“What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers,
Words by which the wretched are consoled?
What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler,
Circled, Tristram, by a crown of gold?”
ISEULT.
The cry of alarm had brought Charles Huyton also to the spot where the
accident had happened; for one brief moment the rivals stood side by
side and gazed upon the scene. Under the steep, shelving bank, nearly
submerged in the water, but clinging with her left arm to a long,
pendant root, hung Hilary, and with her right hand she grasped, with
all the energy of terrified love, the skirt of her sister’s dress,
thereby but little supporting the child, and risking herself to be
drawn from her precarious hold, and plunged in deep water by her
struggles.
Captain Hepburn and Charles Huyton simultaneously flung off their
coats.
“Save Hilary――I will secure the child,” said the sailor, in a tone of
decision which seemed to command obedience, and without an instant of
unnecessary delay, sprang from the steep bank head-foremost into the
water. Mr. Huyton followed his example, and almost before she was
conscious of help being at hand, Hilary felt an arm supporting her,
and heard a well-known voice saying――
“Trust to me, dearest, and you will be safe.”
She was too exhausted to understand exactly what was passing. She felt
her sister was raised, released her grasp on her dress, and had just
sense and energy enough left to remain quite passive, as she was borne
to a more practical part of the bank. She turned her head, saw Nest
was safe in Captain Hepburn’s care――his strong arms had drawn the
child quickly out of danger――and then, perfectly overpowered, she
fainted away. Landing her was by no means an easy task, the ground was
soft, crumbling, and treacherous; but for the ready help at hand,
Charles could not have done it; and he was so much exhausted by his
efforts, that when he was assisted from the water, he was not only
unable to support his burden, but had himself to sit down on the
grass, to rest and breathe.
Captain Hepburn hastily placed the dripping child in some of the many
arms stretched out to take her, and turned with an eager bound to
Hilary, who seemed as lifeless as her sister. But Maurice reached her
at the same time; he had seen the accident, and with rapid strokes had
brought the boat to the nearest land, where, utterly forgetful even of
Dora Barham, he had thrown the chain, by which the skiff was moored,
into the boatman’s hands, and sprung ashore to assist Hilary.
He clasped his sister in his arms, exclaiming, as he did so, “Darling,
dearest Hilary!” in the tones of the fondest endearment; then added,
with agonized doubt,
“Oh, Hepburn, is she dead?”
Her pale cheeks, closed eyes, and inanimate form terrified him, and he
looked to his friend for advice, assistance, or at least for comfort.
“Heaven forbid!” cried the other, eagerly catching her hand, and
endeavoring to feel her pulse, “she has only fainted from alarm. She
must be taken to the house.”
“Carry your sister to the house this moment,” cried Victoria; “I have
dispatched little Nest there already, and will send some one to make
preparations, and give orders.”
A gentleman present, a relative of the Barhams, offered to run on and
carry a message, but Sybil sprang forward――
“Let me go, Miss Fielding, give me the necessary directions.”
Victoria gave a hasty message to the housekeeper, and Sybil was off
with a fleetness, and a knowledge of the shortest road, which
distanced Mr. Farrington completely.
Some of the many shawls which were proffered for the use of the
sufferers, were hastily wrapped around Hilary, and, raising her in his
arms, her brother walked off with steady steps toward the house.
Charles and Captain Hepburn accompanied him, each entirely occupied by
thoughts of her, and neither at that moment caring to conceal it.
Either the fresh air, or the warmth, or the motion, revived Hilary;
she sighed, opened her eyes, looked up for a moment, in doubt where
she was, and what had happened, then recollecting every thing, she
started up, and cried――
“Nest――oh, Maurice, is she safe?”
“Be still, darling,” replied he, and it was echoed by the other two;
but she only repeated the question in greater alarm.
“Yes, yes, she is safe; she is just on in front. Some one is carrying
her to the house. Hepburn saved her.”
The look which Hilary gave the sailor at that moment, was one which he
never forgot.
