“What lady is this, whose silken attire
Gleams so rich by the light of the fire?
The ringlets on her shoulder lying,
In their flitting luster vying
With the clasp of burnished gold
Which her heavy robe doth hold.”
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.
The Barhams had been in town about a fortnight, when Hilary received a
letter from Dora, inclosing another addressed to that young lady;
Dora’s epistle was written in the following words:
“DEAREST HILARY――
“You see I have got it done at last; I have coaxed, and
prayed, and begged; and not in vain. What would I not give
to see your dear, beautiful face at this moment! I never
forgot you, and I made up my mind at once. I said nothing to
papa, because I thought my dear old friend, the earl (he is
my godfather, you know) would do it for me; and I believe he
only made me beg for the fun of the thing. I went down on my
knees to him; we had such a laugh when he brought me the
little note inside; I do not think it gave him any more
trouble than just asking. Remember, I should not have begged
for any body but _you_; and having never even seen your
brother’s face, my efforts must be acknowledged
disinterested. Perhaps you had better not tell _him_;
however, you may do as you please, for I am not ashamed. I
am not ill yet, but, on my honor, I am not so well as I
should be in the country; and though I have tried hard to be
rational, I rather think I am as extravagant as ever. Tell
dear Mr. Duncan I am so glad for you all, and I only wish I
could have asked for a step or two more at the same time.
The pleasure of making you happy is so great, that I think I
am best off of the whole party, including your brother. Is
that the reason you are so fond of doing good, Hilary? it is
much better than jewels or balls; only now the excitement is
over, what shall I do? Good-by, you dear darling! Mind, I
expect a letter of thanks, of course. Your loving friend.
“DORA M. BARHAM.”
Hilary read through her friend’s letter in hopes of meeting with
something explanatory of her meaning; failing that, however, she did
not stop to puzzle over it, but opening the enclosure, found a little
note addressed to the Earl, of whom Dora had been writing, informing
him that a lieutenant’s commission for Maurice Duncan had that morning
been made out, and would be forwarded to the young officer by the next
packet.
The delight of the whole family at this very unexpected news was quite
as great as Dora could have anticipated; it was only a pity that she
was not there to witness it.
Of course there was still considerable anxiety about Maurice’s health;
and until the next account arrived from abroad, they were in a state
of too great and trembling uneasiness, to dwell very much on the
prospect of seeing him again; the certainty of the issue checked their
anticipations, and it required no small exercise of patience and
trust, on Hilary’s part, to go through her ordinary duties, at moments
when her mind was tempted to wander off to the possible or the
probable which might yet be in store for them. Mr. Paine’s society was
a great comfort to her; she could talk freely to him and his wife of
her fears as well as her hopes; while to her father, owing to the
relief she thus obtained, she was able to maintain the same cheerful
demeanor as ever, and to speak with far more confidence of her
brother’s recovery, than she really felt.
Mr. Duncan and his daughters were all seated one day in the little
summer-house at the end of the terrace walk; one of the girls was
reading aloud, while the rest were busy with their needles, when a
shadow crossed the window which made them look up, and the next moment
Charles Huyton turned the corner of the building, and stood in front
of them. Down went Sybil’s book and Gwyneth’s work in a moment; while
Nest, slipping from her father’s knee, made no scruple of throwing
herself at once into the arms which were extended to take her.
