“Far, far from each other
Our spirits have grown;
And what heart knows another?
Ah! who knows his own?”
ARNOLD.
Mr. Huyton, it may be presumed, did not know that Hilary gave him so
small a part in her thoughts, or he probably would not have acted as
he did on that very day. However, I will not venture positively to
affirm this; for such are the inconsistencies and contradictions of
human nature, that it is safer to calculate on resolutions being
broken, and promises forfeited, than on the exact performance of
either.
Charles Huyton’s resolutions had not been communicated to others, and
his promises were made only to himself, so there was no one who could
charge him with inconsistency, or blame him for want of faith, when,
after having firmly resolved to conceal his opinions and wishes with
regard to Hilary, he betrayed them to her on her nineteenth birth-day.
She was standing in the church-yard, beside the graves of her own
mother and her step-mother, recalling her past life, and renewing her
resolutions to watch over, guard, and devote herself to her younger
sisters, when Charles Huyton, directed by some extraordinary instinct,
discovered and joined her there.
It was a very picturesque little spot. The east window, which was
handsome in itself, formed the background; a beautiful spreading lime,
with its pale tassels just then in full blossom, hung overhead, and
sheltered it from the north; the graves were carefully preserved, and
planted with myrtle, rosemary, and some other evergreens; and the wall
of the church was richly decorated with large purple and
white-flowered clematis, Virginia creeper, and climbing roses. Hilary
was sitting on a bench under the lime-tree, plunged in profound
meditation, when Mr. Huyton, whose footstep was inaudible on the short
turf, presented himself before her.
“You have chosen rather a mournful place of retirement, Miss Duncan,”
said he, seating himself by her, after the first greeting; “may I
venture to remain with you, or do you court solitude as well as
gloom?”
“I do not feel either solitude or gloom in this spot, Mr. Huyton,”
said she, quietly; “but it seems to me a wholesome occupation for the
mind sometimes to quit the brightness of life for the calm repose of
such a scene as this.”
He did not answer immediately――he was reading the inscription on the
headstones before him; she, too, was silent. After some minutes, he
turned to her.
“I should like to know the thoughts which occupy you so deeply,” said
he.
She colored a little, and replied, “They are sacred to the memory of
the departed; but there are so many thoughts which come in such a
place as this――I _could_ not tell them if I would.”
“The most prominent one, then――will you not trust me?”
“I was thinking how false our lives are to our professed principles.”
“In what way?” questioned he, curious to learn the feelings of a girl
like Hilary, although not in the least entering into them.
“I was thinking,” replied she, “that all words spoken, and thoughts
unuttered, too, exist somewhere――are recorded――not passed away into
empty air――not perished like the flowers which fall to decay.”
“Well, what then?” said he, not discovering any connection in the
ideas.
“How many thousand times have those words been repeated here, in this
church-yard, praying that the number of the elect may shortly be
accomplished; and yet how little we realize our own meaning, or live
in accordance with the words we use.”
“You do not mean to say that we ought to be glad when our friends
die?” inquired he.
“Partings for an indefinite time must always be painful, and those
left behind to sorrow and struggle――to combat the waves of this
troublesome world――must feel desolation and grief; but when we look at
a quiet grave like this, where all is so calm and still, and think of
the spirit away in some unknown but happy place, we ought not to feel
gloom. Gloom might rest on the graves of those who call it ‘Ultima
Domus’――but for us, who daily repeat our belief in ‘the resurrection
of the dead,’ gloom ought to be banished with despair.”
“That is a very beautiful idea,” said he, looking with admiration at
her elevated expression of countenance.
“It should be more than an idea――it should be a guiding principle; I
mean that our business here is so to live that we may think of lying
down there without a shudder. Do you know, I have often wondered what
I shall feel――with what kind of emotions I shall look down――when they
lay _me_ there――or rather what once was myself.”
He looked at her with amazement. “Do you suppose you will be conscious
at all?――but do not talk of it; _I_ can not think of you in such a
connection without more than a shudder. Did you train these creepers
so gracefully round the church windows?”
“Partly; there have been other hands here besides mine, however; it
has been the work of affection――the result of the very feelings of
which I was speaking.”
