“But in the world, I learnt, what there
Thou too wilt surely one day prove――
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.”
ARNOLD.
“I can not leave England, and quit for an indefinite time
the spot which contains all that is dearest on earth to me,
without one more attempt to avert the necessity of
separation from you; one more endeavor to soften an
indifference which occasions me so intense a regret. Dearest
Miss Duncan, I fear, in my efforts for your father’s
benefit, I have increased your sorrow, have deepened and
aggravated the wounds, from which your loving heart was
already so acutely aching. Forgive me the deed for the
intention; may I suggest that, however bitter was the pang
of disappointment, it must be less severe than would
hereafter be the misery of self-reproach, had you neglected
any means which might have alleviated his affliction? Your
pale face of suffering, self-command, and fortitude is ever
before me; I longed intensely yesterday to speak words of
sympathy and affection; my heart was yearning to pour out
its passionate pity for your agony――but I might not――I whose
love for you is, oh, so deep! so pure, so strong! I was
forced to be silent, or to breathe only calm sentences of
courteous regard, and polite, well-bred, decorous
compassion. Do not be angry with me for putting on paper the
feeling I can not hope to express otherwise; condescend to
read and give some attention to what I say. Must I leave you
now, with this sad destiny closing darkly round you! leave
you to struggle alone, to toil beyond your strength, to
sacrifice yourself in the melancholy fate that awaits you!
Do you think I can contemplate such a conclusion with
calmness? Oh, no! it is agony to me to dwell upon the idea,
which haunts me night and day. Beloved, excellent, adorable
Hilary, you have an angel’s spirit in an angel form, but
your strength, alas! is mortal, and well I know that rest
and comfort for yourself will be your last thought, while
your services of love are poured out on the helpless ones
around you. May I tell you what is my dream, my vision of
bliss? I fancy I see you all transported to ‘the Ferns,’
your younger sisters making joyous with their bright
presence the dreary walls of the old house, and causing
their empty chambers to echo to their merry voices; there I
see them in idea, growing up under every advantage which can
be procured by love and wealth united; proper attendants,
masters, literature, enjoyments in doors and out, every
taste developed, every talent cultivated to the utmost. I
see your dear parent, too, enjoying under the same roof
every blessing and comfort which perfect filial love and
unbounded power could shower on him――every compensation for
this new affliction which could assist to lighten the
burden, and brighten the remainder of his path through life.
And there I see, reigning supreme over all, with all the
despotic power of love, and gentleness, and tender firmness
combined, one whose presence is like a ray of sunshine,
blessing and gladdening every thing within reach. I think I
see you, ruling the family, governing the parish, protecting
the weak, comforting the unhappy, delighting the gay;
influencing all around by the imperceptible power of
goodness, even as a delicate odor spreads itself unseen, and
yet all-pervading, driving away what is bad, and purifying
the surrounding atmosphere. Do you frown upon my dream?
alas! that there should be that in _me_, which prevents its
realization; that though to me it looks so fair and
beautiful, my presence should cast the shadow on it, which
alone makes it impossible. But is it so? let me ask, is
there no change? may I have no hope? Have the three months
which have elapsed since I first ventured to express my
feelings passed, and left no trace behind? am I as far off
as ever from the point, the only thing which can make me
happy? If so, I go to exile and solitary misery to-morrow,
for solitary I must ever be where you are not; solitary I
shall continue until the weary months roll by, which you may
consider necessary. But, tell me how long must it be? how
long must my home duties be laid aside, my house be left
untenanted, and myself a wanderer in foreign lands, away
from all who have any claim on me? Hilary, you shall
dictate; but remember you decide for more than yourself;
look at the whole circumstances, and then tell me how long
shall I be justified in absenting myself from what you have
taught me to consider duties and responsibilities? Deign to
give me an answer to this question. Must my dream continue
nothing but an empty dream, while I go, and for how long――or
may I remain and realize it?
“CHARLES HUYTON.”
Such was the letter which, on the ensuing day after the interview with
the oculist, Charles Huyton’s groom carried to the Vicarage; and to
this Hilary was forced to reply, for the servant was waiting for an
answer. Was it not a dazzling vision to place before a young girl’s
eyes, whose self-devotion to her family was her most prominent
characteristic? Opulence and all its advantages for them, instead of a
narrowing income, a humble home, and the wearing routine of close
domestic economy; and the price was to give her hand to an amiable and
agreeable man, passionately devoted to her, and a favorite with every
member of her family. Ought selfish feelings to stand in the way, and
prevent their enjoying benefits which she might so easily purchase?
