“In the hall, with sconces blazing,
Ladies waiting round her seat,
Clothed in smiles beneath the dais,
Sat the Duchess Marguerite.”
THE CHURCH OF BEOU.
Victoria was fortunate in her arrangements. The weather, that great
object of interest, because of uncertainty, in our island, beginning
with a little hesitation, settled into brilliancy and warmth; and the
sun, after coquetting in the morning with the earth, through the
clouds which it had called up round itself, finally dispersed them
all, and smiled out graciously on the many anxious eyes turned toward
it.
Pretty and elegant as Hilary looked when dressed for the fête, I do
not believe that she gained any thing in Captain Hepburn’s eyes by her
more elaborate toilette; he would have preferred seeing her in her
usual morning gown; although he blamed himself for selfishness, at the
thought which would have deprived her, if possible, of so great a
pleasure. However, he had an unexpected consolation, which more than
made up for the pain of helping her into Mr. Huyton’s carriage, when
he perceived that the little bunch of double violets he had taken such
pains to gather from under an exceedingly wild and overhanging
sweet-briar bush, were now carefully arranged in a knot of white
ribbon, and formed her only ornament as a _bouquet de corsage_. Hilary
herself had no very overpowering expectations of pleasure from the
party; her principal emotion was curiosity to witness a scene from the
gay world, such as she little expected to find transported into their
forest life. For herself, she was far too insignificant in her own
opinion to form more than one of the many spectators of the festivity;
she hoped that from behind Mrs. Fielding’s chair she might look on
quietly, and see how her friends were admired and courted. Victoria,
of course, would be first and most prominent; perhaps the two sisters
from the Abbey might come next in importance. She hoped Sybil and
Gwyneth would enjoy themselves; she was sure Mr. Huyton would make it
pleasant for them if he could, but he would probably be too busy to
attend to them; but then, Maurice, too, would be there, and would
certainly be kind and careful; and if Nest was happy and her sisters
pleased, and if Captain Hepburn sometimes came and conversed with her,
she should be very well off.
Such were her reflections as they drove along to “the Ferns;” and so
she settled her expectations of amusement for the day.
Whatever other cares might have engrossed the master of the house,
there was nothing to prevent his being ready to assist Hilary and her
sisters from the carriage. He shook hands warmly with the young
ladies, caught Nest in his arms, and kissed her affectionately,
declaring it was an age since he had seen her, and then drawing Miss
Duncan’s arm under his, walked with her into the house, with an air of
satisfaction and appropriation, which, perhaps, it was as well for
Captain Hepburn’s peace of mind that he did not see.
In the hall were a profusion of bouquets, prepared, as Charles told
Hilary, that any lady might take one who liked. He picked out the two
prettiest for her sisters himself, and gave them with pleasant
speeches and open friendly looks; but in the ante-chamber he
stopped again, and taking from a vase standing there a most
exquisitely-arranged bunch of flowers, far more rare and beautiful
than any of the others, he gave them to Hilary himself, without a
word, but with a look, which made her feel as if the flowers had burnt
her fingers, and raised an intense desire to dash them immediately on
the ground.
The hot blood mounted to her cheeks, and her eyes were bent on the
beautiful blossoms with an intentness which seemed to indicate a
serious study of their botanical peculiarities; but she could not have
told of what they consisted, nor have distinguished the moss-roses
from the Peristerium, or the Deletria from the orange blossoms she
held in her hand. She was thinking how much she preferred the scent of
double violets; or, perhaps, comparing the glance which had
accompanied each gift, and wondering why the one should recall the
other, or why, if their expression was so much alike, the impression
on her own mind should be so different. He led them on, without
speaking, to the saloon where Mrs. Fielding was seated, and then, as
that lady rose to welcome them, he said:
“I need not beg you to be kind to them, dear aunt; you know how much I
trust to you when I place them under your care.”
