“You ‘never loved me!’――No, you never knew――
You with youth’s dews yet glittering on your soul――
What ’tis to _love_. Slow, drop by drop, to pour
Our life’s whole essence perfumed through and through,
With all the best we have, or can control,
For the libation! cast it down before
Your feet――then lift the goblet dry for evermore!”
ANONYMOUS.
One afternoon, Mr. Duncan and two of his daughters had gone over to
Primrose Bank, Hilary being left with only Nest as her companion. The
child had been reading to her sister until she was tired, and then
leaving her to reflection and silence on the green bank of the
terrace, she strayed away to the garden-gate. She looked across the
green, with no very particular expectation of seeing any object worth
her attention, but with a vague childish curiosity, which was always
prepared for a marvel or a pleasure. She saw some one approaching; a
gentleman, a tall man; perhaps it was Mr. Huyton, perhaps Mr. Paine,
or may be, thought she, it is Maurice: she was too young to consider
probabilities, or understand the troublesome restraints of propriety
and decorum; and too well known, and too much petted generally in the
parish, to have any fear of a repulse, or dread of a rebuff. The gate
was unlatched; out she ran, and skipped across the turf to meet the
individual in question. After advancing a hundred yards, however, she
saw that she was mistaken; Maurice it was not: no, nor Mr. Huyton――it
was a fuller figure, a firmer step; she slackened her pace one minute,
and shading her eyes with her hand, looked at him attentively. It
was!――yes――it was one of whom her sister had spoken much! one to whom
her father had told her she owed her life; one whose name had been
joined with those of her own family in her prayers for blessings on
his head. It was Captain Hepburn himself! She rushed on joyfully; and
breathless with her race, eager, excited, with flashing eyes and
crimson cheeks, she reached him, caught his outstretched hand in her
little fat fingers, and covered it with grateful kisses.
“Dear Nest!” said he, raising the child in his arms, and looking at
her glittering eyes, “how are you? how are your sisters――all?”
“Oh! Captain Hepburn, I am so glad to see you; now I can thank you,”
was her only reply: and she threw her arms round his neck and laid her
cheek close to his.
“For what, dear child?” said he. His thoughts were of Hilary, and he
hardly remembered that Nest had any thing to be grateful for.
“For picking me out of that horrid black water,” said she, in a
whisper. “I have so wanted to see you since; but you know you went
away without saying good-by to me or Hilary.”
“Do you remember that day, Nest?” said he, walking slowly on, with her
in his arms.
“Oh, yes! so well; my slipping down, and the bubbling water, and the
cold, and the choking feeling here in my throat and head, and such a
pain, oh, dear! I dream sometimes now, at night, of the bank, and the
gurgle of the waves, and wake with such a start. I did not like to
wash my face for some days afterward. But is it not odd, Captain
Hepburn?――I can remember nothing about you taking me out. I should not
have known you did, if they had not told me so!”
“Who told you?”
“Papa and the others?”
“Hilary?”
“No,” replied Nest, gravely; “they will not let me talk to her about
it. Sybil told me not; and she never has spoken about it at all, since
she has been ill.”
“She is well now?” said he, inquiringly.
“Better, but not well. She can not walk much. She is in the garden.”
“Will she see me, do you think?” said he, stopping at the porch, and
setting Nest on one of the benches.
“I don’t know,” replied the little girl, gravely. “She has seen nobody
but Mr. Paine, for days. She could not see Mr. Huyton, when he came
last, though he sent me to ask her; and you know he pulled her out of
the water, as you did me. She said she was too ill.”
“But she is better now,” said he, earnestly; “perhaps she will not
mind me. Is your papa in?”
“No, only Hilary, and she is in the garden. I will go and ask her, if
you like; or you will come, and she must see you then.”
He hardly thought such a surprise desirable, and suggested that Nest
should go on first. But Hilary, who had missed her sister, had risen
to look for her, and met the child the moment after she turned the
corner of the house; so that the gentleman had the opportunity of
ascertaining that he might, so far as an abrupt introduction was
concerned, almost as well have presented himself at first.
“Oh, Hilary! will you see Captain Hepburn?” was her exclamation.