“I could walk, Maurice, I could walk quicker, if you would set me
down,” said she, eagerly. “I am quite well, do let me try.”
“Patience, we are just there!” and he would not let her go, until they
reached the door.
Several female attendants, and Sybil herself, were waiting there; they
were carrying the little one up to be placed in Victoria’s own bed;
and, a moment after, Miss Fielding herself joined them, having hurried
on to summon a physician, who, as Isabel reminded her, was happily one
of the party. Dr. Pilgrim was found, and at once took the lead in
ordering and advising; gave the necessary directions for restoring
animation to Nest, who still continued insensible, sent Victoria
instantly to superintend the proper precautions for Hilary’s safety,
and insisted on both the gentlemen retiring to procure dry clothes,
declaring that they could do no good to any one, until they had first
taken care of themselves.
Happily, by the time Hilary was allowed by her active and judicious
attendants to be well enough to seek her sister, Nest was not only
perfectly restored to consciousness, but had dropped off into a quiet
sleep, and Miss Duncan, at her own urgent request, was permitted to
watch by her, on condition, as Dr. Pilgrim insisted, that nothing
should be allowed to disturb the little one’s slumber, on which he
declared her entire recovery to depend. By this means, as he
communicated to Mrs. Gainsborough, the housekeeper, they should compel
Miss Duncan to keep quiet also, and he was really more alarmed on her
account than her sister’s, if the evident excitement under which she
was laboring was not checked by some decisive measures. She ought to
have gone to bed also.
In the darkened room, reclining on an easy chair, beside the bed where
the child peacefully slept, Hilary passed the rest of the afternoon,
putting up mental thanksgivings for the safety of her darling, and for
the preservation of her own life; grateful for the kindness and care
she met with, and more grateful still that _he_, the one to whom her
heart had turned for help in the moment of horror and alarm, had been
near enough to hear her cry, and rescue her sister.
She was hardly aware who had saved herself; the absorbing idea of
Nest’s danger and Nest’s safety, had prevented her making other
inquiries, and her head still felt too weak and confused to think with
accuracy, or recollect with precision. It all seemed a cloud of fear
and agony, from the time when she saw her sister was running into
danger, by so rapidly descending the steep bank, and when, in her
effort to arrest her, she too had lost her footing on the short,
slippery turf, and crumbling, sandy edge, until she had once more
recovered herself in her brother’s arms, and had heard the delicious
assurance that Nest was safe.
At intervals, Sybil or Gwyneth would softly creep into the room, kiss
her, look at Nest, till the tears sprung, and then glide away without
a word; or Victoria would come with some refreshment, which she urged
on Hilary with whispered eagerness; or Dr. Pilgrim would steal in with
a stealthy, noiseless tread, glance at the child, feel Hilary’s pulse,
and in low, positive tones, renew his orders for perfect quiet repose.
The watchful housekeeper, too, was frequent in her silent visits, and
the German maid, who sat in her mistress’s dressing-room, knowing no
tongue saving her own, was deaf to entreaties for admission from all
others, according to the express injunctions of Fraulein Victoria.
Meanwhile, beyond that silent room, away even from sight as well as
hearing of its inmates, all was excitement, bustle, interest, and
gossip. Seeing that the accident had not been attended by fatal
consequences, and that after the first lively alarm there was nothing
which need disturb the festal party, the visitors listened to the
earnest entreaties of Miss Fielding, and remained as if nothing had
happened. Of course, there was much to be said about this interesting
circumstance; all who had seen it had to tell their own story, each
version differing considerably from the other; all who had not enjoyed
the advantage of being spectators were naturally eager to inquire the
needful information; and every lady there was loud in praise of the
heroism of Mr. Huyton in saving Hilary at the risk of his own life.
It was remarkable how much was said of him, how enthusiastic were the
encomiums bestowed on his courage and presence of mind, while the
equal devotion of his companion was passed over in silence. Every one
could tell that Mr. Huyton, without a moment’s hesitation, had sprung
from the bank to rescue the sufferers; none but himself and one other
seemed aware that he was second in the attempt, and that it was the
prompt decision of another mind which had influenced his conduct.
