“Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,
Was, indeed, the heaviest burthen thrown?
Thou a weeping exile in thy forest,
I a smiling queen upon my throne.”
ISEULT.
The amendment in Hilary’s health continued to advance so favorably
that the next day she was considered well enough to see her father
without risk from excitement, and then she began clearly to understand
the fact that her whole family were at “the Ferns.” She did not at
first make any audible comments on the circumstance, but toward
evening she took the opportunity of no one but Sybil being present, to
make her tell her who had proposed this arrangement, and what had been
said on the subject.
Sybil said it had been entirely Charles Huyton’s own idea; and nothing
could be kinder or more hospitable than he was, making it most
pleasant for them all, and avowing that, were it not for Hilary’s
illness, he should be the happiest man possible, with such a family
round him.
Miss Duncan lay silent for some minutes, then observed――
“Were it not that my illness makes it inevitable we should not be here
at all.”
“So Nest proved to him,” remarked Sybil; “and she added, somewhat
uncourteously, she would rather have you well, and be at home.”
“Nest must not be rude, but it is well she thinks so. I must get well
as fast as possible. I shall leave this room to-morrow, I hope,
Sybil.”
“How glad we shall be to have you down stairs,” said her sister.
“I shall not go down till I am well enough to go home,” replied
Hilary, decidedly; “I hope to get into the dressing-room to-morrow,
and on Monday, if Mr. Huyton will lend us his carriage, we can all go
back to the Vicarage.”
“I am sure I shall be glad if we can,” was Sybil’s answer. She partly
understood the motives of Hilary’s conduct.
“Where is Captain Hepburn?” added Hilary, after a pause, turning her
head on the pillow of the sofa where she was lying. “Is he gone?”
“He went away yesterday morning, and hopes to come back again soon. He
promised he would return as soon as he could.”
There was another pause; then Hilary asked――
“Did you see him yesterday?”
“He called here to say good-by, and hear the last account of you!”
“Why did he go, did he tell you?”
“Business, indispensable business,” said Sybil, fearful of distressing
her sister by announcing his appointment, and the expected
consequences to Maurice, who, Hilary well knew, had always reckoned on
going with him.
“Business!” repeated Hilary, looking anxiously at her sister, “that is
a vague term; however, I suppose I have no right to question about it.
Gone without my being able to thank him! I should have liked to do
that!”
“I gave him your message, dear Hilary; do you remember what you told
me to say?”
“Yes, and he――what did he say, Sybil?” said her sister, eager to hear
something, she hardly knew what. Sybil repeated Captain Hepburn’s
message verbatim, and with emphasis.
It was listened to with silence, but after a long pause she
repeated――“Duty.”
“The fact is,” added Sybil, seeing she was perplexing herself about
his departure, “he has been appointed to the command of the
_Pandanus_, a fine new screw steamer, one of the finest in the
service, he says; and he has gone down to Woolwich, where she is
fitting out.”
“Will he take Maurice?” exclaimed Hilary, eagerly. “Oh, I hope he
will!”
“They both expect it, but there has not been time yet; he only went
yesterday; now do lie still, dear, or you will bring on your fever
again, and we shall not go home on Monday.”
Hilary laid her head back on her pillows, and remained perfectly quiet
for the rest of the evening. She resolved not to think of Captain
Hepburn, or to bewilder herself in conjectures relative to any thing
uncertain or unpleasant; she resolutely quieted her mind, banishing
doubt and conjecture, which are worse and more irritating to the weak,
than certainty of evil, and dwelling only on soothing subjects.
Her self-discipline and mental government were successful, and were
rewarded by finding her strength as much improved the next day as she
could have expected. She was able to resume her usual dress, and sit
up in the adjoining room, where the balmy air of a sweet summer Sunday
morning seemed every minute to add to her strength. She kept her
resolution, however, of not going down stairs, or joining the family
party, in spite of Victoria’s urgent entreaties. It was quite true,
that her head would not as yet bear much noise, and she had no
intention of risking a relapse, by taking liberties too early.
