“When I was young, my lover stole
One of my ringlets fair;
I wept, ‘Ah no, those always part,
Who, having once changed heart for heart,
Change also locks of hair.’”
ANONYMOUS.
The next thing that Hilary heard of Charles Huyton was, that he had
quitted “the Ferns,” having dismissed his establishment, shut up the
house, and intimated an intention of not returning for many months.
This information was obtained by Captain Hepburn, and was received
with great satisfaction, not only by Hilary, but by the reporter
himself. He was very glad, as he was forced to leave her in so
unprotected a situation, to feel that so violent and determined a
lover as Mr. Huyton threatened to be should have removed himself from
her immediate vicinity.
His leave of absence, prolonged to the last possible moment, ended, of
course, much too soon, and the parting was naturally painful; but
Hilary’s cheerful and affectionate disposition supported her. She was
certain of his love, and that was happiness enough to supply
resignation and hope. Of the misery of protracted suspense, the pain
of an uncertain engagement, the long anguish of patience, she knew
nothing. She felt unlimited trust in her lover’s constancy, as well as
his character, and a calm dependence upon that merciful Providence to
whose care she committed her future prospects. She was thankful,
deeply thankful that she had been saved from being captivated by the
very engaging qualities of one whose principles she could not trust,
and that another to whom she could look as a guardian, a director, and
a guide, had been brought within the circle of her acquaintance. If
there was happiness to be found in this world she believed it would be
in his society; and beyond, far beyond this world, there was that sure
and certain hope which could support through the most stormy scenes of
life, by pointing onward to a bright and peaceful “forever” together.
So she parted from Captain Hepburn with sorrow, yet with hope, and the
tears which the former caused to overflow were checked by the whispers
of the latter; and neither her grief nor her love made her a more
careless daughter, or a less kind sister, nor occasioned any visible
want of consideration for the feelings or wishes of others.
How often, in her leisure moments, the short, black curl which lay in
a small gold locket, his parting gift, was contemplated or kissed, it
is not necessary now to say; nor is there any means of ascertaining
whether it received more attention than did the long shining, wavy
lock with which she parted in exchange, and which accompanied a pretty
water-colored likeness of herself, originally done by Mrs. Paine for
Maurice, back to the _Pandanus_. One thing was certain, that Maurice
was very good-natured and obliging, and allowed the picture which had
been intended to ornament his cabin to hang in the Captain’s instead,
where it may be supposed to have served as a public avowal that the
owner was indeed an engaged man.
Months rolled on, and brought no apparent change to the family at
Hurtsdene Vicarage. Nothing more was heard of Charles Huyton, except
that he was incidentally mentioned in Isabel Barham’s letters to her
cousin, Mrs. Paine, as much in their society in London; then as
accompanying them on a trip to Paris; then as having taken a moor in
Scotland near one of her father’s estates: and of their expectations
of seeing him during their autumnal residence in Argyleshire.
The younger girls lamented his desertion of “the Ferns” and the loss
of his library; but to Hilary these months were days of peace and
happiness compared with preceding excitement; and she tried hard to
persuade her sisters that Mr. Paine had as many books as they could
read, and more than they could remember.
One other slight diversion they had, namely, the reappearance of Mr.
Farrington, who came down for part of the long vacation, and took
lodgings in the forest. He was an old acquaintance and friend of Mrs.
Paine’s, and was a great deal with them at Primrose Bank, and
consequently often in the society of the sisters at the Vicarage. Not
quite so often, perhaps, as he could wish; for Hilary, grown wiser by
experience, began to suspect that young men did not seek the society
of girls entirely without an object, and became shy of encouraging a
kind of intercourse, which, within her knowledge, had more often ended
disastrously than otherwise. She could not help seeing that the young
barrister admired Sybil exceedingly; but she knew, that though her
sister was womanly in manners and appearance, she was childlike in
disposition and character. Not quite sixteen, she was too young to
think of matrimony; and while she continued indifferent to Mr.
Farrington and quite careless about his attentions, Hilary did not
wish him to become more demonstrative.