Charles was brave, perhaps, but the total disregard of danger, the
self-devotion which could calmly risk death itself in the cause of
humanity, the quiet trust in a higher power which true Christianity
alone can give, these were not his. Neither had he the quick eye to
see the best means of help, the rapid decision to carry it out, nor
the unselfish prudence which could resign the efforts love would have
prompted, rather than fail of doing all that was required; to these he
had no claim. No human eye could see that jealousy and rivalry had
prompted what others call heroism and self-devotion; that but for the
example of another, he would have shrunk from the attempt; or that had
not his companion been more generous than himself, they might have
clashed in their efforts to rescue Hilary, while Nest might have been
lost by delay.
When Mr. Huyton returned to his guests, having changed his own
clothes, and taken care that Captain Hepburn was properly
accommodated, he was received as a hero. Every one crowded round him
to congratulate and admire; one enthusiastic lady (she had two
grown-up daughters) insisted on his being crowned with laurel; and the
professional singer, Madame G――――, came forward, and volunteered a
grand _bravura_ in his honor. In short, such was the crowd about him,
that Maurice could hardly pierce through to shake his hands in both of
his, and thank him, with grateful emotion, for the safety of his
sister. Charles bore it very well, he put aside the plaudits, escaped
from the ovation, gracefully denied all merit, and seizing Maurice by
the arm eagerly drew him aside to pour out his rapturous delight at
having been of use to Hilary. No one was near, for he had retreated
quite away from his guests; and they had the consideration not to
intrude on the gratitude and thanks of the brother, whatever they
might have wished to do. In this moment of feeling and excitement,
Maurice learned, with surprise, what Hilary had hitherto carefully
concealed even from him――the ardent, constant, unchanging devotion of
his friend for his sister. Charles gave vent to his feelings, told of
his love, his disappointment, his hopes, his fears; Hilary was dearer
to him than ever, dearer far than life (he really thought so, now
there was no danger); had he any chance, could Maurice give him any
encouragement; at least, would he give him his good wishes?
Surprise was the brother’s principal feeling; not surprise that Hilary
was loved, but that he had never discovered what was passing close to
him. As to his sister’s feelings, could he have guessed them, he would
not have betrayed his guesses, nor breathed a word which could make
her blush. He was saved from further solicitation by a summons to
Charles, who was wanted by his cousin immediately.
Maurice at that moment was in no humor for making love himself――his
thoughts were absorbed by his sisters’ peril, and their escape; the
crowd was irksome to him; his feelings wanted a higher and better
outlet than the idle gossip and careless chatter around; he could not
hear the subject lightly discussed, with even outward calmness; and
now, reassured by a recent report from Dr. Pilgrim, that both patients
were doing as well as possible, he quietly stole away into the
shrubbery, and then retraced, with thoughtful step and swelling heart,
the path along which he had borne his sister’s inanimate form.
He reached the spot where the accident had occurred, he saw the marks
on the bank, he gazed at the dark, still, sullen-looking water, whose
black depth had so nearly been the grave of those two loved ones; and
lifting his hat from his head, he raised his whole heart in grateful
praise, that she, the light, the support, the comfort of their home,
and that little one, whose merry voice always spoke of mirth and love,
had been spared to bless them still.
He was roused by a footstep; his hands were grasped by Captain
Hepburn; and warm, earnest, deeply heart-felt congratulations were
poured out to him on his sister’s safety.
“My dear fellow! I can not speak my joy――they say she is doing well!
have you seen her yet?” continued he, eagerly.
Maurice answered he had not.
“They insist on perfect quiet at present, and then, Dr. Pilgrim says,
all will be well; but, Hepburn, how can I thank _you_ enough for this
additional benefit――dearer, more precious far than my own life? I wish
I could speak――”
Maurice could not quite control his voice, and was obliged to break
off abruptly.