Hilary’s cheeks were still glowing, as the elderly lady embraced her
in foreign fashion, and expressed her extreme pleasure at seeing her
there. Her manner to her sisters was hardly less cordial, and Nest
received immediately the permission most valued by a child of her age,
to run about and look at every thing before the company came.
A minute after, Victoria came in, and attaching Hilary immediately to
herself, she said they would go round and take a survey of the
decorations. Every thing was equally complete and beautiful, flowers
and evergreens scattered about in profusion on the lawn, in the house,
and in the pavilion in the garden where the feast was to be served.
Victoria went about examining every thing, and explaining her plans to
Hilary; how the band was to be stationed on such a terrace, and what
music they were to play; how refreshments in any quantity, and of
every description, would be procurable in the pavilion, between three
and six o’clock, so that the most dainty young lady, or most hungry
young gentleman might be perfectly satisfied. She pointed out the
boats which had been brought from the boat-houses, and were now
floating invitingly by the side of the sheet of water, the boatmen, in
a picturesque costume, lounging by them; she showed the glen where she
intended to produce a grand effect in the evening by a bugle, for she
had discovered there a most enchanting echo; and with this she hoped
to surprise the company while they were looking on at a grand
exhibition of fire-works, to be displayed on the edge of the lake;
then they might conclude with a magnificent supper in the
banqueting-room, to be preceded, if they liked, by dancing, in the
house; and singing from some professional performers, who had come
from London for the occasion.
“In short,” said Victoria, “I hope to illustrate my name in the
country, and be remembered with gratitude for a half year at least.”
She seemed in high spirits, and went about singing to herself, as she
pointed out one ornament or another to Hilary――
“Voi che sapete
Che cosa él’ amor.”
Hilary did not feel very glad herself; for the sight of Victoria had
reminded her of Mr. Huyton’s supposed engagement, and she was shocked
and ashamed of herself, to think that she had even for a moment
imagined he had implied any degree of devotion to herself by his
manner. She was angry at what she believed her own unpardonable
vanity, and wondered what could make her so absurd. Then she began to
meditate how it happened that she could have imagined any resemblance
between the look of Charles and that of Captain Hepburn; could they
really think alike? were they actuated by the same feelings, and if
so, was the latter also engaged to another woman? why did such an idea
give her pain? what right had she to turn so sick at heart as she
contemplated it? what was it to her? Oh, shame, shame on herself, that
she could have allowed such fancies to take possession of her heart;
that she should be actually unhappy at the notion of his loving
another; she, who had home duties which ought to exclude such
feelings; she, who had so firmly resolved to devote herself to her
father and sisters; she, who had never heard from him a word which
could imply a similar preference for herself; could she have been
indulging in such a weak and foolish partiality?
She could hardly attend to what her friend was saying; she was
incapable of giving a rational answer, and her only wish was to be
allowed to sit down in some remote corner, and hide her blushes and
her emotion. Charles Huyton joined them as they stood on the lawn, to
tell Victoria that some carriages were approaching down the avenue,
and ask her whether she would not return to the house.
Hilary was most thankful for this relief; they went back to the saloon
together, and she gladly retreated into a nook behind Mrs. Fielding’s
chair, where she hoped to be quiet and unobserved amid the expected
crowds. The room soon began to fill with company, and after a while,
Victoria, finding that although inconveniently crowded, nobody seemed
to like to go out first, led the way herself to the lawn, and the band
commencing at the same time to perform their part, every body was
ready enough to follow her example; Hilary, who was still standing
with her sisters in a recess of one of the windows, was, however,
roused from her engrossing thoughts by the rapturous greeting of Dora
Barham, whose party coming rather late, did not arrive until the first
crowd had greatly dispersed.
Isabel, after speaking to the Duncans, and other of her acquaintance,
wanted to draw Dora away, as their chaperon, Lady Margaret, had
proposed going out on the terrace. But Dora would not leave Hilary,
whom she had not seen for more than a week; so Isabel and her party
passed on, only calling her a willful child as they went.
