“Her moods, good lack! they pass like show’rs.
But yesternight, and she would be
As pale and still as wither’d flow’rs;
And now to-night she laughs and speaks,
And has a color in her cheeks――――”
ISEULT.
Hilary knew Dora better than this wayward little thing knew herself.
She came back very penitent and humble, before she could sleep; and
after a great deal of kissing and crying for her crossness, she ended
by insisting on sleeping with Hilary, and taking that opportunity of
keeping her friend awake half the night, talking alternately of
Captain Hepburn and Maurice.
The morning hours after breakfast passed rather heavily away. The
ladies were together in their sitting-room, the gentlemen were all
invisible, nobody exactly knew where. Isabel was grave, Dora was
languid, and Hilary was thoughtful.
“Where’s Mr. Huyton?” yawned Dora; “how stupid of him not to come and
talk to us! I am so tired. What’s become of him, Isabel?”
“Really I do not know; perhaps he is in the library.”
“No, I went in there, just now, and Mr. Ufford was all alone, reading
St. Augustine, I believe, and making extracts. You may guess I did not
disturb him. Where is your father, Hilary?”
“He and Mr. Paine are together,” said Miss Duncan.
“Oh, how tired I am,” said Dora, laying a very pale cheek against the
crimson back of her easy chair.
“Mr. Huyton never goes away in general, where can he be?”
“I should not wonder if he has gone to ‘the Ferns,’” observed Mrs.
Paine.
Isabel looked up. “What makes you think so, Fanny?” asked she.
“I heard him order his horse to be ready immediately after breakfast,
and you know he left the table early.”
“Ah, I dare say he had business, and that brought him down into the
country,” said Miss Barham, quietly; “he feels so much at home here,
that as his own house is not habitable at present, he naturally
resorts to ours, when he wants a brief habitation.”
From all which Hilary gathered, that when with the Barhams, either at
the Abbey or elsewhere, he was accustomed generally to make himself
agreeable.
“I wish something would happen!” said Dora, presently, with another
yawn.
“What?” inquired Mrs. Paine.
“Oh, any thing, an event! something to rouse and excite one; to give
one a fillip. I do not quite want an earthquake, but I should like
something!”
“Poor child!” said Mrs. Paine, laughing; “it wants a new toy, or a
nice cake.”
“No, it is sick of cakes, and tired of toys,” said Dora; “it wants
good wholesome food, and a little work instead of play. I should like
to lose my fortune, and have to work for my bread. I think I could be
happy then.”
“Pretty work you would make of it!” said Isabel; “I wonder how you
would begin.”
“Why, really, that is a problem worth solving,” replied Dora; “I
wonder too. What part of my education do you suppose was intended to
fit me for the storms of adversity? which branch of the distorted and
grotesque plant, which forms my small portion of the Tree of
Knowledge, would be of the slightest use to me in distress? I think I
might, perhaps, be capable of engaging as a ballet-dancer; but as to
any thing else, I am sure I can not guess.”
“How can you talk so?” exclaimed her sister; “it is quite improper.
You have had a very good education for a lady!”
“Well, I happened to see one of the maids cleaning the grate to-day in
my room, and she looked so busy, so happy, and was chirrupping so
cheerfully to herself, that I could not help stopping her to ask her
what made her so merry; and she said in a frightened voice, as if
excessively ashamed of herself, that she had no time to be unhappy, so
she could not help it; for she had so much to do, that really, if she
had a mind to fret, she should not have a minute to spare, for she was
quite an underhousemaid, you see, and had to do the work, while the
others looked after her. I told her I envied her.”
“You ought not to put such ideas into their heads, Dora; it is
republican and leveling.”
“I do not think what I said will do any harm, Isabel. Hilary, if you
had to work for your bread, what would you do? Should you not like
it?”
“I believe I do it pretty much now,” replied Miss Duncan; “and I do
not particularly wish for a change.”
“Well, I do,” said Dora, closing her eyes, and sinking into profound
silence.
