“For she was passing weary of his love.”
ISEULT OF BRITTANY.
Hilary looked up from her needle-work with a trembling heart, but a
face of calm determination. She had made up her mind to speak.
“Mr. Huyton, this will not do; this must not be.”
“What, dear Miss Duncan?” sitting down close beside her as he spoke.
“I can not allow this; you must not suppose that if my father knew
what has passed, he would act as he does now. He would see as plainly
as I do, the impropriety of my undertaking what is done avowedly for
such motives.”
“Impropriety! nay, you must not put it so strongly; surely there is
nothing improper in my assisting to clothe the same children as you
do; or even in my caring for them because they are objects of interest
to you!”
“That is not what I mean; and indeed, I am sure you will not press
your request, when I tell you that after the motive you assigned, it
would be unpleasant to me to grant it.”
“I would not do what is unpleasant to you, not for the hundredth part
of a minute; no, not if it were to procure me the greatest pleasure in
the world. Say no more about these foolish cloaks, I entreat you.”
“And tell my father the reason?” said Hilary, blushing very deeply.
“That is not necessary, surely,” replied he, gravely; “there is no
occasion to assign any other reason; make the business over to your
school-mistress; I dare say she will be competent enough. But remember
the _motive_ is the same; I can not pretend to retract that; and
whether you accept of it as a proof of devotion to you or not, there
is no other plea to put it on.”
Hilary was silent, and looked down.
“You did not suppose I _could_ change?” continued he; “you are unjust
alike to my constancy and your perfections. That indeed is the cause
of my constancy; there is no merit in loving you unchangeably――nobody
could help it.”
“Mr. Huyton, I believe I was wrong,” replied Hilary, with very crimson
cheeks, and a rather unsteady voice; “when I promised to allow you to
remain――to go on the same as ever――I can not――it is painful,
embarrassing, most distressing to me. Am I asking too much in asking
you to leave us for a time?――perhaps, too, absence might be good for
you, might teach you how much you over-rate me; but, at least, it
would do _me_ good. After a time, I might learn to meet you
unembarrassed, and look on you as I used to do: I can not now; I have
tried in vain――your presence distresses, frightens me――makes me
uncomfortable and unhappy.”
Hilary ended her sentence in very great trepidation, and finally burst
into tears, which both frightened and perplexed Mr. Huyton.
“Dear Miss Duncan, don’t; dearest, sweetest Hilary; my beloved!――do
not make yourself unhappy; I will not stay another day to distress
you. Though to leave you is exile and banishment, and protracted pain,
I will go; only don’t cry. I would not cause you a tear if I could
help it. I will make any sacrifice――there now, dry your eyes, take
this glass of water! are you better? trust me, your happiness is
dearer than my own. I will do any thing you ask.”
Hilary dried her eyes, and quieted herself with an effort; then
looking up, she said, “I beg your pardon for being so foolish;
but――did I understand you rightly?――you said you would leave us!”
“I did, and I will.”
“Thank you. You will tell my father, will you not?”
“I will explain all that is necessary. Compose yourself, and trust
me.”
She rose hastily, and left the room; dropping, as she did so, a
carnation she had worn in her bosom, of which he took possession with
a lover’s enthusiasm. He did not, however, go away immediately; he
could not, without saying good-by to her; but he sat down, and formed
his plan for the future.
When Mr. Duncan returned, Hilary entered the room along with him, and
glanced, with some confusion, at Charles, who, on catching her eye,
said, half turning to the clergyman, “I propose to go with you, Mr.
Duncan, and give these very important orders myself. I imagine my
genius will be equal to that, if the shopman will only help me out a
little; so if you will accept my society, I will order my horse round
with yours, sir.”
The offer of his company was readily accepted, and Hilary saw the two
depart together, with much satisfaction, for more reasons than one;
and having watched them off, and sighed to witness how uncertain her
father’s step had become, she turned again into the house, to attend
to household duties.