She must, of course, have an interview with Charles eventually, and
thank him for his share in saving her life, but she rather shrank from
the thought; she hoped it was not ingratitude, she really did feel
thankful to him; and had there been no recollections of former
conversations and past professions to trouble her, she would have been
ready and anxious to express her gratitude. But now she feared to say
either too little or too much; she dreaded to raise hopes which she
had once trusted were extinguished, and she had a vague foreboding
that any sort of emotion would inevitably lead to painful and
perplexing discoveries.
As memory had resumed its power, a distinct impression of his words
and tone when he reached her in the water, impressed itself on her
mind with unaccountable accuracy and vividness; and though it was not
usually her way to shrink from duty, even if painful, or to put off
the evil day, with that weak procrastination which often trebles the
suffering by unnecessary and prolonged anticipation, she determined to
delay this interview to the very last, that escape to her own home
might immediately follow.
Her resolutions, however, were over-ruled, and her wishes set aside,
by the stronger will, and less scrupulous determinations of others.
Charles and Victoria were alike decided, that she should see him; and
Hilary found herself actually without a choice, although nominally
consulted on the occasion.
It was in the afternoon; the family had returned from church, and
Gwyneth, who had remained at home to read to Hilary, was persuaded by
her to go down stairs, and if Maurice was at leisure, to ask him to
come and sit with her. A knock at the door a few minutes afterward,
made her suppose he was there; but in answer to her invitation,
Victoria entered, inquired how she did, whether she was equal to
conversation: and on Hilary’s cheerfully assuring her that she was
going on nicely, Miss Fielding added, in a manner which left her
almost without choice――
“You will not mind, then, seeing Charles for a moment, who is dying of
impatience to kiss your hand.”
As she said this, she admitted Mr. Huyton into the room, and then
turned toward the toilette table, where she busied herself with her
back to Hilary, in searching among caskets and drawers for unknown
articles, with an evident determination not to see or hear any thing
else; which was extremely distressing to her friend, however pleasant
it might be to her cousin.
Surprised and flurried by an intrusion so unexpected and unwelcome,
Hilary’s pale cheeks flushed, and her hand trembled, as she endeavored
to rise from her easy chair to meet her host. Somehow she hardly
understood how, she was gently put back into it, and in another moment
she found Charles, placing one knee on the ground, was really and very
warmly kissing the hand she had held out, as he pressed it in both of
his. She endeavored to draw it away; she tried to express by a glance,
that whatever gratitude might inspire, love for him did not exist; but
although words may define differences, and draw lines of distinction,
it is often difficult for looks to express nice shades of feeling, and
to mark accurately all the gazer would wish. At least, she feared her
looks were incomprehensible; for though Charles’s tongue was mute, his
eyes declared so plainly and unequivocally the ruling passion of his
life at that time, that it was perfectly impossible for her actually
to misunderstand him. She saw that Victoria was nothing, and that she
was all to him.
The color flitted from her cheeks, and they became white, whiter than
her illness had left them――deadly pale; her hand turned cold in his
grasp, and after feebly trying to draw it away, she sank back against
the pillows behind her, and, for the second time in her life, she
fainted.
When she recovered, she found herself lying on the sofa; and as sense
and perception gradually returned, she discovered that Charles was
supporting her head on his arm, while Victoria was plentifully
bedewing her face with eau-de-Cologne. She moved her head, and
whispered, “I should like to lie down,” which compelled Mr. Huyton to
resign her to the pillows, where common sense would have taught him,
she had better have been all the time.
“Are you better?” said he, softly and anxiously.
“Yes, thank you; please leave me, and send Sybil;” and she fixed her
eyes for one moment on him so decidedly, that disobedience was out of
his power. He was forced to withdraw, and went to find Sybil, with no
other advantage from his visit, than the idea that if she was so very
weak, it would be impossible for her to leave “the Ferns” next day.