They had not been gone many minutes, when the one arrived for whom
Dora’s eyes had been anxiously searching, and whose appearance brought
hot, quick, pretty blushes to her cheeks. It was impossible not to
perceive her emotion, although the reason and object of it, amid such
a varying assembly, might have been doubtful to those who had no clew
to guide them. Maurice and Captain Hepburn entered together, and
advancing at once toward Mrs. Fielding, to whom the latter had to be
introduced, of course, came immediately afterward to join the little
group in the window behind her.
Perhaps it would not have been easy to have found a more complete
contrast than those young friends exhibited at that moment. Dora
glowing, smiling, dimpling, with pleasure, and displaying, with a
sincerity which her education had been intended to repress and
contradict, the emotions which the sight of Maurice called out; and
Hilary, pale and cold, struggling to conceal a degree of most unusual
excitement, under a calmness which gave her an air almost approaching
to haughtiness.
Captain Hepburn came up with an eagerness not often shown by him,
although not to be compared with the glow of satisfaction which
Maurice exhibited when he saw who was his sister’s companion; and at
the first tones of his voice, the first glance of his eye, Hilary’s
coldness vanished, her fears were removed, and all her happiness was
restored to her; for she felt that his look and tone said openly alike
that she was _first_ with him, and that each look and tone was truth.
His conversation, after he had smilingly satisfied her anxiety as to
her father’s being comfortably settled with Mrs. Paine by his side,
turned on the house and scenery. It was grand and beautiful; he had
not been prepared for a mansion so fine, or a park so picturesque; she
had never described it as so very charming; did she not think it so?
“Had she not? she thought she had mentioned how much she admired it;
perhaps he had forgotten; descriptions of unknown places seldom made
much impression.”
That depended, he affirmed, on who gave the description; he did not
think he had forgotten any thing she had ever said, any conversation
they had ever held.
Hilary looked down at the bunch of exotics she held in her hand. They
caught his eye also, and he remarked on their beauty, taking them from
her hand to examine them.
“They are all foreigners,” said he, “or raised in a hot-house!”
“Yes, I believe they came from Mr. Huyton’s hot-houses, which are
always beautiful.”
“And what is that, and that, and that?” questioned he, still holding
the flowers. He made her tell him the names of each blossom, and
commented on them and their peculiarities.
He seemed very happy, and perhaps was rendered still more so, by an
observation of Hilary’s in reply to his remarks. As he returned her
flowers, he said, with a sort of subdued smile,
“You should give me my violets back again, for they are quite put to
shame by these grand specimens of floriculture. They did very well at
the Vicarage, but here they seem out of place, and it would be a
charity to hide them in their native obscurity again.”
“Then they are exactly like their wearer,” replied she, blushing a
little, and smiling at the same time, “and sympathy forbids my
throwing them away.”
“I had no intention of doing that,” was his answer; “the modest beauty
and fragrance which may be eclipsed amid a crowd of gayer forms and
brighter colors, are too dear to me, to be in danger of neglect.
Should you consider it throwing them away then, to return them to me?”
Hilary hesitated.
“I do not wish to part with them,” said she; and then afraid lest he
should consider her refusal to do so, as the result of a regard for
the donor, she added, “I love real English-grown violets better than
the rarest exotics.”
“At least, do not throw them away yourself,” said he, earnestly; “give
them to me when faded and withered; they will still be sweet.”
Hilary was conscious that she had no intention whatever of throwing
them away; but she did not wish to tell him so; she colored very much,
and did not answer.
“Then you will not bestow on me even a faded bouquet?” said he,
looking at her with smiling eyes, and not seeming much distressed at
her conscious hesitation.
“If I give you two or three flowers now, will you leave me the rest in
peace?” said she, playfully; “but I must say, I think it ungenerous to
wish to take back from me what you bestowed unasked, unless you saw me
neglecting or undervaluing the gift.”
“Unsolicited gifts are sometimes not much prized,” replied he, softly;
“might I flatter myself that you fixed any value to _all_ I have
bestowed on you――”
“Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Huyton, advancing to the corner where the
little group stood, forming two distinct pairs, each too much
engrossed to be conscious of aught beyond them, “Victoria has sent me
to conduct you to her; I am not to return without you, on any
account.”