“Nest, what do you mean?” he heard in a hurried, fluttered accent, and
he was sure she had stopped short in her approach.
“Don’t be pale, Hilary――don’t be frightened,” said Nest, coaxingly.
“You have not seen him since that horrid day, I know; and when I saw
him it made me remember all, and made me feel funny, I do not know
how; but it goes off, and now I am only glad.”
“But, Nest,” he heard her saying, and there was a catching in her
voice, which, to his anxious ear, told of a struggle with excitement
and surprise, perhaps of deeper feeling too, “have you seen him?”
He could stand still no longer. Advancing from the porch, he met her
on the lawn. She was stooping over her sister when he turned the
corner of the house, but she raised her head at the sound of his feet,
and stood still. She really could not take one step toward him, and
had not her hand rested on little Nest’s shoulder, perhaps she could
hardly even have stood at all. There was a beating at her heart, a
throbbing in every pulse, which seemed to suffocate her; there was a
mist and confusion before her eyes which, for a moment, blended sky
and earth, trees, shadows, and Captain Hepburn, in one wavering cloud
of darkness. She had no thought or feeling, except a wish to stand
upright, and a sensation that to speak was impossible. How they met
she did not know. The warm clasp of his hand on hers was the first
thing of which she was quite aware; he was by her, he was looking at
her, but he was silent as herself.
The first words he spoke were not those of greeting, but as if they
formed a part of a long preceding conversation, and in a tone that
implied a whole world of tenderness and anxiety.
“Come in now and sit down; I grieve to see you are still so weak!”
He drew her hand within his arm and led her toward the porch, while
she revived to the comforting conclusion that perhaps he thought her
agitation was the effect alone of bodily, not mental weakness. She
yielded to his guidance, wishing heartily that she could speak, but
doubting her power too much to make the effort.
When he saw her safe in a large easy chair, he sat down by her, and
said, in a quiet voice:
“I left Maurice quite well yesterday, very busy and enthusiastic about
his ship.”
“Happy, too,” ejaculated Hilary, her thoughts instantly reverting to
her brother’s cares and troubles, and forgetting at once all her own
embarrassments. “How are his spirits?”
“Variable, perhaps; at least I fancied so, when he was not actually
employed; but better than at first.”
She looked at him, anxious to try and ascertain what he knew or
suspected of Maurice’s feelings; but meeting his grave, dark eyes, she
was recalled to a recollection of herself and him; she colored again,
hesitated, and broke off a half-uttered word abruptly.
He waited to allow her time to recover, then finding she was silent,
he said:――“Were you going to ask how long we should be fitting out? I
think in three weeks more we shall report ourselves ready for sea!”
The easiest thing for her to do was to repeat his words, “Three
weeks!”
“Come here, Nest,” said the Captain, “Maurice sent you his love, and a
great many kisses. Shall I give them to you?”
“Did Maurice give them to _you_ first?” inquired Miss Nest, with a
look half coquettish, half demure, and holding back from him.
Even Hilary smiled at the idea, but he went on.
“He wants you to send him some of those double violets which grow in
your garden. You are to put them in a letter which is to go by post.”
“I will go and gather some,” screamed she, in an ecstasy of delight at
the idea, and darted away.
He turned to his other companion.
“Do you remember?” said he, bending a look on her she could not meet.
“What?” in a low, trembling whisper, was all she could say.
“These, and what preceded them!” and he drew out and opened a paper,
and showed her the contents.
She did remember; she saw the withered flowers, the white ribbon tied
in a peculiar knot. They recalled all: the whispered words, the gay
festival, the alarm, the accident, the agony of fear, the rescue, and
the parting look. Embarrassment and personal feeling were merged in
one sentiment, stronger still, gratitude! Clasping her hands, and
raising to him a look of trustful earnest, tender gratitude, she
exclaimed: “And I have never thanked you; let me now. Oh, Captain
Hepburn! you who risked your life for Nest and me, what do we not owe
you?” Her tearful eyes said more, far more than her words.
“The risk was nothing,” said he, hastily; “do not speak of that; and
the prize was all that I hold dearest on earth!” He had said it at
last; she had almost intuitively known what was coming, and she did
know what must follow now. She gave him one shy glance, and then
hiding her face upon her clasped hands, she tried to conceal the
blushes which burnt upon her cheeks.