But half an hour’s quiet restored her strength; and reflection on what
had passed, made Hilary more than ever certain of the propriety of
leaving the house the next day, even should the effort be attended
with fatigue to herself. It had been a transitory emotion which had
made her faint; she was not at all accustomed to such attacks; but her
physical weakness had perhaps made her feelings more than usually
acute, and herself less able than in general to govern them. It was
the expression of Charles Huyton’s eyes which had overpowered her: she
had read, or seemed to read in them, such a world of strong
concentrated passion, such selfish self-will, such deep determination
to carry out a point which he had never for one moment abandoned; so
much of human pride, and of stern resolution not to submit passively
or unresistingly to what thwarted his wishes, as opened up to her mind
a new view of his character, and made her almost regret that he had
not left her to sink under the black waters in that shady pool, rather
than live to enter into a contest with one who seemed so well fitted
to trample down and overpower her, when their happiness or their
desires crossed. Calm reflection recalled her courage and her
firmness. Let her but walk straight on, he could not hurt her. The
spirit of evil itself was powerless to harm those who trusted in “the
shadow of those Almighty wings,” which she believed stretched out over
her and hers: and should she then fear one who was but man? No; he
might pain, but he could not injure her, unless he enticed her feet
from that narrow path of duty, within which she was safe.
And as her evening prayer arose, that she might “have understanding in
the way of godliness,” she felt more strongly than ever that _that_
way did not point to becoming Charles Huyton’s wife.
When the family met at breakfast the next morning, Mr. Duncan
announced, that Hilary was quite well enough to go home that day, and
therefore, if Mr. Huyton would be so kind as to lend them his
carriage, he would no longer trespass on his hospitality.
In vain his host and Miss Fielding urged her supposed weakness, and
their desires to detain them all, by every argument which love and
policy could devise. Mr. Duncan was calmly immovable, and they were
obliged to yield the point at last. The younger girls, naturally
enough, had enjoyed the change, and were extremely sorry to quit “the
Ferns;” but Maurice, whose spirits and gayety seemed at times entirely
to fail him, and who, except when with his father, appeared wrapped in
a cloud of impenetrable gloom, was entirely on his father’s side, and
expressed, as warmly as politeness permitted, a strong desire to
return home before his being obliged to quit Hurstdene, an event he
now daily expected.
The carriage accordingly was ordered directly after luncheon; and
meantime, Maurice walked home, to give notice that they were coming,
taking Gwyneth with him, that all might be ready for the reception of
Hilary.
“So you are determined to leave us,” said Victoria, as she entered the
dressing-room, where Hilary had breakfasted; “however, if you are so
well, you will, I trust, come down stairs before quitting the house;
you could surely give us your company in the saloon.”
“I shall be better at home,” replied Miss Duncan; “I am very anxious
to be there on Maurice’s account, for he will want a hundred things
done and arranged, and it would be much less anxiety to me to see to
it all, than to remain absent, and trust to the chance of others doing
right. I can keep quiet at home, you know.”
“Yes; I can understand how quiet you will be, from what I know of your
usual habits; you will only wait on your father incessantly, see to
your brother’s having every comfort, teach Nest, look after your
servants, attend to the housekeeping, and listen to every old man,
sick woman, or unhappy child, who may choose to come and drawl out
their long story to you. That is your quiet.”
Hilary laughed.
“Well, if all that is to be done, the sooner I get about it the
better.”
“Meantime,” said Victoria, “come down stairs.”
Hilary seemed inclined to demur.
“You must,” continued Miss Fielding, urgently, “or I shall conclude it
is want of will, not want of power, prevents you.”
“I will come down by-and-by,” said Hilary, gently, “but I dare not
exhaust myself before I take this little journey; and if you would be
so very kind as to let me, I should like to lie down and rest now.”
Victoria really could not find in her heart to oppose Hilary’s meek
petition, or to say any more at present about her own wishes; so
giving her friend a kiss, she settled her comfortably on the sofa, and
then left her to peace and solitude.
“Will she not come down, Victoria?” asked Charles, eagerly, as he met
her on the stairs.
Victoria told him what had passed, and strongly recommended, under
present circumstances, patience and caution on his part. His rival, if
Captain Hepburn was his rival, was gone, and had left without an
explanation; but although the field was thus open to him, it by no
means followed, that he should rush forward hastily and unadvisedly.
She was not in a state to bear it, and he might lose all, by hazarding
too much.