For a moment she hesitated; she deliberated not for herself, but for
those most dear to her. Then, too, there was his plea. Could it be
necessary to insist on his leaving home and home duties, renouncing
his occupations and pursuits, and all for her? Had she any right to
require such a sacrifice? She pondered the question again and again:
her head was bewildered, and she could decide on nothing. Time was
flying quickly; the answer must be written. Oh! for a friend to guide
and counsel her.
Nay, but she had a friend; One who would not leave her; One always
accessible, always loving and patient. And there was a rule, too, a
rule to guide her, if she could but discover it; she knew that she
must not expect sudden illuminations, divine impulses to direct her;
such were not the answers to her prayers for which she had been taught
to look. Her line of duty was marked out, and she could see it,
doubtless, clear and distinct, if she could but remove the intervening
mists and shadows, which passion and prejudice, imaginations,
mistrust, or too great anxiety for the future had thrown across it.
She prayed to be guided aright, and then quietly set herself to review
the case, trusting that she should eventually see what the right was.
The cloud passed from her eyes; she saw the snare laid before her;
stepped aside, and thanked God that she had been saved from sin and
danger.
“Thou shalt not do evil that good may come of it.”
There was the rule; and plausible as the temptation had appeared, she
saw now that it was _evil_. Yes, _evil_ to give her hand without her
heart, to sell herself for any earthly good, either to herself or
others; to make the solemn vow to love, honor, and obey, one toward
whom the two former seemed impossible, and the latter might be
incompatible with other duties. What, if she shrank from the claims
now existing on her, should she therefore form others more
indissoluble, more exacting still? If she had not strength to act a
daughter’s part, should she take the responsibilities of a wife also?
Would she have more time to attend to her father’s wants, when she had
added the cares of an extensive establishment, and a large dependent
neighborhood? What madness to dream of such a change! And would the
luxuries, the indulgences of wealth be a real blessing, a safe
acquisition to those for whom she had been tempted to procure them.
Whose words then were those who spake――“How hardly shall they that
have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven?” Did not He know, or
could He be mistaken?
She wept! not that she must resign the prospect, but that it should
have proved a temptation to her; and seizing a sheet of paper, she
hastily wrote the answer which should decide this point as she hoped
forever.
“Again, and I trust for the last time, let me say, I thank
you for your good wishes, but my plans, my intentions are
unchanged. I deeply regret having been the cause of so much
disappointment to you. Our duties henceforth must keep a
separate path. Mine is too clear to be mistaken; nor am I
making any sacrifice in my resolution; my wishes, my hopes
of peace and happiness all point to remaining as I am, as
clearly as my sense of right, and my convictions of duty.
Now will you allow me, as the only return I can make for
your attachment and kind wishes, to say one word to you
about what your _duty_ is? Is it right for you to throw on
me the decision of what it should be? you know, whatever you
may say, you can not really make me responsible for what I
can not help.
“Must you renounce your country and your home, because you
must renounce my society? I asked you _not_ to come to the
Vicarage; I did not bid you go to Dresden――neither do I tell
you _not_ to go there. If your mother’s family have claims
on you, of course you must attend to them; if the claims of
others are pre-eminent, should you not give them their due
place?
“Does it become any of us, poor, short-sighted, weak
individuals to quarrel with our station in life, and because
Providence denies us one thing we wish for, should we fret
like a pettish child, and throw aside every other blessing
in angry disgust? Pardon me for writing thus to you; I
should not have presumed to do so, but for the part of your
letter in which you call on me to decide. Mr. Huyton, when
you have hereafter to answer for your conduct, will it be a
good plea that you gave up the helm of your mind to another
hand, one which could not guide you rightly?
“Now, farewell. I trust that we shall each be led right in
our separate ways, and if I can give you nothing else, I
will, at least, give you my poor prayers for a blessing on
you, in return for the kind wishes you have expressed for my
family, and the favors you have conferred on them.
“H. D.”
This answer dispatched, of its results she knew nothing, except that
Charles Huyton left the country with the intention of going abroad;
and this information was conveyed by a servant, who brought over a
little parcel, directed to Miss Sybil Duncan. There was the key of his
library, and an order to his gardener to admit Mr. Duncan’s family,
when and where they pleased, in his grounds, a privilege accorded to
no one else. Hilary was glad of this little proof of kindness, it
shewed that he did not resent her answer; and she trusted that she was
acting from right motives, whatever his course might be.
