“In the woods where the gleams play
On the grass under the trees,
Passing the long summer’s day
Idly as a mossy stone,
In the forest depths.”
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.
Time passed on, as time will do. Eighteen more months went by; Hilary
hardly knew whether to say they went fast or slowly. Fast, very fast,
it seemed, when she thought of the changes it had brought. It was only
two years since they had first seen Mr. Farrington, and Sybil was now
his wife. The child had grown up and loved, and married, and left her
father’s house; and yet how short a time it seemed since she was yet a
child, dependent on Hilary’s care. Now she was in another home, the
center of her own system. She was very happy; so, though her absence
caused a gap, it was not to be lamented. Very fast, too, time seemed
to move with her father; how rapidly he had aged, how infirm he had
grown in these two years. It saddened Hilary’s heart to look at him;
he had always been old for his age, he might have been eighty in
appearance now; and fear whispered to the daughter, that she could
not, must not, hope for lengthened days for him. She dared not look
forward, so she turned away her eyes.
But slowly, slowly it seemed to move, the time which was to bring her
lover home. Two years of his absence had gone, perhaps more than
another might have to pass ere his return. She began now to understand
what was meant by hope deferred; she knew what waiting was now. Now
and then her bright hopes seemed to fail her, and she was ready to
murmur that he should still delay. But better feelings usually
prevailed; he was doing his duty; he was acting right; he was denying
his strongest inclinations, and should _she_ give way, she who had
neither storm, nor danger, nor anxious responsibility, nor thwarting
cares nor vexatious counteractions, nor any other difficulty to
contend with? She could stay with those she loved in her sheltered
home, and pray for him in the parish church, knowing so little
trouble, feeling no doubt of her duty. Shame on her false heart, her
feeble trust, her fainting patience, if they failed her at such a
time.
The other changes besides those mentioned were slight. The Paines
indeed had gone, and Mr. Ufford now filled the office of curate. He
had much more absolute power than Mr. Paine had exercised. Mr. Duncan
was incapable of doing much, so Mr. Ufford ruled supreme, and, except
that he had contrived to offend many of the farmers’ wives, and
quarrel with their husbands, had driven away the old schoolmistress,
and considerably diminished the school, had scattered the congregation
and half-emptied the church, every thing might be considered to do
very well. Hilary saw much of this with sorrow, Gwyneth with wondering
indignation; not at the clergyman, however, but at the people who
disagreed with him. What any one could find to quarrel with in him,
she could not imagine. So good, so quiet, so full of plans for the
good of every one; it was wonderful that every one would not submit to
be led as she was, and would not on every occasion give up will, wish,
and reason to the control of Mr. Ufford.
She could not understand why, but certainly Mr. Ufford had an
unfortunate faculty, both for giving and taking offense, for finding
himself injured, and feeling himself neglected, which did not smooth
his way in the parish. It is foreign to my story, to relate how he
quarreled with the village choir about the Psalms, and the
church-wardens about the poor-box; how pews became a lively subject of
discussion, and churchings a source of dissent. He had Mr. Duncan’s
ear, and could persuade him to what he pleased; and he was so
plausible in his statements, so well-intentioned in his theories,
that, of course, it was impossible he should contradict him.
Nothing could exceed the almost paternal kindness with which he had
been welcomed and treated by the vicar; and Hilary, conscious that her
engagement was known to him, fearing no evil, and thinking no harm,
had received him nearly as a brother, and done every thing she could
to smooth his way with the people. Such influence as he had, he owed
to the Duncans.
As to Gwyneth, ever since their first interview, she had given him
credit for every virtue under the sun, and invariably believed him to
be perfectly right, let who would differ from or disagree with him.
She was the confidante, consequently, of all his theories for the
improvement of his people, of all his wishes that they were very
different from what they were, and of all his doubts of ever making
them any better. His theories certainly were beautiful: it was
unfortunate that they should be based on the most ideal foundations,
and so be generally impracticable. It was unfortunate, too, that those
changes which he did introduce did not work well. For instance, as I
said before, his attempt to re-model the school ended in the secession
of the schoolmistress; but as his plans were never sufficiently fixed
to be acted on, the new schoolmaster fell into his own ways, and the
routine became rather more inefficient than before, while Mr. Ufford,
in disgust, pretty well ceased to visit it.
And so it was in every thing else; things did not suit his fancy, were
imperfect, or inappropriate; he made violent changes, was opposed, was
determined, carried his point, made enemies, gradually grew
indifferent, and gave up his object, contenting himself with strolling
about the Vicarage garden, detailing impracticable schemes to Gwyneth,
and drawing imaginary pictures of what might be.
