who had, in his youth, made a
tour abroad, and taken the opportunity of cultivating a natural taste
and love for painting.
In the middle of this occupation, a message was brought in, that Mr.
Huyton’s groom had brought home the ponies, and also a basket of
peaches and grapes from “the Ferns;” sent specially directed to Mr.
Maurice, to remind him of old times; an attention to her brother’s
pleasure which charmed Hilary more than all the rest of the
transaction together.