Mrs. Paine agreed with her, indeed this caution originated with that
lady; and one day she took on herself to communicate to the gentleman
the extreme youth of the object of his admiration. This brought on a
confidential conversation between the lady and the gentleman, in which
he informed her that he was quite willing to wait a year or two, but
that he was bent on making Sybil Duncan his wife hereafter. Then, if
his business continued to flourish as it had done lately, he should by
that time have a fair income to offer her, so he implored Mrs. Paine
in the mean while, to give him a good character to that discreet,
matronly, elder sister, who now looked as suspiciously on his attempt
to be agreeable as if she had to defend from desperate fortune-hunters
an heiress of ten thousand a year.
Mrs. Paine laughed, and promised to speak pretty well of him; and when
the vacation ended, Mr. Farrington was obliged to return to London,
where, in spite of his love for Sybil, there seems no reason to think
he was either miserable or morose.
So passed the autumn and early winter. Christmas brought the Barhams
to the Abbey, and Hilary was thinking with much interest and much
curiosity of Dora and her feelings, for it was some weeks since she
had heard from her; when a servant from the Abbey brought over a note
to ask Mr. Duncan and his eldest daughter to pay them a visit, with a
promise of the carriage to fetch them one day, and to take them back
the next.
Hilary felt doubtful about accepting the invitation, anxious as she
was to see Dora; but a little postscript to Isabel’s note, not at
first discovered, compelled them to decide in favor of going; it was
to the effect that Mr. Barham desired to see Mr. Duncan on business,
which could not be discussed in a morning visit; so an answer was
written, agreeing to the proposal. Her sisters all declared it was
nonsense of Hilary being so unwilling to go; it would be very
pleasant; the Abbey was, probably, full of pleasant people, besides
Isabel and Dora, and Mr. and Mrs. Paine, who, it was known, had gone
over on Monday, and were to stay till Saturday. What more could she
want to be sure of an agreeable visit?
She could only repeat that she had preferred their society to any the
Abbey could promise, and that home was pleasanter than any other
place; at which her sisters only laughed, and said “Let her try.”
To the Abbey they went, arriving there, by particular desire, in time
for the two o’clock luncheon; and there they found assembled, besides
Mr. Barham and his two daughters, only the Paines and another
gentleman, a young clergyman, whose personal appearance immediately
attracted Hilary’s notice; he being the first individual of a peculiar
class with whom she had as yet met. There was something odd in the
arrangement of his hair, in the appearance of his neck-cloth, and in
the shape of his coat-collar, which gave an idea of singularity rather
than sanctity, and made her more inclined to wonder at than admire
him.
She had not much time, however, to form conjectures relative to this
gentleman, for the young ladies almost entirely engrossed her. Each,
in her different way, appeared delighted to see her again, and really
Isabel’s more measured accents, and stately welcomes, were hardly less
kind and cordial than the _mine caressante_ and endearing words of
Dora, who scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry at meeting, and could
not express her affection and joy with sufficient emphasis to please
herself.
The afternoon was fine, although it was mid-winter, and the ladies,
having seen the four gentlemen adjourn to Mr. Barham’s private
sitting-room, determined to go out for a refreshing walk. The sun was
just setting in a clear green and amber sky, the air was sharp and
frosty, with scarcely a cloud visible over-head to dim the beautiful
half-moon hanging in the eastern heaven; there was no wind to make it
feel cold, and the ladies soon walked themselves into warmth and
spirits, such as can only be known to those who are blessed with
health and strength to enable them to enjoy active exercise in the
free air.
“Now, Hilary,” said Dora, as they turned their faces homeward, and
slackened their walk into a comfortable strolling pace, “have you the
least idea why papa sent for you?”
“Some kind of business with my father, I know,” replied Miss Duncan,
quietly; while Isabel exclaimed,
“Dora, how you talk! I wanted to see you, Hilary.”
“So did I,” replied Dora, “but not a bit would that have availed, had
not papa had business; it is about that Mr. Ufford, you know!”
“Dora, how can you interfere! do, Fanny, tell all about it, for really
Dora ought not,” again exclaimed Isabel, a little impatiently.
“I did not mean to say any thing at present,” replied Mrs. Paine;
“but, as Dora has said so much, I will explain. Hilary, dear, we are
going to leave you!”
“Leave us!” said Hilary, amazed; “dear Mrs. Paine, what do you mean?”