“Which is your favorite?” inquired Mr. Huyton, determined to change
the subject.
“Of the shrubs?――that Virginian creeper, I believe.”
“Why, it has no blossoms, and is not even an evergreen,” replied he.
“I like it the better for that; it says the more to me.”
“What does it say?” replied he, smiling.
“The fading of its leaves speaks of sympathy with us, which I never
can fancy evergreens feel. And then they become more beautiful as they
decay, glowing with richer colors lent by the frost which is about to
strip them; just as those who have silently spent their strength in
aspiring heavenward like that plant, often show, when touched by
suffering, new and unexpected graces.”
“You are fanciful――but I like to hear your imaginations.”
“The Virginian creeper has another meaning to me,” pursued Hilary; “it
is an emblem of friendship, of which I am very fond.”
“I thought ivy was the emblem of friendship,” observed he.
“Not my emblem――at least, not of the friendship I mean. Did you ever
notice the plants? ivy is a parasite, living on the substance which
supports it; drawing its own existence from the life of another; and
it is very persevering too, where any thing can be gained: it is
difficult to check; tear it down, and it will send out new roots and
fix itself afresh, until the prop is destroyed by the encroachment of
the counterfeit friend; then it is so cold and apathetic, always green
and unchanging in appearance, one can not love an ivy plant, or make a
companion of it, however picturesque it may be.”
“And your favorite, what character does it bear?”
“Examine it――do you see these little spreading hands with which it
supports itself?――see how closely they adhere; if you tear it down, it
can never be replaced, however; they will hold, while they have life,
but forcibly detached, they can not fix themselves again. They ask
nothing in return, but permission to be undisturbed; and once allowed
to attach themselves, they soon cover their sustaining prop with their
luxuriant foliage. But the prop must be _real_ of its kind, stone, or
brick, or wood; but not stucco for stone, nor whitewashed plaster;
there they retain no hold; nor polished glass you see; to that they
can not fix themselves, it is too hard. Is not that constant, true,
devoted friendship?”
“And you think then friendship repulsed, or violently severed, can
never be replaced?”
“Unkindly severed――no, I should think not; but mine is only
theoretical friendship, Mr. Huyton; practically, I have no experience.
You, perhaps, know better.”
“I believe the only one I ever called a friend, was Maurice, your
brother,” was his answer.
“I had hoped,” said she, looking up ingenuously, “that others of his
family might have shared in that title.”
“No,” replied he, earnestly, and gazing at her clear, innocent eyes,
“Mr. Duncan is too old. I respect him greatly, but we are too unequal
for friendship, and your sisters, of course, are out of the question.”
He paused――her eyes were bent down with a slight shade of
disappointment in them: did he not think her worth caring for at all
then? well, perhaps this was natural enough. She was startled by his
hand being laid on hers, and his voice breaking the silence as he
said,
“And for you, it is not _friendship_ that I feel; that is not the name
of the sentiment which just now fills my heart.”
She looked up again, but her eyes fell under his once more, for she
read there something which gave her no pleasure, although it
occasioned her surprise. The idea for the first time flashed across
her, that he loved her, and, quick as thought can go, her mind took in
at once all the probable consequences of such a circumstance; the pain
and disappointment to him, the interrupted intercourse, the loss to
their society, which his absence would occasion, what Maurice would
think, and whether he would wish it either one way or the other. The
silence was not of more than a minute’s duration, but her mind
traveled far and fast during that interval. One idea did not occur to
her; that was the possibility of marrying Mr. Huyton; she did not
raise the question.
His thoughts had not gone so far, they were all concentrated round
her, watching the changing color of her cheeks, and the long
eye-lashes which rested on them. He was partly thinking how pretty she
was, partly wondering what she was feeling. Of course he had to speak
again.
“Hilary, I love you. Ever since the moment when I suddenly saw you
standing alone in the forest, like some unearthly being, like one of
those angels of whom you are so fond of talking, you, and you only,
have filled my heart. I have lived for you, worked for you, thought of
you all day, dreamed of you at night, watched your progress to
perfection with an intenseness of admiration you little guessed; dwelt
on your image when absent, loved your very shadow, doted on you with a
heart which never, never loved before.”