The morning past, the luncheon hour arrived, and not till after that
did Mr. Huyton make his appearance, nor did he publicly account for
his absence, or at all explain where, or how he had spent the three or
four hours during which he had disappeared. The Duncans were to return
home after luncheon, and as Hilary was proceeding up the long stairs
to her room, to prepare for her departure, she encountered him at the
top of them.
He stood back a little, as if to let her pass, but turned and joined
her in the gallery.
“Are you going?” said he, wistfully looking at her.
“Yes, presently; you have been riding, have you not?”
“I have been to Hurstdene.”
Hilary looked surprised.
“Yes, I spent the morning there; I longed, with an inexpressible
longing, to see those scenes again, to tread those walks, look at
those walls once more. You were here, my presence at the Vicarage
could not disturb _you_; could excite no anger in you; I ventured to
gratify my wishes. To take one more view of the place I dearly loved,
where I was once welcomed as a constant, and only too happy guest.”
“Did you see my sisters?” asked Hilary, embarrassed and pained.
“Yes, they were as kind as ever. I have at least one thing to thank
you for――you have kept my secret well. Dear girls! they little knew,
when they playfully reproached me for my long absence, whose wish it
was it should be so! It is noble of you, Miss Duncan, to allow me to
retain their good will; not to teach them to view me with aversion;
not to inspire them with the cold dislike you entertain toward me
yourself.”
“Indeed, you do me injustice, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, gently, and
pausing, in the gallery through which they were passing; “it is not
aversion that I feel for you.”
“And when we met yesterday by moonlight, could I not even then read
the expression of your face? the chilling indifference of which it
spoke, haunted me all night; and your hand, too, did it not tell the
same tale? those fingers which once used to return the pressure of
mine, now coldly suffer me to touch them, passively submitting to a
form which is demanded by good manners, not expressive of sympathy. Do
you suppose I am insensible, or indifferent to the change? Would to
Heaven that I could annihilate the last eighteen months, and stand
once more by your side the friend I once claimed to be!”
“Would that we could, Mr. Huyton, so far as you are concerned,”
replied she, gravely; “but the wish is idle and vain! we are what we
have made ourselves, and feelings, words, actions, can never, _never_
be recalled. Would that it were possible to begin anew our
acquaintance!”
“I would still be your friend, Hilary,” said he, in a more gentle
voice; “may I not be that, may I not sometimes see you on these
terms?”
“I believe you would; I know you are generous and noble; I can not
forget your words last night, and I can honor the feeling that
dictated them.”
A flash of joy passed across his face at these words, and fixing his
eyes on her, he said:
“And may I hope that you will still see me, receive me as a
friend――let me sometimes visit your father, sometimes converse with
you?”
She shook her head. “Not now; not under present circumstances.”
“Not for your father’s sake? he loves me, you know,” said he,
persuasively.
“I dare not.”
“Dare not! which then is it that you will not trust, my honor or
yours, Hilary?” There was a shadow gathering on his brow.
“Why should we peril either,” replied she; “mine, yours, or that of
another who is far away? You know my faith is pledged to him, to what
end then _our_ meeting, until you too have chosen another object for
the love you have so unfortunately misplaced? Then we _may_ meet
perhaps as friends. Till then, let us part as friends.”
“You have nothing more to fear from me, from my love,” replied he,
bending down his eyes to conceal their expression. “But neither has
any one aught to hope from it! For me to love again is impossible. Let
it be enough that I resolve to extinguish a vain, hopeless passion. I
ask now to be trusted as a friend only. Can you not believe me so far
as that?”
“It is wisest not to try,” said she, slowly.
“What makes you so mistrustful?” questioned he, looking earnestly at
her.
“Experience!” was her answer; while the color deepened on her cheeks,
as she thought of past scenes.
“Are you quite candid now, Miss Duncan? is it not, rather, the
injunction, the wish, perhaps, I should say, of _him_, of Captain
Hepburn? Did not he bid you shun me? It can not be your own nature to
be so newly suspicious; tell me it is his.”
“No, indeed, he laid no restriction on me: he trusted entirely to my
prudence, and I will show I deserved it.”