“Yes, Hilary, it is the truth! the world does not hold another object
so dear to me as you. Are you displeased with me for saying so? For
you, for your happiness, your welfare, your peace, there is not the
thing which I would not dare or suffer myself; and to win your love!
if I only knew how to do that!”――
He stopped and made a gentle effort to take her hand; it was yielding
unresistingly. He ventured to draw a little nearer, and said: “Will
you not give me one look, one word, at least, to show me that you are
not displeased with my presumption?”
She looked up at him; there was an earnest expression in his eyes, a
deeply-anxious tone in his voice, a humility, a self-mistrust in his
whole air and manner, which told that it was no set form of
self-depreciating words without meaning, no assumption of suspense to
conceal real assurance and hope; he was at that moment truly suffering
from struggling doubts and fears; he was putting his happiness to the
test, to win or lose it all.
The look she did give him was not discouraging: it was not likely to
be, with her feelings. Fears as to the past, doubts for the future,
present anxieties, weakness, uncertainty, were all swept away in the
rush of gratified feelings and tender satisfaction. He loved her; he,
the good, the wise, the brave, the courageous man; he who could
deliberately and unflinchingly face danger, and confront death, not
only in the tumult of excitement, amid the plaudits of the multitude,
but also in the chamber of sickness, by the bed of infection, in the
stillness of the hospital, where none but true courage or dull apathy
could remain unmoved by fear; he was now waiting, in trembling
suspense, for her decision, and deprecating her displeasure with a
humility he would hardly have shown to a monarch.
She saw the immense power which she had over him, and she saw it with
delight. Not the delight of gratified vanity, the satisfaction of the
coquette who rejoices in giving pain; but the pleasure of a loving and
grateful heart, exulting in the discovery that it has the means to
confer happiness where it has felt deep obligation, and the gentle
triumph of maiden modesty, at last assured that it has not bestowed
affection unauthorized and unwished for.
She owed him her life, and her sister’s also; and she had that in her
power which he said would repay the benefit. He had placed his
happiness with his heart at her disposal, and she could reward the
generous gift by a single word.
With an air of the most betwitching modesty and confidence, she raised
her head, she held out both her hands, and said, “Captain Hepburn, you
have made me happy by the assurance of your love;” then fearing she
had said too much, she would have drawn back, but she was not allowed;
his thanks and raptures were too warm, too energetic to be
interrupted.
“I could not leave England,” he said, presently, “without explaining
my mind, small as my hope of such an answer was; I trusted, that
perhaps you would think of me, let me try to deserve you, let me
endeavor to win your love. I feared that silence and absence might
lead to misconstructions, might make you doubt my sincerity, blame and
mistrust me. Believe me, I dared not flatter myself that you felt more
than a friendly interest; what have I to tempt you, Hilary, that you
should condescend to love me? It is only your own goodness, your
sweetness, which inclines you to listen to me favorably. If you knew
me better, I fear you would value me less.”
She shook her head a little, and with downcast eyes, and lips just
parting into a smile, she said, “I do not _love_ all those whom I have
known much longer.”
He knew it well; for he knew he had a rival, and she might almost have
seen that he did so, had she been able to look at him.
“Hilary, I know you will be true to me, while I am at sea; I feel that
I may trust you once and forever; and when I return, you will become
my wife.”
“I will never leave my father, Captain Hepburn; I will form no
engagement――plight no promise, which can in the least interfere with
his comfort, or my attention to him. His claims first, and then yours
may be considered. You think me right, do you not?” added she,
anxiously, laying her hand on his arm, and looking up in his face,
where she fancied she saw a shadow gather. On that question she felt
all her happiness depended.
“Right, Hilary, in your estimation of your duty; only wrong in your
estimation of me. Do you think I would tempt you away? or that I could
look for happiness with you, if it was bought at the price of
neglecting your first duty? I hoped you knew me better.”
Her answer was to lay her head upon his shoulder, and whisper gently,
“Had I thought so, you would not be what you are to me, Captain
Hepburn. I trust you entirely; and promise, one day, to be yours.