“Hush! Mr. Huyton,” said she, gravely; “these are wild words, not
language for one human creature to use to another; and to _me_, if I
did not know you too well, I should think you meant to mock me; do not
talk so!”
“Mock you! praise can not come near your merits; words are too cold;
in that sense they may be unfit to be addressed to you; as any attempt
to paint a rainbow is mockery. But my meaning is most sincere,
earnest, true. I love you!”
He held her hand in both of his, and looked in her face with all the
eloquence of which his very handsome eyes were capable; but she shook
her head.
“I do not love you, Mr. Huyton――at least, not in that way;” ending her
sentence abruptly, and with crimson cheeks, which made him think her
mistaken.
“You do not _hate_ me?” said he, perseveringly detaining the hand she
endeavored to withdraw; “tell me, am I disagreeable to you?”
“Hate you! oh, no; you are so good and kind to me and mine; and
Maurice loves you so, I could not _hate_ you; but I am so sorry, so
very sorry, that you can not think of me as I do of you; liking,
wishing well to, esteeming one another, being friends and no more.”
“Impossible! a man must be made of marble, who could see you as I have
seen you, know you as I have known you, and not do more than like you.
Are you sure――but no, I have no right to doubt, to expect, to fancy
even, that you returned my passion; but I may hope for the future;
perhaps now you know my heart, you will pity me. Let me try to make
you love me; give me leave to devote myself to that; if I might look
forward to one day making you my wife; oh, Hilary, it is for you I
have worked at ‘the Ferns,’ in the dear hope of placing you there,
where, surrounded by all that could reward your virtue, and enhance
your charms, I might see my idol the center of worship, the admiration
of the neighborhood――let me hope.”
“I hardly know what to say to you in answer; you think of me a great
deal too well, but yet I must thank you, and feel grateful to you for
your good opinion and your kind wishes, and your love; and do not
blame me, please, for not doing more, or not doing it rightly; I am
very ignorant of what would be considered right to do or say; but
indeed I only mean to be sincere and true, so if I speak too frankly,
you must forgive me.”
“You can not speak otherwise than rightly; like yourself, the very
soul of innocence and modesty, and grace; be as frank as you please, I
promise not to misunderstand you.”
“Mr. Huyton, I can not be your wife, or the wife of any one, while my
father and sisters require me with them. I believe the conviction of
this was so strong in my mind, that I thought you must see it and know
it too, and that was why I was so surprised at your talking as you
do.”
“But, Hilary, ‘the Ferns’ is not so far off, as to be called leaving
them. If you give me no other objection, I need not despair; if your
feeling for me would not prevent you giving me your hand, your
feelings for them need not surely. I come here every day, so could
you; the separation would be merely nominal, and how much more I could
and would do for them, as _my_ father and _my_ sisters, than I could
or might do now; what they lost in one way, might be more than
compensated in another.”
Hilary shook her head, and then, pointing to the grave before her, she
said: “I promised her not to desert her children; I have since renewed
the promise more than once, on this very spot; and for my father――oh,
Mr. Huyton, what excuse could I have for leaving him? What selfishness
to think of it?”
Mr. Huyton bit his lip, and then answered:
“If it is on their account you act, that need not prevent my hoping;
if regard for them prevents your entertaining the thought of leaving
them now, this reason will not always exist. In a very few years,
Sybil will be able to take your place, and then――”
“But you mistake,” said Hilary, drawing back, “if you think they are
the _only_ reason; I do not wish to give you pain, and I hope you will
not think me proud, or any thing wrong, but, indeed I must tell you
the truth――I do not feel for you what you would like; I hardly know
what to say, but I mean, what you would wish your wife to do. I do not
think I should make you happy, or that I could be happy with you,
feeling as I do; and while I really am very much obliged to you for
your good-will to my sisters, and all that you say, I do wish you to
leave off thinking of any thing more. Find somebody more suited to be
your wife, and the mistress of ‘the Ferns,’ somebody who could do you
credit, and not a poor, ignorant country girl, like me, quite unused
to society, and hardly knowing even how ignorant I am.”
“I might search through all the world, and not meet one more
thoroughly good, elegant, refined, and excellent than yourself,
Hilary. It is no use to tell me not to hope and wish; it is no use to
tell me to love another, after a two years’ acquaintance with you.