Mr. Duncan’s eyesight had lately been failing rapidly, and Hilary, who
was aware of the circumstance, had become extremely unwilling to allow
him to ride about alone; but it was not in her power to accompany him
that day, as the girls were all poorly with bad colds, and she did not
like to leave them. She was therefore as glad on her father’s account
that he should have a companion, as she was herself to get rid of Mr.
Huyton’s society.
She went to her sisters, and read or talked to them, to amuse and
comfort them under the unpleasantness of their indisposition; and she
continued with them until the sound of horses’ hoofs warned her that
her father had returned.
Charles Huyton was still with him, consequently Hilary went into the
drawing-room to await his entrance, instead of running out into the
porch. The two gentlemen entered together: the young man looking
apologetically at Miss Duncan, as if to excuse his return.
“I made Charles come in and give an account of his purchases in the
woolen-drapery line,” observed Mr. Duncan, “that there might be no
mistake in so important a transaction, Hilary; when you have arranged
about quantities and other necessaries, he says he will turn the
matter of making over to the village sempstress.”
Hilary made no answer, busying herself with the tea equipage, which
was on the table.
“How are the children?” inquired Charles, drawing near her; and then
adding, as the vicar went out of the room, “do not be displeased with
me for coming once more.”
She colored, and answered, “I am very much obliged for your going with
my father, Mr. Huyton, and also for the arrangements you have made
about this business. The little ones are much the same, thank you, but
they will be better to-morrow, I hope. Do you stay to tea this
evening?”
“May I?――I should like――I have made up my mind during my ride; I will
go abroad to-morrow; but I have not told your father, and it may seem
unkind to leave abruptly, without any explanation. But I will do
exactly as you please.”
“I have made tea for you,” replied Hilary, busying herself as she
spoke, in putting water into the tea-pot, and thereby avoiding looking
up.
While they three were sitting together round the tea-table, Charles
Huyton said, rather to the surprise of Mr. Duncan,
“Do you know, sir, I am thinking of going abroad.”
“Abroad!” exclaimed the vicar, with an expression of sorrow in his
countenance; “I had hoped, Charles, you were going to settle here for
life.”
“So did I, at one time,” replied Charles; “but circumstances have
interfered, and I am proposing a visit to my mother’s family at
Dresden; they have asked me several times during the last two years,
and now I mean to go.”
“When? soon? not directly, I hope?” said Mr. Duncan, still looking
much concerned.
“Yes, immediately; when a disagreeable thing has to be done, the
sooner it is commenced the better. Unless Miss Duncan will give me
leave to call to-morrow to say farewell to her sisters, I shall
perform that painful ceremony to you both to-night.” He fixed his eyes
on Hilary with a look of meaning, which she had great difficulty in
_not_ seeing.
“Come to-morrow, by all means,” replied Mr. Duncan. “Hilary, dear, the
girls will be able to see him then, and they would break their hearts
at missing him altogether. Are you going with any permanent views of
settling in life, Charles? Excuse my curiosity, but do you mean to
bring home a bride with you? Or, perhaps, you will marry and stay
there.”
“Most decidedly not,” exclaimed he, eagerly and warmly; “there is not
the smallest prospect of either one or the other. All my affections
are centered in England, all my hopes of happiness are founded on a
residence at ‘the Ferns,’ and every prospective plan of fancy, or
retrospective glance of happy memory, will carry me at once to the
parish of Hurstdene. You will see me here again as soon as it is in my
power to come.”
“I shall never see you here again, Charles,” replied the vicar, with a
gentle shake of his head, and a very patient smile.
“My dear sir, do not imagine such a thing; I trust to be with you at
least in the spring.”
“I trust you will, my dear Charles; but do you not understand what I
mean? Before that time my old eyes will be quite worn out; at the rate
in which they have lately failed me, they will be totally dark before
the spring comes, and I shall not see your face, though you may look
on mine when you return.”