“It is Mr. Huyton,” said Hilary to her father, in explanation of the
sudden cry of joy from her sisters; and Charles, putting aside the
little one, advanced to the vicar, taking at the same time in his own,
both the hand which was extended toward him, and that which guided and
supported it. Excepting that one tender and prolonged pressure of her
slight and trembling fingers, there was nothing in his greeting of
Hilary which marked any peculiarity of feeling, and even at that
moment he hardly looked at her; his attention was apparently given
entirely to her father; his words, his looks, his smiles, half sad,
half joyous, were devoted to him. He pressed _his_ hand again and
again, inquired most affectionately after his health, and then turning
to the others, greeted Sybil and Gwyneth, with looks of open,
undisguised pleasure, remarked on their wonderful growth, and paid
some little compliments to their personal appearance, which brought a
still richer glow into their cheeks, all the deeper because the
admiration was but half expressed in words, and much more
unequivocally in looks and smiles. Then sitting down among them, he
exclaimed at his pleasure in being there once more, glancing from the
one to the other of the party with happy eyes, taking Nest upon his
knee, and bidding Gwyneth sit beside him, almost as if he had been
Maurice himself; and all with such an easy, disengaged air, and so
entirely devoid of any appearance of a nature to alarm Hilary, that
after the first half hour her heart ceased to flutter, her cheeks to
glow with consciousness or fear, and she was soon conversing with him
as unreservedly, and almost as readily, as her sisters themselves. He
entered into parish matters with Mr. Duncan, and his questions of, How
do you like Mr. Paine? and How does he please in the parish? and many
others of the same kind, were followed by an appeal to the girls as to
how music and painting went on; and then a gentle questioning of
Hilary herself as to the favorite scholars, the old women pensioners,
the idle and mischievous boys who had formerly vexed her; and sundry
other particulars, which proved that whatever else he had consigned to
oblivion, he had not forgotten any thing connected with the welfare of
his tenantry. Discussing the repairs of the church introduced the name
of the Barham family, with whom he was already acquainted, and he
seemed pleased to think that they had formed an intimacy with the
Duncans, and amused at Sybil’s somewhat enthusiastic friendship and
admiration for Dora.
The relation of what she had done for Maurice might have justified
this partiality, but Sybil did not know the particulars connected with
that transaction; Hilary being rather shy of owning the influence
through which the long-desired promotion had been procured.
“And oh! Mr. Huyton, Maurice is a lieutenant,” was therefore the
information which Gwyneth communicated, without any connection with
Dora Barham’s name.
“A lieutenant! I am glad indeed to hear that! I congratulate you, my
dear sir,” was Charles’s exclamation, grasping Mr. Duncan’s hand once
more with warmth; “nay, I think I may do the same to you all,” added
he, taking the two girls’ hands in his, and kissing little Nest very
heartily. “Indeed I do congratulate you all――_you_, Miss Duncan, more
especially.”
He dropped her sisters’ hands and advanced toward her, very
gracefully, yet with a little hesitation, which bespoke doubt as to
whether he were taking too great a liberty.
She could not help placing her hand in the one he extended, and she
looked up with her clear innocent eyes to him, as he stood before her;
there was nothing in his look to alarm her into shyness, and she met
his gaze with quiet, comfortable confidence, as she said,
“Indeed it has been a pleasure, although it, like mortal affairs
generally, has had a drawback, for Maurice has been ill.”
“Indeed! I am sorry――not seriously, I trust!”
Hilary glanced at her father, and then replied, “We have only had a
report from the captain and doctor as yet; we are expecting further
news in a short time. I will show you the letter from Captain
Hepburn.”
She drew the letters from her work-basket, and gave them to him with
another glance at her father, and a sort of beseeching look at him, as
if deprecating any unnecessary alarm to Mr. Duncan. Charles Huyton
understood her, and seating himself by her side, he quietly read
through the two letters, and returned them; observing――“It was this,
doubtless, that prevented his writing to me lately. I should not
wonder if we were to see him here, before you hear again. He will, of
course, return now.”
She felt grateful to him for the cheerful tone in which he spoke,
although she saw, by the anxious expression of his eyes, that he
participated in her uneasiness on her brother’s account.
“And what are your plans now, Charles?” inquired Mr. Duncan, kindly,
laying his hand on his visitor’s shoulder; “have you made up your mind
to become a useful member of society, a good and hospitable neighbor,
a justice of the peace, or to fill any of the other duties which
country gentlemen ought to attend to?”