Only let me try to win you. I do not ask you to bind yourself――_you_
shall be quite free and unfettered by promises of any kind; only do
not send me away; suffer me in your sight, though I have had the
presumption to love you!”
“I thought you would have wished to leave me of yourself, after what
has passed,” replied Hilary, in a little surprise.
“You did me injustice, then; while you are free, and therefore to be
won by the man who can best deserve you, I will not leave you, unless
you drive me away; and you will not do that, will you? I ask no more;
only allow me to go on as I have done.”
Poor Hilary! she was very young, very innocent, and very ignorant of
the selfish pride of a man’s nature, or she would not have yielded
this point. She had no female friend to guide her――to warn her of the
difficulties in which a promise which seemed so fair and simple might
involve her, or to teach her how far the mere permission to try to win
her might be interpreted in favor of her suitor’s claims.
She felt how very disinterested it was of a rich man like Mr.
Huyton――clever, fashionable, admired, no doubt, in the world――to ask
for the hand of a simple country maiden like herself, whose future
fortune bore no proportion to his, and whose family could add nothing
to his honor or influence. He might represent the county if he chose;
he had discussed the subject several times with Mr. Duncan; he might,
no doubt, win a wife from any noble family in the land; and yet he
loved her, and asked her to marry him. The wonder of her mind at his
making such a choice, so unequal in every respect as her modesty made
her think it, was only surpassed by her astonishment at finding that
she could not love him in return. Why not?――why could not all his good
qualities, his ardent affection, and his kindness to her family,
influence her to wish to be his wife? Why did the idea seem
incompatible with happiness? and why did the notion of reigning
at ‘the Ferns’ make her cling the closer to her duties and
responsibilities at the Vicarage?
Was it the mere idea of leaving those she loved? there was something
in that; for she was not blinded by the fallacies of his arguments;
she knew the separation would be more than nominal; she knew it must
be real, because it ought to be so. Once mistress of ‘the Ferns,’ in
how many new duties and cares should she not be involved, with which
her old pursuits at Hurstdene would be incompatible; and once Mr.
Huyton’s wife, his claims on her time and society would be paramount;
and would he yield them to others? She was convinced he would not. It
was true, he was at Hurstdene every day _now_, but then it would be
different; and every future plan on which he now dwelt would call him
in an opposite direction.
She did not say to herself in words, or form a distinct idea in her
mind, that he was innately selfish or self-willed; but it was this
unexpressed thought and feeling which made her certain that his wife
must make him her first and last object, if she would please him, and
be at peace.
Hilary could not have told why she mistrusted one who talked so well
and acted so fairly; she had unconsciously explained it by a symbol to
him when she dwelt on the peculiarities of her favorite plant; but she
did not know that she was the Virginian creeper, he the wall which
bore the fair appearance of stone, and was in truth only stucco, and
that, to one of her nature, the effort to attach herself to him must
be utterly vain.
She really wished she could love him; I need not say not from any
unworthy motives, but from gratitude for his kindness and his
affection for herself; and although hardly believing that any change
was possible, she yet engaged to allow him the opportunity to effect
it which he desired. One other mistake she committed――one likewise
resulting from delicacy and regard to his feelings: she promised to
keep what had passed between them a profound secret, even from her
father. She fancied she was doing right; a dislike to say what might
seem to claim her father’s thanks, a dread of appearing to boast of
her attractions and the admiration she had inspired, had a little
influence; she felt how unmaidenly it was to triumph in her conquests;
but the chief reason for her silence was regard to Mr. Huyton’s
feelings, and a fear of mortifying him by making known his
disappointment. It was the romantic delicacy of a young mind much
accustomed to act and decide for itself――used to bear its own burdens
in silence, and to endure rather than to indulge its feelings.
Her theory was right; secresy in such a case being, in general,
honorable and just; but hers was one of the exceptions which prove a
rule; and in her peculiar circumstances, it would have been her
father’s part to decide how their future intercourse should be
arranged, as it was his due to know the footing on which they now
stood.