When, we can not tell.”
“And hear me, dearest, renew the vow I once made, never to ask you to
give me your hand, unless our marriage can be compatible with your
father’s comfort. I will wait――I will be patient――I will consider only
your happiness and your peace. Since you have condescended to promise
me your faith, I feel that no sacrifice on my part can be too great to
repay you. It is so good of you to love me. I have no better home, no
fortune, no worldly station, or importance to offer you. I have so
little to tempt you. Ardent, devoted love, and a share in an
unblemished name, that is nearly all; and if you condescend to accept
this, shall I not agree to your terms, and consult your pleasure?
Indeed, it seems to me such a wonder that you should love me, that I
feel tempted to ask again, are you sure you do? What have I done to
deserve such happiness?”
“Done! if I were not afraid of spoiling you by praise,” replied
Hilary, smiling, then stopping; she added, after a minute’s pause, and
in a tone of emotion, “done! who saved me, by saving Nest? who dared
what others hesitated to do? do I not know you brave, and prompt, and
energetic?――no, do not interrupt me, many _might_ have done as much,
perhaps; but who saved Maurice? whose watchful care preserved my
brother? who sat by him when others feared infection, or shrank from
the terrors of delirium? You may have known me only for a fortnight, I
have known and valued you, Captain Hepburn, for many, many weeks――for
months, indeed.”
“It shall ever be my humble prayer, it shall be my most earnest
endeavor, Hilary, not to disappoint your trusting love; and Heaven
helping me, I hope to repay it in kindness, in affection, in guarding
you from evil all your life long.” He spoke very gravely; he was much
moved by her warmth. “Words are too poor to paint my gratitude to you
for the honor you do me. And so they are to describe my implicit trust
in your truth, your constancy, your prudence, and your affection. That
I have to ask you to wait, that I am forced to leave you to the
anxiety and trouble which I fear our separation may cause you, gives
me great pain and grief for your sake; I would gladly spare you every
shadow of care, I would gladly devote my life to you from this time. I
grieve, but I trust you entirely. Will you believe as fully in my
constancy as I do in yours, sweetest Hilary?”
“Yes.”
That single word satisfied him completely.
When Nest came back from the garden, and the clergyman and his
daughter from Primrose Bank, they interrupted a very happy
conversation; one full of all the sweetness which confidence and
affection, hope and gratitude, can inspire.
It may be easily believed that after this explanation Hilary recovered
both strength and spirits with a rapidity which surprised and
delighted her sisters and friends: it may be readily imagined, that
young ladies of Sybil’s and Gwyneth’s ages entertained their own
theories, and formed their own opinions, when they found Captain
Hepburn once more at the Vicarage; opinions and guesses which proved
to have been surprisingly near the truth, when we consider their age
and education. Mr. Huyton’s acquaintance had existed so long, and his
friendship had been so diffused in the family, that they had never
thought of him as a suitor to their sister; but, from the first, they
had settled between themselves, that Captain Hepburn must fall in love
with her. There was every thing to recommend such an arrangement in
their eyes. He was grave and quiet, the nearest approach they could
hope for to a mysterious and suspicious character; while, on the
contrary, Charles was so lively and talkative, that they could imagine
neither concealment nor reserve in his case. Then, too, their favorite
hero was comparatively poor, and had a profession which would be
attended by possible danger as well as renown, would certainly
occasion long absences, and might give rise to romantic incidents,
doubts, distresses, and heroic difficulties. All this was a charming
contrast with Charles Huyton’s fortune and station in life; who
besides, as they thought, not caring for Hilary, could only, had he
wished to marry her, have offered her a matter-of-fact, readymade, and
every-day sort of home; it would have been an engagement, presenting
no difficulties except that of getting her wedding-clothes properly
made, and offering no romance, except their first meeting, now nearly
forgotten.
Not that the girls wished their sister any harm, or had the slightest
dislike to seeing her happy; but at their age the quiet monotony of a
prosperous life seems dull in prospect, and they had no idea that
misery and misfortune, anxiety, suspense, and sorrow were not the most
pleasant accompaniments of life, when occasioned by sufficiently
romantic and poetic causes. They did not know how reality strips
suffering of romance, not only to the individual who grieves, but to
the spectators who witness it: and that mourners who go about the
daily affairs of life, hiding a broken heart under an outward
calmness, may be extremely interesting to read of, but hardly excite
so much actual sympathy and compassion, as one who has to walk through
the world with a wooden leg.
