――――――――――――“Let their hands
Tremble, and their cheeks be flame
As they feel the fatal bands
Of love they dare not name,
With a wild delicious pain,
Twine about their hearts.”
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.
Gwyneth and Captain Hepburn drove home through the beautiful twilight
together.
“I do not think we need alarm your father very much,” said he, after a
considerable silence: “there is every hope that she will be better
to-morrow.”
“Oh, yes! I have no doubt of that,” said Gwyneth; “I am not afraid
about my father, he is too reasonable to entertain foolish fears; and
now that all risk and danger are over, there can be no real ground for
alarm.”
“We must be careful in telling it,” continued he; “you will be able to
break the news to him, perhaps; a woman’s tact is best: you will
undertake it.”
“I have no doubt but that I can do it――I am not at all afraid. There
is every probability that Hilary will be home to-morrow,” repeated
she.
Gwyneth’s sanguine anticipations rather surprised Captain Hepburn; he
had seen Dr. Pilgrim himself, just before quitting “the Ferns,” and
had learned that the danger of fever was very far from passed away:
the doctor had spoken openly to him, considering him a friend of the
family, who had a right to know, and had told him that the result must
be a matter of great anxiety, while the symptoms were so alarming. As,
however, there was room to hope that to-morrow might bring a better
report, and relieve all apprehension, he considered that there was no
reason for exciting unnecessary fears; and also that if Gwyneth did
not know how much there was still to dread, she would be quite secure
from giving alarms which might eventually prove unfounded.
She really managed it very well; and though Mr. Duncan heard the
intelligence with emotion, he bore it with the firmness and
resignation of a Christian. It was quite evident, however, to the keen
perception of his guest, that he did not share in the hopeful
anticipations of his daughter. He did not check her, it was true, but
allowed her to reckon with confidence on the safe return of the other
three to the Vicarage the next day; but when she was out of the room,
forgetful of Captain Hepburn’s presence, who had been sitting some
time in silence, the blind old man clasped his hands together, and
breathed out in deep, heartfelt tones of patient resignation, his
fears, and his aspirations for submission, if the stroke he dreaded
should be really impending.
Captain Hepburn was deeply affected. The thoughts of what Hilary was
in that home, of her importance to her sisters, her indispensability
to her father; of what it would be for them to lose the music of her
voice, the sunshine of her smile; for that parent no more to feel the
touch of those gentle hands, tending his infirmities with such
indefatigable zeal; or to hear the light echo of her busy feet, as she
passed by in her accustomed household duties: for all, to miss her in
her usual seat, in her daily walks, from her place at church; these
thoughts were so replete with sadness, so full of heart-sinking
desolation, that his whole soul was moved at the idea.
He crossed the room, and laying his hand gently on that of his host,
said in a voice which, in spite of his utmost efforts, was unsteady
with deep feeling――
“Dear sir, if your fears should be realized, may your prayers be
granted too! but, from my soul, I trust they may prove groundless, and
that Heaven may long, long bless you with such a treasure as your
daughter must be to you.”
“Thank you, Captain Hepburn; I believe you are a true friend to me and
mine, and I owe you much, much more than I can speak. If you could
save Hilary for us, I believe you would, although you do not know half
her worth. But when one has an angel-visitant on earth, one feels her
stay must be precarious, and may be short.”
“Perhaps so; but surely Heaven will hear your prayers, and she will be
restored.”
“Captain Hepburn, when you have twice mourned, as I have done, over
the heart’s dearest treasure, you will learn perhaps, better I hope
than I have learned the lesson, not to make a mortal’s life your idol;
and to know that the Love which is above all other love, sees not as
we see, judges not as we judge, but works always for our best and
surest interests, even when it thwarts our weak and passionate desires
here. We never know what is unfortunate or what is good for us, except
the one thing, submissive trust. I have no other wish, but that, come
what may, I may be patient and resigned.”
Captain Hepburn was silent. What was his short-lived affection, true
and warm as it was, compared with the fond love of a father for his
eldest daughter? His heart smote him for his selfish wishes, as he
thought that he had even for a moment contemplated taking her away
himself; that he had hoped to tempt her to another home.