“I would rather it had been his wish; I could have borne his
suspicions better,” said Charles, sadly. “But surely, could he see me
now, he would not fear me. I only aspire to be your friend, I only ask
for calm and quiet intercourse; I have no pretensions now which could
create jealousy, or make him suppose me a rival. I own his
superiority, I admire, I esteem him; my own hopes being gone, I may at
least rejoice that one worthy of you has won you; I am resigned to my
loss; why should you make it more bitter than necessity requires?”
She was silent, but she drew back when he tried to take her hand.
“If he did not mistrust me, why should you? _He_, at least, knows us
both better, does more justice both to you and me. Why should you
hesitate? It is such a small favor I ask. For your father’s sake, let
me come sometimes and see him.”
“No, Mr. Huyton, I can not. Unlimited trust deserves unwavering
prudence. Do not ask again, it is decided. At Hurstdene, and on
purpose, I will not meet you. Let me say now, farewell. It is hard to
refuse one to whom I owe so much; it is hard to seem ungrateful; but
it is best. But you shall always have my best wishes, my earnest
prayers for your happiness; I will never forget that the hand I hold
assisted to save my life.”
“Would that I had perished then and there!” cried he, losing
self-control for a moment. “Would that the water had closed upon us
both――that I had gone down with you in my arms, rather than――” he
stopped abruptly; footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, he was
recalled to a thought of where he was; he only stayed one moment to
press her hand in both of his, to kiss it with a warmth, a passionate
ardor, which did not speak of cold friendship; to give her one sad,
reproachful look, and then he rushed toward his own dressing-room,
which was in an adjoining corridor, leaving Hilary to enter her
apartment, near the door of which they had been standing, and there to
conceal her excitement and her fears.
She had proceeded but a little way in her preparations for departure,
when Dora rushed into the room, her bonnet in one hand, and her cloak
in the other.
“I am going with you, Hilary, for the drive,” cried she; “the horses
must stop there to rest; for I have made papa agree that it was more
civil I should go home with you.”
She seemed in great spirits, and danced about at intervals, while she
was pretending to dress.
“You are awake now, Dora,” said her friend, smiling; but her voice
betrayed at once that her own tears were not far off.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed Dora, stopping to look anxiously at
her friend; “what have you been crying about, Hilary, tell me?”
“Nothing worth talking of――my own folly,” replied Miss Duncan, turning
away, and stooping to look at the lock of a carpet bag.
“I have long known,” said Dora, gravely, “that you were a very foolish
child, always crying about nonsense and trifles; so I can easily
believe you. No doubt you hurt your foot against a step, or pricked
your finger with your brooch, and that made you cry.”
Hilary laughed a little, and did not answer otherwise.
“I want to come and stay with you at the Vicarage for some days,”
continued Dora, in another voice. “Do ask me, I should so like it.
Tell papa you want me.”
“I am afraid Mr. Barham would think I was taking too great a liberty
in asking you, Dora.”
“Oh, no, he would not mind; you ask me, and he will let me go. You do
want me, do you not?”
“Very much,” said Miss Duncan, kindly; “it would give me great
pleasure indeed to have you there, but I hardly think you are likely
to be permitted.”
“Oh, we will see,” said Dora; “now I am ready; are you? then come
down.”
Mr. Huyton was down stairs with the other visitors when the girls
descended; calm, self-possessed, and courteous; listening gracefully
to Isabel, who was discussing a question on political economy with Mr.
Ufford; while Mr. Barham sat by with a look of paternal pride.
Hilary ventured to make the request dictated by Dora; it was
graciously received, treated as a very great kindness and honor, and
if Miss Duncan liked to trouble herself with such a wild, thoughtless
little child as Dora, he should be very happy at some future time;
they would think of it.
“Mrs. Paine returns to Primrose Bank on Saturday,” suggested Dora,
“let me go then to the Vicarage; it would suit Hilary very well, I
know.”