“I am shocked to hear you say so,” exclaimed Charles, with a face of
the deepest sympathy. His glance went from the father to the daughter;
Hilary was very pale, and her brimming eyes and quivering lips warned
him not to speak to her at that moment; he turned again to the vicar.
“But can nothing be done, dear sir? have you had advice? _must_ this
sad fate befall you? Do not believe it inevitable till it is proved to
be so.”
“I do not imagine any advice can avail,” replied the vicar, calmly; “I
have looked forward for some time to this event; and having enjoyed my
eyesight for sixty years, Charles, I have no reason to think it a very
grievous hardship if I spend a few more in darkness. It will not last
forever――light will come, I humbly trust, at length; a better, purer,
brighter light than that on which my old eyes are so fast closing; the
Light of everlasting day. There will be no darkness in heaven,
Charles; and thinking of that, shall I complain?”
With a suppressed sob, Hilary started from the table, and ran out of
the room.
“She is crying, is she not, Charles?” inquired the father, a little
moved; “I can not see that dear face now as I used to do, to read all
her emotions as in a book. Poor girl! she has not learned to think of
it yet with composure; but she will find strength in her time of need.
I mind it more, when I think of being a burden on the girls, than for
any other reason; but _His_ will be done――I will be as little
troublesome as I can.”
“Troublesome――a burden!” exclaimed Charles Huyton, extremely affected
at the quiet resignation of the old man. You know _that_ is
impossible. A burden and a trouble implies something unwillingly
carried; and Hilary, angel that she is, would bear any thing for you,
or for others with pleasure. With such a daughter, your domestic
happiness can never be entirely destroyed; I could almost envy you the
blindness which will be waited on, and alleviated by her kindness.”
“I am just going to take measures for inquiring for a curate. I can
not trust my sight much longer, and some help I must have very soon,”
said Mr. Duncan.
Charles Huyton started. A curate settled at Hurstdene, and he away!
images of a painful nature crossed his mind. He foresaw how much
Hilary would be thrown with this curate; he knew the influence which
religious enthusiasm exercises over the minds of women; he foresaw
what he supposed would be the inevitable consequence――an attachment
between them; the overthrow of his hopes. Should this be! what could
he do to remedy or prevent it?
“I suppose you would wish for a _married_ curate,” suggested he, after
a pause. “A lady resident in the village would be a comfort, perhaps,
to Miss Duncan; it would be better in every respect to have the
gentleman married.”
“If we could lodge him; but how can that be done? Stair’s farm would
accommodate a single man, but there is no house in the village where a
couple could live.”
“True, perhaps; but I think, if you will give me time to arrange, it
could be managed. You remember that cottage on the green, which is
known as Primrose Bank, about a quarter of a mile beyond the church.
Would not that do?”
“My dear Charles, are you dreaming? it is quite out of repair, and
small besides.”
“But that is easily altered; it is mine now; the lease fell in last
Lady Day, and the tenants are gone. I must have it repaired, as you
say, and a little addition, a couple of hundred pounds laid out on it,
would make it just the thing.”
“What a spirit you have, Charles; you never see difficulties.”
“Not where there are none; but, my dear Mr. Duncan, I have a motive;
it was only last week I heard from a sort of cousin of mine, saying,
he wanted a curacy to marry on; and this would be the very thing. I do
not know the lady, but I am sure you would like him; and as he is very
well off, only wanting work, not pay, until a certain family living
falls vacant, I am convinced it would suit exactly. I will put off my
departure, until the whole matter is arranged to your liking.”
“Can you do that?”
“My departure does not depend on myself, Mr. Duncan; but on one, who,
for your sake, would, I am sure, endure me in her presence a little
longer. I only wish to please one, for whom I would go or stay, work,
beg, die, if needs were――your angel-daughter, Hilary!”
“Hilary!” exclaimed Mr. Duncan; “I do not understand! what has your
going to do with her!”