“No, never,” said he to himself, “never will I rob their household of
its dearest treasure; never shall this fond and trusting father charge
me with stealing away the daughter in whom he delights. Every selfish
desire of my own shall yield to his happiness, and unless I can really
fill the place of a son to him, I will not deprive him of the child on
whom his comfort depends. If my love can add to their happiness, it
will be well for me; if not, it must be crushed and extinguished in
the performance of higher duties.”
As it would probably be late before Maurice returned from “the Ferns,”
they persuaded the vicar not to sit up, promising that he should
immediately hear the report which his son would bring; and more for
Gwyneth’s sake than his own, he yielded to their wishes; so the
visitor remained alone to wait his friend’s arrival, and wile away the
long minutes as best he could. He had plenty of time for reflection
and consideration then; time to recall all that Victoria had told him,
to weigh her words, and guess what her motives were: time to remember
Hilary’s smile and blush, as she talked of the violets with him; time
to take from his bosom that little bunch of flowers with its soiled
and dabbed white bands, and to smooth and dry the valued memorial of
her peril and his exertions, which he had picked from the grass where
it had dropped as Maurice raised her in his arms; time, too, to put up
ardent prayers for her safety and petitions for her happiness; and to
endeavor to judge how far that happiness was likely to be affected by
his continuing there, persevering in an attempt to win her heart, and
obtain a promise of her love and faith.
The report which Maurice brought, did not materially differ from the
opinion Dr. Pilgrim had given to Captain Hepburn; she was sleeping,
but not quietly; there was still a threatening of fever, which might
subside in the night, or might increase toward morning. Mr. Huyton had
persuaded the doctor to remain all night at “the Ferns,” and Maurice
intended to ride over before breakfast the next morning, to ascertain,
as early as possible, how she had passed the night. Not that the
brother was much alarmed; his sanguine temper and cheerful disposition
made him take a happier view of probabilities than the father or the
lover could do, and he anticipated with tolerable steadiness a much
better report in the morning; or even should there be a little fever
for a day or two, it need be nothing to alarm them; she was always
well, and he did not think her delicate; surely there could be little
serious fear, although there was room perhaps for some anxiety.
So thought and argued Maurice, and apparently Captain Hepburn agreed
with him; he was, however, found anxiously pacing up and down the
green, the next morning, when Maurice returned from his early ride;
and the eagerness with which he asked for intelligence, rather by look
than word, did not indicate calm indifference, or careless certainty.
Not so well――feverish and restless; still Dr. Pilgrim hopes the best,
and thinks it will soon pass off; however, she must see no one but her
nurses, and is to be kept quiet. Nest was sleeping soundly, and to
guess from appearances, would wake quite well.
Such was the report. Charles had promised to come over rather late in
the forenoon, to bring word how she was going on, as the doctor had
recommended some new mode of treatment, from which he expected much
benefit.
Just as they were sitting down to breakfast, the letters arrived.
Among those for Captain Hepburn, there was one large, business-like,
official-looking letter, with “On her Majesty’s Service,” in the
corner, which was not to be seen and opened without some excitement.
It was too truly a summons away from Hurstdene; a notification that
his presence was greatly desired at the Admiralty, to receive his
appointment to the command of a vessel fitting out at Sheerness. There
was time neither for delay nor hesitation――go he must that very day;
though to leave Hilary without seeing her again, ill, in his rival’s
house, and utterly ignorant of his hopes, his love, his sincere love
for her, was a trial which required no small amount of self-command
and resolution to bear calmly.
Long he sat, with his eyes bent upon the letter, with lips compressed
and brows slightly knit, and cheeks glowing even through that bronzed
complexion, before he could force from his tongue the words which must
announce his departure, or trust his voice to speak without betraying
more than he desired. How he craved a little delay; could he but have
waited a week, oh, how precious the days would have been! Or had the
appointment come before he had known and loved, how welcome, would
then have been the announcement.
But it must be done――the words must be spoken; was he turning craven
then, to shrink from the duties he had undertaken, from the sacrifice
required of him! Would Hilary esteem one who valued inglorious sloth
and pleasure, beyond exertion and honor, and self-denial and courage!
He tossed the letter across to Maurice.
“There,” said he, with a smile, “see there; read it aloud, Maurice,
and let your father hear!”
Maurice did so.
“Oh, Captain Hepburn,” exclaimed Gwyneth, starting up, and looking
over her brother’s shoulder, as he read; “it is an appointment! it
will take you away! how sorry, how very sorry I am!”