“The Rector of Copseley is dead, and you know my husband had the
promise of the living.”
“Oh! I remember; I am very sorry; that is, I am glad for you, but
sorry for us, for my father, for all: it will be hard to part;” and
the tears came into her eyes as she spoke.
“Do not trouble yourself to be glad,” said Mrs. Paine, affectionately,
“I shall be most truly sorry when the time comes to part; but it will
not be yet; we shall not move till the spring, I believe.”
“That is a comfort,” said Hilary; “what has Mr. Ufford to do with it?”
“Nothing at present,” said Isabel, quickly, as if to prevent Dora from
answering. “That depends on your father, of course. But if Mr. Duncan
could like him for a successor to Mr. Paine, we should be very glad!”
“Oh!” was Hilary’s answer. On such a point she had little to say. She
knew that Mr. Paine’s opinion would have great influence with her
father; and she thought his judgment might be trusted. If he approved
of Mr. Ufford, all would be right; and this she should soon learn from
his wife.
“Mr. Ufford is a man of very good family,” said Isabel, presently. “He
is the third son of Lord Dunsmore; and though his fortune is small for
his rank, I think you would find him an acquisition at Hurstdene. He
is very pleasant, and really a good clergyman.”
Perhaps the thought how little either fortune or rank had to do with
this latter recommendation which passed through Miss Duncan’s mind,
prevented her answering this rather complicated speech. She felt sure
also that Mr. Barham must have some private motive for interesting
himself in the curate of Hurstdene; so she resolved to wait before she
gave any opinion relative to her own feelings on the subject. It was
one which too nearly concerned their own domestic comfort to be
lightly treated, had there been no higher motives, or more important
objects connected with it.
The road to the Abbey led them up a thick avenue, where the leafless
branches of the trees threw a most perplexing checker-work of darkness
across the white moonbeams as they lay on the ground, or fell on the
figures of the ladies. Suddenly they saw a gentleman approaching them.
Isabel uttered a little exclamation, indicative of very pleased
surprise, before her companions recognized the new comer; but the next
moment Hilary saw with a mixture of uncomfortable feelings that it was
Mr. Huyton himself. The dread of meeting him had been one motive for
her unwillingness to go to the Abbey, and great had been her relief on
learning, soon after her arrival, that he was not at all expected. By
what unlucky accident he chanced to come at the very time when it was
least desirable, she did not know; but she saw from the manners of
Miss Barham, that though very welcome, he was yet quite an
unlooked-for guest.
It was impossible in such a light, to mark any expression of features
or changes of complexion, so Hilary’s varying color was safe from
notice. How they should meet she could not guess; but nothing was left
to her decision. Mr. Huyton advanced, took Isabel’s proffered hand,
made his excuses with grace, spoke easily to Dora and Mrs. Paine; and
added, as he turned to her,
“And I have the pleasure, too, of seeing Miss Duncan. I hope you are
quite well, and all your family.”
If ever Hilary was surprised in her life, it was at the composure and
calmness with which her hand was taken, and these words were said. She
would gladly have avoided shaking hands, but that was impossible; he
went through the ceremony with such perfect grace and self-possession,
as prevented it being awkward even to her, but with an air of
indifference which amazed her when she thought of the past. As they
returned to the house along the moon-lighted terrace, she could catch
indistinct glimpses of his face, while he conversed gayly and
courteously with her companions; and there was neither look nor tone
which could convey the impression that her presence was a matter of
the smallest consequence to him. Could he have quite recovered from
the infatuation of past years! had he learned to regulate his
affections and govern his feelings, to acquiesce in her decisions and
participate in her indifference? Might they associate on an easy
footing, as friendly acquaintance, without awkwardness or reluctance?
She would have gladly believed this to be the case; but she feared to
trust too entirely to appearances, when she remembered that more than
once before she had been misled by his assumed calmness, to believe in
the extinction of feelings, which seemed to have been only the fiercer
for suppression.