It was about half an hour before luncheon, when Hilary, leaning on
Victoria’s arm, eventually entered the saloon, where Mr. Huyton had
been passing the morning, in an uncontrollable state of restless
impatience. How he sprang forward to meet her at the door, and how
carefully he provided the easiest chair in the pleasantest corner of
the room for her accommodation, may be imagined. His manners seemed
scarcely to allow that any other person could have the least claim
upon her; and his whole wish seemed to be to engross her himself. But
Hilary would sit near her father, would give her principal attention
to him, and would at first, when she spoke, whisper in her soft voice,
words which marked her regard and consideration for him as her
principal object.
Presently, however, gathering courage and firmness, she turned to her
host, and said:
“I have no doubt that my father has conveyed the thanks I sent by him,
Mr. Huyton; but let me now for myself, thank you again for your share
in the exertions which saved my life. I was too weak to say so
yesterday. I hope you believe that I am grateful.”
“If ever an action brought its own reward,” said he, in a low voice,
and placing his hand on the fingers which rested on the arm of her
chair; “it was mine, when I bore you from the water, and laid you
safely on the bank. I can conceive only one degree of happiness
greater than that.”
“My strength was so completely exhausted,” said Hilary, drawing away
her hand to pass it across her forehead, “that had I not been relieved
from the weight of Nest, and released from her struggles, I must have
sunk in another moment.”
“Poor little thing! she was unconscious how she increased your
danger,” replied Charles; he could not bring himself to say the words
of praise to his rival’s presence of mind, which were his due, and
which Hilary half hoped to hear. Presently he added, looking up
suddenly:
“And you _will_ go to-day! is that kind, Miss Duncan, to hurry away
the moment you can move; at any risk to leave my house, rather than
oblige me?”
“You know, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, “we have sometimes other
things to consider, besides obliging our friends; but it can not
justly be called unkindness to do our duty; and mine takes me home
to-day.”
“Of course, if your _duty_ takes you away,” was his answer, “my
pleasure or happiness must not interfere with it; they have no right
to be considered for a moment.”
“I am sure my father would tell you that the two can not really be at
variance,” answered Hilary, earnestly. “If we both follow the road of
duty, we may be certain that we shall not come into dangerous
collision. They are lines which never clash, except through
carelessness or mistake. They may diverge widely, they may run
parallel, but they will have no unsafe crossings, if we take
conscience for our engineer.”
“True, dear child,” said Mr. Duncan, “as your favorite poet says:
“‘Duty, like a strict preceptor,
Sometimes frowns or seems to frown;’
still, when we have the courage to look her calmly in the face, we
shall find the frown is our mistake; a mere shadow cast by fear or
over-anxious wishes.”
Mr. Huyton make no further objections, and the family were permitted
to return to the Vicarage, as had been proposed. Nobody, however,
could prevent his riding beside the carriage the whole way, or to
forbid his being there to hand Hilary out when she descended from it;
it was very disagreeable to her, but he would not see that; and even
when she entered the house, he appeared extremely reluctant to take
his leave, and allow her to rest in peace.
Once more in her place at home, and gathering strength, every hour,
from the pleasure of being there, Hilary could not avoid immediately
perceiving the extreme depression of spirits which overpowered
Maurice; and with a woman’s quickness, made more acute by her own
recent experience, she decided that his unfortunate attachment to
Dora, must in some way be the cause. Of the existence of this
attachment she had been for some time aware; but not guessing what had
really passed between them, she concluded that it was his own sense of
its hopelessness which oppressed her brother. Eager to bury those
too-encroaching thoughts of another person, which were continually
creeping into her mind, she would yield nothing to the lassitude of
recent illness, would allow herself no rest, lest memory should be
engrossed by one image; but resolutely engaged in all her usual
occupations, and threw herself with more than her former zeal into the
cares, hopes, and pleasures of those around her. Of these, naturally,
Maurice was the first, after her father; and his affairs, indeed, were
peculiarly prominent just then. Captain Hepburn had written to say,
that he had received the promise of Maurice’s appointment to the
_Pandanus_; so that they might now expect his removal any day. But
however excited or restless, anxious or happy, such a prospect might
make him, his sister saw clearly this was not all; and earnestly
hoping that a confidence she had so long enjoyed would not now be
withdrawn, she watched him with affectionate attention and silent
pity.