“Thank you, Miss Gwyneth; your sorrow is more than I deserve; _your_
congratulations will be different, Duncan, I expect; shall I apply for
you?”
“Do, sir, I shall be delighted,” exclaimed Maurice, professional zeal
and enthusiasm for the moment overpowering, with their warm glow, the
cooler calculations of love, or home affections. “I should be happy
indeed to serve with you again.”
“And _I_ must go to-day,” observed Captain Hepburn, struggling with
his own feelings in the wish to appear cheerful.
“To-day!” again exclaimed Gwyneth, “and Hilary away, and not able to
say good-by, nor Sybil either; oh, do stay at least till to-morrow,
and see Sybil again!”
“You are inconsiderate, my dear Gwyneth,” said her father; “you ought
to know that duty admits of no delay, and that his profession has
claims on Captain Hepburn beyond and above all private ties or
inclinations.”
“True, my dear sir, it leaves me no choice, no room for hesitation,
which, perhaps, is a blessing. Could I consult my feelings, Miss
Gwyneth, thus abruptly, and under such circumstances, to quit your
father’s roof, would be the last thing I should wish; nothing would be
more precious to me than delay might I indulge in it. Maurice, will
you help me to make arrangements as to the means of going?”
In a couple of hours more every thing was ready for starting, and
Captain Hepburn had nothing to do but to say farewell to his host and
Gwyneth.
“If it is in your power,” said Mr. Duncan, as he grasped the sailor’s
hand, “we shall be happy to see you here again before leaving England;
do let us hear from you, at least.”
“If possible, I will run down and see you again,” said the other,
warmly; “it will not be want of will that can stop me, my dear sir; I
shall be very, very busy, I know; but my memory and my heart will be
here with you; and my first wish will be that you may have improving
tidings of your daughter to communicate. Maurice has promised to
write.”
“You shall hear regularly, if you are so kind as to wish it,” replied
the clergyman; “but, Captain Hepburn, take your heart to your work, or
I fear it will be but ill performed, and we shall have spoiled a good
officer.”
“My professional heart, sir, may go with me, but when memory wishes to
conjure up an image of domestic happiness, purity, piety, affection,
truth, and all lovely virtues, it will certainly go back mechanically
to the Vicar of Hurstdene and his charming daughters.”
“God bless you,” replied the other, shaking his hand again and again;
“you have been a blessing to me and mine; I owe you, under Providence,
the lives of one, two, perhaps three of my children; and if a father’s
warmest prayers and most heartfelt benediction can call down aught of
blessing or well-being for you, then may you be sure of happiness,
lasting, satisfying happiness, wherever you may go. Farewell!”
To such words, at such a moment, the only answer was the low, earnest
“Thank you!” of subdued feeling, and the close-pressed hand lingering
long in a friendly grasp.
Both Gwyneth’s hands, taken and clasped in silence for a moment, and
then a softly-whispered “Farewell!” which the quivering lip could
hardly utter, was all he had firmness for, as he turned away.
“Have you no message for the absent ones?” inquired she,
half-reproachfully, as she accompanied him to the porch.
“I pass ‘the Ferns’ on my road. I shall call there to hear the latest
news, and at least, see your sisters, Sybil and Nest,” was his
justification, which amply satisfied Gwyneth.
He reached “the Ferns” just as Charles Huyton was on the point of
stepping into his carriage to drive over to the Vicarage. He turned
back, however, and accompanied his guest into the house, who explained
his errand as they crossed the hall.
“I congratulate you on your appointment,” exclaimed Charles, with much
sincerity; “I am truly rejoiced to hear it. I have learned enough of a
sailor’s feelings, during my acquaintance with Maurice, to know how,
beyond all other things, they value professional employment, and covet
professional distinction. I will call my cousin to you, and, perhaps,
as you are going, you will like to say good-by to Miss Sybil Duncan,
and little Nest.”
“It was the particular object of my stopping here. If you will let
Miss Sybil know I am here I dare say she will see me; but do not
disturb Miss Fielding on my account if she is engaged.”
Mr. Huyton sent a message to Sybil to inform her who waited for her in
the saloon. In a moment she came running down.
“How good of you to call, Captain Hepburn! I saw Maurice this morning;
did he tell you?” Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke.
