“Her ’haviour had the morning’s fresh, clear grace,
The spirit of the woods was in her face,
She looked so witching fair――――”
ISEULT OF BRITTANY.
Sybil’s lessons, the next Monday morning, were much disturbed by
sundry dreams and visions; she was possessed with the idea that Mr.
Huyton would drive over in his beautiful carriage again to-day, and
perhaps take them all back to the Ferns, for the promised game of hide
and seek. She was listening every moment for the sound of wheels, and
trying to catch a glimpse of the carriage driving over the green,
toward the house.
After all, Mr. Huyton came, but so quietly, that Sybil was perfectly
ignorant when he entered the house. He rode over, rather early for a
morning visit, and met Maurice on the green, who put his horse in the
stable, and took the visitor into the garden, to wait till lesson-time
was over, as he knew Hilary did not like to be interrupted in her
teaching. They were all much surprised, in consequence, when, just as
the children were putting away their books, the two young men walked
into the room. None of the party was sorry to see Mr. Huyton; he
seemed to have such genuine pleasure in the intercourse, that it
naturally communicated itself to the whole family.
Mr. Huyton, indeed, was delighted with the acquaintance. The
simplicity, frankness, and refinement of the whole family enchanted
him. Weary of the fashionable manners, and artificial style of living,
prevalent among the circles in foreign capitals, which he had
frequented, there was something bewitching in this little glimpse of
nature and truth now presented to him. Of English society he knew
nothing, save such as he had met abroad, seldom the best, or under the
best aspects; and without troubling himself to discover in what the
peculiar charm consisted, he resolved to cultivate the acquaintance of
the Duncans, and make himself at home with them.
He was surprised to find in a girl of Hilary’s age, and educated
completely in retirement, such a degree of elegance, and what he
called high-breeding. It was a wonder to him how she learned a style
of courtesy, which is sometimes wanting under what he would have
considered much more favorable circumstances. He had yet to learn that
real Christianity is the best school of good manners; and that the
rule of doing as we would be done by, secures that substance, of which
politeness and refinement can only give the shadow or the reflection.
She was so unconsciously pretty too, with all her delightful
simplicity; so unintentionally graceful, and quietly elegant, that he
never discovered how plain her dress was, nor how slightly it
conformed to the prevalent fashion. The black close-fitting gown, with
the clean little white collar, seemed made precisely to show off her
slender form and fair skin; and the pretty brown hair, with its long
curl, just put back behind a small delicately-shaped ear, and the rich
braid forming a Grecian knot, needed no coiffeur to make it look
smoother, more glossy, or more becoming to the classic shape of her
little head.
Without forming any definite ideas as to the ultimate results likely
to ensue, he entered at once with youthful ardor upon an acquaintance
so accidentally formed. It was not likely that a young man of large
fortune and prepossessing person and manners, would long be left to
the solitude of his own country house, nor obliged to pick up his
acquaintance at random in the forest; but he was sufficiently peculiar
and independent in his tastes and habits, to take his own line and
adhere to it; and for the present his chosen line lay in associating
almost exclusively with the Duncans. Prudent fathers of families, and
speculating brothers, hoping for future _battues_ or other delights,
made visits at the Ferns, as soon as it was generally known that the
owner was resident there; and, thanks to the necessity of eating and
drinking, and the circulating nature of butchers and bakers, as well
as gossip in a country place, that was pretty soon after his arrival.
No one had, however, as yet got further than the doorway, the answer
being apparently stereotyped, that the house was in confusion, and Mr.
Huyton did not receive company. The Duncans alone had been permitted
to enter. They were perfectly unconscious of the superior privilege
accorded them. They were out of the way of gossip, and had few
visitors except the farmers’ and cottagers’ wives of their own
village. Mr. Huyton himself was the only landed proprietor in the
parish, and on that account might be considered as belonging to them.
The lay-impropriator resided six or seven miles from them; he was a
man generally well-spoken of, and the father of two daughters, but
there had never been any intercourse between them.
In short, Mr. Huyton’s appearance among them was like the discovery of
a new and wonderful comet to an enthusiastic astronomer; and he could
not be more ready for the acquaintance, than they were to admit and
encourage it.
Had Mr. Duncan been really a prudent father, he might have hesitated,
perhaps, to admit to such an intimacy a young man of whom they knew
only the name and the residence; but his charity made him literally
think no evil; and the young men proved so congenial to each other in
general taste, that they speedily became as nearly inseparable as the
five miles between their respective homes would permit.