It was not till the day following, that she received from him an
explanation, which told her how truly he deserved the pity she had
already bestowed, and how much real, though unacknowledged, sympathy
there was between them.
They were sitting together on Tuesday afternoon, just arranging about
an expedition to be undertaken by Mr. Duncan, his son, and Gwyneth,
when the Drewhurst carriage drove up to the door. At the first glimpse
of the liveries in the distance, Maurice had started up; but when the
carriage passed the window, he sat down again quietly, and whispered
to his sister, there was only Miss Barham in it.
Isabel entered alone. She came to inquire after Hilary; it appeared
that she and her father had driven over to “the Ferns,” expecting to
find the Duncans still there; and that on discovering the mistake, Mr.
Barham had decided to remain with Mr. Huyton, having some magistrates’
matters to talk over, while his daughter proceeded to the Vicarage.
Isabel said that Mr. Huyton had offered to accompany them; but her
father thought that such an incursion in the Vicarage drawing-room
would be overpowering, so after luncheon she had come alone. She would
not, therefore, remain very long, as papa would be expecting her back
to pick him up; but she was delighted to see how well Hilary was
looking, quite like herself again! getting home must have done her a
world of good. When questioned about her sister, she answered that
Dora was not well; she thought the hot weather disagreed with her; she
complained of head-ache; could not eat, and was very pale; a common
effect of heat on her constitution. Papa talked of sending her to some
friends in the north, for change of air. He meant to remain at the
Abbey himself, for the present, and of course Isabel must be with him;
he could not spare her; but Lady Margaret would take Dora to Scotland,
or Scarborough, or Germany; it was not quite settled which; and she
believed they would go very soon.
“Now I must go,” exclaimed Isabel, starting up, “or papa will not
trust me alone again. Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Maurice Duncan, I thought you
were gone to sea. Surely Mr. Huyton told us you were appointed to some
ship.”
“Perhaps I maybe,” said Maurice, trying to speak carelessly, then
remembering that what he said might be repeated to Dora, he added, “I
expect it any day: I heard it was to come, and of course, it will be
soon.”
“Well then I wish you _bon voyage_,” replied Isabel, lightly; “I am so
very glad to have seen you once more before you go, to say so.
Good-by, Hilary, dear! mind and get well. Do you know, papa wants Mr.
Huyton to stand for the county, and I dare say he will; and with
papa’s interest, I have no doubt he will succeed. He ought to be an
M.P. Papa says, few people know how really clever he is, he is so
quiet and modest. But we want such men for the country. So papa says.
Good-by.”
Hilary watched the carriage drive away, and as Isabel’s pink and white
feathers disappeared in the distance, she sighed to think what would
she not give to be able to hope that Mr. Huyton would really transfer
to the heiress of Drewhurst Abbey the affection which he had hitherto
wasted on herself.
It was with the utmost difficulty that poor Maurice was able to
command his attention and spirits sufficiently to be the usual
cheerful companion to his father. But on his return he hurried into
the garden, and there, when Hilary was able to seek him, she
discovered him stretched on the sloping bank of the terrace, with his
face covered by his arms. She sat down beside him, and gently passing
her hands through his curly hair, she whispered,
“Dear Maurice!”
He turned his face toward her, and she, putting her lips to his cheek,
again whispered,
“I was afraid you were very unhappy.”
“Oh, Hilary, I am such a wretch, such a thoughtless, selfish, cruel
fellow! If you knew all――” was his exclamation, with a passionate
misery of look and manner most unusual to him.
“Indeed, dear Maurice, I can not believe you. You may, perhaps, have
been thoughtless, though that is not like you; but cruel, selfish!
never. Oh no, I know you better!”
“You don’t know, dear; you could not guess what I have done; how I
have pained and half-broken the dearest, warmest, most loving little
heart in the world; how I have dimned her smiles, and clouded her
sunshine, and made both her head and heart ache. Yes, it is all my
fault; mine, mine entirely.”
“Yours, dear Maurice!”
“Yes, Hilary, she loves me; it is no idle vanity which misleads me;
she said it――she owned it with tears and sobs――with fear and
trembling, and yet in spite of both grief and terror, that she loved
me; she, the bright――the rich――the beautiful; she loved _me_! and what
has it brought her? Grief and pain, sickness and fear; and all for me!