But all this these two girls had yet to learn; and in the mean time
they were greatly rejoiced when they understood how rightly they had
guessed, and learned that the evident and marked devotion with which
Captain Hepburn had listened to Hilary, watched her footsteps,
conversed with her, and finally saved her life (for they always gave
him the whole credit of that adventure, and were, perhaps, for his
sake, a little unjust to Charles), when they learned that this was
finally to be rewarded with her love and faith. In short, the
engagement gave them perfect satisfaction.
Mr. Duncan was very well pleased; yet he certainly would have
preferred the richer _parti_: he liked Charles, perhaps, a little
better than he did the other; and there could be no doubt as to which,
in common language, was the best match. If Hilary was happy, there was
nothing more to be required; but he would certainly have wished either
that Captain Hepburn had been in Charles Huyton’s place as regarded
position, or that Charles Huyton had been the accepted suitor.
But if Hilary was happy, that was enough. And she was happy,
exquisitely happy; for the five days that her lover was able to
remain, she was as joyful and blithe as a bird. She recovered her
health, of course; she went about her daily tasks singing and smiling,
making every body near her partakers in her gayety. She felt she had
one to trust to now, on whom she should have a claim; she looked
forward with pleasure, and saw the future very bright. In the happy
hours they spent together, she found one to whom she could express her
past difficulties, her bygone sorrows and trials, one whose firmness
strengthened, and whose tenderness comforted her. Oh! what delightful
seasons of confidence these were; dearly prized at the time――more
dearly still in memory.
Maurice had told his friend his troubles and sorrows; so Hilary could
discuss his prospects with her lover; and though perhaps a little
shocked at the depreciating view he took of Dora’s conduct, the
earnestness with which he hoped that Maurice would recover from his
attachment, and the certainty with which he predicted that the lady
would probably forsake him, she would not have been a true woman had
she not speedily adopted his opinions, and become a convert to his
views even before she had quite done combatting them. One subject
there was on which they did not touch; one topic on which Hilary,
supposing him to be ignorant, herself preserved silence, and on which
he, aware of her reserve, respected her feelings of delicacy too much
to intrude.
The knowledge that Charles Huyton had been perseveringly repulsed,
that wealth and station, abilities, personal charms, flattery and
importunity, had failed to gain the heart which was now his own, was
very sweet. If there is the man in the world whose pleasure in his own
success would not be enhanced by such considerations, let him triumph
in his conscious stoicism. I do not believe that there is; some might
plume themselves on their own superior fascinations, some might
rejoice in the lady’s disinterested love; some might value
themselves――some her the more for such knowledge, but satisfaction of
one kind or other, I imagine, every one would feel. For the present,
however, Captain Hepburn concealed this source of satisfaction with as
much scrupulous care as Hilary herself; and, but for an occurrence
which even on this topic broke down their reserve, they would,
probably, have parted when his leave of absence called him away,
without any allusion to the matter.