He offered his arm to Hilary, who started and colored exceedingly at
the sudden interruption to a sentence, which from its tone and manner,
she was particularly anxious to hear completed.
Mr. Huyton looked inquiringly at her companion, and then rousing
Maurice from the whispered conversation with Dora, which had quite
engrossed him, desired to be presented to his friend.
Hilary’s hand was under his arm, as he made polite speeches to Captain
Hepburn, and he looked so very much as if he thought she belonged to
him, that the other could not forbear noticing it; and a doubt shot
through his mind, whether the conjectures of Maurice relative to his
engagement to Miss Fielding, could have the slightest foundation.
It had been this very announcement which had raised his spirits, and
made him bolder in his own advances; and the contradiction of all his
hopes which his fancy drew from Charles Huyton’s manner, was such as
immediately to depress and silence him.
“Where are my sisters?” inquired Hilary, looking round, now first
aware that they had left her.
Charles told her they had gone out on the lawn with Mrs. Fielding some
time before――had she not missed them? he hoped, then, she had been
pleasantly engaged. It was said in a simple and friendly tone; but the
thought of betraying such absence of mind, deepened the color in her
cheeks, and she glanced apprehensively at Captain Hepburn, to see if
he had noticed it.
Perhaps he had, for his eyes met hers, and she hastily looked away.
“Are you going, Hilary?” said Dora, now perceiving the movement around
her; “oh! don’t leave me! I have not the least notion where my sister
and Lady Margaret are.”
“You must come with us then, Miss Barham,” replied their host; “for
Miss Duncan must go――Victoria wants her.”
“_Must_ is for the king, Mr. Huyton,” said Dora, in pretended
indignation. “Please, Hilary, do not let him dictate to you! I would
not submit to such assumption of authority.”
Maurice offered to conduct her to her party, wherever they might be;
and Dora, caring more for the present pleasure than prudence, took his
arm, and walked happily after her friend.
Hilary did not mind the interruption so much, when she found Captain
Hepburn still accompanied them; she hoped for other opportunities of
conversing with him.
Victoria was standing amid the grandest and most important of the
guests, receiving and returning courteous speeches, taking admiration
as her due, and flattery as the air she breathed; but she welcomed her
friend with a smile, shook hands cordially with Maurice, and advanced
with alacrity to greet Captain Hepburn. Her attention to a party
almost unknown to the whole of the surrounding circle, and the
position Hilary occupied on Mr. Huyton’s arm, roused a good deal of
observation, and many eyes and eye-glasses were turned on them, and
not a few whispered commentaries and inquiries passed round, as to who
they were.
Criticism and satire were, however, unable to find any thing for
observation in the quiet grace and refined simplicity of Miss Duncan,
who was much too unconscious of the observation drawn on her, and too
little engrossed by thoughts of herself, to be shy, although she was
too humble not to be retiring in such a group. If she noticed that
people looked toward her, she naturally concluded that they were
attracted by the appearance of their host; and if she had been
observing enough to discover traces of admiration, she would still
have attributed it to his claims, or those of Dora, who was close to
her.
“You belong to us, Hilary,” said Victoria, quite loud enough to be
heard by those near, although in a sort of stage-aside; “you are part
of our _home_ circle, and must not get away. I can not do without
you.”
She then turned and drew Captain Hepburn into conversation; Maurice
and Dora joined his sisters who were a little behind, and although
Hilary would gladly have disengaged herself from Charles, she could
not do so immediately, without an appearance of awkwardness, which she
wished to avoid.
The grand luncheon, or breakfast, or whatever name the meal deserved,
obliged him to quit her, for there were Countesses’ and Earls’
daughters present, whose claims could not be disregarded; and when
they were all seated at table, Hilary found herself, much to her
relief, with her own family, and Captain Hepburn beside her. They
were, however, close to Victoria, and, in spite of all the Lord
Williams and Honorable Johns who courted her notice, when they rose,
she still seemed inclined to pay more attention to the naval captain
than to any of the other gentlemen.