She was the only one of her family who did not either secretly or
openly regret his absence; but to her the relief was unspeakable, and
she knew that her father owned it was right, however much he might
miss his society.
Charles Huyton gone, she was able to devote herself to other cares and
occupations, and all disagreeable memories connected with him vanished
gradually from her mind in the more pressing duties which surrounded
her, and unexpected pleasures which opened upon her view.
Mr. Barham, the gentleman whose duty it was to keep the chancel in
repair, answered the letter from the Vicar on the subject by a visit
in person, accompanied by his steward, Mr. Edwards, and a surveyor,
whose opinion was much relied on by his employer. Mr. Duncan’s
infirmities rendered Hilary’s presence necessary during the interview;
and the gentlemen really seemed much struck by the young lady’s
personal appearance, graceful manners, and quick yet clear powers of
mind. Mr. Edwards paid her several compliments on her business-like
habits and capacities; the surveyor admired her command over her
pencil; and Mr. Barham, who was a courteous but calm-mannered person,
and who was known generally as possessing a considerable degree of
that pride of family and exclusiveness of habits which often develops
itself in a lofty graciousness to all others supposed to be inferiors,
intimated his wish to come again, and see how the building went on,
and requested permission to bring over his daughters to visit a place
which had so much to recommend it.
Hilary gave a ready acquiescence; and an early day next week was fixed
on for a party from Drewhurst Abbey to come over and take luncheon at
the Vicarage.
In the course of conversation, Mr. Duncan mentioned the circumstance
of the expected arrival of the curate, who was to come down in a very
short time, and take the duty on Sunday. Mr. Barham immediately began
regretting that he had not known that Mr. Duncan was inquiring for a
curate: there was a young man of good family and great talent whom he
should have been glad to have seen settled there――one, in fact, who
was about to marry a connection of his, a cousin of his daughters――it
would have been pleasant to have had them in the neighborhood: Miss
Duncan would have found the lady an acquisition to their society. He
very much lamented that the arrangement had been made without his
knowledge.
Mr. Duncan was privately a little amused at his visitor, who, having
been contented for thirty years to have no intercourse with him, could
hardly have reasonably expected to be consulted on the choice of an
assistant in duties with which he had no concern.
However, he answered very mildly, “that the gentleman in question was,
he believed, an excellent young man, which, so far as parochial
matters were concerned, was of far more consequence than either high
family or astonishing talents, and he hoped no one would find reason
to complain that their Vicar had been hasty or injudicious in the
selection of a pastor.”
“No doubt that is very true, my dear sir,” blandly observed Mr.
Barham; “virtue in a clergyman undoubtedly ranks above all;
nevertheless, the advantages of a cultivated genius and high family
are not to be despised; and although there may be many men of low
birth highly estimable in a moral point of view, yet it is desirable,
for the sake of the character and standing of the clerical body, that
there should be gentlemen also in the profession. They give a tone――an
elevated tone to the whole!”
Mr. Duncan did not feel called on to reply; and after a pause, Mr.
Barham added,
“I could have wished that your curate had been a man of good
connections, and a certain fortune and position in society. Is he
married?”
“Not yet, I understand,” replied the Vicar; “but he has promised to
bring a wife as soon as his new house is ready. And I believe I may
venture to answer for his connections and fortune being both good. He
is a relative of Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns,’ who assured me he was a
man of independent income.”
“Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns!’――how strange! What may his name be?”
“Paine――the Reverend Edward Paine.”
“My dear sir, this is most extraordinary! he is the very man I was
thinking of. I am delighted to hear it; but it is strange that it
should be settled without my knowing it; neither Mr. Huyton nor Miss
Maxwell has informed us. I wonder she did not let her cousins, my
daughters, know. I wonder Charles Huyton has not called to inform me.”
“Mr. Huyton went abroad last week,” observed Mr. Duncan, quietly.
“Abroad!――are you certain? I knew nothing about that, and I should
have expected, from the sort of terms we were on, that he would have
told me. I can hardly believe it.”
Mr. Duncan made no observation.
“I shall call at ‘the Ferns’ to inquire as I go home. Perhaps you have
been misinformed!” continued Mr. Barham.
“I have reason to think not,” was the Vicar’s quiet observation,
conveying, however, no conviction to the mind of his visitor, who only
thought he knew nothing about it.