“Could you come out with me for five minutes on the lawn?” said he,
determined to speak to her without Mr. Huyton’s presence; and almost
without waiting for her acquiescence, he drew the hand which he had
been holding under his arm, and led her through the open window.
“Tell me truly, how is your sister now?” was his first question.
“Restless and feverish, but not worse――rather better if any thing; but
to be kept quite quiet.”
“Thank Heaven! I am come to say good-by to you,” he added, in a
changed voice.
She started, and exclaimed――
“Why, _must_ you just now?”
He explained; and Sybil knew enough of the service to be aware that
there was no choice in such a case. She listened quietly, but her eyes
filled with tears as he spoke.
“You must go then,” said she, sorrowfully; “how we shall miss you. I
suppose I ought to be glad that you are employed, but I am so selfish
as to feel very, very sorry to part. We owe you so much; and when you
are gone, how can we show our gratitude to you, or make you feel how
we thank you every day? What can we do for you?”
“Remember me, dear Sybil; and help others, your sister above all, to
remember me too. Do not let absence or time make you forget me,” said
he, formality giving way before warmly excited feeling.
“Forget you! oh, Captain Hepburn, never! we none of us _can_ do that.
Hilary, when she knows what has happened to you, will grieve that she
has not thanked you with her own lips; but will she ever _forget_ the
preserver of Nest? One of the few things she has said has been to
express her gratitude, and to charge me, when I saw you, to say how
infinitely she felt your courage, and how much more she thanked you
for that action than she would have done for her own life alone. I
hoped in a few days you would have heard it from herself; but since
that can not be, you must try to be satisfied with her gratitude
second-hand. What shall I say to her from you, in answer, when I can
talk to her again.”
“Tell her that nothing dearer than duty would have taken me away from
Hurstdene at the present moment; and that so soon as duty permits, I
pledge myself to be here again. Meantime, I shall write to Maurice.”
His tone gave additional force to his words.
“Write often, do,” said Sybil, earnestly looking at him, with an
appreciation of his meaning dawning on her.
“As often as I can. I must not linger now.” He felt that he was
understood, but dared not say more.
They turned toward the house.
“Mr. Huyton wants my father and Gwyneth to come over here to remain,”
said Sybil, as they retraced their steps; “he is going to fetch them,
if he can.”
“That is very kind; it will be more comfortable for you.”
They entered the saloon, and found Victoria there; Mr. Huyton was
looking slightly impatient.
Miss Fielding’s greetings and adieux were, like herself, lively,
gracious, and emphatic. The traveler did not linger a minute more, and
as soon as he was gone, Charles Huyton drove off to the Vicarage, for
the purpose Sybil had named. The latter went out again for a short
stroll. Hilary was sleeping, and her sister, fearful of disturbing
her, resolved not to return until summoned on her awakening.
Nest, though pretty well, had enjoyed so prolonged a slumber, that she
was not yet dressed; so Sybil resolved to refresh herself by a
solitary walk under the beautiful avenue in front of the house. The
sound of a horse approaching roused her from her reverie, and looking
up, she saw Mr. Farrington, who, immediately on perceiving her,
alighted, and giving his horse to the groom, joined her in her walk.
His object was to inquire for Miss Duncan; he had been deputed by the
party at the Abbey to come over early for news; and the sisters
themselves, or some of them, were intending to drive to “the Ferns”
later in the day to see Sybil, and hear the bulletin in person.
This was his account of himself; perhaps it would have been more
strictly accurate, had he said that he had volunteered the service,
which otherwise the groom would have performed alone; and that, though
feeling a natural interest in the welfare of a young lady in such
circumstances as Hilary, he yet thought and cared a great deal more
about her sister. His fancy had been strangely captivated by the tall,
handsome girl, whose appearance and manners had haunted his memory,
and formed the principal subject of his conversation with Doro Barham
all the morning.
Sybil turned when he joined her, and walked toward the house, from
which they were distant about a quarter of a mile; giving him, as they
went along, first, an answer to his inquiries after her sister; and
then a voluntary detail of her regret at parting with Captain Hepburn,
whom they all valued so highly.
Mr. Farrington listened with real interest to the account of the
family obligations to the gallant officer, and readily conceded that
they owed him great gratitude for an amount of benefit not often
bestowed by one person. He would have admired and applauded kindness
and courage under any circumstances; but when the narrative was
enforced by the bright flash of those dark eyes, and the peculiarly
sweet tones of the voice which recounted it, his enthusiastic
appreciation of Captain Hepburn’s merits was quite equal to what even
Sybil considered right and becoming.