No, she could never be comfortable with him again; she dared not trust
him, so long as he continued single. If he would but marry some other
woman, what a blessing she would esteem it. As she walked along musing
thus, she only heard the sound of his voice mingling with the tones of
her companions; she did not understand a word they said; her memory
was away in the sawyer’s hut in the forest, and to her imagination,
she was again listening to his threatening accents, or again clinging
to that dear arm, which so tenderly supported her from the unpleasant
scene. She was so engrossed in these thoughts, that when Mr. Huyton
turned to her, and observed that he had seen Mr. Duncan in the house,
and was glad to find him well, she really, at first, hardly knew what
he was talking of, and her answers betrayed her wandering thoughts so
clearly, as to make Dora and Isabel both laugh at her absence of mind.
It was late enough when they reached the Abbey porch to make it quite
allowable that the young ladies should retire to their several
toilettes; and then Mrs. Paine begged Hilary’s company at hers for a
moment, to explain some circumstances which she could not so well
speak of before their hostess. It appeared that the intelligence that
the living of Copseley was vacant, had reached the Paines the day
after they arrived at the Abbey, and that Mr. Barham, on learning it,
immediately expressed a strong wish to secure the future curacy of
Hurstdene for Mr. Ufford. Why he was so anxious about it, or what
particular inducement there was to place that gentleman in so retired
a position, Mr. Barham did not mention; but this was avowedly his
object in sending for Mr. Duncan. He wanted to settle it all
immediately. That he had some ulterior motive, nobody who knew Mr.
Barham could doubt, and Mrs. Paine had her own ideas on that point;
but she did not think it right to mention mere conjectures; so she
said she should leave Hilary to guess for herself. As to Mr. Ufford,
she saw no harm in him, he seemed to be zealous, and talked well; but
she was rather doubtful of his sincerity; he had a way of not speaking
his opinions frankly, which made her uncomfortable, and she
half-suspected him of extreme views, which might lead to injudicious
innovations. But she was not sure of her own opinions, and most people
were captivated by him; even Mr. Paine thought him a most excellent
young man; so that it was, perhaps, bold in her to say that she did
not quite like him.
“But he strikes me,” continued she, “as having an _idée fixe_ of his
own extreme personal importance and dignity; and you know, Hilary,
that even very good men do often go very much astray, and become
exceedingly inconsistent and strange, from having an ill-balanced
character; from allowing one notion to overgrow their mind, and so
warp or conceal other estimable qualities.”
“Very probably,” said Hilary; “but you say Mr. Paine likes him, and I
expect my father will be guided by him. Oh! how I shall miss you! Mr.
Ufford can never be what your husband has been to us; and there will
be no compensation at all for the loss of you! Well, it is no use
thinking of it; there are still three months left, I will not make
them unhappy by anticipating the evil day; time enough when it comes.
How do you think Dora is now? She looks very well.”
“I do not know that she is otherwise; they thought her delicate in the
summer, but I fancy she quite recovered both health and spirits before
she joined her family in Scotland, and she has not been ailing since.”
Hilary thought that this account did not agree with certain little
notes she had received from time to time from Dora, speaking of a
general disgust of life, an extreme want of spirits, and an inevitable
tendency to a heart-broken death. But it was quite in accordance with
her personal appearance, and her air of health and cheerfulness.
Dinner at the Abbey was always a grand and stately affair. The guests
felt they were assisting at an important and solemn ceremony, a
guaranty of the respectability of the ancient house of Barham; a
remnant of the feudal times and the pomps of former days, when
baronial ancestors had been served by squires and pages themselves of
noble birth. Clinging to almost the last remnant of those by-gone
days, Mr. Barham was particular about his livery-servants: they were
many, they were well-trained, and their costume was as handsome as
good taste could make it. In that gorgeously lighted room, contrasting
as completely as wealth and elegance could suggest, with the ancient
refectory, or the convivial board of olden times, it was impossible to
find a shadow of concealment; a screen of any kind, to preserve
blushing cheeks or troubled eyes from the glance of the curious, or
the inspection of the sharp-sighted. So Hilary found to her cost; the
round table brought every one in sight of each other, and made every
observation audible to the group.
It was at this particular time that Mr. Huyton addressed her with a
question regarding Maurice; he hoped he was well?
She replied in the affirmative, trusting that no one in the circle
would care enough for her brother, or so little for herself, as to
pursue the subject. She was mistaken. Mr. Huyton forced her to tell
him what was the name of his ship, and where she then was, which she
could hardly do without naming Captain Hepburn, although to speak
before him of her lover was peculiarly distressing. On this, Mr.