“But about Edward Paine,” continued Mr. Barham; “how came it settled
without my hearing, I wonder? Whose arrangement, may I ask, was it?”
“It was so recently settled,” answered Mr. Duncan, “that perhaps there
has not been time to let you know; and in that case, I regret I have
forestalled them in giving information, which would, no doubt, have
come more gracefully from the parties in whom you are so much
interested. Charles knew my wishes, and introduced his cousin here;
and Mr. Paine, once introduced, is a person to make his own way; but
almost nothing was said of the lady, so that I was entirely ignorant
of her being a connection of yours. Charles did not even mention her
name to us, did he, Hilary?”
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Barham; “may I inquire who _Charles_ is?”
“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Barham; I mean Mr. Huyton; but for the
last two years I have been so completely in the habit of speaking _to_
him by his Christian name, I sometimes forget and speak _of_ him as
such, too.”
“I had no idea,” said Mr. Barham, a little majestically, “that my
young friend, Mr. Huyton, was so diffusive in his acquaintances. You
were, then, on very intimate terms?”
“He has always been a kind neighbor to us, and being my principal
parishioner, and owning most of the property about, we naturally were
much interested in many of the same things. He has been very good to
the schools, and, indeed, in many ways; the poor will miss him this
winter, for we can hardly expect him to remember them at Dresden.”
Mr. Barham’s notions were quite discomposed by this speech. His
amiable intentions of patronising and bringing into notice a family
who had hitherto “blushed unseen” in the wilds of Hurstdene, seemed
apparently quite thrown away; possibly they were not such entire
representatives of modern Robinson Crusoes as he had imagined them. He
saw, however, no reason for changing his views with regard to
introducing his daughters, and, accordingly, he soon afterward took
leave, with a renewed promise to come at the time talked of.
Isabel and Dora Barham were both younger than Hilary Duncan, but their
friends had evidently done what they could to give them the advantages
of age, or to deprive them as soon as possible of those peculiarities
of youth which consist in simplicity, bashfulness, or diffidence. They
had been early brought out into the world; early introduced into
society; they had been taught to behave, talk, and dress as women, at
an age when more fortunate girls are allowed still to feel themselves
children. They were now, at sixteen and seventeen, extremely elegant
young women, elegantly educated, elegantly dressed, elegantly
mannered, surrounded from childhood by all the refinements and
luxuries of life; accustomed to lavish indulgence of their fancies,
and an unbounded command of money. Suffering was to them a fable;
self-denial a mere myth. Had they not been naturally amiable, they
would have been now detestable――but they were not. Isabel was a little
proud, a little selfish, a little vain; but she had some very good
qualities mixed with these vices, which, in good hands, might have
turned out well. Dora had no particular character at all; she was
merely a reflection of those she lived with; and as these were chiefly
her father and sister, of course she generally fell in with their
tastes, adopted their habits, and believed all they told her.
They were delighted with the introduction to Hilary; they both
commenced a most enthusiastic girlish friendship with her. Isabel’s
was, perhaps, less sincere than Dora’s――she had more of her father’s
patronising tone; and never, in the least, suspected how very far the
vicar’s daughter was really her superior in every essential
particular.
Hilary was very simply sincere in her regard for the two girls. She
admired them exceedingly, and their kindness, their caressing manners,
and very amiable ways, engaged her affection. They soon became
intimate, and the Miss Barhams would ride over of a morning, and
gliding into the Vicarage drawing-room, would spend the whole
afternoon hanging about Hilary, chatting, idling, or pretending to
learn from her some of the many fancy works which she had acquired.
They were continually trying to wile away Hilary to the Abbey; but
this her home occupations forbade, and only twice, during the autumn
and winter following, was she induced to spend an afternoon there, and
then her father accompanied her.
The introduction of Mrs. Paine was another remarkable event in
Hilary’s quiet life, which gave her, perhaps, even more pleasure than
the acquisition of her other friends. She was a very pleasing young
woman indeed, and, although a cousin of the late Mrs. Barham, and
having a good fortune, she was so earnest in her wishes to follow out
her duty, so simple in her tastes, and indifferent to personal
accommodation, that long before Primrose Bank was habitable, she was
established with her husband in tiny lodgings at Stairs farm, and
giving her time and attention as much to their new parish as to her
future home.