He had been admiring her in a low tone to Hilary, during the repast,
and she, with a sort of satisfaction for which she was afterward
ashamed of herself, informed him she was going to be married and
settled in England, in the autumn, but without adding her own idea as
to who her future husband was. Although, therefore, Hilary would
rather he should have stayed near her, she was not much disturbed at
Victoria’s preference for his society; and when she saw them slowly
walking together, gradually disengaging themselves from the company,
and finally disappearing behind a thicket of evergreens, she felt no
jealousy, although she did wish to join them. The company then
gradually scattered themselves about; some went to the lake, and
entered the boats; some strolled through the conservatories and
forcing-houses; some visited the stables; some wandered amid the wild
scenery of the park; there was a game of bowls going on between some
lively parties, while others were content to remain still and listen
to the music. An air of general content and satisfaction appeared;
every body was determined to be pleased, and a great many actually
were so. The party of a wealthy and single man, would naturally be
popular; and as he took great pains to go about and diffuse his
civilities among all the young ladies, introduce those who wished it
to each other, recommend amusements, suggest variety to the dull, and
encourage every kind of hilarity, there was no outward symptom of
discontent or ennui; all was as lively and harmonious as the music on
the lawn.
Victoria had carried off Captain Hepburn, to show him what she
considered the most curious part of the park. Such was her excuse.
This was an avenue of very ancient yews, whose large stems and
branches, intertwined over head, formed a gloomy aisle, which reminded
one of a cathedral crypt. It led to a circle of still older trees of
the same species, surrounding a mound of earth; the trunks were
hollowed by time, the over-hanging boughs were, many of them, blanched
and bare, and sprung out like huge skeleton arms, which produced a
ghastly spectral effect; beyond, and inclosing them, was a double row
of gigantic oaks, just now in all the glory of young spring foliage;
but even their bright green was unable to give a liveliness to a scene
in which such heavy and dark hues predominated. The ground beneath
their feet was dry and brown, a thick carpet of the needle-shaped
leaves of the yews making it soft and slippery; no green plant could
spring under their poisonous shade; there was neither leaf nor flower
to be seen; all was gloomy and somber as a neglected church-yard.
“Now, is not this wild and strange, Captain Hepburn?” said the young
lady. “I brought you here alone, that you might enjoy the full effect
of contrast; we left light and music, company and mirth――here we have
gloom and silence, solitude and somber thoughts. Tell me, do you think
this is the work of those ancient Druids, who ruled your country
before history begins, or do you suppose the Saxons, my countrymen,
worshiped here their Thor and Friga?”
“It is very strange and wild, truly, Miss Fielding; do you delight in
such violent contrasts? Old as they are, however, I think these trees
are hardly old enough to be planted by Druid hands: remember the
lengthened period――nineteen hundred years at least.”
“Horrid, to destroy my pleasant illusions; I had hoped to awe you into
immediate acquiescence with my fancies.”
“And pass for Friga with the golden hair, yourself, for you are more
like a Saxon than a British divinity of old?” said he, with smiling
gallantry.
“I am Saxon on my mother’s side,” replied she, “as you doubtless know;
so is my cousin Charles; but I believe we both intend to turn English
in our habits and homes for the future.”
She colored a little as she said this, and, after a moment’s pause,
she added――
“Do you know the county of Cheshire, Captain Hepburn?”
“Not at all――do you?”
“Not yet, but I expect hereafter to get pretty well acquainted with
it. It is there my future home is situated, and, of course, the place
excites some curiosity in my mind.”
“Your future home!” repeated he, a little surprised.
“Yes, did you not know? I thought Hilary might have told you,” replied
she.
“I had heard that Miss Fielding had done one of my countrymen the
honor of promising to take his name and adopt his nation!” he
answered, in a sort of tone which, however, implied a dissatisfied or
uncertain mind.