Her energetic eloquence was interrupted by a slight incident: glancing
upward as she spoke, and quite forgetting all minor considerations,
she hit her foot against a projecting root, and was very nearly thrown
down on her face: she was not hurt, only a little confused at her
awkwardness, as she called it; but the gentleman persuaded her to take
his arm after that, and the abrupt pause which ensued was broken by
his starting another topic, namely, that he had to return to London
the next morning, having only come down to the Abbey for a couple of
days, for the sake of Mr. Huyton’s party.
This information by no means disturbed Sybil in the way in which
Captain Hepburn’s departure had affected her. She had found Mr.
Farrington a pleasant companion, but she had not expected even to see
him a second time, and there was neither any surprise or regret
visible, when he talked of going. It seemed to her simply natural. He
talked of regret, and said a good deal about his memory lingering amid
the green shades of “the Ferns,” and his wish to visit this country
again; to which Sybil listened quietly, and presently observed, “If he
liked it so much, what would prevent his coming?” He could not
construe her remark into any thing approaching to conscious
encouragement; she did not seem to have an idea that she had the least
to do with his coming or wishing to come: he found this natural
simplicity particularly captivating, and his admiration for her mind
increased as much as his conviction for her uncommon beauty did. He
thought her more lovely by day-light, in a simple morning dress, than
he had done the evening before, in her more elaborate toilette.
In spite of all his efforts to lengthen out the walk, by stopping to
admire glens in the park, or remarkably fine trees, or to conjecture
the date of the mansion, she yet proceeded so decidedly onward, with
so evident a resolution to reach the house, that he was compelled to
suppose her quite indifferent to any peculiar charm in his society, or
very strictly correct in her notions of propriety and etiquette. He
tried to flatter himself rather it was the latter, as she was
evidently very young, and young girls, he believed, are always either
rigidly prudent, or immensely careless about decorum; but he could not
quite convince himself that this was the fact; he was too diffident,
indeed, to be very certain on this point.
On she walked, at least, straight into the house, and never lingered
till they reached the saloon where Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were
sitting. Then she quietly said that she would go up and learn the very
latest tidings of Hilary, for Isabel and Dora’s benefit, seeming to
expect he would instantly start off to the Abbey with the report. The
interval was employed by him in learning from Victoria all the
particulars relative to the expected visit of Mr. Duncan, whom Charles
hoped to bring back with him; an announcement which excited so strong
a wish in Mr. Farrington to see the clergyman, that the ladies
proposed at once that he should stay and lunch at “the Ferns,” sending
the groom back to the Abbey with the report he had come to fetch.
No pressing was needed to elicit a very ready acceptance of this
proposition; and, to say the truth, Victoria was as glad of the
company of a pleasant and gentlemanlike young man, as he could be to
stay. The morning after a fête is generally flat and dull; and if a
gentleman desires to make his presence thoroughly appreciated, he
should contrive to drop in on such an occasion, among a family party
in the country.
On Sybil’s return, she seemed rather surprised to find that the
message was to be intrusted to the groom; and apparently doubtful
whether he could convey safely so important a verbal communication as
that Miss Duncan was asleep, but seemed much the same, she indited a
little note to Dora Barham; and by this means that young lady became
possessed of the interesting fact, that the whole family from the
Vicarage were expected at “the Ferns,” to remain there as long as
Hilary’s health required it.
Nest, who was now quite well, had entered the room with Sybil, and the
gentleman soon coaxed her on to his knee, and began conversing with
her about her home, her father, and her sisters: they were excellent
friends before Sybil’s note was finished.
“How wonderfully the sisters are alike,” said he to Victoria, as he
gazed admiringly at the little one’s large black eyes and raven hair;
“I should like a sketch of this child.”
“I believe I can show you some, although I can not give them to you,”
replied Victoria, going to a large portfolio which was standing near.
