“She moves slow; her voice alone
Has yet an infantine and silver tone.
But even that comes languidly: in truth,
She seems one dying in the mask of youth.”
ISEULT OF BRITTANY.
Hardly had the carriage driven from the door, when Hilary had reason
to repent of having yielded.
“I shall go home first, if it is the same to you,” said her companion,
calmly; “on several accounts; one of which is, that you must not go
without your dinner, and we shall be sure to find luncheon ready when
we get there.”
Hilary remonstrated, and assured her she should have no appetite; and
she did not wish her to go out of the way on that account. But
Victoria was one of those gayly-selfish and cheerfully-obstinate
individuals, who are never really turned out of their way, or
persuaded out of their opinion. She listened with a smile to Hilary’s
remonstrances, and agreed to her remarks, but never in the smallest
point altered her mind or her conduct. To “the Ferns” she meant to go,
and accordingly to “the Ferns” they went; avowedly for Hilary’s
comfort, actually for Miss Fielding’s pleasure. On first reaching it
the master was invisible, and Hilary, for a few minutes, entertained
the hope that, though thus forced against her will into his house, she
should escape meeting him. But this hope soon proved vain, for
presently he entered; and not only did his tone and manner in
addressing her speak of the feelings she did not wish to encourage,
but they evinced so entire an absence of surprise at her visit, as
made her unavoidably suspect that the whole had been a scheme between
the cousins to entrap her into coming there with or without her will.
This was confirmed by the fact of his bringing in with him a basket of
most beautiful flowers, which he began arranging as he sat by her,
observing, as he did so, that he wished to replace the bouquet she had
lost on the day of her accident.
What a world of thoughts rushed through her memory at these words, and
dyed her cheek with hot crimson blushes. How Charles interpreted her
confusion she did not know; her ideas flew off to another person;
there was another voice ringing in her ears――a voice which petitioned,
in never-forgotten whispers, for one violet; and then she wondered, as
she had often done before, not only what had become of those flowers
themselves, but of the feelings they seemed to express, and the hopes
they had awakened; had that bunch of violets sunk, where she had so
narrowly escaped, and were they to be the type, the emblem of the fate
which would attend her own shy affections, and shrinking, undeveloped
expectations?
“You do not know,” continued Charles, after watching her downcast
eyelids and flitting color for some minutes, “that I saw the remains
of that bunch of flowers, scattered, soiled, withered, floating on the
water two days afterward. I tried to secure the peristeria, which I
should have valued for the associations connected with it. It was near
the bank, and I could see one snowy dove, sitting on her little nest,
unsoiled and peaceful. I tried to grasp it; but I failed, and not only
plunged my own feet into a treacherous hole, from which I had some
difficulty in escaping, but pushed the flower itself under water, and
it did not rise again!”
“It was hardly worth the risk,” said Hilary; “you, who have so many
fair flowers in your own houses, should have allowed those which
accident had scattered on the water to float on, until they became the
prize of a less wealthy individual.”
“Had they been mine still, or rather, had they never had another
owner, been pressed by another hand, I might have done so, Miss
Duncan,” was his significant answer.
“I still think it was not worth the risk,” replied Hilary, quietly;
“but we are told that we may learn lessons from every thing, and
certainly life is full of emblems, if we do but read them right.”
“I know how fanciful you are, Miss Duncan,” replied he, in a lighter
tone; “what moral would you deduce from this incident for my benefit?”
She hesitated a little; seeing which, he added more gravely, “Nay, do
tell me; since I lost the flower I coveted, let me profit by the loss
in some way; do not let that pretty dove-blossom have sunk uselessly
beneath the waters; tell me of what it is the emblem!”
“No, excuse me,” replied Hilary, seriously, “I can not undertake to
give lessons in morality to you.” And then, turning away decidedly,
she raised her voice to address Victoria, who was just reading a note,
which she had found waiting for her on her return.
Perhaps Miss Fielding did not think the countenances of the other two
indicated that their conversation could be prolonged with benefit to
themselves; for she came forward almost immediately, and suggesting
that luncheon must be ready, led the way to the dining-room.