“I did not save Hilary,” replied he; “thank Mr. Huyton for that!”
“You did what I am certain Hilary will thank you for more than for her
own life――you saved Nest; and I think she will feel as I do; although
she may not have so entire an appreciation of your motives as I have.”
“My motives were simple enough,” said Captain Hepburn, after a little
pause; “I felt I might trust her to the exertions of Mr. Huyton, at
least, till I had placed the child in safety; and Nest’s struggles
made it difficult to do any thing for either while Hilary retained her
grasp on her clothes.”
“I knew it! I was convinced that it was your doing――your judgment,
decision, prudence, and promptness by which either was rescued! Others
may give Huyton the credit――they are making a hero of him out
there――but _I_ know, and Hilary, too, shall know, to whom we are truly
indebted. What can I say! how poor words are! what can I do to show
our gratitude?”
“Nothing――nothing more, my dear fellow! it was nothing to speak of,
although the result was so important. If Hilary will only believe that
I acted as I thought _she_ would wish――that for her dear sake I did
what I did――would have done any thing possible――would have dared a
thousand times more, had it been necessary――then I shall be amply
repaid!”
Maurice looked at him earnestly and inquiringly. Captain Hepburn went
on after a moment.
“I should have acted as I did, Maurice, even though I had known that
in resigning the charge of her to Mr. Huyton I was resigning all claim
on her forever. Her safety was more to me than my life, as her
happiness is more important than my own. May be, she may never know
this; be it so! if she is happy, I will try to be content.”
“I hardly understand you,” replied Maurice, “at least, I am not sure;
but if your wishes are what I suppose, I can only say that mine will
go with them; more, infinitely more cordially than with Charles
Huyton.”
“I did not mean to have said so much,” replied Captain Hepburn; “it
was a momentary excitement; we will not discuss it now. I want to know
about going back to the Vicarage. Hilary and Nest must remain here,
and will require something in the way of wardrobe, certainly; and you
must remember, the little one was to have returned about seven, and
one of her sisters with her. I think these were the first
arrangements. Your father will be expecting them, and the Paines will
wish to go home.”
“True; what is to be done? Hilary _must_ remain here, of course.”
“I could go home with your sister Gwyneth, if you like; perhaps you
would wish to remain as late as possible, to hear the last account;
and probably Miss Sybil had better, if she can, stay with her sisters
altogether. What do you think?”
“That you have the clearest head for arranging in the world.”
“Well, you may propose it, I can only suggest privately to you, and
have no wish to put myself forward. If they will send us home, I shall
be ready whenever Gwyneth likes, and the carriage can take back the
clothes.”
They turned to walk toward the house, Maurice anxious to find his
sisters, and settle with them what they would wish to have done.
It was soon arranged, and just as Captain Hepburn had suggested. The
invitation to the younger Miss Duncans to remain with their sisters,
had already been given, through the thoughtful kindness of Charles,
and although it was impossible both should accept it, it was
gratefully taken advantage of by Sybil, who shrank from the idea of
being the one to break the intelligence to Mr. Duncan, and gladly
persuaded herself that she could be more use at “the Ferns” to Hilary
herself, while Gwyneth would certainly be much the best able to act
for her father alone.
The carriage was ordered immediately, and Gwyneth stealing up stairs
to take one more look at the invalids, found Hilary had just been
positively ordered by Dr. Pilgrim to go to bed, where he hoped a
composing draught would procure necessary sleep, and avert the
symptoms of fever which he reluctantly admitted were becoming
stronger.
Gwyneth, however, was not informed of this alarm; she stayed to see
Hilary comfortably settled for the night, and as her heavy eyelids
closed almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, it was hoped by
all her nurses that a good night’s rest would cure every thing that
was wrong. Sybil wished to remain with her, but there was really
nothing to be done, and both patients appearing to be quietly asleep.
Victoria persuaded her to trust them to the watchfulness of Mrs.