The winter passed quietly, but far more cheerfully than Hilary could
have ventured to hope; Mr. Duncan enjoyed Mr. Paine’s society, and
relied on his judgment in all parochial matters; he also liked the two
young ladies who frequented his house, especially Dora, who, he once
told Hilary, might be made any thing, either good or bad, as
circumstances fell out.
Sybil and Gwyneth, meanwhile, were growing very tall; and whether it
was from their intercourse with the young ladies from the Abbey, or
their own nature, they had lately advanced so rapidly, that their
appearance had got the start of their years, and no one would have
guessed them to be less than sixteen and seventeen, instead of what
was actually their respective ages.
The owner of ‘the Ferns,’ although absent in a foreign land, had by no
means forgotten either his friends or his tenants. More than one
extensive order on his banker was remitted to Mr. Duncan, for the
relief of distress, and the encouragement of good conduct; and several
letters were received from him, written to the same person. Hilary
could neither quarrel with the act, nor the manner of performing it.
Although Mr. Huyton was, of course, aware that she would necessarily
be acquainted with the contents of the letters, there was nothing in
the words which could in the least offend her; they breathed warm
interest in his people, affectionate regard for the vicar, and kind
remembrances to his family. No one could have suspected from these
letters what had passed between them, and it seemed to Hilary’s young
and trustful imagination, that absence was effecting the desired cure;
she hoped that when their friend returned, as he talked of doing in
the spring, it would be to resume a pleasant and rational intercourse,
such as it had been eighteen months ago.
One morning, about the first opening of spring, the two young ladies
from the Abbey arrived earlier than usual; so early, indeed, as to
break in upon the girls’ school hours, which was a point Hilary had
long begged them to attend to. She was looking graver than usual,
which they attributed to this transgression; and Dora, putting her
arms caressingly round her neck, exclaimed――
“Now, Hilary, dear, don’t be angry, but give your sisters a holiday,
and let us be happy for once; do you know we have come to say good-by
for ages.”
“Indeed! are you leaving home?” said Miss Duncan.
“Yes, we are going to martyrdom,” replied Dora.
“We are going to town for the season,” said Isabel, in answer to
Hilary’s look of inquiry. “We always do, of course; it is expected of
people in our rank, you know; Dora pretends she does not like it, but
she does really; and if she did not, one must make some sacrifices for
duty.”
“Going to London for the season――that means going to be very gay, does
it not?” said Sybil.
“Oh, yes, Sybil,” cried Dora, “it means turning night into day, and
spending it in hot crowds, for whom one does not care the least
portion of an atom; and employing all one’s energies, faculties, and
time in dressing, dancing, or sleeping――oh dear!”
“Don’t be foolish, Dora; nobody likes company, or pretty clothes,
better than you,” said Isabel.
“That is the worst of it; I like them against my conscience, and every
time I buy some extravagant ornament, I suffer from remorse; and yet
am just as weak at the next temptation. I wish I could say I really
hated it all. Do you know, Hilary, I envy you for staying here so
quietly in the country, and being able to dress plainly and do good,
while I am only able to wish to do either.”
“I am afraid you would feel rather awkward, Dora, either with my
wardrobe or my occupations. Our duties are so different; yours, you
know, is to go with your father to London, to dress elegantly, and
look pretty.”
“That is just what I despise myself for, Hilary――my perfect
uselessness, and life of gaudy show. I never leave you without wishing
I were situated like you. Not too grand to be useful――living in a
small house, instead of those fatiguing large rooms, which tire one to
walk across; having a garden one could love and care for, instead of
being merely allowed to look at papa’s gardener’s plants and shrubs;
having to do things myself, instead of being always waited on; and oh,
above all, having learned to despise the pomps and vanities of life,
instead of all the time loving them in my heart, and feeling them
necessary to my comfort.”
“She is only talking nonsense, Hilary,” interposed Isabel; “she is
seized with these fits of despondency about her own rank in life,
every now and then, and fancies we are all wrong, for living according
to what is expected of us in society. I am happy to say, however, she
acts on principles of common sense, and her democratic theories of
equality and universal brotherhood are confined to theory entirely.”
“It is not right,” said Dora, thoughtfully shaking her head; “it can
not be right; but I do not know what is wrong, and when I begin to
think, I am involved in a labyrinth of doubt. To be admired, courted,
and caressed, can not be the right aim of life, and yet I am sure it
is mine. Now, is not that absolutely contemptible, Hilary, to live for
such objects?”
“I rather suspect,” replied Hilary, “you mistake your real motives.