The carriage was ordered round, as soon as the meal was concluded, and
Hilary, who had been on a mental rack, while obliged to undergo the
pointed civilities, and the overpowering assiduities of both cousins,
began to breathe more freely, in the hope of escaping to a more genial
atmosphere, and putting a continually increasing space between the
soft voice and half-reproachful dark eyes which now followed her so
tenderly.
It had required all her self-command, and her regard to duty rather
than impulse, to avoid showing in her manner how exceedingly she had
been annoyed by what had passed, or how entirely she was at “the
Ferns” against her will. Her sense of what was due to herself, as well
as her hosts, had compelled her to be courteous, and the recollection
of what she owed to Charles Huyton, increased her resolution to
endure. Victoria knew she had come unwillingly; she could assure Mr.
Huyton of the fact; and now she hoped the penance would soon be over,
and the painful struggle between gratitude and dislike, or something
very near it, might be put away at least for a time.
Greatly, therefore, was her annoyance increased, when she heard
Charles say, that having some papers to take to Mr. Barham, he should
accompany them, and would order his horse at the same time.
“Do so, by all means,” remarked Victoria, “if you prefer riding; but
otherwise, you know, you could just as well come with us in the
carriage. However, perhaps you like being independent.”
“What does Miss Duncan say?” said Charles, looking at her.
“Miss Duncan can have no choice,” replied Hilary, trying to look
indifferent; “since both carriage and horses belong to Mr. Huyton, no
one can dictate to him which he shall use.”
“But perhaps you have secrets to discuss with Victoria,” said he,
playfully, “and then I should be sadly in the way. Is not that the
case?”
“No, I have no secrets with her!”
“Then, since the right of choice is mine, and you will say nothing to
direct me, I choose your company, ladies; and if I choose wrong, the
consequences be on you, who refused me your advice and counsel.”
Hilary wished she had only had the courage to say that he had better
ride!
The drive to the Abbey would have been pleasant after all, could she
have forgotten both the past and the future. Mr. Huyton was not
disagreeable; on the contrary, he was once more in one of those moods
which made her doubt whether her former fears had not been the mere
illusions of vanity. Kind and just quietly attentive to her, to
Victoria he devoted all his gallantry, and pretty nearly all his
conversation. They were both in good spirits, and without being
particularly clever or witty, they were exceedingly amusing and
pleasant. But the painful uncertainty which these abrupt variations of
manner occasioned, was not to be allayed by an hour’s calm, or by a
temporary remission of his attentions. She was uneasy and anxious
still, doubting the wisdom of her own decision in accepting Victoria’s
invitations, and only succeeding in putting away harassing and useless
perplexities, that they might give place to other feelings at least as
painful. Dora and Maurice! their difficulties and distresses were too
real and too new not to deserve undivided attention, and she felt as
if she were even unkindly selfish, as she reverted to them, in having
allowed thoughts for herself to occupy her mind.
Fast as the four horses swept along, they hardly went quick enough for
her impatience at last, when she remembered the grief and anxiety from
which her brother was suffering at home. She tried to still herself,
and be patient and quiet, knowing well that eagerness and impetuosity
were not the qualities wanted on this occasion to carry her point.
But, with all her efforts, every nerve was thrilling, and every pulse
seemed beating through her frame, as they drove up to the Abbey; and
engrossed in her own thoughts now, far away from recollections of
herself, she was unconscious of her abstracted and very pensive air,
and quite unaware of the glances cast on her, and the meaning looks
interchanged by her companions.
Charles and Victoria were very far indeed, from guessing what was the
subject which occupied her mind; as far as Hilary herself was from
supposing that they attributed her nervous and uneasy expression to
pique at his manner, or jealousy of Miss Fielding.
He left them in the hall, to go to Mr. Barham’s library, while the
young ladies were shown into Isabel’s morning-room, where she and Lady
Margaret were sitting together. Miss Barham’s reception was a very
warm one; she was delighted to find Hilary was equal to the exertion,
and for some minutes her delight prevented her taking any real notice
of how unwell her friend appeared. The paleness of her cheeks, and
anxiety of her manner, did at last strike Isabel; and Hilary, who had
been nervously waiting for a pause, in which she might find time to
inquire for Dora, was prevented from doing it at all by an
exclamation――
“After all, you look very tired and exhausted, Hilary, dear; I shall
forbid you mixing in conversation, and insist on quiet and repose for
you. Suppose you were to go to Dora’s room. It would not excite you
too much, and you do not look as if you would overwhelm her.”