“Dear Mr. Duncan, I love Hilary with a devotion which is beyond any
words of mine to express; but she does not love me; and to please her,
to prove my constancy, to relieve her from my society, to try if my
absence will win a regard which my presence has failed to do, I have
resolved to quit England for a time.”
Still Mr. Duncan was puzzled; the idea of Charles wishing to marry
Hilary was entirely new to him; and he trembled at the notion of
losing her, even while he wished he could see her, as he supposed, so
safely settled.
Charles explained all that had passed between them, dwelling much on
Hilary’s determination never to leave her father, with a sort of hope
that his influence would be used to turn her wishes in favor of her
lover. His eloquence was interrupted by the return of Miss Duncan,
calm and composed, as usual; and on her resuming her seat, her father
immediately entered on the discussion of Mr. Huyton’s plan respecting
his cousin, and the house at Primrose Bank, anxiously appealing to her
for an opinion.
Hilary, who had been for some time aware that an assistant in the
parish was every day becoming more necessary, and who saw at once the
possible advantage of having that assistant a married man, admitted
that the plan was a good one, and did not frown when Charles, with
some anxiety and doubt, proposed delaying his departure from England
for the purpose of superintending the necessary alterations. It was
unpleasant to her, but she could not allow her own wishes or fancies
to interfere with the advantage of others, or her father’s comfort. To
have this affair settled, was of great importance to him, as he had
more than once hinted at the necessity of leaving the Vicarage for his
successor, and retiring to some other home; but Hilary knew well that
to leave the abode where he had spent nearly thirty years, to break
off all the ties formed in a lifetime, to quit his people, his church,
his schools, and all the interests accumulated around him, would be as
painful to his mind and heart, as unknown rooms and paths, and people,
would assuredly be trying to his bodily infirmities.
She could not refuse her acquiescence to these plans, although it
increased her obligations to one from whom she was forced still to
withhold the only return he asked for his kindness.
After a good deal of discussion, Charles decided that he would go the
next morning to London to seek an interview with his cousin, Mr.
Paine, and, if possible, bring him down to “the Ferns;” he further
determined to engage some clever architect, who could give them the
best plan for arranging Primrose Bank, and then the alterations could
commence without the least delay; and having come to this
determination, he took leave, and returned to his house, to think what
more he could do to win Hilary’s heart.
Left together, the father and daughter sat some time in silence; he
broke it by saying,
“Hilary, my child, is it for my sake only that you will not listen to
Charles Huyton’s love?”
Hilary started, laid down her work, and going to him, she hid her face
on the back of his chair, while she whispered――
“Dearest papa, I would not listen to any one’s love, who proposed to
take me away from you!”
“I could ill spare you just now; but yet, if it would make you happy,
my child, I would give you to him,” replied he, drawing down her face
and kissing her.
“But it would _not_――it would make me miserable; I do not love Mr.
Huyton well enough to marry him. To go and live with him would be
wretchedness, and I am very, very happy, with you and my sisters――as
happy as I can be!”
“I do not feel sure of that; I shall regret my blindness more than I
ought, if it interferes with such a prospect for you.”
“Don’t say so, dear, dearest father; ah! how glad I am that I am not
in any danger of being tempted away. Would I leave you in solitary
darkness for any thing this world can offer; or, would I throw such a
burden on my younger sisters, as to expect them to take the duties I
deserted. I hope _nothing_ would tempt me to such selfish wickedness.
But, indeed, papa, I do _not_ love Mr. Huyton in the least; I can not
tell why, but the more I tried the less I found I could; so now I have
given up trying, and mean to devote myself to one dearer, better, more
precious than he, or twenty such;” kissing him over and over again as
she spoke.
“Dear Hilary, I will not say a word to urge you to wed where you do
not love; but be quite sure, before you decide for life. I should like
to see you safely housed at ‘the Ferns,’ with such a guardian and
husband as Charles Huyton.”