Captain Hepburn had letters of business to write; and Hilary, taking
advantage of the opportunity, set off to pay some visits in the
village. The night had been stormy, but the morning was fair and
bright, and Hilary, walking briskly, was soon at a cottage about half
a mile on the road toward “the Ferns,” whose inmates it was convenient
for her to visit alone. The food, the clothes, and the advice all
given, she was just issuing from the garden gate when she was
addressed by Charles, who, throwing himself from his horse, advanced
quickly to greet her. She was surprised, for she had believed him
still absent from the country; and a mixture of other feelings, which
his sight recalled, gave her an air of emotion, sensibility, and
bashfulness, which he readily interpreted in the way most flattering
to himself. Had he known whom she had left writing letters at her
little table at home, he would perhaps have been as anxious to avoid
the interview as herself; but ignorant of what had passed since they
last met, he very joyfully took his horse’s reins upon his arm, and
walked himself by her side. The usual form of questioning about
friends and relations, recent occupations, his journey and his return,
was gone through, and was followed by a silence of some duration. This
was broken by Hilary, who, casting an anxious look at the clouds now
gathering ominously overhead, observed, that she was afraid there was
going to be a storm. She had hardly said the words when down came the
rain in large drops, rapidly increasing in number every moment. There
was a sawyer’s pit at a short distance with a shed beside it, and as
this seemed the only shelter within reach, and the rain appeared
likely to be violent, they quickly agreed to take refuge there; hoping
that the shower would be as brief as it was sudden. She was most
anxious to get on home; perhaps Captain Hepburn would have done work,
and would miss her; perhaps her father might want her. So she thought,
as she stood for a minute or two at the entrance to the shed, looking
wistfully up at the clouds, and watching those flitting gleams of
brighter sky which occasionally seemed to promise a clearing up. Still
the rain went on, and as drops began to penetrate through the slight
roof where she stood, he said,
“Come further in, Miss Duncan; it will not clear the quicker for your
watching; and here is a nice block of wood, which will form a seat for
you, where it is quite dry.”
The easiest thing to do was to comply; she sat down accordingly, and
he placed himself beside her. Then a sudden conviction came over her
that something was to follow; and with a sort of desperate hope of
stopping him, of avoiding a renewal of what was so painful, she began
to talk of other things, the season, the harvest, the people, any
thing for a subject. He listened in silence; his eyes were fixed on
the open doorway; he might have been counting the drops which fell
from the eaves, so steadily did he gaze that way. Her ideas,
unsupported by any help from him, necessarily came to an end; and when
she paused, it was his turn to speak.
“Hilary, tell me, once more let me speak; has my changeless devotion
no influence on you?”
She shook her head.
“None! yet of late you have seemed to encourage me; you have
accepted――at least you have not repelled――my attentions; you have
allowed me to distinguish you as my first object; you have permitted
those advances from my family which were intended to show how they
would welcome you as one of themselves; you have graced my _fête_ with
your presence; your name has already been whispered round the
neighborhood as the object, as the recipient of my vows: has not all
this given me a right to hope; does all this go for nothing, for
unmeaning form with you?”
“I do not understand your language, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, in
great suprise; “your tone and manner are alike new and unpleasant. May
I ask you to drop this subject while we are compelled to remain
together here!”
“You would ask in vain; my happiness, my welfare in life, every hope
here and hereafter is bound up in the thoughts of you, in the wish to
make you my wife!”
She tried to stop him as he spoke, but her gentle interruption was
quite unheeded as he poured out his vehement declarations.
“Why have you refused to see me, shut yourself up, and banished me
from your house? What makes you, one so tender, loving, gentle as you,
what makes you so hard, so unpersuadable to me? What have I done that
you will not love me? What is there in me, about me, belonging to me,
that makes me disagreeable? And why this coquetry; at one time readily
listening, calmly permitting, if not encouraging, my devotion, then
denying me all interest, all concern; repulsing me entirely? Is this
fair! just! right! Hilary! Do you think those who witnessed your
peril, and your rescue, in my park, doubted the motives which nerved
my arm and warmed my heart? Do you think their plaudits were valued
for any thing besides the worth they might give me in your eyes? And,
Hilary, is my reward to be ever the no! no! no! which dooms me to
misery, despair, and heartless solitude?”
Mr. Huyton rose as he spoke, and stood before her in magnificent
desperation. She looked at him amazed; he was strangely altered. He
was no longer the humble suppliant; he seemed to think he had earned a
right other, that she was his in equity.
“Mr. Huyton, you are unjust, and such language as this is strangely
unpleasant to hear. I do not know what claim you have to speak so. I
have never intentionally done any thing to give you hopes that I
should change as you wish. Again, I must ask you to be silent, or I
shall leave this shelter; I would rather encounter the storm without,
than listen to such words.”
“You do not know my claim? It is the claim of love, constant,
unchanging love, the love of years. Not the feeble growth of a week’s
intercourse; the every-day admiration, which at one moment
distinguishes its object, the next leaves it without a sigh or a
struggle; it is the passionate glowing devotion which rises beyond
every earthly consideration, which sets neither honor nor duty above
it――which knows no honor, owns no duty except that of loving
unchangeably and deeply. This is my claim, who can produce a better?
who has striven harder, longer, more devotedly, to make this love
apparent?”