Barham took up the subject, by asking if he had not seen the young man
at “the Ferns;” a talk, dark man, about thirty; older a good deal than
Miss Duncan? Hilary, blushing exceedingly, and conscious that more
eyes were fixed on her than she liked to meet, said _that_ was not her
brother; he was young and fair.
On this Isabel, smiling graciously, observed that she thought papa was
thinking of Mr. Duncan’s captain, not himself; to which Mr. Barham
observed, with his usual majesty, that it was by no means improbable:
who might his captain be?
Hilary gave an imploring look at Isabel, but for some occult reason
she did not choose to speak. Mrs. Paine’s attention at the moment was
not directed that way, nor, indeed, had she been disengaged, instead
of listening to a remark of Mr. Ufford’s, could she have interposed
without awkwardness. Dora’s eyes were on her china plate, which she
was minutely examining, and Mr. Barham was looking at Miss Duncan for
an answer. How she wished her father had been present to have answered
for her, but he did not dine with them, as he had a nervous dread of
being troublesome or unpleasant from his infirmity. She felt she must
reply; indeed, it was but a moment that she hesitated; a moment was
enough to feel a great deal of embarrassment; another, to resolve to
brave it all; and although conscious that Charles Huyton’s eyes were
reading her countenance with a deliberate intentness, which she
thought quite cruel, she answered her host’s question with sufficient
distinctness, that his captain’s name was Hepburn.
“Hepburn! Hepburn! that’s a good name, an old family name, Miss
Duncan, one long distinguished in Scotch history,” observed Mr.
Barham. “Did we not meet somebody of that name in Scotland, Isabel?
You who are such a genealogist and historian, you must remember, I am
sure.”
Isabel did remember accurately the whole genealogical table of the
gentleman in question; and while she was relating some interesting
historical anecdotes connected with the family, Hilary’s cheeks had
time to cool, and she trusted the name of her lover would not again be
forced from her.
But when Isabel had finished her graceful little narrations, her
father again turned to Miss Duncan with a question as to whether she
knew if her brother’s captain belonged to this ancient house. It was
important, perhaps, for Mr. Barham’s comfort, since he had done
Captain Hepburn the honor of recollecting him, that he should be
proved worthy of so great a compliment, by possessing the lineage of a
gentleman. Hilary replied briefly, that she believed so.
To her very great astonishment, Charles Huyton spoke.
“Whether Captain Hepburn can prove his descent from honorable
ancestors or not by genealogical records, he certainly does by his
chivalrous conduct and noble bearing, if honor and courage are the
attributes of high birth. He is as brave and gallant a man as I have
ever seen.”
Hilary gave one quick, grateful glance at her _vis-à-vis_, as he spoke
these words, which was not thrown away. She knew better than any one
else the effort it must cost him.
“Ah! I know to what you allude,” said Isabel, with a sweet smile; “but
if I remember rightly, Captain Hepburn was not the only one who
displayed courage and daring on that occasion. Even Hilary must admit
that there was another strong arm and bold heart then and there. The
spectators at least saw both performers, although the immediate actors
in the scene were, perhaps, only conscious of a part of what passed.”
Hilary again looked up timidly at Mr. Huyton. She felt that thus
appealed to, she ought to make some response; but she hardly knew what
it would be safe to say. There was a shade on his brow, a sort of
frown, as if Isabel’s words called up some bitter thought――as if he
were struggling with painful feelings.
“You are quite right, Isabel, it was an occasion when it would be
invidious to draw comparisons, or to do any thing but give equal
thanks to the one who saved my sister, and to the one who saved
myself.”
Hilary’s voice trembled slightly as she spoke.
“If that had been the only occasion on which Captain Hepburn had shown
his courage and dauntless spirit,” replied Charles, “I should still
say that he was first in honor, for he led the way; I did but follow
his example. But I know this is not the case; I know that it is only
one of several such instances. I have heard that he has dared a leap
into a wild tossing sea, in a dark and stormy day, to save a helpless
fellow-creature. Is not that the fact, Miss Duncan?”
With glowing cheeks and quivering eyelids, Hilary assented.