“You never will, papa――do not talk of it; I will not leave you; I
never mean to marry. I have made up my mind to be your single daughter
for life, and to give away my sisters, as if I were an old
maiden-aunt, or a lady-abbess, at least.”
He smiled, and passed his hand over her forehead, putting back her
hair, and looking lovingly at her face; then he added, in a sort of
regretful tone,
“Charles Huyton loves you very much, Hilary.”
“I believe he does now, papa; but I daresay it will not last; you do
not think a man could go on loving a woman who did not care for him,
do you? He will find some one else to marry; and when I am an old
woman of thirty-five, he will be thankful that he has so much more
charming a wife.”
“You do not do yourself or him justice, my dear; I expect he will be
constant!”
“Constant for a man, dear papa; but that is not constant to one woman,
only to one idea――that of marrying somebody.”
“What do you know of men, Hilary?” inquired her father, laughingly.
“A little from history and books; a little otherwise,” said Hilary,
smiling also.
However, Hilary coaxed her father into not minding her refusal of
Charles Huyton, and not regretting her resolution of never quitting
him; and the matter was dropped between them, although it could not be
forgotten by either.
About four days after this conversation, as Hilary and her father were
walking together in the garden, where the other girls, now quite
recovered, were also amusing themselves, the sound of horses’ feet
upon the green drew their attention, and looking up, they saw Mr.
Huyton advancing to the Vicarage, accompanied by three gentlemen who
were strangers. He sprang off his horse, and came hastily into the
garden, leaving his companions to occupy themselves by surveying the
village.
After a hurried greeting, though a joyous one enough from all but
Hilary, Charles told Mr. Duncan, not without some little
embarrassment, that he had brought his cousin, Mr. Paine, to visit
him; that one of his other companions was a Mr. Jeffries, a clever
architect, who was to give them plans for improving Primrose Bank; and
the other was a friend of his own, whose name he, for some reason,
omitted just then to mention.
Mr. Duncan most courteously desired he would introduce any friends he
wished; and the three gentlemen, leaving their horses to the groom,
were ushered into the garden. Hilary had no difficulty in deciding
which of the three strangers was the clergyman, during the short
interval of their approach down the garden walk, and she as rapidly
made up her mind that she liked his looks; his countenance conveyed
the impression of benevolence, sense, and firmness: she hoped he would
come to settle among them.
He, as might naturally be expected, gave his attention to the vicar,
and they soon were deeply engaged in conversation. Mr. Jeffries, the
architect, began talking to little Nest, to whom he speedily made
himself very agreeable; Charles Huyton stood by Hilary in silence,
while she made an effort to converse with the third stranger, a very
clever, intelligent-looking man, who answered her remarks with a quick
but pleasant manner, although with a slightly foreign accent, while
his eyes followed Mr. Duncan’s movements, and expressed great interest
in him.
After a while, the whole party adjourned to see the church; Hilary
then claiming her right of leading her father, Mr. Paine still by his
side conversing on parish matters, the architect leading little Nest,
and devoting himself to her prattle with astonishing pleasure, while
the other two gentlemen followed behind, earnestly discussing some
topic in under-tones.
Love of his profession, apparently, overcame his love of children in
Mr. Jeffries, when in the church, for he examined the building
minutely; but Hilary observed that the unknown placed himself beside
Mr. Duncan, and seemed far more interested in watching his expression
and countenance than in looking at windows, or deciphering brasses.
Her curiosity was excited; something more than curiosity, indeed, for
whatever was connected with her father interested her deeply, and she
determined, as soon as she was outside the church, to inquire of Mr.
Huyton who this stranger was.
Meantime, the quick eyes and keen perception of Mr. Jeffries had
revealed a circumstance which country church-wardens had not detected,
and which Mr. Duncan’s increasing blindness had prevented him from
seeing. The chancel was exceedingly out of repair, and Mr. Paine
suggested that immediate application should be made to the
lay-impropriator to remedy that evil now first pointed out. Mr. Duncan
promised to take measures to that effect, and they all left the church
together.