“I will place myself in your hands, my dear sir,” replied he, with a
sudden glow over his countenance, which Hilary did not see; “you shall
dictate what my duties are. However, I have indeed made up my mind to
renounce my hermit life at ‘the Ferns;’ and, as a preliminary step,
have persuaded an aunt and cousin of mine to come over to England and
pay me a visit.”
“Indeed! who are they?” inquired Mr. Duncan, with interest.
“Mrs. Fielding was my mother’s sister, and, like her, married an
Englishman. Will you do me the great favor of visiting them, Miss
Duncan?” turning suddenly to Hilary. “I am anxious to give them, my
cousin especially, a favorable impression of England.”
Hilary replied she would be most happy; a sort of wondering feeling
passing through her mind, as to _why_ Mr. Huyton was so desirous to
please his cousin. Perhaps he hoped to persuade her to settle for life
at ‘the Ferns,’ and then how pleasant it would be to have a friend in
his wife; her countenance brightened at the idea; and her manner
became more easy and disengaged toward Charles from that moment.
He seemed readily to fall into his old ways, in every respect, except
such as she might have objected to, and never thought of leaving them
for the rest of the afternoon; taking it as much as a matter of course
that he should remain to tea, as the younger girls did.
On their return to the house, while Hilary supported and guided her
father’s steps, he loitered behind with her sisters, strolling along
the terrace, and laughing and chatting with them, telling Sybil he had
found them out by the sound of her voice reading, which fortunately
was not so much altered as her person was, or he should have run away,
believing them to be a party of strangers. But when Mr. Duncan was
safely past the window, by which he entered into his own room, and
Hilary had turned away to take the path to the porch, he immediately
joined her, and began, in a voice and words of sincerest sympathy, to
inquire into the actual state of her father’s sight. She could speak
of it calmly at last; use, and the quiet submission and unvarying
cheerfulness of Mr. Duncan, had reconciled her to the idea, and she
was able to tell him with composure, or rather resignation, that all
was quite dark to him now; but that she was thankful to say, that the
affliction had been so softened and modified, as to be far less
terrible than she had imagined it could be.
Then he alluded to Maurice; but here the chord of feeling vibrated too
strongly; the tension had been too acute for it to harmonize entirely
with faith and patience; and they sounded in a minor key, compared
with the sharp tone that fear and suspense rang out.
It was with quivering lips and trembling eyelids that she spoke of her
brother’s danger, and it was with looks and tones of answering
sympathy that Charles Huyton replied to her. Had not her eyes been at
that moment blinded by her tears, she might have read how deep his
feelings were.
“It is very wrong, I know,” added she, dashing away the drops from her
eye-lashes; “I ought to feel more resigned, knowing as I do he is in
the same Hands still, and that nothing will happen but for the best. I
still shrink and tremble inwardly as to what may be in store, although
I ought to do better, considering the lessons of trust I have had.”
He stepped into the porch, near which they were standing, and taking
up a small basket from the bench, presented it to her.
“You told me once,” said he, “that flowers preached to you, and taught
you lessons of confidence and hope; may I trust that these will say
something of the sort, and not be rejected?”
He lifted the lid, and showed her a bunch of lilies of the valley,
carefully arranged, with their roots in wet moss.
“Oh! how exquisite!” she exclaimed, stooping over them to hide a
little hesitating consciousness, and not venturing to take the basket
from his hands; “these must be forced, Mr. Huyton!”
“Yes; I found them this morning in my conservatory, and brought them
here, thinking you would all like them. Will you not take them?”
“It seems selfish when you have visitors coming to-morrow,” replied
Hilary, still looking at them.
“My aunt and cousin have nothing to do with these; the gardener raised
them on purpose for you and your sisters, I know; I can claim no
merit, except that of willingly bringing them; do take them, and put
them in pots in the drawing-room; and let them speak of comfort.”
“You have chosen your text well,” replied Hilary, receiving the basket
from his hands, and raising first one and then another of the delicate
bells. “They do indeed preach eloquently. Thank you very much for so
kindly reminding me of all these flowers bid me consider.”