Dora settled it all her own way; Isabel did not disapprove; it was
true that Mr. Ufford was to leave them also in company with the
Paines, but Mr. Huyton had promised to remain some time longer, and
she was just as well pleased that her sister should _not_ be there
during this visit; for so carefully did Charles balance his
attentions, and so strictly impartial was he to both sisters, that the
eldest never actually felt sure whether she was or was not the one
preferred.
Very glad indeed was Hilary to be back in her own home, and away from
the grandeur and restraints of Drewhurst Abbey. She never felt so much
at ease with Mr. Barham as with any one else, and the sight of Charles
Huyton made her unhappy. The great surprise which her sisters expected
to afford her, turned out a failure; for she had already heard of
their visitor; but it was news to Dora, who had not guessed where he
had been, and who did not fail on her return home to charge him with
it.
Saturday came, and brought the younger Miss Barham to take up her
abode at the Vicarage, as she had promised, much to the delight of the
sisters there, who could not make enough of her. She was in great
spirits, laughing and chatting rather wildly, and making them all
laugh, too, with her nonsense. Her grief and anxiety sat lightly
indeed on her. The Paines and Mr. Ufford accompanied her, the latter
to be introduced to the Vicarage; he was to preach the next morning.
Mr. Duncan appeared extremely pleased with him, and there was every
prospect that Mr. Barham’s plans would be carried out.
Two or three days passed; Dora was still at the Vicarage, very happy
and amusing, when, one morning, Hilary returning to the drawing-room,
after a brief absence, found two visitors there, one of whom was a
stranger. However, from his resemblance to his companion, she guessed
him to be the elder Mr. Ufford, before Dora, with some blushes and
embarrassment, introduced him as such.
He was a pleasing and sensible-looking man, with an air of elegance
becoming his birth, but with nothing in the slightest degree affected,
or wearing the appearance of dandyism. He was simply in the best sense
a gentleman, and a very good-looking one, too. Hilary liked him very
much. Neither was he so immensely old, as Dora had represented him; to
look at him, you could hardly believe him eight-and-twenty; and but
for the certainty of his having a daughter, she would never have given
him credit for a greater age. Possibly the representations of Dora had
overstepped the facts, and this obnoxious child might not be quite so
much as twelve years old.
Mr. James Ufford, the clergyman, was the bearer of a message from Mrs.
Paine, who was desirous to see Miss Duncan on some parochial matters,
but was detained at home by cold and headache: he had, accordingly,
set off to bring this message; and on the way had been overtaken by
his brother, who had ridden over from Drewhurst Abbey that morning. It
was proposed, partly on Dora’s suggestion, that they should all walk
over to Primrose Bank together, and accordingly they presently set
out, Hilary and Gwyneth with Mr. Ufford, junior; Dora under the care
of the elder brother.
These two did not attempt to keep up with the others, and Hilary soon
lost sight of them. Perhaps, concern for her brother made her
quick-sighted, but she could not help fancying that, in spite of her
assertions, Dora was by no means unwilling to receive the admiration
or permit the attentions of her companion, and she could not
anticipate any other conclusion to the affair than what Captain
Hepburn had predicted as most probable.
She was so much engrossed by these considerations as to afford but
indifferent company to Mr. James Ufford, who, in consequence, devoted
himself to Gwyneth, and succeeded in convincing that young lady that
he was, without exception, the most delightful man in the world, even
before they reached Primrose Bank.
Hilary went straight in-doors, and sought Mrs. Paine, who was in her
own room; but the other two, tempted by the fineness of the day,
lingered on the little lawn, looking at the blossoms of the
laurustinus bushes, and planning imaginary changes in the flower-beds,
until they were rejoined by the others, who loitered behind.
Mrs. Paine and Miss Duncan having finished their business, came down
stairs together, when they found the drawing-room full. Besides those
for whose presence they were prepared, Charles Huyton was there, whose
visit was unexpected by either; he had, however, come over from the
Abbey in company with George Ufford, and while the latter had followed
his brother, he had been wandering about with Mr. Paine, inspecting
the outhouses, which wanted some alterations, and planning other
improvements in the place.
