“And women――things that live and move
Min’d by the fever of the soul――
They seek to find in those they love,
Stern strength and promise of control.
“They ask not kindness――gentle ways――
These they themselves have tried and known;
They ask a soul that never sways
With the blind gusts that shake their own.”
ARNOLD.
Charles Huyton kept his word, and came over in the morning, as he had
promised, to see Maurice. There was not much doing in the way of
study, or regular employment, that day; even Hilary was unsettled by
her joy, and after two or three vain attempts to promote reading, or
to engage in their usual occupations, she had given it up, and the
whole family were clustered together round Mr. Duncan’s chair on the
lawn, who, while enjoying the warmth of a spring morning, was also
delighted to be surrounded by the happy voices, and caressed by the
soft hands which seemed continually flitting about him.
The happiness of her feelings, and her conviction that Victoria
Fielding was destined to be Charles’s wife, made Hilary more than
usually cheerful and disengaged in her manners to the visitor; and his
looks and his words were in general so carefully guarded, that she had
nothing to alarm her into coldness or reserve. Frank and friendly to
Maurice, as usual, more so, perhaps, even than formerly, he was; but
_he_ must have been a very close observer, who could have detected
from any thing which passed, that he regarded Hilary with a different
feeling from her sisters. The only thing which could have indicated
peculiar and strong attachment, indeed, was his extreme warmth and
affection of manner to her father and brother; and this might also
arise from other causes unconnected with her. So Hilary was happy and
at ease; Maurice was with her, and Charles, as she supposed, grown so
rational, as to be content to give up a woman who did not love him,
and seek one who did, in her place.
While Mr. Huyton was there, Mr. and Mrs. Paine walked in, having just
come up from the village school; that being one of the duties of which
they had relieved Hilary, since her father’s infirmity had required so
much more of her time and attention. When pleasant people know one
another well by name and report, they do not take long in becoming
acquainted on meeting; so half an hour had scarcely gone by, before
they were all on the most comfortable and easy terms imaginable.
“Only think, Hilary,” said Mrs. Paine, “Dora Barham has carried her
point, and is coming down here next week; let me see, this is
Wednesday; yes, she is coming on Monday next, to stay with me, for
change of air. I never thought Mr. Barham would have allowed her to
give up the chances of a London season.”
“The chances to her, I really believe, would have been a severe fit of
illness,” replied Hilary. “She is very delicate, and I have no doubt
Primrose Bank will be more beneficial to her than Bryanstone-square in
every respect.”
“Who is going to be your visitor?” inquired Charles of his cousin’s
wife.
“Oh, Dorah Barham, my pretty little cousin; you remember her, I dare
say, when you were in England last year. You used to visit at the
Abbey, I know.”
“I remember your cousins very well,” replied he, expressively; “very
agreeable women in society. Some of those girls who are reared
entirely in a forcing-house, and brought out as fashionable ladies,
when they ought to be only children. I used to think her rather idle
and weak, but amiable enough if she were only allowed to be so. With
such an education, one must not look for simplicity, or real
refinement of mind, but be thankful for unaffected and elegant
manners, when one can meet them.”
“You are unjust, Mr. Huyton,” exclaimed Hilary, with animation; “Dora
Barham is much more than that; she has most genuine kindness of heart,
and sweetness of disposition. No one must say a word against Dora
Barham in my hearing, on pain of my intense displeasure. Maurice, I
appeal to you――be her champion.”
“I am convinced,” replied Maurice; “I have been for some months
convinced of her excellence; ever since she first formed your
acquaintance I have been prejudiced in her favor; and though I have
never seen her, there is no lady in the land to whom I am so perfectly
ready to swear allegiance, and devote myself as her champion.”
Mrs. Paine laughed.
“Well, you will have the opportunity soon, I believe; I shall be
curious to know whether she will answer your expectations.”
Mr. Huyton looked puzzled at the enthusiasm of Hilary and Maurice; he
was not aware of the cause of his interest. The young lieutenant had
learned his obligation from his sister, and although his pride might
have been more gratified had promotion been the unsolicited reward of
merit, his feelings were excited and warmed towards the girl, whose
love for Hilary had chosen so judicious a way of exhibiting itself.