Mr. Huyton was well aware of the advantage which he gained when he won
from Hilary’s gratitude and delicacy the promise that nothing should
be said to others of this conversation. Conscious how unfair this
requisition was, he quitted her, immediately she had given it, with
many a word of gratitude, passionate affection, and intense
admiration, and many an assurance of the changeless nature of the
feelings he professed.
His love for her was very strong, as well as very sincere; he fully
appreciated her character; he saw and admired her genuine truth and
simplicity――her innocence and modesty――her humility and her loving
nature. He had seen a good deal of women of the world――women of
fashion――and could value pretty accurately their admiration of him; he
understood his charms in their eyes, and despised them accordingly. He
did not believe there was another woman besides Hilary who could have
been constantly the object of his friendly attentions, and the
companion of his pursuits and wishes, as she had been for the last two
years, and yet have never understood his motives, or calculated on his
probable intentions. He was aware that this was partly owing to her
entire ignorance of the manners and habits of men in general, and the
circumstance of having been long used to such devoted care and
kindness from her brother as could hardly be exceeded by the
attentions of a lover himself. But he saw also that it marked an
entire disinterestedness of character, a total absence of selfish
ambition, and a devotion to the plain, straight-forward duties of
life, which, if her affections could but be turned into the channel he
desired, would certainly secure his happiness.
He was not angry with her for refusing him; in his calmer moments he
would have himself predicted such a result to any explanation between
them; he had spoken on the impulse of the moment, and could not be
surprised at the answer he received. He loved her the better, as well
as admired her the more; emotion had given a more lovely hue to her
face; and this proof of her purity of principles had added a brighter
charm to her mental qualities. He was more thoroughly captivated than
ever, and rode home, dreaming of Hilary the whole way; of the time
when he could transport his beautiful flower, now blooming so fairly
in retirement, and place it where all would admire his choice, and
wonder at his good fortune, and honor his taste in the selection of a
perfect wife. For as to failing eventually in the attempt, there was
not a fear in his mind of that occurring. There was no rival, and no
chance of one; nothing to interfere with his success; and he could
exert all the powers of his mind and imagination to win her,
undisturbed by jealous passions, unpleasant observations, or the cold
interference of worldly customs and reserve. She had promised all
should go on as usual, and reliance on her word was as unbounded as
his love for her.
Scarcely had her lover left her, when Hilary, sinking on her knees
beside the grave of her step-mother, and covering her face with her
hands, renewed in a low but distinct voice the pledge she had already
given, never to leave her sisters so long as they required her care,
never to forsake them, unless she could see them under safer and
tenderer guardianship than her own; but to devote her thoughts, her
strength, her love, and her life to their and their father’s service.
It was no sacrifice which she resolved on; she was not prompted by any
enthusiastic impulse; she did not imagine herself acting a heroic
part; she believed that it was simply her duty. The ties knit by
Nature, the friends given her by Heaven, the charge imposed on her by
God himself, these must surely have the first claim; and till she had
discharged these faithfully, she felt she had no right to form others,
or to engage in new and uncalled-for duties. Then she raised her head,
and with the grateful emotions of a child relieved from danger or
trouble by a tender parent, she thanked her Heavenly Father, that he
made her duty so plain and so easy, that she had no counter-wishes to
struggle against, no affection to subdue, no opposing feelings to
torment and perplex her. She was glad, then, from the bottom of her
heart, that she did not love Mr. Huyton, and wondered how she could
ever have been tempted to wish it otherwise.
At that moment she felt that to love him was impossible, and that to
allow him to hope or expect a change was unjust to him, as well as
untrue to her own convictions; she repented that she had not spoken
more clearly, regretted what she had promised, and resolved to take an
early occasion to explain decidedly to him, that the sooner he
resigned all his views on her hand, and allowed his love to cool into
friendship and good-will, the pleasanter it would be for her, the
better and happier for himself. She pitied him exceedingly; she
thought it was so very generous and noble of him to love her so; she
could not be insensible to such a compliment; and he had shown such
forbearance and moderation after her refusal, had been so humble and
gentle, so considerate of her feelings, as she fancied, that he
deserved to meet with something better than disappointment. She would
make no change toward him, she had promised she would not, she would
keep his secret, and trust that her calmness and quiet indifference
would soon dispel a love which could not live quite unreturned.