She opened the boards, and began to turn over the sketches it
contained. He put down Nest, and went to examine it with great
interest; there were many views in the forest, at the sight of which
Nest frequently exclaimed she knew that spot, or she had seen this in
Hilary’s sketch-book; and when Sybil joined them, she seemed to know
every view, and owned that they had all been together, when such or
such was done. At last they came to some groups of figures; the
sisters again and again, Hilary always principal; and then single
drawings, Sybil, Gwyneth, and Nest, evidently younger and more
childish, but still very like. There was no finished drawing of Hilary
alone; and Sybil owned that her sister never had sat to Mr. Huyton, as
they had, again and again; she did not know why, perhaps he had never
asked her: the views there were of her, were taken by stealth, or done
from memory, perhaps.
“It is hardly fair to show drawings which so plainly tell a tale,”
whispered Mr. Farrington to Victoria, when Sybil had turned away to
listen to Mrs. Fielding’s questions. “If these were mine, I would not
allow them to be carelessly examined and investigated.”
“Oh! I am breaking no confidence,” replied Victoria, in a laughing
whisper; “Charles makes no secret of his object; the whole plan and
intention of yesterday’s fête, was to distinguish one person above all
others; and though we did not propose to risk drowning her, yet, I
believe, he will by no means regret the accident, if all ends well. At
any rate, it has secured him some important advantages.”
Mr. Farrington looked excessively surprised at this communication, and
made a mental determination to keep his own counsel, so far as
Victoria was concerned, unless he wanted all the world to know his
affairs.
Sybil disappeared again just after this, much to Mr. Farrington’s
disappointment; the only amusement left for him was what Victoria
supplied; and although she was very entertaining and agreeable, as he
was wishing all the time for something else, her powers of pleasing
were lost upon him.
“Where have you been?” was Victoria’s question, when Sybil joined them
at the luncheon table; to which she replied, “she had gone out to
finish her walk, as Hilary was still sleeping soundly; and she wished
when her father arrived, to be quite fresh and ready to attend him.”
Very fresh, and very handsome, too, she looked, with the bright color
which exercise had brought into her cheeks, and the happy expression
which a conviction that her sister was now doing very well, produced;
and her perfect unconsciousness that Mr. Farrington’s visit was made
for her sake, or that his eyes were incessantly attracted to her in
admiration, greatly heightened her charms in his opinion. He tried to
detain her in conversation; but no sooner was the luncheon finished,
than she again withdrew, and remained invisible for the next hour.
It was not Mr. Farrington’s conversational powers which brought her
down at last, but the arrival of her own family, with Charles Huyton.
No sooner did she see the carriage at a little distance, than she ran
hastily down stairs, and was on the steps to receive her father when
it drew up, quite regardless of all the state formalities of porter,
butler, or footman, who had to stand off to make way for her.
Charles sprang out first, and his inquiries of “How is she now? How is
Hilary?” were hardly less earnest and eager than those of Gwyneth and
Maurice. But Sybil had scarcely words to answer them: it was to her
father she looked, of him she thought; and when, by the assistance of
his son and host, the clergyman had been safely placed upon the broad
steps, she threw herself into his arms, and in accents choking from
delight, she whispered that Hilary was better, Dr. Pilgrim had just
seen her, and said she was out of danger.
Mr. Farrington, who was standing near enough to see the meeting,
thought he had never witnessed a more touching sight, than the glad
thankfulness of the young people, and the deep, reverend gratitude of
the father, as he raised his hat from his head, and uttered audible
thanks for this joyful tidings. Mr. Huyton himself was in a state of
excitement most visible to a calm looker-on; he shook hands ardently
with Mr. Duncan, kissed the hands of Sybil and Gwyneth with most
un-English grace, and as to Nest, he caught her up in his arms and
almost smothered her with caresses, the overflowings of a full-hearted
happiness.
They became rational at last, and moved into the house. It was
necessary that Miss Duncan should still be kept quiet; but, under
promise of silence and discretion, Gwyneth was permitted to take her
sister’s place in watching the invalid, and Sybil was able to devote
herself to her father.
Mr. Farrington’s wish of being introduced to the clergyman was
gratified, and he found the next hour spent in conversing with him,
and looking at Sybil, so very pleasant, that he heard with great
regret the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Barham and his daughter.
This brought back Charles Huyton and Maurice into the saloon, they
having been pacing on the terrace, and discussing the wishes of the
latter to sail with Captain Hepburn, in which Mr. Huyton very
cordially joined.