Maurice would have been constantly at the Ferns, if the owner of that
place had not been so often at Hurstdene; and the little girls never
seemed to think of riding in any other direction, unless he was with
them to guide them in a different path.
All his plans were brought over to the Vicarage to be discussed and
re-arranged according to the tastes of his friends there; nominally of
the whole family, actually of Hilary herself, in most cases, with the
assistance of her father’s opinion.
The number of nutting parties, whortle berry parties, and other
rambling, scrambling expeditions in which he was engaged by the
children, was wonderful. It was apparently all the same to him,
whether their object was to pick berries or make sketches, he was an
adept at either, and he soon constituted himself drawing-master to the
whole party, and presented Sybil with a stock of materials for the
work, which amply supplied, as it was perhaps intended it should, both
her sisters also.
Then he was delighted to encourage Gwyneth’s natural and native love
of music, and finding their only instrument was such a piano as you
might expect to find in an old-fashioned country vicarage, he
transferred to her as a birth-day present, a small but beautiful
instrument, which he had ordered for his own room at the Ferns, but
which he succeeded in persuading Mr. Duncan, it would greatly oblige
him if he could now get rid of. There were some scruples about
accepting so valuable a present, but Mr. Huyton had his own way after
all. If he expected Gwyneth to be able to play the music which
accompanied the piano, he must have formed wonderful ideas of the
capabilities of the child: but Hilary reveled in Beethoven and Mozart
for months afterward, and it certainly was an advantage to Gwyneth
herself, to _hear_ such good music as was now placed within her reach.
So the weeks sped away, fast and bright, as the evening rainbow fades
from the sky, until Maurice’s leave was over, and the sad eve of
parting arrived. It was a subject which had never been discussed in
Mr. Huyton’s presence, and one which had not occurred to his mind; so
that it took him quite by surprise when, late one afternoon, on
arriving at the Vicarage, after an accidental absence of nearly
forty-eight hours, he found Sybil and Gwyneth with very sober faces,
sitting in the porch, and was told by them, with tearful eyes, that
Maurice was really to go early to-morrow, so Hilary was helping him to
pack his trunk.
The door of the little room on one side of the hall was opened as they
spoke, and Maurice called out, “Oh, Charles! is that you? I began to
think I should have to leave without seeing you again!”
The visitor entered the door, and there he found Maurice sitting on a
portmanteau, in the hope that his weight would bring the two sides
into fair proximity to each other; while Hilary was half kneeling,
half sitting on the floor, from which she made a sort of motion to
rise as he entered, looking at him with very pale cheeks and mournful
eyes. “I had no idea, my dear fellow! you were going so soon,” said
Charles Huyton, quietly placing himself beside his friend on the
portmanteau. “Oh the misery of packing up,” added he, taking a curious
look round the room at the various litters it contained.
“Well, we have done for to-day,” replied Maurice; “I never got through
it so nicely before; but Hilary, dear, we will rest now. I say,
Charles, where have you been?”
“I had to go to Hitchinboro’ about some business, and could not come
earlier. Miss Duncan, is it too late for a walk? I had hoped to be in
time to finish that sketch of the old oak-tree.”
“I don’t know,” said Hilary, trying to rouse herself. “What do you
say, Maurice?”
“If my father will come,” replied he. “I should not like to leave him
for the whole evening; and he talked of wanting to visit those
cottages by the tree.”
Hilary said she would go and see; and rising, left the room.
“Poor dear girl!” said Maurice, looking after her; “do you know what
it is to leave such dear ones, Charles?――I could cry just now with
pleasure.”
“Your sister will miss you immensely,” replied Mr. Huyton; “but she
has so uncommon a degree of self-control and firmness of character,
that I have no doubt but she will bear up under it with vigor.”
“Hilary is not the least like any other girl I ever saw,” replied
Maurice, thoughtfully, “and I have seen a good many, one way or
another; she is just a hundred times better than any one I ever came
across; you might live with her ten years, and never know her do a
selfish or an unkind thing. I really do not believe she ever thinks of
herself.”
“It is certainly rare to see one so young so thoughtful and womanly in
her mind,” said Charles Huyton, earnestly. “I think you told me she is
not yet eighteen?”