Charles came up to Hilary’s side as they did so, and rather detaining
her behind the others, said, “Your eyes, Miss Duncan, have been
questioning, ever since we arrived, who the individual now walking
with your father is; he is an eminent French physician, a friend of
mine, an oculist, I should rather say, whom I persuaded to come over
here with me to-day, thinking that perhaps his advice might be of
service to Mr. Duncan.”
Hilary colored deeply; she saw, or thought she saw at once, that this
was another obligation under which Mr. Huyton had laid them; possibly
he had only invited M. de la Récaille to ‘the Ferns’ in order to see
and consult about her father’s sight. It was a positive pain to her to
receive favors in their present relative situation; and while she felt
she ought to be obliged for the kindness of the thought, she could not
entirely suppress a feeling of repulsion toward one who would heap
benefits on her which she would rather have avoided.
“Do you think Mr. Duncan would mind my friend looking at his eyes?”
continued Charles, watching her countenance attentively; “I was afraid
of doing any thing disagreeable, so did not like to mention it to him
without your leave; but M. de la Récaille is such an enthusiast in his
profession, that he declares I can not oblige him more than by
bringing new cases under his notice; that is the reason he accompanied
me here to-day!”
This speech in some measure quieted Hilary’s mind; and after scolding
herself in secret for being such a goose as to think that Mr. Huyton
must be influenced by thoughts of her in all he did, she entered upon
the subject more readily with him, and it was agreed that the
suggestion should be made to Mr. Duncan.
“I am not afraid of hurting him,” continued Hilary; “for his
resignation to whatever happens, is too deep to be shaken by an
observation, a hope, or a decision of any man. I have not learned to
view it so calmly yet,” her lip quivering as she spoke, “and can
hardly discuss the subject――but, oh! if your friend could give us
hopes――could tell us how to avert――” her voice was lost entirely, and
Charles almost regretted that he had introduced the topic. However she
recovered her composure again when M. de la Récaille spoke to her on
the subject, inquiring particularly, methodically, and with great
acuteness, all the symptoms of which she had ever been aware in her
father’s case; what advice he had taken, and what remedies had been
used. His quick, business-like questions, the manner in which he
caught the meaning and point of her answers, stopping her from
entering on useless details, and arranging all the facts which he
elicited during his searching interrogatory, compelled her to use her
utmost endeavors to meet his inquiries, to banish feeling and
agitation, and to look only at facts in the same light as that in
which he viewed them.
It was too late in the day, when they returned from the church, to be
favorable for an examination at that time; and it was finally settled
that the gentlemen should proceed at once to Primrose Bank, conclude
their investigations there, and return to Hurstdene the next morning;
when Mr. Paine and the vicar could mutually make known their decisions
concerning the curacy, and M. de la Récaille might carry out his
wishes with regard to Mr. Duncan’s eyesight.
It was an evening of great trial to Hilary; hope for her father had
entered her heart, and she could not bid its gentle whispers be still:
but she dared not impart her fancies, or allow him to see how much she
dwelt on the idea. He was as calm as ever; the notion of approaching
darkness had become familiar to him, and he was so firmly convinced of
the incurable nature of his complaint, that he would hardly have been
disturbed had all the oculists in the kingdom promised him sight. She
would not distress him with her agitation; her feelings must be
smothered under an assumed appearance of calmness, but she could not
approach the topic; and while her sisters were chattering gayly about
the gentlemen whom they had seen that day, and describing again and
again the personal appearance of all three strangers, never agreeing
in details, nor feeling sure whether any pair of eyes were blue,
black, or brown, Hilary smiled, and answered, and gave her opinion
with almost her ordinary cheerfulness and readiness, while her heart
was palpitating with excitement, and her mind at every leisure moment
putting up secret petitions for patience, strength, and submission,
whatever the result might be.