He gave her a quiet, rather grave smile; and then turned the
conversation to some other topic, as they walked into the house
together.
He seemed very happy afterward, assisting Gwyneth and Nest in
preparing the flower-pots in which these lilies were to be planted,
while Hilary sat with her father at the window, and gave her advice on
the subject, but was not allowed by any of them to tire herself over
the plants, as she had taken a long walk that morning, and was
looking, they all agreed, both pale and fatigued.
Mr. Huyton did not come to the Vicarage again for two or three days;
he was supposed to be occupied by his visitors, who, they heard from
Mr. Paine, had arrived when expected.
To Hilary’s great satisfaction, Mrs. Paine offered to accompany her to
“the Ferns” to call on these visitors, a task which, for several
reasons, was rather a formidable undertaking to her. They drove over
together, in Mrs. Paine’s little pony-carriage, and were received at
the door of the large house with a degree of splendor and pomp such as
she had never seen there before.
Hilary thought of her first visit to that place, and the quiet way in
which she had then been introduced, as they followed the servants
through the spacious vestibules and ante-chambers into the morning
sitting-room, where Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were sitting.
Happily for them, Charles entered as they did, and he introduced Mrs.
Paine pointedly as his cousin; Miss Duncan was more slightly named,
but it was evident, by the quick glance which Miss Fielding gave, that
her visitor was an object of some interest to her. The elder lady was
equally foreign in her look and her accent, both which betrayed her
birth, although perfectly lady-like, and rather pleasing; the cousin,
in whom Hilary felt more interest, was a handsome girl, more English
than German in her air and voice, and looking so perfectly at home at
“the Ferns,” that Miss Duncan could not get the idea out of her head
that she was consciously destined one day to be mistress there.
“Victoria has been wanting you so much, Charles,” said Mrs. Fielding,
turning to her nephew, who was standing by Mrs. Paine. “It was
something about the drawing she was copying; I hope presently you will
help her out of her difficulties.”
Mr. Huyton said something about happy, and turned to his cousin with a
smile; but Hilary, who unconsciously watched the expression of his
face, was disappointed: it was not exactly the smile she wished to see
there――not like the happy, frank look she had been used so often to
receive, before she learned to know its meaning.
Victoria Fielding threw back a somewhat haughty head, and said, with a
flashing, mocking look of her bright eyes,
“Mamma flatters you! do not fancy I wanted you in the least. I disdain
help. My motto is, ‘By my own hand.’”
“Very well,” replied he, calmly, but with an expression of admiration
in his face; indeed she was so handsome and graceful, that it was not
easy to look at her without admiration.
Her conversation to him was all in the same style, to Hilary she
hardly spoke at all; and when Miss Duncan tried to find subjects of
conversation, she seemed little inclined to reply, unless Mr. Huyton
joined; whatever she might affect of indifference toward him, Hilary
was convinced, was simply affectation. The wish to attract him was
obvious, although shown in a taunting and defying sort of way.
After about ten minutes’ conversation of this uncomfortable and
disjointed kind, Charles suddenly turned to Hilary, and said――
“Have you been into the conservatory lately, Miss Duncan? I should
like you to see my camellias.”
Hilary feeling that any change would be a relief at that moment,
answered that she should like it very much indeed; and then he asked
Victoria if she would come too.
“No, thank you,” replied the young lady, carelessly, “I have walked
round and about it, till I am more weary of that particular spot of
ground, and those especial flowers, than of any thing else on earth;
except myself,” she added, in a sort of whisper.
He smiled again.
“Conservatories should be made like kaleidoscopes, to vary at every
turn, or they grow intolerably dull,” added she aloud; “don’t you
think so, Miss Duncan? Perhaps you don’t know, however; you probably
have not been so often in the one in question as I have.”
“Perhaps not,” said Hilary, very quietly; “but I always thought it
very pretty when I did see it. However, it is many months now since I
was in it.”