Hilary gladly assented, and after telling Victoria to send for her
when she was ready to go, she followed Isabel from the saloon. In her
pleasant dressing-room, with windows open and jalousies closed, making
a cool and grateful twilight, Dora was stretched listlessly on a sofa;
her beautiful long hair all tumbled about her pretty face, and her
whole appearance, and even her attitude, betokening a restless and
miserable impatience. Isabel had put Hilary in at the door without
speaking, and then herself retreated; and, on hearing a noise, poor
Dora did not raise her head, but only asked who was there. Her friend
did not answer, advancing gently to the sofa, but uncertain how to
announce herself. Dora then removed the hand which covered her weary
eyes, and raised her head. With one little shriek of satisfaction, up
she sprang, and Hilary was clasped in her arms, with warm kisses
rained on her cheeks and lips, and tender embraces, and choking sobs,
and smiling, tearful words of endearment and welcome, and blushes
which ran up quick and hot to her temples, and even dyed her finger
tips with pink, so deep they were.
Poor Dora! hers was the sorrow and the emotion of a child.
They sat down together on the sofa; Dora with her arm round Hilary’s
waist, and nestling in close to her, as if there she might find peace,
or at least support.
“How are you all at home, Hilary? and who is there?” were her first
coherent words, and down went her looks upon the carpet, and up came,
redder than ever, the blushes to her cheeks.
“Well――all well――and Maurice has not left us yet!”
There was a little start, and the fingers which held Hilary’s hand
were pressed more closely than before; there was a fluttered pause,
and then the trembling girl said――
“Do you know, Hilary?――has he told you?”――and the eyes asked even more
eloquently than the words.
“Yes, Dora, he has. I came here on that account.”
Dora threw herself upon her companion’s neck. “Good, dear, sweet
Hilary! what do you think of me? are you shocked? oh, don’t say I am
wicked to love him. Is it, can it be wrong? I could not help it
Hilary; indeed, I could not!”
“Do you think _I_ could blame you for loving my brother?” said Hilary,
tenderly.
“Ah, dearest Hilary! how good you are. Then you do not think me wrong;
oh, what a comfort. If _you_ say I am right, then I feel sure indeed
that I am.”
Miss Duncan’s eyes were cast down, and there came a graver expression
over her face, which Dora immediately remarked.
“What is it, Hilary?” eagerly inquired she; “what is wrong? Why do you
look so? If you do not blame me for loving Maurice, what do you mean?”
“It is not for loving Maurice,” replied Hilary, hesitating, and
pressing Dora’s fingers closer. Their eyes met, and then bursting into
a passion of tears, Dora once more hid her face; but this time it was
with her hands, away from her friend, and she faltered out, between
her passionate sobs, “I know――I know――but oh, Hilary! I dare
not――_dare_ not! You do not know what I should have to bear. I knew, I
thought you would say this――but I can not――can not.”
Hilary again kissed and soothed her, and spoke soft words of sisterly
tenderness, and did not try to argue or persuade, until Dora’s own
vehemence exhausted itself, and she became calm. Then Hilary spoke of
openness and truth, firmness and endurance, and tried to show her that
there was no hope but in candor; and to convince her that her
cowardice was wearing out her own feelings, and throwing away the
happiness of one she said she loved so well. And her father, too, how
could she reconcile her conduct with her duty to him? and how could he
bear it, when he learned that his young daughter had given away her
affections to one whom she dared not own――had done what she was
ashamed to acknowledge――had listened willingly to words she blushed
that she should hear? could this be right?
Dora threw herself upon the sofa, burying her face in the cushions,
and lay there in powerless grief, her very attitude and air telling of
the prostration of her mind, of her entire helplessness and
irresolution.
“Oh, if I could――if I dared――if I were you――had your strength,
Hilary――but you do not know what coldness and unkindness are――you
never felt my father’s frown. Any thing but that I could bear. I could
die for Maurice――I shall die for him, I know. I do not wish to live
without him; but I dare not tell myself――I dare not own it all.”
“Then you are quite resolved, Dora, to conquer your affection――to give
him up entirely? You can never see him again; and, I may tell him you
have determined on this course――that you sincerely renounce his love,
and bid him forget you if he can.”