“I was charged with a commission from my aunt and cousin,” said
Charles, after a while, “which I hope to execute successfully, or the
consequences will be, I can not venture to say what. Will you all come
over and spend to-morrow at ‘the Ferns?’ Excuse the shortness of the
invitation; it is not to be a formal visit, but a friendly one. Pray
say yes!”
Some excuses were urged by Hilary, but Mr. Huyton would not accept
them. He asked Mr. Duncan first; he appealed to every member of the
family; and from each, especially from Nest, obtained a ready
assurance that each would like very much to go to ‘the Ferns’ to spend
the day. Hilary could not contend against such an overwhelming
majority, and was forced to yield. Charles only urged Victoria’s
wishes to her; it was her invitation, her earnest desire; she wished
to see more of them all; every thing should be arranged to suit the
hours and the tastes of the various members of the family. There were
plenty of amusements for little Nest, and another little girl, a very
nice child, had been invited to meet her. The carriage should be sent
to fetch them, and should take them back in the evening, and Mrs.
Fielding hoped that she should be allowed the pleasure of devoting
herself entirely to the entertainment and care of Mr. Duncan, who so
strongly reminded her of her own father, now some years deceased, that
she longed to see him again, and see more of him.
To resist such an invitation was impossible; and Hilary, mentally
wondering why Victoria should be so anxious for her acquaintance, and
yet gratified at seeing the kindness extended to her whole family, and
not confined exclusively to herself, was, on the whole, much pleased
at the idea.
The next morning proved as warm and bright as could have been desired
by any of the party; and twelve had hardly struck from the church
clock when the carriage drove up to the door. Nothing could exceed the
warm welcome and the undisguised pleasure with which they were all
received at ‘the Ferns.’ The ladies and Mr. Huyton were loitering on
the lawn, in front of the conservatory, and Mrs. Fielding immediately
proved her sincerity by gently taking possession of Mr. Duncan, to
whom she devoted herself so unremittingly, that Hilary found nothing
to do for him.
The luncheon and children’s dinner occupied a considerable time, and
after that, while Mr. Duncan was driven out round the park in a low
garden chair, by his indefatigable companion, and amused by her lively
and interesting conversation, the rest of the party adjourned to the
bowling green. This, which was most beautifully kept, was surrounded
by a double row of limes, whose long bare branches were already
showing the bright crimson buds which precede the leaves, while they,
as yet, afforded but a partial interruption to the sunshine, which, in
April, in England, is not often too hot.
Charles, Maurice, Gwyneth, and Sybil entered into a spirited game at
bowls, while Victoria and Hilary paced up and down on the broad walk
under the trees, partly observing the game, partly engrossed in
conversation. Miss Fielding seemed particularly interested in the
details of her companion’s daily life, about which she asked
innumerable questions; she also admired Maurice very much and very
openly to Hilary, who was as much pleased at this as she was amused
and surprised at her companion’s entire ignorance of English habits
and domestic life.
“Yes, I know little enough about my father’s country,” replied
Victoria, “but I want to understand it better; and I do not think my
cousin’s house or customs are at all a rule for real Englishmen; he
is, like myself, half German.”
“I do not think he would be a bad specimen,” replied Hilary, “let his
country be what it may, he is so very kind and considerate to every
one about him.”
“Charles! yes, he is a good sort of person,” said Victoria, smiling;
“lets me have quite my own way here; has given me _carte-blanche_ to
do as I please; a liberty I can not always expect, so I mean to make
the most of it while it lasts.”
“I dare say it will last,” observed Hilary.
“Oh, I don’t know; you English wives are so very domesticated and
subdued; you seem to me to give up all will and way of your own; one’s
own identity is lost in the unity of the marriage state; one is merged
into another’s being; and so becomes nobody, in fact as well as deed.”
“Perhaps it may be better where such is the case,” said Hilary, “but
it is not invariable.”