I, who though I would lay down my life for her, am not worthy to touch
the tip of her little finger! I, who have no claim, except that of
deep, doting, devoted, never-ending love for her. Oh! Hilary, is she
not an angel to love me!”
“But why, dear Maurice, why be so miserable then, if she really loves
you? does Mr. Barham object?” asked Hilary, not quite understanding
his incoherent exclamations.
“We dared not ask him.”
“Dared not! Maurice, that is not like you!”
“No! Dora dared not. What is there that I would not dare for her that
honor did not forbid? Oh, Hilary, if you only knew how I love her!”
“But it is a pity――nay, surely, Maurice, it is wrong if you love thus,
not to tell Mr. Barham! concealment never can be right, and must be
doubly painful!”
“Yes, Hilary,” said her brother, rising upright and looking
steadfastly at her, “if we went on with it; but when I found how it
was, that I was not only using up my own feelings, but acting on
hers――not only making myself unhappy by indulging a presumptuous
passion, but involving her in the same hopeless misery, I saw there
were but two ways open to us. One to explain all to Mr. Barham, and
cast ourselves on his compassion; the other to part! I would have
taken the first, there would have been far less of suffering and
misery; she judged otherwise, and we parted on Saturday. You heard
what Isabel said to-day.”
“Then you have been neither cruel nor selfish, my dear brother, but
strictly honorable and right. Imprudent, perhaps, but who can control
the heart by prudence, Maurice; or prevent the growth of love, where
there is sympathy and community of feeling? We can not either compel
or forbid its existence, can we?” and Hilary blushed deeply, as she
propounded a doctrine taught her by her late experience.
“I do not think that is right, Hilary,” replied her brother
thoughtfully, considering his own circumstances, and not suspecting
from what feelings she spoke. “I believe we ought to control all our
passions; and if we have not the power, it must be that we have
willfully thrown it away. Love is like ardent spirits, perhaps, we may
refrain altogether, but if we do imbibe it we must be responsible for
the ungovernable evils it produces. And, oh, Hilary!” added he,
throwing himself down on the grass again, “I am a wretch for having
plunged Dora in such a depth of trouble――a selfish, miserable wretch;
because, even now, I can not wish her not to love me; I would give the
world, I would give my hopes of promotion, that she had never begun;
but I can not, try as I will, really wish her now to leave off loving
me. And yet it is only sorrow and pain to her.”
“But, Maurice, better times may come――why should you despair so? who
knows what may happen to induce Mr. Barham to approve of your suit,
and then what happiness for you?”
“What happiness indeed! I wish Dora would let me speak. I am sure it
would have been better, don’t you think so, Hilary? We could but have
been refused; have had to part, and to wait; we _might_ have been
happier. We had better have spoken.”
“Yes, I am sure of that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “certainty would
be better, and candor and openness must be the safest, because the
truest path. She should have let you speak.”
“I don’t know, though,” resumed Maurice, with a strong dislike to hear
even an implied censure on his idol, “she must be the best judge of
that; the evils, the pain of coldness and displeasure, would have all
fallen on her. She would have been the sufferer. It was natural she
should shrink from the disclosure, it would cost her too dear! If I
could only have borne all for her!”
“I can not imagine that she would have met with any thing half so bad
as the trouble of concealment and the pain of mystery. Mr. Barham
might not approve your attachment, and then he would have separated
you, sent her away, or something of that sort; but that is no more
than has now happened. The dictates of honor are as imperative as the
commands of the sternest parent. If he had refused his consent, you
must have given up all hope, and you might both trust to recovering in
time from an unfortunate love.”
“Hilary, you don’t know! Love like mine lasts for life,” was his
determined answer.
“But perhaps it might not with her; and you know you must really wish
her to be happy. If she had no hope she would gradually recover her
serenity; at least I think one must if hope were really gone; but now
she will not only have the sickening misery of protracted suspense,
but the fear of discovery, and the pain of acting a part――of in
appearance deceiving her father.”
“Deceiving! how unjust you are; she is incapable of deceit.”