He was now gayly conversing with Dora Barham, and even after he had
advanced to greet the two ladies, he again returned to her side; while
she, with more coquetry than Hilary had suspected her of feeling,
seemed encouraging him, either from actual preference, or to pique
George Ufford; it was not easy to decide which. Miss Duncan made up
her mind that day, that constancy and earnestness were not a part of
Dora’s nature; that her conduct depended on her feelings; while her
feelings appeared entirely under the influence of chance or accident
varying at every turn.
Perhaps Dora was afraid of her friend’s reproaches, for after their
return home, where they were escorted by James Ufford alone, the other
gentlemen being obliged to ride back to the Abbey, she carefully
avoided any occasion of having a confidential discussion of the past.
In a very few more days she was to return home, and Hilary hoped
sincerely they might part without any further reference to her
personal affairs. But this was not the case. Miss Duncan discovered
accidentally that in a letter Gwyneth had been writing to Maurice,
Dora had persuaded her to insert so many messages, so much of
reminiscence and kindness, as must tend to delude Maurice, as it
perhaps deluded herself, into the idea that she was still constant to
him in her affections, and unchangeably bent on loving him alone.
Hilary felt obliged to remonstrate.
“Please don’t, Dora, another time. It is not right to any one; to
Gwyneth, or to Maurice, or yourself, or your father; if I had known it
in time, I should have stopped the letter.”
Dora looked half-vexed and half-foolish.
“You are so precise, Hilary; you are not like any body else.”
“Perhaps not; but we are not talking of myself, but of Maurice and
you.”
“I quite wonder you consider it correct to put us in the same
sentence, when you seem so determined to keep us apart,” continued
Dora.
“Now, please, dear Dora, do be reasonable,” said Hilary, imploringly;
“can I ask you to come here that you may carry on a clandestine
correspondence with my brother? What would your father say?”
“My dear Hilary, every body has their peculiarities; yours is to be
haunted with the idea that every body is doing something improper,
unless they will proclaim their deeds at the market cross.”
“What is clandestine must be wrong,” said Hilary, decidedly.
“But can you not comprehend, my dear young friend, that there is a
difference between secrecy and improper concealment? It is not
necessary to publish every thing one knows, neither is it wrong to
avoid some topics. Even to a father there may be things which it is
better not to repeat; there may be subjects concealed from the best of
motives.”
“This is all very true, perhaps, but the difference between discretion
and dissimulation is positive, Dora. If you feel sure that when he
knows your conduct he will approve it, and consider your secrecy was
justifiable and proper, you may venture to practice it, I suppose,
without fear.”
Dora was silent.
“Neither is it fair to Maurice,” continued Hilary; “you are misleading
him; I do not blame you for learning to prefer another, but――”
“No,” interrupted Dora, “you could hardly do that, at least with
justice, since it is not the case.”
“Dora, you deceive yourself, surely; your manners to Mr. Ufford――”
“Dear Hilary, don’t tell me my manners encourage _him_,” cried she,
rather alarmed; “I assure you I do not mean it in the least; but what
can I do? He is so gentle and amiable, I can not be cross to him, and
you would not have me rude, I am sure; so then I turn round and flirt
with Mr. Huyton to get rid of the other, and you look at me with such
fault-finding eyes: are you jealous, Hilary, it is that? I believe Mr.
Huyton loves you all the time. Oh, Hilary! what a blush, my dear girl!
you are jealous, then: what will Captain Hepburn say?”
“If I did not know that you were talking all this nonsense merely to
get rid of my remonstrances, I should be seriously displeased with
such foolish language, Dora; as it is――”
“As it is, Hilary, you must bear with me! I love Maurice, and Maurice
only, but Mr. Huyton amuses me when I am dying of _ennui_; he is
pleasant and clever, and I know well that he has no heart to bestow,
to have any dread of entangling it. Do you think I have not seen how
he loves you! how he follows you with his eyes, listens to your voice,
even while he is talking to others; worships your shadow, and haunts
your footsteps? I never could make out why you did not like him; for
although I do not myself, I think you might suit him, and he you.”