“I will neither listen to, nor answer such language,” replied she,
decidedly; “let me pass.”
“I will not,” said he, placing himself in the door-way; “do you
suppose I would allow you to go out in this storm, expose yourself to
such risk? Sit still.”
“Then,” said Hilary, reseating herself, “as you are a man and a
gentleman, be silent.”
“You were not always so sternly resolute, Hilary!”
“Nor you so――” she stopped.
“So what? speak out, say what you mean at once,” said he, advancing
close to her.
“No, I shall not,” replied she, more gently; “I am sure that you do
not wish to give me pain, and that this unpleasant topic will be
dropped henceforth.”
“But do you not pity me?” ejaculated he, seating himself again by her
side, and clasping her hand so firmly that she could not withdraw it.
“Yes.”
“And nothing more, Hilary? esteem, regard, kindly feelings, are all
these gone, or did you never entertain them toward me?”
“You did not ask for these, Mr. Huyton; you asked for love, which
alone I could not give.”
“Are you sure?” said he, gazing intently at her. “Are you certain that
it is not pride of consistency, or ignorance of your own feelings
which misleads you? Do you know what love is, Hilary?”
“I do,” said she, in desperation, resolved, even at the risk of
raising an indignant jealousy, which she instinctively dreaded, to end
his painful importunity. “I know what love is, and that I do not feel
it for you.”
“Hilary! Hilary!” cried he, in the wildest excitement, and more firmly
than ever grasping her hand; “do you mean!――what am I to understand by
that avowal?”
“That I have no love to give you, Mr. Huyton――my hand and my heart are
another’s.” Her blushes confirmed her words.
“And who has dared to step between me and my object?” said he, slowly,
while his face grew dark with rising passion and jealousy. “Is it, can
it be Captain Hepburn?――there is no other.”
“It is,” she tried to say, but the words hardly passed her lips; she
was frightened by his look and tone.
“Has _he_ dared!――what, when he was warned, when he knew my wishes, my
intentions; ah, he did not know _me_! Did he think I would be balked
of my object? Does he think it is safe to come between me and my aim?
Hilary, dearly shall you rue the day that you give your hand to that
beggarly sailor. Bitterly shall you repent the deed! While you are
still Hilary Duncan, you are unspeakably dear to me, and for love’s
sake, while there is hope, I will be whatever you may wish; but once
destroy that hope, once take from me all possibility of winning you,
and I tell you, you will wish rather that a demon had crossed your
path, than that you had thwarted me.”
Indignant and offended, she raised her eyes to bid him leave her
instantly, and they fell on the figure of Captain Hepburn himself,
whose step on the wet turf had been inaudible, but who now stood in
the door-way looking at them. Her start and exclamation made Charles
release her hand and turn round too; and Hilary, profiting by her
freedom, sprang toward her lover, and clasped his arm as if to claim
his protection.
“Take me away,” she whispered, in an agitated voice.
Silently and gravely, he threw round her a cloak which he carried, and
carefully wrapping her in it, he drew her hand under his arm, and
prepared to leave the shed.
She gave one glance at Charles; he was standing with his arms crossed,
and a look of haughty indifference, which she believed to be affected.
In another moment they had turned away, and were taking the path
homeward; but before they had gone a hundred yards, they heard the
sound of his horse’s hoofs at a sharp gallop, dashing along the road
to “the Ferns.” The sounds died in the distance, and Hilary, relieved
and overpowered at once, very nearly burst into tears.
The storm was passing away, the rain had not quite ceased, but the
sunbeams were struggling through the clouds, and every tree and shrub
was fringed with glittering drops of light, while the effect of the
flitting shadows chasing each other over the distant landscape was
beautiful to see.
“There is no hurry,” said Captain Hepburn, gently checking the
impetuous steps with which Hilary had at first proceeded. “Do not
agitate yourself, we are quite safe. The storm is all but over now,
and you may walk quietly. It is pleasant to be together here, Hilary.”