But it was much easier for Hilary to promise to make no difference
toward him, than to keep her word, although she fully intended to do
so; it was simply impossible. A conscious shyness took the place of
her former open friendliness; she dreaded being alone with him,
carefully avoided sitting near him, dropped her German lessons, gave
up her drawing for the indispensable business of making frocks for the
school-children, and was uncommonly silent in his company. He saw all
this clearly enough, and he saw she could not help it; he did not
blame her; he rather loved her the better for the bashfulness which
made her shrink from him. It gave more interest to his pursuit; he no
longer had the certainty of unchecked intercourse, but there was more
excitement, more difficulty, and therefore more amusement as well as
novelty. Sometimes he spent a whole afternoon at the Vicarage, without
winning from her one open, straightforward smile; or obtaining even
five minutes’ conversation, unrestrained by her sisters’ presence.
Any eyes less dim than her father’s had lately become, or more awake
than her young sisters, must have noticed the very great change in
their mutual manners; the absolute and unreserved devotion on his
part, the shrinking timidity and constraint on hers. Poor Hilary! she
would have been very glad had her father noticed these circumstances;
she wanted some one to counsel her, to teach her how to escape from
the embarrassment in which she found herself; but she could not break
her word, and her father saw nothing of what was passing.
However, things came to a crisis at last. Mr. Huyton took it into his
head to add cloaks and bonnets to the set of new frocks which Hilary
was getting ready for her little scholars. Of course he had a right to
do so if he pleased, and Miss Duncan could not have objected, if he
had not taken pains to let her know that it was done for her sake, and
to please her. What could she do? he had mentioned it to her father,
had received his cordial approval, and his ready promise that Hilary
should co-operate, and assist his ignorance. She sat by in silence,
until appealed to by Mr. Huyton, who suggested that she should take on
herself all the active and responsible part of the distribution.
Hilary felt that to do so would be giving a tacit encouragement to his
wishes, such as she could not conscientiously bestow. If he had only
_not_ hinted that he did it for her, it would have been possible; but
after that, she could not accept the office.
She replied, gravely, that she would furnish the necessary details,
but that she thought Mr. Huyton’s housekeeper would probably be far
better able than herself to superintend the purchasing and making up
of the articles of her master’s bounty.
“I do not think so at all, Miss Duncan,” replied he, smiling quietly;
“my housekeeper, I am afraid, is a vast deal too fine a lady to enter
into such schemes with the right spirit; it requires a certain degree
of refined tact, the offspring only of a really elegant and generous
mind, to do these things without hurting the feelings of those who
receive the benefit. Mrs. Gainsborough, I feel sure, would put on a
condescending and self-satisfied air, which would affront all the
mothers, frighten the little girls, and probably bring on a quarrel
with the school-mistress herself.”
“Why do you keep so uncompromising a character, then?” demanded Mr.
Duncan; “a bachelor like you, ought to have some one who can give away
cloaks or any thing else, without fatal consequences to the
recipients.”
“I have been wishing to change for some time,” replied Charles Huyton;
“I know exactly the character which would suit me; can estimate to a
nicety the advantages of truth, simplicity, steadiness, and
gentleness, combined with benevolence, charity, humility, and a
universal desire of making others happy.”
Mr. Duncan laughed.
“Content yourself with those characters in a wife, Charles,” said he;
“do not expect romantic perfection in a housekeeper; lower your
estimate, or you will go unsuited.”
“I shall remain as I am till I do find them; but indeed it is only
under one circumstance that I intend to change at all; the housekeeper
I seek, my dear sir, will, as you suggest, be also my wife; till then,
Mrs. Gainsborough may rule supreme.”
“Except over cloaks and school-girls, it appears,” replied Mr. Duncan;
“and those Hilary is to undertake instead.”
“If Miss Duncan will do me that favor,” replied he; “but not if you do
not like,” he added in a lower voice, coming close to the table where
she was working.
“Then I advise you, Hilary, to make your calculations of yards and
quarters,” said Mr. Duncan, rising as he spoke, and preparing to leave
the room. “I am going to ride into the town to-day; and could order
patterns sent out for you and Mr. Huyton to inspect and settle on, if
you please.”
He went out as he spoke, and Hilary was left alone with her lover.