“Well, I like to do things well,” said Victoria; “and when I _am_ an
English wife I mean to behave as is expected of women of fortune and
family. Upon the whole, I do not think it will be bad.”
“You are going to marry, then?” said Hilary, a little hesitatingly,
yet anxious for the answer.
“I am to be married in the autumn,” replied Victoria; “meantime I
intend to enjoy myself, and Charles lets me reign here _en princesse_.
He certainly is good-nature itself with regard to me.”
“He told me at first how anxious he was to make England pleasant to
you,” observed Hilary, recollecting the wonder she had felt when he
had mentioned it to her.
“Now, I want to consult you,” continued Victoria, “about some of my
plans.――Ha! well bowled, Mr. Duncan; do you see, your brother plays
well; I think we will weave a crown for the victor, shall we, or at
least give him a sprig of myrtle to stick in his coat as a trophy?
Charles, you will be beat entirely. I wonder you do not exert yourself
more for the sake of your partner.”
“I suspect Miss Gwyneth rejoices more in her brother’s prowess than
she would in mine,” replied Charles, pausing before he sent off his
bowl, which had been driven by Maurice’s last stroke close to the edge
where the ladies were standing. “My defeat excites no sympathy, and my
victory would raise no exultation, so long as one of the family lost
by what I gained.”
He was gravely considering the bowl which he held in his hand as he
spoke, and did not raise his eyes, although Victoria bent hers on him
with a most expressive glance, as she answered in her native language;
but what was the nature of her observation Hilary was not sufficiently
mistress of German to understand; she only saw that the few words
brought a deeper glow to his cheek, and a sort of suppressed smile to
the corners of his mouth, both which spoke no ordinary sense of
gratification. It was the first time she had observed any thing like
emotion in his intercourse with his cousin, and she concluded that it
was some expression of affection or encouragement which had called up
that look of pleasure.
Victoria turned away, and drew her companion on also, resuming the
topic which had interested her before this little interruption,
namely, a party which she wished to give in her cousin’s house. It was
to be a sort of fête, uniting a daylight and an evening party――a
déjeuné in a marquee on the lawn, and out-of-door amusements for the
afternoon――a band of music in the gardens, flowers, fish-ponds, a boat
on the lake, and any other diversions they could devise or invent. All
the country should be asked, and no expense or trouble spared to make
it delightful.
“But, Miss Fielding, consider the time of year,” exclaimed Hilary; “we
are but just at the end of April, and May is often so cold a month
with us that we can not reckon on fine weather for an out-of-doors
party.”
“Stupid climate, then; what, not after the twelfth? I thought of the
fifteenth, which would be a Wednesday; surely the weather by that time
_must_ be fine.”
“_May_ be,” replied Hilary, laughing; “when you have been a little
longer among us, you will find there is no _must_ for an English
climate at any time of year. Sometimes we have snow in May; but by the
fifteenth, perhaps, there may be sunshine and green leaves.”
“I shall trust to that, and plan accordingly,” replied Victoria;
“there is nothing like hope.――There goes your brother again; how he
plays; ah, Charles is completely conquered.”
The girls were tired, and the gentlemen, too, were willing to rest, so
they all went into the conservatory, and seated themselves there,
Victoria beginning a very lively conversation with Maurice, who was
far too much of a sailor not to be ready to admire any handsome young
woman, and quite able to make himself agreeable to her.
On the whole, the visit passed off most pleasantly; they dined rather
early, and after coffee, were allowed to return home in sufficiently
reasonable time to prevent Nest falling asleep before getting into the
carriage. Hilary, whose mind was now quite easy regarding Mr. Huyton,
for she never doubted but that Victoria was engaged to him, though she
had not mentioned his name, was quite cheerful and happy; no longer
afraid of addressing Charles, nor shrinking from his notice; and
delighted to think that his future wife was so pleasant, and so well
disposed toward herself and family.
From this time there was a great deal of intercourse between the two
young ladies, sometimes carried on by notes, which Charles most
frequently brought over, but more often by visits from the cousins to
their friends at the Vicarage; for Hilary could not again be tempted
to “the Ferns;” and therefore Victoria, who was always wanting her
advice, had to seek her at home.