Dora’s vail and bonnet hid her face from her father when she spoke to
Maurice, and after a few fluttered sentences, she turned to Sybil, and
asked if she might not go up stairs and see Gwyneth for a minute; so
the two girls left the room together, with a word of apology to
Victoria. Then Mr. Barham expressed a strong wish to see some
alterations Mr. Huyton was making in his hot-houses, and Isabel said
she should like to accompany them; Victoria politely offered to go
with her, and as Charles seemed to regret leaving Mr. Duncan, both
Maurice and Mr. Farrington volunteered to remain with him; while Mrs.
Fielding, just then entering the room, declared it was her peculiar
right to wait on and attend to him, when he was at “the Ferns.”
Had Mr. Barham and Isabel intended to do what was most pleasant, but
least profitable, to Dora and Maurice, they could hardly have arranged
better. Sybil and her friend returned to the saloon, to find the party
very much reduced; and as Mrs. Fielding was as good as her word, and
entirely engrossed Mr. Duncan, Mr. Farrington enticed Sybil to sit
down with him by the portfolio before alluded to, to tell him more
about the beautiful sketches it contained; and she, quite unaware how
little he had cared for them when only Victoria had turned them over,
very good-naturedly complied with his request, and discussed the times
and places where the sketches had been drawn, with such amusing
vivacity, and in such graphic language, that he did not discover how
time slipped by while so employed.
Why Dora and Maurice chose at the same time to go out of the window,
and continued for the next hour to walk slowly up and down a long
green alley beside the flower garden, or to stand in deep talk,
leaning over a pedestal, was best known to themselves. Mr. Barham was
so very well satisfied to see his eldest daughter attended through his
gardens by Mr. Huyton, and leaning on his arm, that he quite forgot to
think about how little Dora was employed; he could not on any account
hurry a stroll which afforded Isabel so good an opportunity of
displaying her interest in science, and her peculiarly sensible
opinions relative to the regulation of hot-houses, gardeners, village
schools, farmers’ prejudices, and the poor-law; on all which subjects
she spoke with much earnestness and grace. Mr. Huyton being much too
well-bred to show how excessively he was bored, or in the slightest
degree to hurry Miss Barham, although longing to return to the house,
the elder gentleman was quite persuaded that he was delighted with
their society, and fully appreciated the honor done to him by the
owner of Drewhurst Abbey, and his eldest daughter. He judged Charles
by himself; and conscious that no claims of civility would have made
_him_ submit to a _gêne_ of any kind, and that the use he made of
politeness and courtesy, was, not to please others at his own expense,
but to gratify himself on all occasions without actually giving,
offense, he conjectured that what was so gracefully borne, must be a
pleasure in itself; and lingered long on purpose ere he brought his
visit to a close.
And all this time Maurice and Dora were together, on a warm, sunshiny
May afternoon, straying in a beautiful garden, where early roses,
lilacs, and hawthorns, mingled their scent with the rich
rhododendrons, daphnes, and still rarer exotics with which the
flower-beds were glowing, and talking as young people will talk, when,
in the warm glow of true first-love, they forget the cold calculations
of worldly prudence, and ambitious hopes.
He told her how suddenly Captain Hepburn had been called away, and she
turned pale, and her voice faltered, as she suggested that the same
thing might occur to him; and when she heard that his friend had
promised to apply for him, and that his interest was such that there
was little doubt the application would be successful, she was quite
unable to conceal how much she was pained at the idea. In vain she
tried to say she wished him honor and success in his profession; she
was too sincere to deceive, and too thoughtless to remember any thing
but her own emotions. And what could be the result, but that Maurice
made a rash avowal of his passionate admiration and love, his
presumptuous affection, his hopeless attachment, and received in
return a still more rash acknowledgment, that her feelings were but
too much in agreement with his own, and that the certainty of his
devotion to her was the only thing which could console her for his
departure, if he must go.
It was a moment of wild intoxication; the delight of knowing each
other’s hearts, was dearly purchased, and yet it was a delight. Their
whole acquaintance had been a series of imprudencies, and this
conversation was but the crowning imprudence of all. For as to hope,
they really, hardly dared entertain an idea of it; Dora felt, and
Maurice feared, that there was small chance of her father’s consent to
an engagement, and without Mr. Barham’s consent, Maurice would not
even ask her to make him the smallest promise of constancy or faith.