Gainsborough, and return with her to the company for the present; and
her entreaties being enforced by a threat, that if she did not come
down, Miss Fielding would remain with her upstairs, Sybil was obliged,
though somewhat reluctantly, to yield the point.
As they were issuing from the house, they met Mr. Farrington strolling
about near the door; he joined them immediately, and after inquiring
earnestly for the sufferers up stairs, he turned to Sybil, and
expressed, in very gentlemanlike and pleasant words, his strong
admiration of her promptness in action and swiftness of foot.
Sybil, of course, like a great many other people when undergoing a
compliment, or accused of a virtue, took refuge in denying the facts,
declaring herself peculiarly slow in action, and undecided in thought,
and hardly even allowing that she could run faster than other people;
although, to say the truth, her forest-life, and habits independent of
governess and dancing-master, had given, or at least had not taken
away, a power and ease of motion not common to many young ladies.
Mr. Farrington did not persist in compliments which were evidently
received with as much shy reluctance as conscious pleasure; but
changing the conversation, first discussed with her the details of the
accident, listening with extreme interest to Sybil’s enthusiastic
gratitude to Captain Hepburn and Mr. Huyton, and then led her on, how
she hardly knew, to give a long detail of their usual mode of life;
their quiet habits, their father’s state of health; followed by
glowing descriptions of the lovely forest scenery, through which they
were wont to roam, the quaint manners of the woodmen, the vagrant ways
of the gipsies, and a hundred other particulars, which Sybil detailed
with a poetic feeling for the romance of their situation peculiarly
attractive to him.
Her ardent affection and admiration for her half-sister, convinced Mr.
Farrington that Sybil herself must be equally amiable, and perhaps
equally clever to appreciate her so entirely; and altogether he was so
much interested in his companion, as to feel disinclined to quit her
again during the rest of the evening.
Sybil was too tired, from excitement and exertion, to be disposed to
do any thing but sit still beside Mrs. Fielding, except at the
intervals when she stole up stairs to learn how Hilary slept; and her
spirits being naturally depressed by what had already passed, and
anxiety for the future, she was just in that state of mind which made
her communicative of her hopes and fears, inclined to take
retrospective views of bygone happiness, and thankful to hear cheerful
anticipations for the morrow.
As to Maurice, after he had made the arrangements before recorded,
feeling easier for his sisters at “the Ferns,” and depending entirely
on his friend’s direction to give as little pain as possible to his
father in making known the accident, he suddenly returned to thoughts
of his own affairs, that is to say, to recollections of Dora, whom he
had left with her sister, and wonder what they had done, as well as
what they would think of his conduct.
Isabel he saw was with her aunt, Lady Margaret, and her party, which
was tolerably numerous, but Dora herself was invisible. He went up to
Miss Barham, and apologized for his conduct, in quitting them so
abruptly in the boat; an apology which she declared totally
unnecessary, as of course Hilary must be his first object; but in
answer to his inquiries after her sister, she could only tell him,
that Dora had gone in doors to rest, as she said she had a head-ache,
and the band made it worse. As soon as he could, Maurice went to the
house to look for her, but was unsuccessful in his search through all
the public rooms. Vexed and disappointed, he strolled out again, but
on the opposite side to that on which the pavilion stood, and wandered
away by himself, into a small thicket of laurel and other evergreens,
overhung by some remarkably fine old hawthorns, whose long sprays,
wreathed with snowy blossoms, shed around their rich and enervating
perfume.
A sudden turn in the walk brought him to a small alcove, and there,
reclining on a bank of turf, her face concealed partly by her arm and
partly by her handkerchief, was Dora Barham, sobbing as if her heart
was broken, and so engrossed by the cause of her agitation, as to be
quite unconscious of his approach.
He hesitated a moment, for he could not leave her in such grief, and
yet he did not dare to intrude upon it; he stopped, looked at her,
waited, and was then resolved to go back, when accidentally treading
on a broken stick in the path, the sharp crack it gave under his foot,
startled Dora, and made her instantly raise her head.