“Perhaps,” said Isabel, “there are braver acts done quietly and almost
unnoticed even than that, heroic as it seems. Acts which require a
more generous heart and noble nature than the human courage which
would lead a sailor to dare the storm, to help a shipmate in
distress.”
Mr. Huyton rather looked than asked for an explanation. Isabel went
on.
“To throw oneself from the pedestal of glory in order to place another
there, to refuse the honorable distinction due to courage that it may
be transferred to a companion in exertion, is a quiet heroism, a
generous self-devotion, which requires a firmer and braver heart than
the mere defiance of bodily danger.”
Mr. Huyton bent down his eyes upon the damask table-cloth, and only
showed, by the silence that followed, that he understood the lady’s
meaning. Hilary could not avoid looking at him; she knew better than
Isabel the extent of generosity which could induce him to praise a
successful rival. No words which he could have spoken could have so
moved her heart toward him as this commendation of one whom she had
supposed him to dislike. It was noble, candid, high-minded; she had
not given him credit for such feelings; she had been unjust to him in
her imagination; she wished to make amends. She gave him a look which
expressed some part of her feeling; and while with lips trembling with
emotion, and eyes sparkling with pleasure, she glanced at him, he
suddenly raised his own eyes, met hers, and read her heart.
Isabel Barham little suspected the hidden emotions of the man to whom
she was carefully studying to be agreeable. If she had at one time,
for a short period, feared the influence of Hilary, such fears were
entirely dissipated by the intelligence which had reached her, of her
friend’s engagement. She little dreamed how often the Vicar’s daughter
had refused the hand to which she was so willing to reach out her own;
or that the affections she would so gladly have won, had long been
passionately and hopelessly devoted to another.
The heiress of the Abbey would not have deigned to stoop for a heart
which her inferior rival had refused to accept; she would have scorned
the acquisition had she really understood the position of affairs. Had
she _loved_ Mr. Huyton, her feelings would have been different; but
love had nothing to do with the matter; it was a desirable connection,
that was all. She might be capable of loving, perhaps, if she had the
temptation; but as yet it had never occurred, and Charles Huyton was
not the man to captivate her nature. The vagaries of affections are
incomprehensible, and unaccountable by any rule; but the effects of
ambition, love of importance, and worldly position, are much more easy
to calculate. By these, at the present moment, Miss Barham was
governed.
The dinner was over at last, and Hilary, released from the position
_vis-à-vis_ to Mr. Huyton, rejoiced to devote her attention to her
father, who was waiting for them in the drawing-room. The rest of the
evening went by without emotion of any trying nature. Mr. Huyton had a
good deal of conversation with Mr. Duncan, during which Hilary escaped
to the other end of the room; she had no wish to throw herself in the
way of the young man, although she was pleased that he should show
attentive deference to her father. Isabel Barham was also carefully
kind to the clergyman, and it was a pretty contrast to see her
standing beside his chair, with her graceful figure, and queenly air,
talking with elegant animation, reading in the best-modulated voice in
the world short passages from some new book she was discussing, and
raising her head occasionally, to put back the long, dark ringlets
which swept her well-turned shoulders, and would fall over her cheeks,
as she stooped to refer to the work before her.
Mr. Ufford joined Hilary at the table where she was standing, turning
over a book of prints, and entered into conversation on the topic of
Hurstdene, its village, population, schools, church, and such
particulars as might naturally be considered interesting to him. She
found him, as Mrs. Paine had said, pleasing and gentle in manners,
with a peculiar way of winning from those he conversed with their
opinions; while he seldom committed himself by stating his own. It did
not strike her at the time so much, but when she subsequently came to
reflect upon their conversation, she found that she literally knew
nothing more of his tastes, habits, opinions, and inclinations, than
might be gathered from the courtesy with which he had listened to
hers. It rather seemed, on review, as if he had been judging her, and
for that purpose had succeeded in inducing her to develop her own
views and feelings. She was not sure that she liked him; she hardly
thought this fair, and she resolved, if they met again, to preserve
greater equality in their steps toward a friendly acquaintance.