Often the elder lady accompanied them, and insisted on taking out the
clergyman for a drive, while the young people settled their concerns
together: half the notes of invitation, at least, were written by
Hilary’s hand, and plans for ornament or amusement suggested by her
head.
The younger girls were wild at the prospect of such an unexpected
pleasure; and as there were to be numbers of children of the party,
Nest was included among the visitors.
Mr. and Mrs. Paine necessarily often came in for these conferences,
although they did not intend to have any share in the grand fête, Mrs.
Paine’s health at the time affording her a rational excuse for
avoiding excitement and fatigue.
Their domestic party at Primrose Bank was in due time reinforced by
the promised visit of Dora Barham, who made her appearance at the
Vicarage the next day; and whatever might have been the state of her
health on leaving London, she certainly was glowing enough when
introduced to her darling Hilary’s tall brother.
The handsome young officer, with the frank gratitude natural to him,
made a little advance toward shaking hands with the pretty young
woman, to whom he was so essentially obliged; an advance which would
have been instantly checked and cut short by recollections of what
cold courtesy required, had she not perceived both the first motion
and the subsequent impulse. More anxious to save him from awkward
feelings than scrupulous about etiquette, she gave him her hand with a
charming grace and a bewitching smile, from the powerful effect of
which Maurice did not recover for the rest of the morning, at least.
Half an hour afterward, the party was scattered considerably; Mr.
Duncan and Gwyneth out driving with Mrs. Fielding; Maurice, Sybil, and
Dora, sauntering along the terrace in the garden; Mr. and Mrs. Paine,
quietly at work in the school; and Hilary seated between Victoria and
Charles, talking over plans, smoothing difficulties, and showing how
impossibilities even might be conquered or set aside.
Several days slipped by, much in the same way. Dora was a heedless
girl, and more than once left a bracelet or a handkerchief at the
Vicarage, which made it indispensable that Maurice should go over to
Primrose Bank, to return it, on those mornings when she did not intend
to come to the Vicarage; and this intercourse was carried on to such
an extent, that Mrs. Paine became seriously alarmed for the result.
She knew Mr. Barham well, and was perfectly certain that any
attachment to a poor lieutenant, on his daughter’s part, must be as
little to his taste as aloes to a child. To remonstrate with Dora,
would infallibly make matters worse, if she had any inclination in his
favor; and poor Mrs. Paine most heartily wished that she had never
undertaken a charge of so delicate and difficult a nature, as the care
of her young cousin.
To her great relief, however, before ten days had passed, Mr. Barham
and Isabel came down for a few days to the Abbey, and Dora was
summoned home immediately. Maurice regretted it much; but poor Dora,
who had permitted her imagination to be most unwisely occupied by the
charms of her new acquaintance, felt it a great deal more; and now
looked forward to the grand fête at “the Ferns” as a day of possible
felicity, because it would throw her once more into his society. She
made some effort to go over to the Vicarage once or twice; but Isabel
seemed backward to do it, observing, that now Hilary had her brother,
it made a difference; and poor Dora, only too conscious that it did
make a most important difference, dared not press a proposal of the
kind, from this very consciousness. Whether Isabel knew of her
frequent interviews with Maurice Duncan, she did not discover, and
could not decidedly guess; the only motive avowed for the visit to the
country, was to be present at Mr. Huyton’s grand party; and as several
friends accompanied Isabel from London, their abstaining from their
former frequent visits at the Vicarage while engaged with visitors,
appeared too natural to require an excuse.
As I said, Dora felt the separation more acutely than Maurice, partly
because he knew his own admiration to be so very presumptuous that he
could no more wonder at her being removed from his society, than he
could at the setting of the sun or moon; and partly because he had
another engagement, which necessarily engrossed his time and occupied
his thoughts. This was a visit from Captain Hepburn, who came down in
answer to the pressing invitations he had received both from Maurice
and his father.