“No, no! cruel Hilary, don’t talk so! in all my grief, to know he
loves me, is my only comfort: give it up indeed! but he will not――he
can not――he never can forget me.”
“Nay, Dora, for both your sakes he must, and he will, too. Maurice
will do his duty at any hazard, and the love he may not own, he will
not nourish. He would endure any thing for you, and your good; and
even that, the greatest suffering of all, the crushing of all hope,
the renunciation of all claim on you, the extinction of his affection,
he will bravely battle for, because he knows that all this is better
for you; more truly, lastingly good for you, than the growth of a
secret, a clandestine, and, therefore, a disgraceful attachment. He
will fight, and he will conquer, too; though the victory may be won
only by the sacrifice of youth’s brightest, dearest hopes.”
Dora’s sobs were her only answer.
“He loves you better than you love him, Dora,” continued Hilary. “He
would do and suffer any thing rather than renounce you, except what he
knows to be wrong.”
“Then he will never speak of giving me up,” said Dora, with decision.
“He will never seek to see you again, until your father knows all,”
said Hilary, firmly. “Never――he said so; and why, dear Dora, why not
speak?” added she again, in tones of most winning tenderness; “you can
have no other hope.”
“Then I can have none! for my father’s anger I will not brave. Maurice
I shall love to my dying day; but if he will leave me, and will never
see me more, be it so; if he would only wait――only trust for the
future, something might arise, some sudden turn or change; but if he
is impatient, let him go.”
It was no use arguing with Dora; she felt she was wrong, but she would
not dare to do right; nor was it till with tearful eyes and trembling
lips, that Hilary attempted to say farewell, that her temporary
indignation died away, or she softened into regret. But when she saw
her friend’s deep, unspoken emotion, pride again was banished by
tenderness, and springing up, she clasped her arms round Hilary’s
waist, and faltered out a loving, sad adieu.
“Yes, tell Maurice I am entirely unworthy of him――tell him to forget
me――but for me, I will lie down and think of him forever. My heart is
crushed, broken, Hilary; and to part from you, the last tie to him――it
is agony. I am going away very soon. They think change will do me
good: well, well, I do not care. Leave me now, Hilary.”
And the little weeping, petulant beauty threw herself once more upon
her couch. Hilary lingered still, and then Dora, looking up, said――
“You blame me, I know, but do you think I shall be happier than he?
Will wealth, or jewels, or the empty pleasures heaped on me, or the
whispered nonsense of those who seek my fortune, or the idle life I
lead, will all those make my heart lighter? Compare our fates, and
tell me which is most to be pitied. I know, though mine may be bright
to look at, it will be all sorrow and misery within.”
“But Dora, dearest Dora, why must this be? All this misery might be
spared if you would but speak, or let Maurice speak. There need be no
hidden grief then, and even if your father disapproved (which he might
not), at least you would have done right, and then trustful patience,
and resignation, and brighter hopes might come again. And peace can
only be won by walking straight on to it. Believe me, Dora, you can
have none unless you take this course.”
“Go, go,” cried Dora, impatiently; and Hilary, hoping that her absence
might do what her presence had failed to effect, prepared to withdraw.
She met Miss Barham’s French maid at the door, who informed her that
Mademoiselle Fielding desired her not to hurry, but she was quite
ready to go; whereupon Miss Duncan immediately descended.
Charles Huyton and Mr. Barham were in the room, but she soon
discovered that the former was engaged to stay and dine at the Abbey,
and Victoria, evidently weary of her visit, was pleasantly bent on
hurrying away. Hilary left Mr. Huyton apparently in earnest
conversation with Isabel, though, to own the truth, the conversation
was all supplied by the young lady; but this, Miss Duncan did not
remain to notice; and it was a satisfaction that they were spared his
company on their return to Hurstdene. Victoria announcing that her
friend was too tired to talk, desired her, laughingly, to be silent,
on pain of her high displeasure; and herself taking up a book, their
return home was accomplished with scarcely another sentence uttered by
either.