A gentle pressure of the arm on which she leaned, was her only answer,
she had not quite self-command enough to speak.
“I wish I had come a little sooner to look for you,” added he; “had
you been long there?”
“I don’t know; it seemed long, it was so disagreeable,” and her voice
was checked by a sob. But recovering by an effort, she added
immediately: “However, it is over now, and we need not refer to it.”
He did not answer for a little while, but at last he said, very
gently, but with a manner which seemed to indicate that his mind was
made up on the point. “Hilary, I do not think that is right, either by
me or yourself, in our relative situations. If I were to remain with
you, to protect and watch over you, I would not ask your confidence on
that point. I could act for myself and you too. But since I must leave
you so soon, and in the neighborhood of that man, whose bad passions
are all raised by your refusal of his addresses, at least let me know
all. Let me understand exactly what has passed, that I may form some
idea of what there is to dread. Indistinctness of outline always
magnifies objects. Let us view the matter calmly and clearly.”
“How much do you know?” said she, looking up at him. “I never told you
that.”
“You did not, dear, but Miss Fielding told me at ‘the Ferns,’ that her
cousin had been in love with you for years, had been refused by you
once, but that he still hoped to win your love; and that the _fête_
which so nearly cost you your life, was devised and carried out as a
compliment to yourself.”
“Had I suspected that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “do you think any
persuasion would have induced me to go there? Oh, no!”
“I thought that at the time, dear Hilary; and but for the abrupt
conclusion to your share in the amusements, I should have taken the
opportunity that afternoon, there in the very midst of my rival’s
splendor and all the riches and temptations which he displayed to
bribe or buy your love, to offer you my hand, and a share in my humble
fortunes.”
“What consummate vanity!” said Hilary, smiling up at him with eyes
that told a very different tale from her words; “could not your
triumph in forcing me to like you be complete without the glory of
such a contrast?”
“Presumption I would plead guilty to; but if you knew the doubt and
hesitation with which I contemplated the effort, you would not think
it was the easy feeling of satisfied vanity, Hilary. To plunge after
you into the lake was a trifle, compared to the plunge I meditated at
the moment. But now I will not be baffled by smiles; tell me, if you
love me, all that passed between Mr. Huyton and you just now.”
With crimson cheeks, she repeated as well as she could the dialogue in
the shed, until he stopped her by saying, “His last speech I heard! I
never liked him or his cousin; there was a something of intrigue and
manœuver in her which shocked me; and for _him_――perhaps I was unjust,
however. But his unmanly violence to you now, is hard to forgive. Is
that what he calls love? or can he suppose affection is won by
threats? Dear Hilary! for your own sake, I am glad you did not love
him.”
“There never was any danger that I should,” said she, calmly.
“Yes, there was great danger; young, simple-minded, and inexperienced
as you are; too pure to suspect evil, too ignorant to know it, there
was the greatest danger that this man, handsome, clever, rich, ardent,
devoted, with every advantage which seclusion and leisure, time and
place could supply, should have won your heart before you could
rightly read his character. That your affections should have continued
disengaged until I had gained them appears to me a wonder, and a thing
to fill me with gratitude. Dearest Hilary! how can I be thankful
enough?”
“You can not imagine,” said Hilary, after a pause of gratified
feeling, “how great a shock it has been to me to find that he has
shown himself what he is; I never could have loved him, but I did
esteem and like him. I thought well of him in many respects, and to
find that he is so desperate, so self-willed, so violent, has really
given me great pain. Oh, I hope he will leave the country now, that we
shall never meet again!”
“It was ungoverned temper, Hilary, made him speak as he did; a
disposition quite unaccustomed to be checked or thwarted. It will wear
off. When he really sees that it is hopeless, I do not think he will
continue to vex himself about it. The quick, fiery passions which
explode so vehemently are not those which are the most lasting and
effectual in their results. Do not vex yourself, dearest, about it.
Time will smooth down his asperity, perhaps. At any rate, he can do
you no harm, he can not alter my trust in you, nor, I should hope,
shake your confidence in me.”
Hilary’s smile showed how entirely she agreed with her lover’s
opinion, which accordingly they continued to discuss, with great
satisfaction, till they reached home.