His arrival in itself was rather a disappointment to the younger
girls; he came down in so very unheroic a style, as little accorded
with their romantic fancies regarding him. In the first place, he did
not take them by surprise, but having written to announce his
intention, afterward came just when he had promised, and might have
been expected. Then he drove up in a gig, and brought a portmanteau
and hat-box; he wore a black coat, and an ordinary hat, and seemed to
have met neither misfortunes nor adventures on his journey.
He certainly was tall and handsome, but he was also quiet and grave,
with a complexion so bronzed by weather, and an expression so
thoughtful and sedate, as to give him the appearance of six or eight
years more than his actual age.
The two girls were awed into silence and fear, and even Hilary felt
the regard she had already imbibed for him, deepen into a respect
almost too strong to be compatible with ease, and which produced an
appearance of timidity and reserve in her manners, not at all usual
with her. This, however, was only at first; fear soon wore off with
him, for he was as simple as he was quiet in his habits and manners,
and as easily pleased as Maurice himself. He arrived in time for their
early tea, and Maurice having once mentioned what their hours were, he
appeared perfectly ready to conform to them. His friendly regard for
Maurice was indisputable, and his pleasant and attentive manners to
his father were very conciliatory. To the young ladies he was at first
quietly civil, and Hilary learned to appreciate more correctly the
anxious _empressement_ and extreme attention once so naturally
received from Charles Huyton, when she discovered that politeness
alone did not dictate such devotion.
Captain Hepburn had not been twenty-four hours in the house, before
all the young ladies learned to regard him with composure as well as
respect. He was generally rather silent, and much given to reading, in
which occupation he spent nearly his whole morning, in appearance so
profoundly engrossed by the page before him, as to be unconscious of
all else. This quiet habit made it perfectly possible even on the
first morning, for the others to occupy themselves as usual; Sybil and
Gwyneth read and wrote, worked, drew, or practiced on the piano, as
comfortably as if Captain Hepburn had been a hundred miles off,
instead of being seated at a table only three yards from themselves;
and Hilary went in and out, and attended to her father’s comforts,
arranged her housekeeping, worked for Maurice, overlooked her sister’s
exercises, or taught little Nest her arithmetic, exactly as if there
had been no visitor present, or as if he had been there all her life.
When she appeared with her bonnet on, and her youngest sister by her,
and half-whispered to Sybil that she was going to take something to
Mary Clay on the Common, Captain Hepburn roused himself from his
studies, much to her surprise, and asked leave to go with her.
Leave was granted, and the trio set out together; Maurice was reading
to his father, so he did not accompany them.
It was a very pleasant walk, after Hilary had conquered the first
feeling of shyness which her companion excited. He conversed so
pleasantly at first about the forest, and forest scenery in England
and abroad, then about Maurice; and of him he spoke so kindly and
cordially, that Hilary took courage to say what she had before been
longing to express, their extreme and heartfelt gratitude for his
kindness and attention to their brother during his perilous illness.
Captain Hepburn would gladly at first have stopped her thanks; but she
would not be stopped, and the earnest eloquence, the trembling tones
of deep feeling, the glowing, grateful expressions, were of a nature
to touch the heart of even a cold or selfish man, and on him, who was
neither, produced a powerful effect. He looked at her eyes glittering
with tears, at the color varying in her cheeks, at the lips trembling
with emotion, and he thought he had never in his life seen so
interesting a picture of affection and sensibility.
“You think a great deal too much of what I did, Miss Duncan,” said he,
when she paused; “I only wish I deserved your thanks. Maurice is as
fine a fellow as ever lived, and one could not do too much for him;
and now I see what his home is, and whose hearts and happiness were
wrapped up in his welfare, I am doubly happy to have been of any use.
There is no need of repaying me with thanks, it is more compensation
than I deserve.”
“We can not think so,” replied Hilary, raising her eyes to his face.
“To see your brother with your father is perfectly beautiful,”
continued Captain Hepburn, well knowing how to return the pleasure
which Hilary’s thanks had given him.
“Oh, yes!” cried she, artlessly, “is it not? we are so happy when he
is at home.”
They walked on in silence for some time, and when he spoke again, it
was to make some remark on the advancing spring.