“Mr. Duncan!” exclaimed she, trying to brush away her tears in a great
hurry, as she saw him, but not looking at all sorry at the
interruption.
“I hope I do not disturb you,” said he, apologetically. “I had no idea
of finding you here.”
“Not in the least,” looking at the bank beside her (she was now
sitting upright), as if she longed to ask him to sit down. “How is
Hilary?”
“Doing quite well, they tell me; she is going to bed; I hope she will
sleep well, and be all right to-morrow.” He ventured to sit down as he
spoke.
“Oh, I am so glad! dear Hilary――it was horrid, dreadful――I can not get
the idea out of my head; oh, Mr. Duncan! if they had not been there to
save her!” Dora shuddered again, and again tears filled her eyes and
rolled down her cheeks.
“Do not agitate yourself so,” exclaimed her companion, “do not think
of it; can I do nothing for you; get you nothing?”
“No, thank you! I shall be better presently.” She sobbed a little, and
then was quiet.
“And your head-ache? Miss Barham told me it was bad.”
“I believe it was my heart, more than my head, Mr. Duncan,” replied
Dora, with a smile. “I can not bear things as Isabel does, and I was
so frightened; and people seemed so thoughtless and indifferent, and
so ready to forget――so little thankful. Oh, dear! what a set I live
with; it made my heart full, and my head ache; so at last I crept away
here, to be happy and grateful my own way.”
He looked at her with a smile, half-admiring, half arch, but said――
“I had no idea I found you in a state of _happiness_.”
She crimsoned, laughed, and then said――
“It is, nevertheless, very pleasant to cry sometimes.”
“I have heard so before,” was his answer.
“And one can not do it in company, you know; it would look absurd, and
be considered bad manners, which is worse; and besides, people do not
ever understand one; I believe _you_ are rather shocked at me.”
“Do you? then I am afraid my looks are deceitful.”
“Don’t you think me foolish then?” coloring again, and looking down.
“Foolish for feeling for my sister’s danger! foolish for caring for
her safety! if affection, sympathy, friendship, sensibility, gratitude
to Heaven, sincerity, simple truth of feeling, if these are folly, or
if you suppose I consider them so, then accuse me of thinking you
foolish.”
She was silent, but was visibly gratified by his warmth of manner.
“What have I ever done or said, Miss Barham, which can justify your
suspecting me of such hard-hearted, cynical want of feeling? Tears,
which do honor to my sister’s worth; tears, which prove your
disinterested regard for the dearest objects of my heart; tears, which
show how nearly we sympathize in some of _our_ feelings and
affections; if I do not honor and respect such――if I do not feel
intensely and most humbly grateful for them, I do not deserve to be
admitted into civilized society, far less into yours, Miss Barham.”
“Please don’t talk in that way; I did not mean to imply you were any
thing bad; how could I, when I know you love Hilary so?――but I am sure
you give me credit for a great deal more good than I deserve.”
“I do not think that possible.”
“Amiable people always do give the sunshine of their own virtues to
their companion’s character,” said Dora, somewhat thoughtfully.
Maurice kept his gratification to himself, and wisely changing the
subject to one less personal, began relating to Dora all the
arrangements which had been made by Charles Huyton and Victoria for
the accommodation of his sisters.
This was followed by a warm eulogium from Dora of the virtues and
amiability of Mr. Huyton, in which, as on most other subjects, there
was a wonderful similarity in their opinions; and after lingering
together in that pleasant retreat a longer time than it was at all
prudent for a poor lieutenant to spend in the bewitching society of
the co-heiress of the Abbey, they at length remembered that they might
as well return to the world, unsympathizing and hard-hearted as Dora
had just discovered it to be.