They kept rather late hours at the Abbey; it was midnight before the
party broke up, although there was nothing particular doing to
entertain them. When, however, the ladies did retire, Hilary watched,
with an indescribable interest, the greeting between Isabel and
Charles Huyton; she could not keep her fancy from speculating on, and
her heart from seriously wishing for their union, and she half hoped
that the long conversation which had engrossed them both, after Mr.
Duncan had left the drawing-room at his usual hour, might be
indicative of an approach to the sentiments which she desired.
His last words to her were spoken as easily, and in as disengaged a
tone, as to Mrs. Paine herself, and Hilary went to her room, with a
persuasion that the meeting was less uncomfortable than she could have
expected. She drew a low chair to the fire, and sat down to think; but
her reverie was soon interrupted by a light tap at the door she had
not previously noticed, which, on opening, disclosed Dora Barham in
her dressing-gown, with her long hair all hanging about her shoulders.
“Our rooms adjoin, you see, dear Hilary,” said she, closing the door,
and coming up to her friend. “I have sent my maid to bed, and now let
me talk to you.”
She threw herself on the carpet at her feet, laid her arm in Hilary’s
lap, and looked up in her face with a wistful expression.
“Oh, I am so unhappy! I do not the least know what to do. What ought I
to do?――do tell me?”
“My dearest Dora! how can I?” replied Miss Duncan, caressing the soft
round cheek, and lovingly putting back the glossy hair which spread
over her knee.
“Oh, you do know a great deal. They want me to marry, and I can not,
will not; you know why. But they do so want me to marry.”
“Who do?”
“Papa and Isabel, and Lady Margaret. Oh, it’s dreadful; you do not
know what I have gone through these six months.”
“To marry!” said Hilary; “what, to marry in a general way, or is there
some one in particular? You talk vaguely.”
“Oh, one man in particular: Mr. Ufford!”
“What, this clergyman?”
“Oh, no, his elder brother, a much older man, a widower, too, with one
little girl; think of wanting to make me a step-mother.”
“And do you not like this gentleman?”
“No, not much, pretty well; he is pleasant, and good, and kind. I like
him better than his brother here; he is much more open and generous;
only if he would have been so obliging as not to fancy himself in love
with me, I should have liked him much better.”
“And now, where is he? is he still wanting to marry you?”
“He says, of course, if I am so averse, he will not press his suit;
but he shall and must love me to the end of time; and papa says I am a
silly child, and do not know my own mind. And oh, Hilary, he
said――‘Dora, if you loved another, I would not have pressed you to
accept this offer; but since your heart is disengaged, there is no
reason that you should not marry a man of such a character and such a
position as Mr. Ufford!’”
“And what did you say, Dora?”
Dora hid her face and sobbed, then said――
“I complained of his age, his daughter, my youth, my indifference, but
I got no pity. They would not admit these to be objections.”
“Then you could not plead that your affections were pre-engaged,
Dora?”
Again the face was hidden, and there was silence.
“Dora!” said Hilary, stooping and kissing her, “do not be ashamed to
say so, if you are indifferent to _him_; I shall not blame you, if you
have conquered an imprudent inclination; speak to me, say is that the
case?”
“No,” cried she, with vehemence, and raising her flushed face
suddenly, “I have not. I love your brother better than ever; absence,
time, separation, make no difference. I love him now, and I shall love
him forever!”
“Then why not tell your father? had you owned it then, you would have
been able to explain all.”
“I was going to. I intended to have told him; I was only thinking how
to begin, when he silenced me by adding, ‘I say this, Dora, because I
feel assured any daughter of mine would be incapable of forming or
owning to an unworthy passion; of encouraging an affection beneath
her, of consulting wild and childish fancies, rather than the claims
of her family, the advancement of her best interests, and the
maintenance of that elevated position in society, in which she has
been placed by her birth and fortune.’ What could I say after that,
Hilary? Own that I loved a poor lieutenant! I dared not.”
There followed a long silence. To urge on her friend measures which,
if they did not altogether embroil her with her father, would be so
much more advantageous to Maurice than to Dora, was impossible for
Hilary. She had given her opinion of right and wrong, she could do no
more; so the two girls sat together, looking at the fire, and each
plunged in thought.
“What must I do?” at last sighed Dora. “I sometimes think of going
into a convent; if I were only a Roman Catholic, I would.”