He was one of those people who never have time for any thing, and who,
from want of _reality_, do nothing in the end, although avowedly
always busy. What could be effected by others in his plans, was well
done; what depended on himself alone, was well talked of. Yet he was a
great favorite with many, especially with recent acquaintance, and his
friends always formed the highest estimate of his powers, and the
liveliest expectations of their results.
Hilary was most anxious to think well of him. She discovered in time
that he was expecting to succeed her father in the living; and this
created a strong source of interest in him, and a most ardent wish
that he should prove all that he was supposed to be. She shut her eyes
to his deficiencies, excused any mistakes or neglects, labored to
supply the care and zeal which were occasionally wanting, and to
reconcile all apparent inconsistencies or short-comings. She had often
hard work, and did sometimes feel as if she were endeavoring to make
ropes of sand, although she laid all the blame of failure on her own
mal-adroitness and ignorance.
Left as Hilary was almost entirely to her own discretion, it was not
surprising that she sometimes made mistakes of conduct, acting on an
innocence and ignorance of the world beyond her own village, which
made her singularly unsuspicious of evil, and blind to imprudence. It
certainly was a mistake to allow such unlimited and unreserved
intercourse between Mr. Ufford and her own family; or rather, perhaps,
the mistake was in those who placed so young a man in a situation
where such intercourse was unavoidable. She herself heartily wished he
were married; she missed Mrs. Paine more every month of their
separation, and especially after Sybil had left Hurstdene; for Gwyneth
was so much more reserved and silent than her sister, besides being
younger, that she could not entirely fill her place; and her feelings
were so enthusiastic, and so little regulated by reason, when she did
express them, that Hilary had some trouble in guiding her at all.
Of course, Miss Duncan’s bright spot in the future was the _Pandanus_;
for however unremitting and unreserved a correspondence might be, it
was impossible for the letters of a lover in the West Indies to supply
all the daily counsel, the prudence, and the judgment which she needed
to guide her; and what could possibly stand instead of the charm of
his personal presence?
Mr. Ufford’s father had died about a year after that gentleman had
settled at Hurstdene, and his elder brother, after some occasional and
rather lengthy visits to the village, had just gone abroad, partly for
his own health, which was precarious, still more for his daughter’s,
which was decidedly delicate. Their mother had died of consumption,
the second son, too, had shared the same fate, and many people thought
the present Lord Dunsmoor had inherited the same weakness. James
Ufford appeared the most robust of the family, and there seemed
considerable probability that the title would eventually devolve on
him.
Not that this idea had ever occurred to the sisters at the Vicarage,
who, from seeing him every day, observing his simple habits, and
quiet, gentlemanlike indolence, quite forgot that he belonged by birth
to another sphere than themselves, and might some day rise to a circle
where they could not hope to reach.
Meanwhile the Barhams had been sometimes at the Abbey as usual, and
sometimes absent for months. It was evident Lord Dunsmoor avoided
them, and Dora, in confidence, told Hilary, she had let him know that
her heart was engaged elsewhere. Charles Huyton, too, was often there.
Hilary met him too often. He was a great friend of James Ufford’s, and
frequently at Primrose Bank; of course, Hilary could not prevent that:
she could not help, either, falling in with him in her walks and
visits, but it was always painful. He was ever the same. Humble,
gentle, only begging for friendship, entreating for tolerance,
pleading for simple intercourse, if she remonstrated at these
meetings; if she took them quietly, and tried to treat them as things
of no consequence, he would use the opportunity to say or do something
to oblige her. Papers which contained any intelligence of the
_Pandanus_ were always forwarded to her, and she knew the hand which
directed them: news was obtained through the Admiralty of every change
of the vessel’s destination, and transmitted through James Ufford for
her information. It was impossible to show more disinterested desire
to please her; more anxious concern to win her confidence, and prove
himself her friend. It was hard to repulse his attentions, and to seem
unjustly suspicious; yet she could not trust him, she feared him too
much, to be at ease――she was never sure of his sincerity.
Victoria Fielding had not since been seen in the neighborhood; she had
married and settled in Cheshire, as had been intended. Charles often
went there to visit her, and messages of friendship from her to Miss
Duncan were not unfrequently the excuse for some interview.
It was summer again, and every thing was sparkling in a brilliant
morning sun. Miss Duncan was in the garden before breakfast, cutting
some flowers, stooping over a rose-tree, to select the blossoms which
could best be spared; Gwyneth was making the tea in the parlor, while
Nest was demurely talking to papa, occupied meanwhile in needle-work
of the first importance.