On the whole, in spite of her tears and agitation, Dora felt, as she
considered the circumstances of the afternoon, that the party had
produced quite as much pleasure as she had anticipated; by no means a
common occurrence. This was her conclusion, as she stationed herself
by Sybil’s side, on the quiet sofa where she and Mr. Farrington were
composedly conversing; and as Maurice had nothing to do more perfectly
natural and justifiable than to seat himself close to his sister, and
remain there to take care of her, Dora seemed likely to have a good
deal more enjoyment.
The shades of evening came down; and though dancing in the house had
been given up, as the fireworks had not, in due time the company
betook themselves once more to the park, where, under the shelter of
the trees, they could conveniently view the display of cascades,
bouquets, stars, serpents, and initial devices, with which the
pyrotechnist was to delight them; the whole effect being doubled by
the reflection in the waters.
“I really can not go out again,” said Mrs. Fielding to Sybil;
“perhaps, if you wish it, your brother will go with you to see these
fireworks.”
Sybil hesitated; she would rather have gone to Hilary.
“Do come,” said Dora, coaxingly, and foolishly anxious to enjoy the
walk with Maurice. “I want so to see them, Sybil dear, do come.”
Sybil consented; Mr. Farrington gave her his arm; Mrs. Fielding
insisted on her wrapping an additional shawl over her shoulders, to
guard her from the night air. Dora said she would like one also, and
sent Maurice to find a cashmere she had left in the cloak room. At
that moment, Lady Margaret called Dora, who explained that she was
waiting for her shawl, and would follow with Sybil and Mr. Farrington;
she begged the others not to wait; and Lady Margaret, satisfied that
Mr. Farrington, who belonged to their party, should be Dora’s escort,
went on; but as Maurice was some minutes finding the proper article,
her aunt was quite out of sight before Dora, with Sybil, went after
them.
Dora was only too happy; the fireworks were nothing to her; but the
gentle grace with which she was guarded, and the quiet strength of the
arm on which she leaned, were pretty nearly all she cared for in the
world at the moment; she would not think of results, or calculate
consequences; all she wished was to prolong the pleasant intercourse,
dangerous as it might be to future peace.
Something was said about his profession, and Maurice expressed his
hopes of very soon being employed afloat. Dora started, and inquired,
in a faltering voice, if he wanted to go?
“Of course I do, in one sense,” was his answer; and even as he spoke
he could feel the nervous, tremulous movement of the little hand which
rested on his arm. “My first wish is to distinguish myself――to obtain
promotion――to rise. One can not do that without serving.”
“I suppose honor and glory _ought_ to be a sailor’s first wish?” said
Dora, in a slightly disconcerted tone, as if she did not like the
thought.
“The honor leads to promotion; and on promotion all one’s hopes of
domestic happiness, the power of settling in life, making a home of
one’s own, and living in it, depend. One must work, deny oneself now,
to rest and enjoy hereafter,” was his answer.
“Then you will not always be going to sea?” continued she.
“I don’t know. Perhaps not.”
“Or wishing it? I suppose, then, you would be really glad to get an
appointment now――to-morrow――any day?”
“Not quite to-morrow, unless Hilary is well first; and come when it
will, it is a desperate struggle, Miss Barham, to leave all that is
dearest and sweetest on earth for the chances of being tossed about,
living among wild and careless companions, exposed to all manner of
little trials and vexations, and no woman near to soothe one; no sweet
sister to smile one into patience; no sister’s sweeter friend to
bewitch one into forgetfulness. Don’t think we are all stones or
blocks, because we do our best to put on the look of unconcern, Miss
Barham. It often hides a very heavy heart.”
“And how soon can you be promoted?” inquired Dora, after a little
pause, not feeling herself exactly equal to pursuing the conversation
on the same topic.
He told how long he must serve before he had the claim; how much
longer, probably, before he could have the chance to be promoted.
Then, as she continued silent, he went on, emboldened by the darkness
and the solitude, for they were a little apart from the others, and no
one could see any thing distinctly.
“I am not sure whether I ought to say it, but I have so longed to
express――do not be angry with me for mentioning the subject――to
express my gratitude to you for the trouble you took for my benefit. I
have never dared speak of it before. Perhaps I may not have another
opportunity.”