“I can not fancy _you_ tiring of flowers,” said Charles, with more
peculiarity of accent than he had used before; so much so, indeed, as
to cause Victoria to raise her head, and turn a sharp look on the
person thus addressed.
Mrs. Paine rose at this moment to go, and Hilary, glad to escape from
the eyes bent on her, prepared with pleasure to take leave of the
whole party. Charles, however, accompanied them out of the room, and
then, as they were crossing the vestibule, repeated his request that
they would come and look at his camellias; adding, with a quiet, grave
courtesy, which he had assumed since his return, “I hope it was by
your own choice that it is so long since you have entered the
conservatory: for though it was optional with you and your sisters to
visit it, it was not left so with the servants whether you should be
admitted.”
“I am afraid, from your saying that, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary,
“that Sybil omitted to thank you for your thoughtful kindness. I
assure you, my sisters have paid several visits here during the
winter, as Mrs. Paine can testify, having accompanied them every
time.”
“Yes, laying claim to relationship,” said Mrs. Paine, smiling, “I
ventured on that liberty.”
“I am truly glad your sisters enjoyed it,” was his answer; he saw at
once the reason why Hilary herself had scrupulously avoided similar
visits: he did not like her the less.
He cut huge branches of heliotrope, and the loveliest camellias he
could find, “to send to her sisters,” as he said. Most gardeners would
have been in despair at the liberties he took; but Mr. Huyton was
peculiar, and with his gardener, Mr. Allan, the Miss Duncans were
great favorites; so perhaps the surveyor to the conservatory did not
grumble very much.
“Your library has been a great resource to my father,” said Hilary
presently, wishing to say something which should show gratitude, and
avoid misconstruction; “he has often expressed himself so much obliged
to you for your liberality.”
“Is not that a lovely bud?” said he, holding up a half-blown camellia,
whose delicate white petals were just displaying the fringe which
gives them such an air of lightness and refinement. “How I do love a
pure, delicate, unostentatious flower, which seems unconscious of its
own charms, and shrinks modestly from sight.”
He placed it in her hand as he spoke; the only blossom he gave her;
the rest he deposited in a basket to be carried to Hurstdene.
“I think you love flowers better than ever,” was her observation, very
innocently made.
“I do,” replied he, gravely, with eyes turned away in another
direction. “Take this little peeping red and white bud to Nest with my
love, it is the very image of her dear little face. See how
coquettishly it half looks out, half hides.” He said this in a light
and playful tone, and she made him a smiling answer, and then Mrs.
Paine, having concluded a dialogue she had been holding with Mr.
Allan, summoned Hilary to the carriage.
As he helped her in, he said, but without looking up at her――
“Was not I right in saying my cousin had nothing to do with lilies of
the valley?”
“She would wear the crown imperial,” said Mrs. Paine, laughingly; and
then they drove off, while Hilary mused on the feeling he entertained
for his cousin, and what she wished that feeling to be, now she had
seen the lady.
She looked forward with a little anxiety to their visit being
returned. It made her uncomfortable to think of it; there was
something in the quick glance of those very bright eyes which
discomposed her, and made her feel shy and shrinking. It was not,
however, half so bad as she expected, when the visitors really
arrived, which they did in the course of a week. Mrs. and Miss
Fielding drove over, Mr. Huyton accompanied them on horseback. The
ladies made themselves very pleasant; the mother conversing with Mr.
Duncan, evidently and sincerely interested by the courteous manners,
mild countenance, and quiet cheerfulness of the blind clergyman;
Victoria devoting herself to Hilary with a sweetness, complaisance,
and air of satisfaction, which, after her former reception, quite
astonished Miss Duncan. She was delighted to meet her young
acquaintance again; she was enraptured by the drive, enchanted with
the dear, picturesque old parsonage, captivated by the charming
antique room, with its old oak wainscotting, and fine rare china
vases, bequests from Mr. Duncan’s grandmother. She called Nest to her,
and kissed and caressed the beautiful child, wanted to draw her
portrait, begged to have her to spend the day with her, to all which
requests Hilary replied with little more than a smile, considering
them too entirely ideal to deserve a serious answer. But in the middle
of one of her most complimentary speeches, Victoria was astonished to
see Hilary suddenly start from her seat, stand one moment gazing
through the window, with clasped hands and parted lips, and the next
spring from the room, and disappear altogether.