From that time all remains of shyness had vanished from Hilary’s
manner to their guest, and she became as perfectly at her ease with
him as with Maurice himself. The first week of his visit was a very
quiet one; their visitors, except the Paines, had deserted them; Mr.
Huyton had gone to London, and was not to return until the fourteenth,
and Victoria and her mother had other engagements, which occupied them
during the same time. This week of repose was very welcome to Hilary,
it was a relief after the unusual bustle and occupation which had
preceded it; she was able to resume her old domestic habits, and
although the party in prospect must sometimes claim a thought, she was
not obliged to give up all her leisure moments to its concerns.
She read, and worked, and walked as in old time, with one important
exception, that she had a companion such as she had never had before.
There is an affinity between some minds, which is inexplicable and
incomprehensible to those who have it not. That week had not been
passed away, before Hilary had learned to look with interest, and
something more indefinable still, for the opinions of Captain Hepburn,
as she gave her own; a glance told her how well she was understood,
even before the words of agreement came, and then she felt she was
right. She learned more, too; she saw how those dark eyes would fix
themselves on her with an expression which sent a strange thrill of
pleasure through her heart, even when it brought a bright color to her
cheeks; she discovered how often when his head was bent over his book,
his glance was following her as she moved about the room, and she was
neither annoyed nor frightened at the discovery. It was so pleasant to
find that this cultivated and intelligent man, as brave as he was
good, and as clever as he was kind, could take such interest in her
thoughts, her ways, her wishes. She looked up to him as something so
immeasurably her superior, that his approbation seemed an honor; she
felt she could trust him; that he would be one who would sacrifice all
to right, and that no selfish consideration would induce him to forget
her interests, or to endeavor to influence her to a questionable act.
There was some strange spell on her surely, which made her confide to
him so many of her fancies and feelings; thoughts which were hard to
put into words, but which he understood intuitively, or from a hint, a
few hesitating sentences, or even an unfinished phrase. And then when
he talked, it was so delightful to hear him, there was such a spirit
of kindness, sincerity, uprightness, through all he said, that she
unconsciously ranked him as the first of human beings, and his
occasional words of half-uttered commendation as the most valuable
praise she had ever received. Captain Hepburn, in that single week,
had done what Charles Huyton, in two years, had failed to accomplish;
he had, unknown to herself, touched Hilary’s heart, and won a large
share in her affections.
The day preceding the fête at “the Ferns,” brought Victoria over to
the Vicarage to make the final arrangements concerning Hilary and her
sisters. Mr. Duncan entirely declining to be present, it had been
settled that Mr. and Mrs. Paine should spend the day with him, while
his daughters were all absent; an arrangement which Hilary was more
than half inclined to contest, as hardly doing sufficient for his
comfort. She and her sisters were to be under the especial care and
chaperonage of Mrs. Fielding, who, since she could not persuade the
father to come, said she should find some compensation in taking
charge of his daughters. Victoria came on Tuesday to propose that the
sisters should be fetched over rather early, that they might be
comfortably established before the general assembly appeared; and,
also, Miss Fielding said that Hilary might help her overlook the
preparations, and see that all was complete and appropriate.
While she said this Victoria’s eyes were glancing inquiringly at the
tall, dark, handsome stranger who was seated, with a book in his hand,
at the other end of the room, but who, she was sure, was listening
attentively to her discourse. After a moment’s consideration, Hilary
asked leave for Maurice to bring a friend with him, and then named
Captain Hepburn to Miss Fielding; but the introduction was not made
without a slight blush, which Victoria’s keen eyes perceived. She
received this new acquaintance with equal grace and graciousness, gave
him a cordial invitation to her fête, and was as pleasant as possible
for a few minutes; then she turned again to Hilary, talked of Charles,
who was to return that evening; his anxiety that all should be right,
his confidence in Hilary’s taste, and his wishes that it should be
consulted, and some other remarks, of a kind which _she_ passed by as
mere compliments, from the woman who was engaged to Mr. Huyton; but
which there was another person whose ignorance of this fact made him
view very differently.