“All this has nothing to do with what I was talking of, Dora; you know
Mr. Huyton is nothing to me; but while I retain any regard for you
(and that must be always), I can not help wishing to prevent your
doing wrong, and deceiving yourself and Maurice.”
“Well, I will not deceive Mr. Ufford; I will tell him plainly my
opinion the very first opportunity!”
“Are you quite sure what your opinion is? are you certain that when
you send him away, you shall not regret what you have done? Do you
really wish to give him up?”
“I would give up twenty such men for Maurice.”
“Consider, Dora, if you were to marry my brother, you would become the
wife of a poor man, one who must immediately curtail all the luxuries
and indulgence which have become habit to you. Are you seriously bent
on this――prepared for it?”
“I should like poverty――riches and luxury disgust me; I am weary of
indulgence.”
“But think what it would be to lose your place in society, which you
must do when you ceased to be Miss Barham, of Drewhurst Abbey, to step
down into retirement and neglect; to lay aside your elegant style of
toilette, to give up your horses, your carriages, your journeys here
and there at pleasure; your multitude of attendants, your luxurious
rooms. To have to wait on yourself, order your own dinners, put up
with indifferent and awkward servants, consider before you spent even
five shillings, calculate which joint of meat is most economical, and
how to make it last longest and go furthest; perhaps even to repair
your own wardrobe, certainly to walk about on foot; and to live in
small rooms, with the certainty of not being able to travel for change
or diversion. Could you patiently put up with all this, and smile away
difficulties and _ennui_ in such circumstances?”
“I suppose I could as well as another woman, unless you mean to infer
that your brother and his wife must be unhappy; I do not see that I
should be more so than any other.”
“You might, because you would have so much to renounce; while all
these things would be natural, and therefore easy, to one brought up
as I have been. You say you would like poverty, Dora; try. Allow
yourself the gratification of no whim, deny yourself every superfluity
which arrests your fancy, rise early, live plainly, do some useful
work; for instance, make a flannel petticoat for a poor woman, or a
cotton frock for a baby, and try for a month, or a fortnight even, how
you like such a life. It would be sad to make a mistake, and find it
out too late.”
“But it would be quite different, Hilary, to play at being poor
myself, or to be really so with Maurice.”
“I admit that; you could go back at any time to riches; the step would
not be inevitable.”
“And so it would be unreal, and therefore could do no good. The motive
would be wanting.”
“I do not see that; the motive would be to try whether you could
manage without riches; to understand yourself, and form a right
judgment of the value you set on wealth. If you could not do without
indulgence to this modified extent, and for so short a time, you would
have no right to engage in such a situation for life.”
“Besides,” said Dora, “I do not believe it can be necessary; for
though Maurice is not rich, I should have my own fortune, which will,
probably, be large. Papa told me he would give me handsome settlements
if I married Mr. Ufford.”
“And how much would he give you if you married Mr. Duncan?” inquired
Hilary, significantly.
“Oh, I don’t know! The same I suppose! why not?”
Hilary looked doubtful. Dora went on.
“And then, after all, nobody in my station really is poor; it is all a
romance of your imagination. I dare say Maurice would contrive as
other people do, to get along and keep up a respectable appearance. I
need not have bad servants, I would hire good ones; and I would manage
my ménage so that it should be no trouble, and I should rather like
the pleasure of ordering dinner, and contriving nice little surprises
for him in the way of eating. I am sure I could be happy.”
“Of one thing, Dora, we are quite sure; without your father’s consent,
you will never try the experiment; and if he wishes you to marry Mr.
Ufford, he is not likely to approve of your engaging yourself to
Maurice.”
“You dreadfully matter-of-fact girl! how you knock down all my
delightful castles. Oh! Hilary, I wish you had been crossed in love,
and then you would have had some pity for me.”
And so the discussion ended. Hilary had not learned as yet, that to
contradict a youthful passion, to argue against it, to overwhelm it
with unanswerable reasons, and endeavor to extinguish it with detailed
proofs of its absurdity or unfitness, is certain to strengthen and
increase its power; so red-hot iron is hardened into tempered steel by
plunging it suddenly into cold water.