The morrow came, and the visitors arrived punctually. After a brief
interview between the clergymen in Mr. Duncan’s study, he repaired to
the drawing-room, and seating himself according to the oculist’s
directions, quietly submitted to his examination. His daughter stood
beside him, her hand clasping his, her breath almost stopped from
agitation, her very lips white with intense excitement, and yet her
face calm, rigid, and pale as marble. Oh! the suspense of that moment:
her eyes eagerly bent on the oculist’s countenance, endeavored to read
his decision in his face, before his lips pronounced it; and,
unconscious of all beside, her whole mind and understanding was
centred on that one object.
Charles was close to her, his eyes intently gazing on her, but she
knew it not: had he been a hundred miles off she could hardly have
been more indifferent about him.
It was over at last; that prolonged agony was ended; M. de la Récaille
shook his head, sighed, and announced there was no hope, no human
probability of any cure; perfect rest might delay the result,
agitation might expedite the evil; but come it must; total blindness,
sooner or later, was inevitably impending.
Mr. Duncan heard it unmoved; he only drew Hilary’s hand closer to his
heart, and said, in a cheerful voice,
“Then, my child, I must submit to be dependent on you for eyes; thank
God, that I have still a daughter!”
She pressed his hand, words could not come, and she was too shy to
caress him before strangers; but Charles saw that her feelings were
wrought to the uttermost, that composure was on the point of giving
way, and only anxious to release her, addressed Mr. Duncan, so as to
call off his attention. Hilary had sufficient fortitude quietly to
withdraw her hand, and then escaping from the room, rushed into her
father’s study, where, throwing herself on a chair, and burying her
face in her hands, she gave way to sobs deep and agonizing, such as
are the outpourings of suppressed feeling alone, the quivering of the
spring long held in suspense.
She was not aware that Mr. Paine had continued in the study after her
father left it; at the moment of her entrance he was sitting in a
large chair, engrossed in reading, but startled from his occupation by
her appearance, and the expressive agony she betrayed, he looked at
her for a minute in silent commiseration, and then rising, and
approaching close to her, he said, in a peculiarly gentle and sweet
voice,
“Miss Duncan, I am grieved to see you so much distressed; has any
thing occurred?”
She started at the sound of his voice, but her feelings were too
strongly moved for ceremony, and the soft, kind tone went to her heart
like the words of a friend.
“Oh, my father! my father!” she sobbed, “all hope is gone; he is, he
must be――” then her voice was choked again in an agony of tears.
“M. de la Récaille gives no hope, then?” said he, very gently; “I am
indeed grieved.”
“Ah, if it had been to me,” exclaimed Hilary, “I think I could have
borne it better; but for my father, dear, dear father, that he should
be helpless, dependent, dark――he who has such intense pleasure in
beauty, who has been so active, so busy all his life――that he should
be reduced to the state――oh, for submission, resignation, faith like
his!”
“Is he much disappointed at the result?” inquired Mr. Paine.
“No, oh, no; he never hoped at all; and he is so good, so trustful!”
“Dear Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Paine, drawing a chair close beside hers,
“short as our acquaintance has been, it is impossible for me not to be
interested in your father and family; and the future connection
between us, the claim which I hope to have as your pastor, when I come
to assist Mr. Duncan in his duties here, makes me feel that I have a
right to speak to you. Will you let me address you as a friend, or
shall I be intruding unpleasantly on a sorrow I would gladly assuage
or mitigate?”
Hilary raised her head, and wiping away her tears, she said, with a
sort of watery smile,
“Be our friend, Mr. Paine, and speak; I deserve reproof for my
rebellion to the will of heaven!”