“Oh! no, only just turned seventeen; most girls are mere children at
her age. To see how she teaches and manages the little ones, and cares
for my father, and attends to all the old women and babies in the
parish, knowing exactly who wants a flannel petticoat, or a pig, or a
dose of rhubarb: it is really something wonderful! I do not believe
she ever forgets any thing from one Sunday to another!”
“Except herself,” replied the visitor.
“Ay, except herself, in the right sense. I say, Charles, though, I
have seen many girls forget themselves when I could have wished them a
little more memory, for their own sakes; and you never see Hilary do
that.”
“Never――I wonder you can make up your mind to leave your family,”
observed Charles Huyton, with the utter unconsciousness of the laws of
necessity which young men of large fortunes, independent of guardians,
sometimes feel.
“What would you have?” said Maurice. “I must work, and, indeed, I love
my profession; and but for these leave-takings, have nothing to
complain of. If I am only lucky enough to get promoted by-and-by, when
I am older, Hilary and I will settle down together in some little
cottage on the sea-shore, and live on my half-pay and her fortune
together, and be a regular old cozy brother and sister. That’s my
notion of happiness. I don’t think either Hilary or I shall ever want
to marry!”
“Don’t you?” observed his friend, with a somewhat incredulous smile.
“I only hope she will not over-work herself; she is too anxious about
every thing; and with nobody to help her, the three children come
heavily upon her. Charles, you will come and see them sometimes when I
am gone?”
“Sometimes!” replied Mr. Huyton, quietly.
Maurice turned round abruptly. “I am selfish for her sake, perhaps;
but you must excuse me; don’t come if you do not like, however. I
thought perhaps――but never mind; I daresay you have plenty to do much
pleasanter than dawdling about here with such rustics as we all are.”
“There is nothing I like better, upon my honor. My great fear has
been, that your absence would make a difference――that perhaps I should
not be admitted. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to think
there need be no change.”
“No change! well, I do not say that; but let Hilary settle the change
for herself. I only wish you could help her teach the children a
little,” added he, laughing; “but I am afraid you can not quite take
my place as tutor.”
“We will see,” was the reply, gravely given.
The little girls came running in, equipped for walking, and summoned
the two young men to join Mr. Duncan and his daughter, who were out at
the gate, settling Nest in the pannier of a pony, that being the way
in which that young lady made her excursions with her sisters; and on
this occasion she was not to be left behind.
There was a good deal of desultory conversation passed between the
family, not the least connected with the subject which occupied their
minds; _that_ was too sorrowful to be dwelt on; and both Maurice and
Hilary thought more of their father, and of amusing him, than of
indulging their own low spirits at the moment.
When they came to the Great Oak, it was settled that Maurice should
accompany Mr. Duncan as he went round to visit a few scattered huts
and hovels, inhabited by a wild and somewhat lawless race of
wood-cutters, brickmakers, and poachers, who had located themselves in
this secluded spot, while Hilary and Sybil sat down, under Mr.
Huyton’s protection, to finish a sketch of the old tree.
“How well it looks this evening,” observed he; “the tawney russet
shade which has tinged the leaves, shows well against those
orange-colored beech-trees which back it up. If you can but catch the
effect of that slanting sunbeam falling on those bright leaves, and
tinging the trunk with gold! It is made for a picture!”
Hilary laid down her pencil, and gazed abstractedly at the scene till
the tears gathered in her eyes, and first blinded her sight, and then
dropped on her sketch-book and blotted her drawing. Her companion saw
it, and gently drew it away from under her hands, to which she
passively submitted, hardly knowing what he did, and hoping to quiet
her emotion more easily by keeping silence.
“The sunbeam may fade to-night,” whispered he, “but it will come again
to-morrow, Miss Duncan; and we can sleep away the hours of darkness,
with the hope of a brighter dawn.”
“I was thinking,” said Hilary, after a pause, and carefully steadying
her voice, “that that oak was like my father, how grand and venerable
it looks; and that glowing, golden sunbeam was Maurice’s visit to us,
just slipping away; what a bright gleam it shed on us for a little
time; and now it is over, and he will be left――as that tree will
be――to the night-dews, and the cold light of the moon and stars, which
may glimmer round him, and seem to make a show and brightness, but
have no real warmth, or strength, or power, in their poor feeble
beams.”
“That is a comparison which does little justice to the bright light
which shines on your father’s home and household,” replied Charles
Huyton, warmly.