“Then why are you surprised at my mentioning it? perhaps that shocks
British prejudices; but with us a betrothal is not a secret! Was that
what astonished you?”
“No, to say the truth, it was at discovering a mistake of mine. I had
fancied ‘the Ferns’ had been the future home which you had selected,”
was his reply.
“Oh!” said Victoria, coloring and laughing, “that was your guess, was
it? I wonder at your want of penetration. If this had been my future
home, I should not have been visiting here now, and you must have
seen――oh, by the way, Charles was not here before, so you have _not_
seen any thing. But Hilary did not tell you that, did she?”
“Miss Duncan mentioned no names to me,” said he; “she only informed me
to-day, that you were to be united to a countryman of ours.”
“Oh, Hilary, of all people, has reason to know better; for though I
never mentioned Mr. Legh by name to her, she knew Charles was not my
_futur_. Perhaps if you had seen them together, you would have known
it too.”
“Seen who together?” asked Captain Hepburn, with a countenance of
extreme self-command, which baffled, by its quietness, the scrutiny of
Victoria’s bright eyes.
“My cousin and Miss Duncan! She will not engage herself at present,
because of her father and sisters; she devotes herself to them; but
that kind of thing will not last forever; and though one has no right
to speculate on a young lady’s feelings, in spite of her saying _no_,
I suspect Charles’s constancy is making way with her, and will meet
with its reward in time. Meantime, I say nothing to her on the topic.”
Captain Hepburn was a brave man, one who had met peril unflinchingly,
and dared death in a good cause. His nerves were under perfect
control; and one reason, probably, of the influence he exercised over
those about him, was that he had learned, before commanding others, to
command himself. Whatever his feelings were on hearing this
declaration from his companion, he betrayed none of them; and after a
little pause, he asked, in a quiet tone, devoid of all trace of
emotion,
“Do you mean that Miss Duncan refused your cousin, when he offered his
hand?”
“Yes; but that was nearly a year ago, and there has been, I suspect
and hope, a gradual change working since that. She was very young
then, and had never thought of marrying, and her father’s blindness
was just ascertained, and was a great shock to her, so she thought she
should never leave him, and would not listen to Charles; but he is
very persevering and patient――quite a model of a lover; and as her
sisters get old enough to take her place, and other feelings for other
people arise, she will retract. As to my cousin, he, I am sure, will
never change.”
Victoria did not intend to do any harm by what she had said: she
really believed that, in promoting a union between her cousin and
Hilary, she was acting as kindly by one as the other, and her
assertions were strictly true. She thought he was gaining ground, and
fancied that if she could only keep away rivals, his interests would
be safe; time and constancy, a better knowledge of his value, and a
more thorough appreciation of the honor his love did its object, would
alter her opinions, and change her tone.
His value she hoped to assist in demonstrating by showing him to
Hilary as the center of attraction, the admired, courted, popular
master of “the Ferns;” and the distinction which his notice conferred
on her in that party would perhaps induce her to consider that it
would be worth while to become his wife. It was very natural that she
should imagine this; she judged, as all must do, by her own feelings,
and set before her friend the temptations which would have had most
influence with herself.
She had, on first arriving at “the Ferns,” been a little vexed that
she could not awaken any visible partiality in her cousin’s mind; for
though betrothed, she had a strong taste for admiration and flattery;
but she had soon penetrated his secret, then gained his confidence,
and warmly taken up his cause. The appearance of Captain Hepburn, his
manner to Hilary, and her glances at him had alarmed her; and desirous
to prevent her young friend from throwing away what she conceived to
be the substance, in grasping at a shadow, she determined to give him
such information on the subject as would probably occasion him to draw
back, and leave the ground open.