He indeed, would have gone straight to Mr. Barham, owned his
affection, and asked to be allowed to win her hand by gallant deeds,
or constant devotion; but Dora dared do no such thing; she shrank from
cold looks, and harsh, stern words, and contempt and censure. She
could not encounter Isabel’s surprise, or her father’s frown; she
would have gladly plighted her hand to Maurice, and would have
trusted, with the coward’s trusts, to time or chance, to
circumstances, to accident, to any thing in fact, rather than to bold,
straightforward measures. It was his sense of honor, and his rectitude
of feeling alone, which saved her from the misery of a clandestine
engagement; she would have ventured that for him; she dared not be
open, but she thought she could be true. His, too, was all the regret,
the remorse, indeed, for what he had done. When the first violent
emotion had passed away, and he saw how he had won her heart, and yet
must not avow their mutual affection, he became aware how great an
injury he had done her; what a cloud he should have thrown upon her
young life, what a constant, fretting, wearing anxiety he had brought
upon her. Then, in his true and honorable love, he prayed her to
forget him; not to let the thought, the memory of him, darken her
days, or interfere with her future prospects. His love saw no shadow,
no fault in her; it was too warm to permit the thought that she was a
coward at heart, and shrank from the only right step; he called her
weakness, gentleness, docility, feminine tenderness; and while he
would have braved all and any thing for her, he almost trembled at the
idea of entailing on her a moment’s care or mental suffering.
“No, I do not deserve your love; do not make yourself unhappy for a
fellow like me, dearest, sweetest Dora! it is too good of you; I can
never, never forget _you_! but think of me only as of a brother, as of
one who would bring you nothing but good, not sorrow; think of me with
kindness always, but not with sorrowful regret; think of me as one who
loves you devotedly, passionately; I shall treasure your image in my
heart, and dote upon it in my fancy, and in the lonely nightwatch,
dwell on the recollection of your smile; and perhaps in moments of
danger, in storm, and peril, and difficulty, your dear, bright eyes
will shine on my memory, and nerve me for daring deeds; but do not
think of me. It is enough for me to know that had there been no
obstacle you would have loved me; that had my birth and fortune
entitled me to ask your hand, I might have won you; that your heart
should have been mine, had Heaven so willed it. But do not grieve that
we must part; nay, do not shed those tears; dearest Dora! I do not
deserve so very great an honor.”
As if such words would make her care less, or quiet the heart-broken
sobs with which she listened to his protestations!
“But you are not going yet?” she murmured.
“Heaven knows how soon; but, Dora, after this, even if I do not, we
must not meet again.”
“Oh! Maurice,” ejaculated she, in overwhelming distress.
“Not purposely, not alone; no, Dora, it has been madness, wickedness
almost, to love you and make you unhappy; but we will not add to that
unintentional error the real, downright crime of carrying on a secret
understanding, a clandestine intercourse. If I may not ask you of your
father now, at least he shall not, when I do, throw back on me the
imputation that I have meanly, basely encouraged you in defying his
wishes or thwarting his hopes. If that blessed time should ever come
when I may seek you openly――if――oh! Dora,――if you still love me in
some happier future, then let us, at least, have the power of saying
and feeling we were rash, imprudent, thoughtless, but we were not
deceitful.”
The little hand he held tremblingly pressed his fingers with a
convulsive clasp, and then she murmured again――
“Oh! Maurice, I will be true to you for life; I will never, no, never,
be the bride of another; you have my heart, and shall have my faith
for life.”
“No, no, Dora, you must not say so, I will not hold you bound; dear as
your words are, sweetest! you must take them back; no promise must be
given or accepted which truth and honor do not sanction. Time alters
all, every thing; and when I am gone, and you learn to see my
character as it deserves, unblinded by your own sweet fancies, and
that delightful kindness which has moved you to pity a poor sailor
like me, then you must still think of me as of one who would not, even
for his dearest hopes, allow you to fetter yourself with a bond you
might regret, with a promise which, being wrong, could bring no
happiness with it. Dora, your peace of mind is dearer than my own!”
“Good, kind, generous,” was all she could say.
“Give me that ribbon from your wrist,” added he.
She hurriedly undid the blue ribbon that she wore round her left arm,
put it for one moment to her lips, then tossed it to him, and turned
with hasty steps toward the house. He followed her quietly until he
saw her enter the saloon, and turning off by another path, he escaped,
to consider what had passed, and console himself with the blue ribbon
as he could.