“I would rather give you comfort than reproof, Miss Duncan; and
painful as the certainty you have just acquired must be, natural as
grief is under such feelings, I think there is comfort to be found
even here. The entire and beautiful resignation of your father shows
so clearly that he has that blessed light within which is alone the
source of true happiness, that I think you may repose in perfect
confidence on this dispensation proving a blessing, not a scourge to
him. ‘HE that formed the eye, shall not HE see’ the sorrow or the
suffering of His servant? and can not that Arm guard him from evil
during the rest of his life which has led him hitherto? HE has not
left him helpless, for He has given him daughters who, I am sure, will
all make it their privilege to minister to his wants. There is the
same home to shelter him, the same daily comforts to which he has been
used, the same church, and the same loved services to cheer him. And
best of all, beyond all,” added Mr. Paine, looking upward, “the same
hope of everlasting life in the brightness of light, when our poor,
feeble bodies shall be changed into the likeness of the glorious body
of our Adorable Redeemer, and when all sorrow, sighing, and darkness
shall forever flee away.”
Hilary could not answer, and he was silent, too, for a few minutes.
Such thoughts as these make earthly trials and earthly pleasures seem
small and poor indeed; and the young man just entering on life’s
serious duties and engagements felt he could readily have changed his
own bright prospects for the fate of the elder Christian, whose active
warfare must be nearly accomplished, and who must now retire from
harassing duties to that quiet contemplation so suited to the last
stages of our pilgrimage here.
Recollecting himself and his companion, who was sitting before him
with downcast eyes, and composed though pale features, he added, in a
more cheerful voice,
“And indeed, my dear Miss Duncan, if you have had any experience among
blind people, you must know that there is far less trouble to the
sufferer than to those who care for and watch over him. There are many
alleviations mercifully sent in all trials; and I have often remarked
that those deprived of sight are cheerful, and even joyous, under
their affliction. To you, and to your sisters, the anxiety and
responsibility may be great, but I feel convinced that, in such a
cause, no labor will be a trouble.”
“Trouble!” repeated Hilary, clasping her hands; “Mr. Paine, I can only
consider it, as far as I am concerned, a privilege, a blessing, to be
allowed to minister to such a father as mine. It is a thing to be
thankful for for life.”
“Fear not, then, you will not be deserted, or left without strength to
fulfill your labor of love; services so rendered are indeed a
blessing; and happy as I believe your father to be in having a
daughter from whom he may receive attentions, I hold that daughter
happier still who, from the truest, highest, holiest motives, can give
her undivided affection to such an object. Miss Duncan, if you can
view your position in the true light, you are not an object of pity;
the line of your duty is so plainly marked out, you can have no
hesitation in following it. Give yourself to it unreservedly, and your
strength will not fail; or, if your cares should become too heavy, and
your burden more than you can bear alone, then only believe, and help
will be sent you in your need. Look above for aid, and you will find
it come to you by earthly means, as you require it. Look below, fasten
your hopes on temporal things, and they will wither in your grasp!”
“True, most true; at this moment I feel it true; just now, when, weak
and fainting, you have been sent to strengthen me, Mr. Paine; thank
you for your words. No, I am not to be pitied, indeed; for I can put
my trust above, and even below I have blessings innumerable. You are
right; my duty is plain, and with God’s help I will not depart from
it.”
“I hope we shall always continue to be friends, Miss Duncan,” added
the clergyman; “looking forward as I do to a residence among you, I
feel happy in the prospect of having such neighbors; and I trust to
bring one among you, who, I am sure, will be desirous to be numbered
also among your friends; one whose society will, I hope, be not
disagreeable to you. I will not venture to say more, for perhaps you
may not consider my evidence conclusive, but I hope we _shall_ be
friends.
“I am sure I shall be most happy to have a friend,” replied Hilary,
simply. “I have never had one of near my own age, and I shall look
forward to the prospect of the acquaintance with very great pleasure.
Now shall we go back to my father? perhaps he will want me; and,”
added she, with something between a sigh and a smile, “do not betray
how weak I have been, and then my dear father need not know it.”