“I only said the appearance, dear Maurice; but why should she fear to
own her love? You are not unworthy of it; noble birth, indeed, you
have not, but, except that and money, you have every thing a man can
want! Education, profession――why, Maurice, your profession has been
followed by a king!――person, manners, temper, principles. Oh, what
could Mr. Barham ask better; and you have no low connections――nothing
to shock aristocratic prejudices; the son of a gentleman, and of an
old, good family! Why should Dora fear to own you――to acknowledge her
love? A love returned, confessed as yours is, and Mr. Barham never
prevented your being together. Dora has been allowed to come here as
she pleased. Surely she must be mistaken in her judgment on this
occasion.”
“I wish you could persuade her so.”
“I will try when I can see her,” said Hilary.
“But it must be before I go, dear,” returned Maurice, eagerly. “If I
am ordered off, and have to leave this unexplained, it would be base
and cowardly then to throw all the burden and pain on her alone. I
could not do that!”
“I think even then, at any rate, it would be right to avow it all, and
let the consequences follow as they might. Every week’s delay must add
to the evil.”
“If you could but see her, Hilary! but she will not come here, I know.
Where could you meet her? Could you go to the Abbey?”
“How, dear Maurice? I have no means,” said Hilary.
“Perhaps Mrs. Paine could take you over, or Miss Fielding. If you
could contrive it! do think about some way of meeting!”
Eager to fulfill her brother’s wishes, Hilary turned her mind entirely
to the means of their accomplishment; and in her self-devotion to his
interest, contrived to forget, in a great degree, her own feelings of
suspense and anxiety. She would not indulge in contemplation, she
would not listen to the whispers of hope, or to the cold insinuations
of fear and doubt. She put away all retrospective glances, and stilled
her mind with a calm, but fixed resolution, to wait in patience, and
trust for the future, whatever its result might be.
She sent a note to Mrs. Paine to ask if she could drive her over to
the Abbey the next day, saying, that having heard from Isabel that
Dora was suffering, and likely soon to leave home, she was very
desirous of seeing her. Maurice carried the note, eager to do
something, and finding action less painful than quiet and thought. But
the owners of Primrose Bank were out when he arrived there; and after
wandering for some time in the vicinity, in hopes of meeting them,
Maurice was obliged to return home without a reply.
It was about twelve the next day, as the family at the Vicarage were
sitting together, that the carriage from “the Ferns” drove up. Much to
Miss Duncan’s relief, she saw at a glance that there were only the two
ladies in it; and in a few minutes Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were
in the parlor, the one as full of kindness, and the other of energy
and gayety, as usual. They were delighted to find Hilary so much
improved. As well as ever they said, no trace of languor or paleness
visible. This was true, for the sight of them excited her, and they
could not tell that the pink hue in her cheeks, and her apparent
self-possession and activity, were the result of high-wrought, but
concealed, feelings of suffering anxiety. Victoria’s object was to
take her out for a drive, Mrs. Fielding to remain with Mr. Duncan
while his eldest daughter was away.
No answer had come from Mrs. Paine; Hilary saw Maurice look at her
with imploring eyes; and although hardly liking to ask the favor of
Victoria, she was strongly tempted to beg at once to be driven over to
the Abbey. It was, however, by no means improbable that any minute
might bring the answer from Mrs. Paine, and until that arrived, she
could decide nothing. She could only explain to Victoria how far she
was pre-engaged; and while doing so, Mr. Paine himself walked in,
bringing an excuse from his wife. She was not well, and the
poney-carriage had met with an accident; but if to-morrow would do, it
should be at her service. To-morrow, Hilary thought, might be too
late: Maurice was in an agony of impatience, Victoria was urgent and
persuasive, and she herself, afraid of yielding to selfish feelings,
and sacrificing her brother’s happiness to her own scruples, gave way
at length to the united influence of her companions, and prepared to
accompany Miss Fielding.
Certain thoughts as to what Captain Hepburn would think, if he knew
she was driving in Mr. Huyton’s carriage, were put away as intrusive
and selfish; there was no occasion to connect the latter at all with
the act, the obligation was conferred by Victoria alone, and need
concern no one else; and as she hoped to be of use to Maurice, there
was every excuse for taking her present step.