“I was very glad to do it,” said Dora, hurriedly; “but _you_ owe me no
thanks, it was for Hilary I asked; you know I had never seen you
then!”
“I am perfectly aware of that; I never flattered myself it was
personal regard for me; the kindness, I know, was to Hilary; but the
benefit was to myself. Whatever I felt at the time, I can only say
now, the rank is dearer to me, when I remember from whose hand I
received it; and my earnest wish not to disgrace my name, my
profession, and my country, is changed into a longing, ardent desire,
to show that I am sensible of the honor done me, and will do any
thing, lay down my life, were it necessary, to try and deserve it.”
“Heaven forbid!” murmured Dora; “don’t say such dreadful words; you
make me feel as if I should be a murderess. Please don’t be too
anxious to distinguish yourself.”
“I hope you will never have to blush for your kindness, Miss Barham.
There is little danger in these times of peace of any thing leading me
to too great distinction.”
“And I――oh, Mr. Duncan! if your promotion should lead to any
misfortune, I should never forgive myself for having interfered; I
could never look at Hilary again.” Dora spoke with great emotion.
“Nay, do not distress yourself, dear Miss Barham; events and their
results are not in our own hands, and we are not responsible for them.
We have but to do and dare; you in small things at home, perhaps; I in
more distant, but may be, not more trying scenes abroad; to go forward
bravely, trusting heartily in Providence, do our duty firmly, and
leave the rest to heaven, that is our best as well as our wisest
course; and if the end should be stormy, let us still trust and be
strong.”
“I never was strong; I never can be brave. I am afraid of storms, and
whenever some people tell me one thing is right, and others declare
the contrary, as so often happens to me, then I become so puzzled,
that I can do nothing at all. You do not know the misery of
indecision.”
“No; but we all have the compass and chart to guide us, and mostly
find a pilot, if the passage is very shoal, and the rocks are
intricate, and the navigation too puzzling for us; and there are
light-houses, and buoys too, to direct us right. Do you understand
me?”
“I think I do; but although I hear of rules, and discipline, and
self-control, when I go to church, and have been taught to reverence
the Holy Word, and believe in the existence of conscience,
theoretically, practically it is all nothing to me. I do not
understand it. I dare say I ought not to say this to you. It seems
strange to confess all this; only you led to the subject, and I can
see that what is all a mist and unsubstantial phantasmagoria to me, is
a light and comfort, and real guiding force, and existing present
support, to such as you and Hilary.”
“And to you also, if you choose, Miss Barham.”
“Oh, no! never to me; I am too weak to lay hold of them, too foolish
to understand them. Life in itself frightens me. It has claims to
which I ought to attend; but if I try, a whole host of ceremonies,
fashions, customs, prejudices, follies, rise up between me and my
duties; I stretch out my hand, and can not reach it, and spend my time
in sighing and idle wishes.”
“And I am not theologian or philosopher enough to know what advice to
give you. I think, however, I understand your feeling. I wish I could
help you.”
“I was brought up,” continued Dora, “to value nothing but what
contributed to outward show; to consider only appearances; to act only
for effect; I feel the whole root and source of my actions is false; I
despise myself, but I do not know how to mend it. I have waked up to a
sense that there ought to be reality in life, but know not how to find
or make it.”
“Take one duty at a time, and conquer that; give yourself one good
rule, and act upon it; do not look at every thing at once, or you are
bewildered by what is before you. One takes the problems of Euclid,
one by one, and learns them all; without a gradual advance, or
beginning at the simplest, how could we get on?”
“If I only had some one to guide and teach me always; some one like
Hilary, who could keep me right,” sighed Dora. Sybil just then joined
them, and their conversation was ended for the time; but Dora, when
Maurice wished her good-night at parting, whispered: “I shall try to
remember;” and his answer was an enthusiastic “_I_ shall never
forget.”