When Victoria was gone, Captain Hepburn arose, and after walking once
or twice from the window to the table, he suddenly asked Miss Duncan
if she was not intending to exchange her thimble for her bonnet, and
take some exercise that afternoon.
Maurice and his father had gone on a long expedition across the
forest, the latter on a pony which his son led, and Hilary had
intimated an intention of going to meet them on their return, which
Captain Hepburn was evidently anxious she should fulfil. Her sisters
were at Primrose Bank, and there was nothing to interrupt the
perfection of their _tête-à-tête_ except a slight and unusual shade of
something in Captain Hepburn’s eyes, which Hilary had never seen
before, and did not quite understand now.
Whatever might be the source of this change, whether displeasure,
anxiety, or weariness, it somewhat awed and chilled her; she looked up
to him with such reverence, and thought so humbly of herself that she
did not venture to seek an explanation. She fancied that either he was
secretly tired of her society, or that she had said or done something
which had appeared to him silly or wrong; and she felt ashamed of her
imaginary fault, although quite unable to attach any definite name to
her misdemeanor. She walked on silently, and so did he by her side,
casting now and then a longing, sorrowful look at her face, which, had
she ventured to meet it, would have told her it was neither anger nor
contempt then occupying his mind.
At length he spoke.
“That Miss Fielding! what is she to the owner of ‘the Ferns,’ Miss
Duncan?”
“Cousin,” replied Hilary; she hesitated whether she should add more,
but thought it best not to explain what she believed their relative
position to be.
“And this Mr. Huyton, of whom she speaks so much; is he married?” said
he, fixing an anxious look on her face as he spoke.
“No, not yet,” said Hilary, almost unconsciously betraying a little of
the amusement at the question, which she could not effectually
suppress.
“And you know them all very well, I suppose?” was his next
observation.
“I have not known Miss Fielding very long, but she is so kind and
friendly, that I look forward with pleasure to――” she checked herself
with a blush, that she was so nearly owning her expectations.
He saw it; and the momentary glow which colored his face gave way to a
deeper shade and a paler hue than before.
“Mr. Huyton we have known nearly three years,” added Hilary, looking
up; “I think you will like him, perhaps; and yet I am not sure; there
is a great difference between you.”
“Very great,” observed he, with assumed philosophy; “he has
recommendations to which I can not aspire――wealth and station are
great advantages; and three years allow time for all good qualities to
become apparent; so lengthened a friendship is enough of itself to
speak for him.”
Hilary was silent for some minutes, and then raising her eyes timidly,
she said――
“There is always a debtor and creditor side in all accounts, Captain
Hepburn!”
“True, as a principle; to what do you refer, Miss Duncan?”
“To what you just said,” blushing deeply as she spoke; “I only wish to
remind you, that even Mr. Huyton may not have all the advantages of
life within his reach; and there may be grievances to be endured even
by him, of which we know nothing.”
“True. I acknowledge we are more ready to reckon our troubles than our
blessings,” replied he, in a tone of self-correction; “and as we see
the bright parts of our neighbors’ life, and not those which are in
shadow, we are apt to forget how much may be concealed.”
“Yes,” replied Hilary, “we gaze at our neighbors as we do at the moon,
and often forget their existence altogether when they are not lighted
by the rays of prosperity. It requires an effort of the reason to
realize that our lot in life, like the face of our planet, may seem as
bright to their view as theirs does to us; we are so intimately aware
of the roughnesses and inequalities which surround our feet, and see
so little of the light of Heaven on our own path.”
He smiled, and answered,
“You are fond of picturesque analogy, Miss Duncan.”
“Distance alone, I think, often prevents our judging with accuracy,”
continued Hilary; “what we take for an ornament, or a support, may be
simply a chain or a burden; and what we fancy a halo of glory, is,
perhaps, the torturing fire consuming its victim.”
“You are exerting your fancy, I think, to make me view my lot in life
with complacency.”
“No, I was trying to convince you of the injustice of the charge you
brought by implication against me just now,” was Hilary’s answer,
half-shyly given.
“What charge?” inquired he, with some eagerness; “of what could you
imagine I could accuse you, to require any justification?”