Charles Huyton, who had been chatting with the other girls, rose and
looked after her with an expression of anxiety and alarm, then
approaching his cousin, asked if any thing was the matter with Miss
Duncan.
“You, who know her so well,” replied Victoria, with a peculiar smile,
“ought to be aware if this is her usual manner to her guests. May be
it is the perfection of English politeness!”
But little Nest ran after her sister, and throwing open the door,
disclosed to their view, in the vestibule, Hilary clasped in the arms
of her brother Maurice. It was a pretty thing to see; and the sister
was too completely absorbed in her joy to be conscious there were
spectators, as he bent over her glowing face, and kissed her again and
again. The tall and manly figure, the bronzed complexion, and fine
countenance of the sailor, forming a charming contrast to the elegant
girl whose fair cheek rested on his bosom, while her eyes spoke the
welcome she had not words to say.
Charles, however, cut short the amusement of the spectators by
shutting the door, before the younger sisters had seen what was
passing outside the room; and a few minutes passed in a sort of
awkward silence between Victoria and Charles, although Mr. Duncan,
ignorant of what had occurred, was comfortably talking to Mrs.
Fielding.
All thoughts of the visitors at that moment in the drawing-room had
gone from Hilary’s head; she saw only her brother, and was conscious
only of thankfulness to see him again, and a pang of sorrow for the
one who could not see at all. After the first mute embraces, and then
the whispered words of love and joy, Maurice pronounced his father’s
name, and Hilary, half angry with herself for having even during that
short time engrossed all the delight of knowing him safe and well,
placed her hand in his, and led him into the room.
Then she remembered who was there, and her color came and went:
delight, shyness, pride, and embarrassment mingling in her feelings as
she encountered the eyes within, and recalled how abruptly she had
quitted them.
The visitors drew back, and the exclamations of the girls, the
movement, the unusual step, and a whisper or two around him, warned
Mr. Duncan something had occurred.
“What is it, Hilary?” said he, rising and stretching out his hand;
“Maurice――my son!” as his fingers closed upon those which so warmly
grasped his――“thank God!”
But Maurice could not speak. The sight of his father’s helplessness,
the closed eyes, the slow and cautious movement, and the increased
appearance of age which the last three years had produced, overcame
his fortitude, and the young man had to struggle hard with the
emotions of tenderness and grief before he could control his voice to
answer his father’s greeting.
“Can we not go?” whispered Mrs. Fielding to Charles; “we are sadly in
the way.”
Victoria’s eyes were fixed on the group with a thoughtful, longing
expression; but she felt the propriety of her mother’s proposal, and
turned to quit the room.
Hilary recollected herself and them, and advanced to accompany them to
the door, while Maurice still saw nothing and no one but those so dear
to him.
“I am sorry you should be driven away,” said she, gracefully, “though
I can not pretend to be sorry for the cause. He is my only brother.”
“Do not apologize, my charming young friend,” replied Mrs. Fielding,
with her gentle accents, “you must be glad to get rid of us, and I
feel we have had a pleasure we do not deserve, in witnessing so
captivating a family-picture. I congratulate you with my whole heart.”
“If we have acquired knowledge we have no right to,” said Victoria,
pausing before stepping into the carriage, and warmly clasping
Hilary’s hand, “we have paid dear for the acquisition; at least, _I_
have, for I have discovered my own poverty. I could envy you, Miss
Duncan; and of all the charming things I have seen to-day, to love,
and be beloved like you, appears to me, beyond all comparison, the
best. What would I give for such a brother!”