“I know it, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, understanding his words in a
different sense from what he intended; “I know that he has that light
within which makes external lights of little consequence. But yet, I
can not help feeling that our home is not what it was once, and how
sad, how desolate it must look to him. If I could but fill the place
more effectually――but I am such a child――”
“Maurice says, your only fault is that you are too anxious,” replied
Charles Huyton, who found it much easier to praise Hilary than to
answer her feelings.
“Ah, Maurice does not know――” was her only answer.
“You do not in general dispute his judgment,” said Charles, smiling a
little. “Do not take your responsibilities so to heart――do not fancy
that you are called on to wear yourself out; the very fact of taking
things easily yourself, will make them easy to others also. Nobody
expects a woman’s grave and severe prudence and consideration, from
your youth. Give yourself more liberty, and take less trouble.”
“Did Maurice tell you to say that to me?” inquired Hilary.
“No――I say it of myself; I can see that you are over-anxious.”
“Perhaps I am――but can one really be too anxious to do one’s duty, Mr.
Huyton? Do I take uncalled-for tasks on myself――and if not, if, as I
believe, what I do is merely what I ought to do, then, you know, it is
what I have the power to do also. More is not required than is
possible; ours is not a hard Master; but then the proper interest must
be returned for the talents committed to us, or we are unfaithful as
well as unprofitable servants.”
He was silent, for she was talking in an unknown tongue to him,
alluding to things as realities, whose existence he hardly recognized.
“I know the fault is mine when I fail; and the merit, if I ever
succeed, is His from whom help cometh,” added she, a little
hesitatingly, as if in deprecation of his grave looks.
“Maurice has given me leave, as far as he can, to try and fill his
place,” said the young man; “and he referred me to you, as to the way
in which I could be of use, and when I may come and see you.”
“Will you really?” said Hilary, showing the most innocent pleasure at
the prospect; “I thought when he was gone, you would not care much for
coming here as you have done.”
“Then you are mistaken. I have known no pleasanter hours than those I
have spent at the Vicarage. Besides, how could I get on with my
improvements? who would plan my walks, or choose my papers, or design
my greenhouses?――no, I am not such an idiot as to throw away a
valuable friendship when I have once made it.”
Hilary laughed lightly, as her only reply.
“Gwyneth,” added he, pulling the child toward him as he sat on the
turf, “you know very well that I could not do without you and Sybil to
help me, don’t you?”
“We could not get on without you,” replied Gwyneth; “Hilary wants to
go on learning German, and I am sure nobody could teach her so well;
and your French and English books, and your music and paintings are
much better, and nicer, and prettier than any we have of our own.”
“But then, Gwyneth,” whispered he, “you have things which I have
not――much better things, things that I can not buy.”
“I thought you had money enough to buy every thing you wanted,” said
Gwyneth.
“Not every thing. I can not buy a father, or sisters, or a brother
like Maurice――and you have all these, which I want; so who is best
off?”
Gwyneth looked uncertain, or unwilling to speak.
“Suppose you were to give me back my sketch-book?” said Hilary,
stretching out her hand for it; but he drew it back out of her reach,
with a look which quieted Hilary, and prevented her saying any more,
although she could not easily have told why.
The father and son returned, during the silence which ensued after
Hilary’s last speech; and Sybil, who had been very industriously
working away at her sketch, now held it up for approbation, which it
obtained, as it deserved. The party then prepared to return homeward,
and little Nest, who had been wandering about under the charge of
Gwyneth, was recalled, and once more lodged in her pannier.
Mr. Huyton was pressed to come in as usual; but thinking that on the
last evening the family would be more comfortable without a stranger
of the party, he declined, and mounting his horse, after very cordial
farewells to Maurice, he rode slowly home, meditating on the charms of
Hilary, and thinking what he should do with regard to her. To let
things take their own course, and be decided hereafter by events,
seemed to him the best thing to do.
In the mean time he carried away the sketch-book, with the intention
of abstracting and appropriating the unfinished sketch on which her
tears had fallen, and giving her a copy, of his own doing, of the
scene she had attempted to delineate.
So things did take their course; and acting on impulse, with out any
definite idea, or decided plan, Charles Huyton continued to come and
go, between the Ferns and the Vicarage, all through the autumn and
ensuing winter. He finished his house, and arranged his grounds, and
returned his neighbors’ visits, sometimes accepting invitations to
dinner, sometimes even appearing at a ball, being exceedingly admired,
and very much courted, and making himself universally agreeable when
he did go into society; but withal preserving a sort of mystery about
his usual pursuits and amusements, which rendered him _piquant_ and
interesting in the highest degree.