She did not know her companion’s character, and was quite mistaken in
Hilary’s also; she was, moreover, too late in her interference to do
any good. Captain Hepburn felt, as he heard Victoria’s suggestions,
that he loved Hilary, and he believed that he had made his partiality
evident to her and others. To draw back, therefore, because he had a
rival was not to be thought of; it would compromise his own character
for truth and honor. She might refuse him; of course, if she preferred
Charles Huyton, she would; and he had as little taste for a refusal as
any other man in England; but his character required that he should
take his chance; and his feelings of honor, nay, his principles of
integrity, were stronger than his vanity and self-love. He had given
her reason to believe in his preference, he must give her the
opportunity of answering it, not so much for her own sake, for she
might not care, but for his! Then came fancy, whispering, would she
not care? was there no soft glance in her ingenuous eyes, no thrilling
tone in her voice, which might give him ground of hope? He was poor,
compared to his rival; but she did not value riches; he thought, if
she would not accept a man because he had them, neither would she
refuse another because he had them not. His profession would probably
soon call him away, and perhaps he could not offer her immediate
marriage; but then she herself considered that incompatible with her
family bonds; when these were lighter, would she not consent to become
his? It seemed as if the very circumstances which, in most cases,
would have been evils and drawbacks, were now advantages to support
his claim. His own freedom from family ties, his having no settled
home, no landed property which bound him to one spot; all these would
be no objection in her case, whereas the reverse might have formed
impediments to his wishes.
It did not take very long to think all these thoughts; and the
consequence of these ideas was, that, instead of exhibiting depression
and uneasiness at Victoria’s observations, he showed a calm face and a
self-possessed manner, which induced her to believe he, at least, was
indifferent on the subject.
“Where does this path lead?” inquired he, ascending a slope on one
side of the circle of yews, and looking round him.
“We are just above the lake, and I thought of going down that way,”
replied Victoria. “Come along this winding path, and we shall reach
some of the company. I hear voices down below. You are a sailor, will
you not take me out in a boat for a sail? we will ask Hilary, or one
or two other ladies, to go with us.”
“I am afraid you will think me a very ungallant and disobliging
sailor, Miss Fielding; but I must say, of all things in the world, I
dread a water-party of ladies, and never, if I can help it, embark in
one.”
“Ah! it has no charms for you――no novelty. ‘Too much water hast thou,’
as the Queen says to Ophelia. I daresay it is stupid.”
“I may be stupid, perhaps, but I think it dangerous, and willingly
avoid the responsibility. So few men understand how to sail a boat.
Unless you had heard as much as I have, you could not imagine how
often they upset; and when women are on board, what can be the
consequence but mischief?”
“Some people are not so cautious, for I see a boat on the lake; and if
I do not mistake, Maurice Duncan and the two Barhams are in it.”
“Yes; but they are only sculling along, and a girl might do that. I
really do not suppose we could sail if we tried; there is scarcely a
breath of wind, or only a puff at intervals.”
The path down which they were descending was so screened by shrubs,
that although they could catch a glimpse of the lake and its borders
here and there, they were unseen themselves by those below.
There were a good many people on the bank; at a little distance, a
group of children were merrily dancing to a violin which one of the
woodmen had produced; near them were some mammas and elder sisters,
looking on, and admiring. Victoria was close enough to recognize some
individuals; they saw Charles Huyton, encouraging the frolics of the
children; Mrs. Fielding and Hilary were standing under a tree at the
edge of the lake, where a steep bank formed a promontory above the
water, apparently watching Maurice’s boat, which was slowly
approaching them.
When they had descended a few yards further, they entirely lost sight
of the loiterers by the lake, and, although so near as to catch voices
and laughter, were unable to discover what was passing. They heard a
child’s voice cry, “Hilary! Hilary!” and recognized the merry tones of
little Nest; then some one, in an accent of alarm, cried, “Take care!”
and then there was a shriek, an exclamation of terror from many
voices, a plunge in the water, and a silence.
Captain Hepburn sprang forward, and in a moment had cleared the
underwood, and obtained sight of the bank and the water. Mrs. Fielding
stood where she had been, and many had rushed to the water’s edge, and
were gazing in. Hilary and Nest were both out of sight.