She sprang into the carriage, not deigning to accept her cousin’s
proffered assistance, and turning on Hilary once more her bright eyes,
brighter for the tears that filled them, she kissed her hand, and
drove off.
“I will not stay now,” said Charles, “to intrude on a happiness in
which I can well sympathize; but let me come to-morrow, and welcome
Maurice home――tell him how sincerely I congratulate him; he is not
looking ill, although rather thin. Good-by!”
He released her hand which he had held in a long, lingering clasp,
gave her one look of indescribable feeling, then mounting his horse,
cantered quickly away; for when he turned to wave his hand to her, ere
he had gone two paces, she was out of sight.
Hilary did not pause a moment indeed to watch his departure: she
darted into the house, and was again beside her brother, ere Charles
had looked round. And then, unrestrained, she could enjoy the full
delight of seeing him once more. Oh! the kisses, the congratulations,
the smiles, the tears, the silent rapture, and the joyous exclamations
of that welcome. It was long before they were rational enough to ask
how, or when he arrived in England, or to remember his increase of
rank――they thought only of himself; while he could hardly find words
to express his wonder and admiration at the change the three years had
made in his sisters. Hilary so improved, and yet so little altered;
the same darling girl, and yet more charming and dear than ever. And
the others too! Sybil as tall as Hilary; Gwyneth not much behind; he
could not believe they were the same. Oh! how glad he was to be here.
“And about your illness, Maurice?” inquired his father.
Then came the history of his fever, how it was increased by
over-exertion, how suddenly it had come on, how bad it had been, and
how, so far as human agents were concerned, he owed his life to the
kindness of his commander.
“He is such a good fellow, father; I hope you will know him some day;
I am sure you would like him, Hilary; he has nursed me like a brother;
he gave me up his cabin; took care of me day and night; if it had not
been for him, I must have died, I should have been stifled in my
berth. How glad I am he is made; more glad than for my own promotion,
which, by-the-by, I only heard yesterday at the Admiralty. Hepburn
came home with me, you know: he was promoted from home, and had to
return of course; and as I had leave for my health, we came in the
same packet, and he promised to come down and see us here, when he has
settled some business in town.”
“God bless him!” said Mr. Duncan from his heart; “if a visit here
could give him pleasure, how gladly we will welcome him: you must
write to him in my name, Maurice, and repeat the invitation.”
The girls were never weary of hearing Maurice talk, and the history of
the last two months had to be gone over and over again; while every
variation of praise which could be bestowed on Captain Hepburn was
poured out by the grateful young lieutenant on his late commander. He
was as true as steel, brave as a hero of romance, firm as a rock in
duty, tender as a girl of others, where feeling only was concerned;
indifferent to his own comfort, careful of his men’s, devoted to his
profession, a first-rate sailor, a pattern of an officer, a thorough
gentleman in conduct, a true Christian in principle, and to crown all,
in the imagination of the girls, he was tall, dark, good-looking, of
an old historic family, and comparatively poor! This was the climax to
the interest in his favor; for Maurice knew that Captain Hepburn’s
family had been unfortunate, had lost their property in a law-suit,
and that he had, by much self-denial and economy, succeeded in paying
debts left by his father, and honorably discharging every claim, far
beyond what law alone required of him.
Allowances must, of course, be made in this bright picture for the
favorable prejudice’s of Maurice’s feelings, seeing his senior
officer’s character through the beautiful vista of his three years of
agreeable command, crowned eventually by the extreme personal
kindness, which had largely contributed to save the young man’s life;
but if the brother, in his strong partiality, over-rated the worth and
merits of his friend, it was not likely that the young sisters would
curb their female fancy, and estimate him in their imaginations by a
juster scale, or a cooler feeling for his virtues. Captain Hepburn was
established as an indisputable hero, in the minds of Sybil and
Gwyneth; and even Hilary gave more of her leisure moments to forming
ideal pictures of him, than it was at all her custom to do, with
regard to unknown individuals, or circumstances, which did not
immediately connect themselves with her daily duties.