“Hilary!” said a voice behind her which made her start. Down went the
basket, the flowers, the scissors, all disregarded, forgotten. She was
in another moment gently, tenderly clasped in Captain Hepburn’s arms.
Surprise was swallowed up in delight, she could not even ask how he
came, she was so happy to see him there.
When the first excitement had passed away and explanations were
demanded, it appeared that the machinery of the _Pandanus_ having been
found defective, she had been ordered home to refit, and having
arrived after an unusually rapid voyage, the captain had obtained
forty-eight hours’ leave, and traveled down in all haste to spend the
time with his affianced, bringing the first news of his own arrival in
England, as both he and Maurice, it appeared, had been too busy to
write to announce it.
Maurice, too, was in England then; he was well, but could not leave
the ship for more than twenty-four hours, so for the present he must
content himself with seeing Sybil in London. It was possible that the
steamer might be paid off; “and if so,” said Captain Hepburn, “I
should be free for the present; perhaps it might be months before I
should be employed again, perhaps years, and in that case, Hilary――”
his eyes finished the sentence which his words left incomplete, as he
stooped his head to take a view of the pretty blushing face, which was
trying to conceal the feelings it could not suppress, and drooping so
gracefully close beside him.
“You all seem very glad to have the captain with you again,” said Mr.
Ufford, laughingly to Gwyneth, during his usual forenoon visit. Hilary
was in the garden with her lover. “He is a great favorite, apparently.
I affronted Miss Nest just now grievously by saying that I did not
think him the nicest man in the world; not so pleasant for instance as
Charles Huyton.”
“Nest loves him dearly,” replied Gwyneth, “and it is natural she
should, for you know he saved her life in the water.”
“If that sort of obligation were always productive of dear love,”
replied he, “my friend Huyton would occupy the place just now filled
by Captain Hepburn there.”
“Perhaps he might have, had he wished it,” said Gwyneth, innocently.
“But Hilary was not likely to bestow it even from gratitude, if he did
not ask for it himself.”
“_If!_” exclaimed Mr. Ufford, amazed. “Is it possible that you, Miss
Gwyneth, can be ignorant of his wishes, and his disappointment? I
thought those sort of triumphs were always boasted of between young
ladies with peculiar delight.”
“I can imagine no delight in disappointing an amiable man, nor any
triumph in pleasing a bad one,” was Gwyneth’s answer. “So in any case
there could be nothing to boast of.”
“And did she never tell you?” added he, curiously looking at her.
“No! and if there was any thing to tell, the same delicacy which
prevented her naming it must prevent me from discussing it. At the
same time I think it must long have ceased if there ever was any
attachment. Hilary has been engaged these two years, and Mr. Huyton
apparently has attached himself to Miss Barham since that!”
“Miss Barham!” repeated Mr. Ufford, with a curl of his lip; but he did
not finish the sentence.
The next morning, when Mr. Ufford as usual walked over to the
Vicarage, he was accompanied by Charles Huyton himself. There was a
little embarrassment and hesitation in his manner as he presented
himself, indicative, perhaps, of uncertainty as to his reception, but
which was quite unusual with him. But with Captain Hepburn beside her,
Hilary could venture to be frank and friendly; and the kindly
inclination shown by this visit toward one who had been his rival won
him a smile and a gentle glance, such as he had not met for a long
while. Charles came to congratulate them on the safe return of the
_Pandanus_ to England, to express his good wishes, and to shake hands
with Captain Hepburn once more. So he said; and he did give a
prolonged and friendly grasp to his rival’s hand, such as no true
English heart could give or receive if a shade of evil feeling
remained behind. It seemed to speak of deep heartfelt congratulations,
and an earnest, trusting commendation to his care of the fair being
whom they both had loved, and one had loved so hopelessly though
truly. So Captain Hepburn interpreted the action, and gave him credit
for generosity and submission, and true nobleness of mind.
They were wandering about in the garden, when Captain Hepburn noticed
some changes which had been made there. Hilary said they had been
suggested by Mr. Ufford, and principally effected by Gwyneth, who had
adopted the ideas; for herself, she liked the old way best.
“So do I, Miss Duncan,” said Charles, gravely. “The old garden had
great charms for me; do you know, Captain Hepburn, I have only once
been in this garden since you left England.”
“Indeed!” replied the sailor; “whose doing was that then?”