“My dear Dora!”
“Then,” continued the willful little penitent, “I think of telling Mr.
Ufford that I love another, and so getting him to give me up. What do
you think of that?”
“I do not know.”
“Hilary, would you, for all the riches and titles in the world, marry
any other than Captain Hepburn? tell me.”
“Certainly not; I could not.”
“Nor will I than Maurice; our cases are exactly similar.”
“Not quite.”
“Yes, they are; we each love one, and that feeling makes it wrong to
engage ourselves to another. There is no difference.”
“A little. I have my father’s consent to my affection and engagement.
If I had not, I should try to obtain it.”
“And if you could not?”
“I should try to conquer my affection.”
“What! and leave your lover to suppose you faithless, changeable,
treacherous? I will not.”
“Yes. If it is not right to love, it matters little what he thinks of
you, in comparison of doing right. Your duty is to conquer an
improper, unauthorized affection, and the sooner the better.”
“But it is not improper; it is right to love as I do.”
“Then tell your father, Dora.”
“I dare not――_he_ will not think it right.”
“Nay, then it is wrong.”
“Cruel, cruel Hilary!”
“I am sorry to seem so, dear Dora; but it appears to me so plain.
There are but two things to do. Own your attachment and abide by the
consequences; or conquer it, and give Maurice up entirely.”
“I have nothing to give up; I am not bound to him, nor he to me,
except in unalterable affection. That is all.”
“A most unhappy affection. How much better for you both, if you could
renounce it entirely. Continued as it is, it can only make you
discontented, miserable, unable to adopt any path in life. If you
could but overcome and forget it!”
“And marry Mr. Ufford? Never!”
Hilary was silent again.
“I never thought to hear such words from you, Hilary,” continued Dora.
“Have you no regard for honor and principle, that you advise me to
marry without love? have you no affection left for Maurice that you
bid me abandon him? none for me, that you desire me to perjure myself?
Oh, shame, shame on you, Hilary! You do not deserve to be Maurice’s
sister.”
“I do not deserve such reproaches,” replied Miss Duncan steadily,
looking at her friend’s glowing face, as she started to her feet
before her. “I never proposed, or prompted such ideas.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“That you should really and honestly try to conquer your unfortunate
predilection for my brother. Surely there is no virtue in obstinate
constancy; the passion denominated love, has no such merit in itself,
that it should be clung to at the expense of all other good qualities;
that candor, and filial affection, and self-denial, and self-control,
are all to be sacrificed to it. What is it, after all, but often a
merely selfish inclination, a determined perseverance in our own way,
this constancy which is so much praised and extolled? And as to making
one happy, what can be a greater delusion! It seems to me that
persisting in an unfortunate attachment, is very like persisting in
entertaining some wearing illness, which makes you uncomfortable in
yourself, and uneasy to those around you.”
“But, Hilary, one can not help these things; love may be a disease,
but it is an incurable one――at least, in cases where the infection is
really taken.”
“I do not believe that, Dora. We are not sent into this world to be
the sport of our passions; and I am convinced that our natural
affections need no more be fatal to us, than our necessary acts, such
as eating and drinking. We may, by mismanagement, bring our bodies or
our minds into such a state, that the things which should conduce to
our health and happiness, may produce fatal consequences; but then who
is to blame? Consider the end and object of this life; to prepare for
a better, a peaceful, blissful state, where darkness, doubt, and
distress can not come; where tears shall disappear forever: and can
you suppose that we are necessary victims to deplorable passions which
must so entirely interfere with this great object? that love, which is
intended to assist us onward, can of its own nature be ungovernable
and incurable? Oh, no; we may learn to command every passion, even the
strongest, if we seek aright.”
“You are just talking enigmas to me; you know very well I never
learned any thing about self-control; and Maurice loves me as I am. I
shall go and take the first opportunity of telling Mr. Ufford I love
another; for I never could bear to be step-mother to a girl of twelve
years old. It is too absurd of papa to expect it at all.”
She quitted the room, leaving Hilary to meditate at leisure on what
had passed; to grieve over the mutual infatuation of her brother and
her friend, and to comfort herself that at least Dora’s pettish
injustice would not last, for she could not bear to quarrel with her.