He never gave parties of any kind, not even to gentlemen; did not
preserve his game, and did not either hunt or shoot; men were as much
puzzled to account for his oddities as women. The neighborhood――that
is, the part of the country inhabited by gentlemen’s families――lay
almost entirely in the opposite direction to Hurstdene, and so far
removed from the vicinity of the Vicarage, that the length and
frequency of his visits to the Duncans passed unheeded and unheard of.
All his leisure time was spent there, reading, drawing, teaching,
gardening for them, and with them, and discussing his own plans and
projects. Inspired by Hilary, and advised by her father, he did some
very useful things: he built and endowed a school at the edge of his
park, for some of the scattered population around; he improved the
dwellings of the poor tenants, and, in short, fell in with all the
usual schemes of benevolence patronized by a well-meaning landholder.
But the hand that guided him was not at all apparent, and nobody could
be more ignorant of her influence than Hilary herself: she really
believed that all the right things Mr. Huyton did came from his own
right feelings and good principles. Indeed this was one great secret
of her power; he could see through the designs of the mammas who
invited him to their houses, and their daughters who took such
interest in his house, his park, his garden, or his school. He felt
that they only cared for him because he was rich, and he believed that
had he offered his hand and fortune to any of these elegant young
women, it would have been unhesitatingly accepted on the shortest
notice, and with the greatest triumph. With Hilary it was different;
kind and obliging as she was, unreserved in many respects, frank and
simple, he by no means felt sure that she loved him; on the contrary,
as months rolled on, and the graceful girl grew and developed into a
very handsome and elegant woman, while her mind matured in proportion
as her person improved, he became more dubious on the question which
he often asked himself, “Would she ever consent to become his wife?”
His own wishes took a most decisive shape before she had quite
completed her eighteenth year; but his hopes stood on a very different
ground: shifting in their appearance as if they rested on a quicksand,
and varying with every interview. That such a notion had never entered
her head he would have boldly maintained, had it been necessary; he
would have staked his fortune fearlessly on her perfect innocence and
simplicity; he had cautiously guarded against putting it there by any
conduct of his own; for he had an intuitive conviction that the day
his wishes were discovered would be the last of that pleasant, frank,
comfortable intercourse which now existed; and he by no means felt
convinced that it would be replaced by any thing more pleasant.
Every part of her conduct convinced him that she did not love him;
Sybil and Gwyneth could not have appeared more unconscious and
unsusceptible of this feeling. But he hoped that time would produce a
change; there was no fear of a rival, so he could wait; and rather
than risk all by a premature discovery, he did wait, and watch and
guard his looks and manners, and lived in hopes of the future.
He was quite right; Hilary did not love him. He was very pleasant; a
great comfort to her father; most kind to her sisters, and very
good-natured to herself; but for some hidden reason, she never
entertained for him the smallest approach to what could be called
love; perhaps it was because she did not think about it: busy and
useful, cheerful and yet thoughtful, she had adopted Maurice’s notion
that she should never marry, but should continue as she now was. To
leave her father or desert her sisters, indeed, would have seemed a
monstrous impossibility to her――a thing too much contrary to right
even to be thought of with a negative. Nest, who was but just five
years old, would want her care for fifteen years to come at least; and
oh! what an age that seems to the girl who has herself only counted
eighteen years of life.
But it was very kind and pleasant to have such a friend as Mr. Huyton,
to lend them books, and bring them reviews and prints, and help them
in the parish with money, and especially to be so fond of
Maurice――write to him so often, and always show the letters he
received from him to them.
And so matters went on, and things took their course, and Hilary
worked and read, and governed her household, her sisters, and herself,
and, very unconsciously, the owner of the Ferns also; and months
passed, and she saw her nineteenth birth-day arrive, and wondered to
think how old she felt when she was yet so young, and questioned much
with herself whether she had rightly fulfilled her task, and feared
that could her step-mother revisit her children, she would find her
best efforts had been fearfully imperfect, and that their characters
were too much the result of chance and circumstance, and that the
guiding hand had been too weak to be efficient.
No――she did not love Charles Huyton; no thought of him mingled with
her reflections on her nineteenth birth-day.