“By implying that the difference I alluded to, as apparent between you
and Mr. Huyton, must necessarily be a comparison to the disadvantage
of either. Or supposing that the possession of property had any
influence on my likes or dislikes.”
“Did I imply such injustice to you? And yet, though theoretically we
know of how little importance wealth may be in attaining the great end
of life, it is difficult always to regulate our wishes; wealth gives
so much power of doing good and making others happy.”
“But often, too often, takes away the wish to do so,” returned Hilary.
“But if the power to oblige can be obtained only by wealth, Captain
Hepburn must have valuable hoards of available riches; for I know
those who feel themselves unable to repay what they owe him, except by
sentiments of gratitude which can never grow cold.”
He turned his eyes upon her with a look of pleasure which was unseen,
for her eyes were bent on the ground; but he made no answer.
“Mr. Huyton’s wealth will oblige the whole neighborhood to-morrow,”
continued she; “but who will remember it as a favor three months
hence? Oh, no, the obligations which wealth alone enables one to
bestow can never be the most highly prized, or gratefully
acknowledged.”
“I admit it; at least by those whose gratitude is worth having,”
replied he, giving her one of those looks which she felt all over her,
in every nerve; “the gratitude of the pure, unworldly, high-toned,
tender heart, is very different in nature and quality from any which
could count the cost of a favor by pounds and shillings. Our standard
of worth is regulated, I suppose, by our favorite possessions, and the
minds which value affection and truth the most, will often esteem
services springing from these motives far beyond their intrinsic
merit. They affix an imaginary importance to such acts, from certain
properties which they perceive through the magnifying lens of a loving
heart; while the ignorant and coarse-minded, seeing no token of what
may be below the rough surface, naturally prefer a polished brilliant,
even though it may be paste.”
It was Hilary’s turn to be silent now.
“It is La Bruyère, I think, who says that the way in which riches and
honors are distributed in this world, shows of how little real value
they are in the sight of Heaven,” added Captain Hepburn, when they had
walked on in silence a short time.
“That seems to me too much of a discontented sort of submission for
poor people to comfort themselves by,” said Hilary; “we know that
riches and honors are great trials and temptations, but they may also
be great blessings. Those who have them may view them in the light in
which the satirist places them, and so learn to value them less; but I
do not think it does for those who have them not to comfort themselves
with thinking that they are bestowed because people are wicked. May
be, it is their possession which has hardened the heart, or blinded
the eyes, and so their owners are subjects for our pity, not our
censure. Don’t you think it is safer to view them as trials than as
judgments?”
“You mean that we should be thankful, not self-complacent, for being
poor: grateful, and also fearful, if we are rich,” said he.
“Yes, and do not fancy, from what I said, that riches have spoiled Mr.
Huyton. Papa thinks very well of him, and I have no doubt his wealth
has hitherto proved a blessing to many.”
The free and disengaged air with which she spoke would have carried
the conviction of her calm feelings regarding the owner of “the Ferns”
to any one but a lover, who felt his worldly circumstances formed a
painful contrast to the individual in question.
After a little pause, Captain Hepburn began again.
“You have afforded me a striking example of your own theory, Miss
Duncan, by showing that it does not require more than a wish to do
right――to be able to confer favors. Your reproof for my discontented
allusion to my worldly circumstances is an obligation, the value of
which I hope I am not too dull to appreciate.”
“A reproof!” said Hilary, with a look of alarm and crimson cheeks;
“indeed I am not so presumptuous; I did not mean it.”
“Then was the presumption mine, in supposing myself a sufficient
object of interest to you to incur it,” replied he, smiling. “I would
rather be judged worthy of reproof than of contempt.”
“I see you are laughing at me,” replied Hilary, smiling also; “and it
was stupid of me to believe you serious when you talked in that way;
but you looked so grave, I thought you really meant it.”
Whether Captain Hepburn might not have succeeded in convincing her
that he did mean a great deal, and that his looks as well as his words
could be depended on, can not be known, as just then Mr. Duncan and
Maurice came in sight, and their conversation concluded as the others
joined them.