You know your father likes you to go into society, and is pleased when
you are admired; and this, I have no doubt, is what makes you like it
too. If nobody wished you to go out, I dare say you would be as
quietly domestic as I am, Dora.”
“I do not know; I believe if any body I cared for wished me to stay at
home, I should yield to them with delight. One comfort is, I know the
London dissipation will make me ill, and then I shall be forced to be
quiet.”
“That is an odd sort of comfort, Dora,” said Hilary, smiling; “one I
can not wish for you!”
“It is her nonsense,” observed Isabel.
“Indeed, it is not. I was quite knocked up last year; and I am not so
strong now. I mean, when I am ill, to ask Mrs. Paine to take me, for
change of air, to Primrose Bank, and try how I like small rooms and a
moderate establishment.”
“Here come Mr. and Mrs. Paine,” observed Gwyneth, who was sitting by a
window; “you can settle with her at once, Dora; it would be so nice to
have you at Primrose Bank.”
Mr. Paine went to Mr. Duncan’s study; his wife came to the
drawing-room, bringing with her little Nest, who had been saying her
lessons to her papa. There were some parish matters to be discussed
first with Hilary; and then, before Dora had time to mention her plans
for her expected illness, Mrs. Paine observed, looking earnestly at
Hilary,
“What is the matter, dear?――have you had bad news of any kind to-day?”
“Not _bad_; at least, not necessarily so,” replied Miss Duncan; “but
we heard from abroad to-day.”
“Your brother! nothing wrong about him, I hope.”
Hilary’s eyes filled, but she spoke calmly. Maurice had been ill, very
ill, of a most dangerous fever; the danger was over now, they hoped,
but, indeed, they believed it had been extreme, and he was not yet
well enough to write himself. Their letter had been from his captain,
who had most kindly written to his father, to assure him that danger
was now over, and that they hoped, by care and attention, to restore
this promising young officer to his family and his country; there was
one to the same effect from the surgeon, also, who had written at the
express desire of Captain Hepburn, to certify his being now in a state
of convalescence.
“It was so kind, so very kind, of Captain Hepburn to write,” pursued
Hilary, with emotion; “and such a beautiful, feeling letter, speaking,
oh, in such terms of Maurice, and so desirous to spare my father’s
feelings. I knew Maurice liked him very much, and now I do not
wonder.”
“What a wonderful girl you are, you dear thing!” said Dora, caressing
her; “having all this on your mind, and yet teaching and talking, as
if nothing had been the matter. How did you see, Fanny? for I never
discovered any change in Hilary.”
“Perhaps, Dora,” said Mrs. Paine, “because you are more accustomed to
attend to your own feelings than those of other people.”
“Well, I am afraid I am; I want to know how to cure that. But do tell
me something more about this brother of yours; how long has he been
away? what is he, a captain, too? or what?”
“He is only a mate, Dora; but has served long enough to be promoted,
only we have no interest. But the best part of Captain Hepburn’s
letter, Mrs. Paine, is, that he hopes to get him leave to come home
for his health, and then we shall have him here again!” Hilary clasped
her hands in a very unusual ecstacy.
“And what sort of interest does it need to make a young man a
lieutenant?” inquired Dora, again. “Could papa do it for you?”
“interest at the Admiralty,” replied Mrs. Paine. “I hardly think Mr.
Barham would like to trouble himself about it, because he has a nephew
at sea himself.”
“Oh, yes! cousin Peter――I can not bear him, Hilary; I hope your
brother Maurice is not like our cousin Peter.”
“Absurd, Dora!” ejaculated Isabel; “Peter is a very good sort of young
man.”
However, Dora’s inquiries were not to be stopped by Isabel’s
ejaculations; and before she took leave of the Vicarage, she had made
herself mistress of the rank which Maurice now held, of the time he
had served, and the wished-for promotion he deserved to attain.
Maurice’s illness, and his expected return to England, so excited and
engrossed the minds of the family at the Vicarage, that another piece
of news, which reached them the same time, was comparatively
insignificant; this was the projected return of Charles Huyton.
A letter to Mr. Duncan reached the Vicarage the week after the Barham
family left the Abbey, intimating that he was proposing to be at “the
Ferns” in about a fortnight. It was a calm and friendly letter; not
one expression or sentiment betrayed any strong emotion, nor was there
the smallest allusion to the motive which had taken him abroad. Hilary
was much pleased; and when she had thoughts to spare for him at all,
they were of a quiet and satisfactory nature.