Weary and dis-spirited Hilary was in the extreme; she had over-tasked
her body, over-excited her mind, and had failed of securing the object
which alone had tempted her to set aside her own feelings, and do what
she so very much disliked. Now that disappointment was added to
weakness and fatigue, she was inclined to take a most unfavorable view
of her own conduct and to doubt whether even success would have
justified her in her own eyes, in the step she had taken. At all
events, she resolved that nothing but absolute necessity should induce
her in future to incur any obligation to either of the cousins; and
whatever their wishes or motives might be, she determined that her own
rule must, for the future, be strict and invariable. She would neither
be betrayed nor tricked into giving the appearance of encouragement to
one she never could love.
A shake of the head, and a little glance of concern, was her first
intimation to Maurice of her want of success; nor was there time or
opportunity for more definite explanation, until late in the evening.
When the rest of the family had retired, Maurice drew a large chair
toward the moon-lit window, and placing Hilary there, he sat down
beside her, and silently kissed her cheek. She laid her head upon his
shoulder, and the pent up feelings which had been struggling all the
evening for expression, found a channel in a shower of tears.
Silently the sister wept, and silently the brother smoothed her hair,
and kissed her forehead, and clasped her closer and closer to him. She
was the first to speak.
“Oh! Maurice, I could do nothing, I am so sorry.”
“Did you see her?” was his first question.
She repeated, as far as she could, the particulars of her visit while
he, drawing a little away from her, leaned his head on his hand, and
so concealed his face in the deep shadow which the fingers made in the
moonbeams. She could not read the expression of pain, of
disappointment in his eyes; he did not mean she should――she had
suffered enough for him without that; but she _knew_ what he was
feeling, by the innate sympathy which love and experience give, and
she grieved afresh. He was silent for a while, when she ceased
speaking, and they sat together that calm summer night, as still and
grave as two carved figures, except when the soft night breeze,
blowing through the open window, rustled in her dress, or lifted the
long brown curl from her neck.
“Oh, Hilary! why did I ever know her?” was at last his exclamation.
“Only to make her unhappy! dear, darling Dora!”
“And what will be the end?” whispered Hilary; “what will you do?”
“Hope! hope! hope! love on and love ever, while she remains single. We
may not meet, but who knows what patience, perseverance, time, love,
constancy, fortune may do! who can foresee what may happen? No, I will
never despair, while there is room to hope!”
“Dear Maurice!” was at once her most eloquent and consolatory
interjection.
“And, Hilary, if I sacrifice love to duty, if I deny myself now every
opportunity of intercourse, every gratification of my affection until
I may ask it fairly, honorably, justly, surely I may hope for brighter
and better times. Only if Dora did not suffer!”
He fell into a reverie, which he ended by abruptly exclaiming,
“You do not love Charles Huyton, Hilary?”
“No, and never shall. Would you wish it, Maurice?”
“I don’t know; no, I think not, I would rather――”
“What?” exclaimed she, looking eagerly at him.
“Never mind!”
“What makes you talk of it, Maurice?” said she, after a moment’s
reflection.
“He told me himself, the day of your accident; he spoke then of his
love for you. I wondered I had never seen it before; but I had fancied
him engaged to Miss Fielding. It is natural he should love, more than
that you should not. Are you sure of that?”
“Perfectly so, and so is he. If he persists in loving me, it is at his
own cost; it never will be returned. I have long wished him to give it
up; and like you, once thought it was going away. Till Sunday, I
believed him engaged to Victoria! Did he really tell you he had not
changed?”
“Yes, and he was most emphatic in his expressions!” replied Maurice.
“I am sure Mr. Barham wishes him for a son-in-law; and Isabel would
suit him so perfectly. I wish he would think so too,” continued
Hilary, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “I wish he would; I should
be so glad.”
“And do you still mean never to marry, Hilary?” said her brother,
turning and looking gravely in her eyes. “Do you keep unchanged?”
“Leave the future, Maurice,” was her quiet answer. “I never mean to
marry Mr. Huyton, nor will I leave my father for any man now living.”
The brother and sister parted for the night, after lingering long; for
Hilary, tired as she was, could scarcely bear to shorten the few hours
which they might yet have to spend together.
And the morrow’s post brought the dreaded, the expected change; the
summons to duty, which, for his sake, Hilary welcomed with a smile, a
cheerful tone, an energetic kindness. But when the parting was over,
all her strength gave way, physical weakness asserted its supremacy,
and she was forced to allow depression and pain to take their course.
She could not raise her head from the sofa all that day, and when
Charles Huyton called, she was too ill to see him. There was some
comfort in that; it partly paid her for her nervous languor, for her
aching head, and fevered frame; she was able to be invisible, without
a fear of ingratitude.
The strong stimulus withdrawn, the occupation ended, the anxious
suspense for Maurice terminated, her own thoughts would turn to her
own affairs. It was a week, only a week, since the memorable Thursday,
the day when she had last seen Captain Hepburn; how long it seemed;
double that time, at least. She had to tell herself it was only a
week, to suppress the rising impatience, to quell the incipient
murmur. Duty with him must be first; public before private duty;
patriotism before feeling; honor before love; his country before his
friends. This she knew right well; and she ought not to feel herself
neglected, or fear herself forgotten, merely because a week had passed
without direct intercourse. No, not if vanity did not mislead her, not
if she had understood him rightly, and read his character correctly.
He did love her! that she believed, but there were other doubts more
harassing than to doubt his love. Her present torment was to doubt
what her duty should be.
Had she not resolved, promised, bound herself to sacrifice her whole
time, care, and affection to her father and sisters? this had been her
most solemn determination. How had she kept it? By yielding to the
first impulse of affection; by allowing her mind, her fancy, and her
feelings to be engrossed by another; by one who, a fortnight ago, was
an entire stranger to her; by one who had never told her that he loved
her; by one whose professional duties might make an engagement to him,
even if he offered it, incompatible with her own domestic ties. What
was she wishing to do? where were her resolutions, her promises, her
intentions of self-devotion and self-forgetfulness? Forgotten at the
very moment when they were put to the test. Thoughts such as these,
self-torturing and reproachful thoughts, were not of a nature to still
her throbbing pulses, or cool her aching brow; they were hardly more
medicinal than the hot tears which the parting with her brother cost
her.
Her sisters watched her with affectionate care, and forced her to take
such bodily repose as her actual weakness required; playfully
declaring, if she attempted to exert herself again, they would tell
her father of her pale cheeks and heavy eyes; so she felt it her duty
to lie still, although stillness of mind was for some time quite
unattainable.
But quiet and repose brought strength of body, and with it came back
more command of her spirit also. She saw her way, she understood her
duty, and right well she knew that duty was truly the safest,
smoothest path that she could tread. To put away thoughts of the past,
to bend her attention to her domestic cares, to control her memory and
curb her fancy, this she resolved, Heaven helping her, to do. Could
she not? Yes; the events of the last ten days had not surely robbed
her of the mastery of her mind. She could govern it still! What else
had she been learning all her life? and should she now give up the
attempt because the task was less easy than heretofore? should the
charioteer drop the reins because the road was narrow and rough; or
the pilot abandon the helm, just when the vessel came amid the shoals
and breakers?
So argued Hilary; and if the expectation of a happy result, as men say
it does, aids greatly in the performance of a difficult task, that,
perhaps, was one source of the success which now attended her efforts.
Her strength slowly returned, her equanimity came with it, and
although she was somewhat paler and more languid than formerly,
although she still had struggles against depression, and fits of
painful recollection, they were not apparent to her companions, who
only saw that she was more easily tired than formerly, rather more
silent, and a good deal less excited when Maurice’s letters arrived.
It was a very quiet week which followed. The Barhams left the Abbey,
the master of “the Ferns” was also absent. He had accompanied his aunt
and cousin to London, from whence, Victoria told Sybil when she called
to take leave, the ladies were going on to the sea-side, perhaps, or
possibly to the north of England, and it was by no means unlikely that
Charles would go with them.
Hilary did not see any of them again before they left; but when she
was certain that event had taken place, she felt an unspeakable relief
come over her, which made her troubles seem easier to bear.
She was able now to leave her room, and stroll about the garden,
wander on the green, or rest on her favorite seat by the
chancel-window, without fear of meeting any one whom she would rather
avoid. The calm summer air under the shady trees always did her good;
and an afternoon spent in solitary reflection, or in quiet,
half-cheerful, half-grave chat with her father, was a mental tonic
which never lost its power.
The liveliness of the family party depended on the younger ones; they
were untamed by sorrow yet, and soon recovered parting from Maurice.
To their view, life was like the beautiful vistas in their own wild
forest, across which the sloping sunbeams played between the shady
trees, turning all they touched to gold.