“It was this lady’s wish,” said Charles, “but I thought it hard. Will
you not make interest with her, that I may not be excluded in future?
Trust me a little.”
“I can not interfere with Miss Duncan’s rules or regulations as to her
visitors,” replied Captain Hepburn, in a tone that might pass for jest
or earnest. “If I had any power I might exercise it in your favor: at
present, you know, I am only a visitor myself, and can say nothing.”
“Papa wants you, Hilary,” said Nest, just then running up; and she,
taking her little sister’s hand, returned to the house, rather glad at
that moment to escape.
The gentlemen remained together looking after her, as they stood under
the old lime tree on the lawn.
Mr. Huyton was the first to speak.
“We have been rivals, Captain Hepburn, but we need not be enemies; I
would gladly prove myself not only your friend, but the friend also of
the woman whom I may not love.”
His companion thanked him for his professions.
“While you have been gone, it has been my wish still to watch over her
happiness, and to guard her in every way. She can tell you that from
the day I learned how your success had forever deprived me of hope, I
have never breathed a word, nor done a single action which has spoken
of any sentiment of which you could disapprove.”
“I have no doubt of it,” replied Captain Hepburn, frankly; “and allow
me to thank you for your many acts of kindness. But you must also
permit me to say, that it is for the sake of your own happiness alone,
I can form any wishes regarding the extinction of your attachment to
Miss Duncan. No doubt it is better for you that it should sink into
friendly feeling; otherwise your sentiments toward her, though they
may interest, could not disturb me. Her manner of receiving them is
all that concerns me, and that has my most entire approval!”
Charles Huyton colored deeply, and bit his lip in silence.
“Excuse my frankness,” continued the sailor, “I do not intend to hurt
your feelings; I only want to assure you, that I entertain no jealousy
or mistrust, and can feel none, while she continues what she is. But
you must understand, that my confidence does not arise from your
refraining to seek her love, but from her own rectitude and delicacy.
Your honorable intentions I have no right to doubt; but my happiness
is not dependent on your honor, nor on that of any other man. If she
could not guard her own, your forbearance and generosity would avail
me little.”
“Of course! of course!” said Charles, eagerly, having recovered his
composure and complexion; “in her you must have perfect confidence; I
hope you may have the same in me. You may, perhaps, be leaving her
again; her father’s health is failing fast; in the event of his
decease the daughters must leave their present home, and I shudder to
think of the distress which will befall them. Give me permission at
such a time, or in any other moment of trouble, to watch over them
with a brother’s regard, and extend to them a brother’s care. Let me
plead your authority for interesting myself in their welfare, and
doing whatever may be within my power to comfort and protect them.”
“Thank you,” said Captain Hepburn, quietly, in reply to Mr. Huyton’s
earnest enthusiasm. “I am obliged to acknowledge the same thing. Mr.
Duncan’s health is, I fear, failing rapidly; and sorrow is probably in
store for them on that account. She will suffer greatly.”
“And will you authorize me to do what I wish; the little that is in my
power to protect or shield them in trouble, to comfort and befriend
them?”
“You can hardly need my authority, Mr. Huyton, to enable you to act
the part of a friend, so far as the usages of society allow. Beyond
this, of course, you can not wish to go. Where the world has placed
its ban on incurring obligation, or accepting favors, there it is not
only prudent but proper not to trespass.”
“Oh, my dear sir, the usages of society are narrow and restricted; the
ban of the world is cold and cruel; they are invented to excuse
selfish indolence, and silence the claims of the helpless and
dependent. I would wish to set these aside, and act on my own
judgment, as true friendship and kindness may require, regardless of
what others may think.”
“Excuse me, sir, but the injunction to ‘Provide things honest in the
sight of all men,’ requires that friendship and kindness should regard
what may be said of others. The usages of society are founded on a
long experience of facts and results; and though they may only aim at
controlling appearances, they are not safely to be trampled on;
neither is the world in general so very strict in its requisitions as
to make it too difficult to comply with them. Depend upon it, they are
founded on right principles, although only in themselves the very
shell of what is fair and good.”
“All I ask is to be trusted; to act as the adopted brother and sincere
friend of Miss Duncan and her sisters, in case of trouble.”
“So far as Miss Duncan herself will authorize you, I can make no
objection, Mr. Huyton: but nominal adoption and confidential
friendship between individuals situated as you are, are mere
delusions, and have been most judiciously placed in the category of
unsafe and unadvisable things, although they may not be actually
considered incorrect.”
“The fact is,” said Charles, with a slightly bitter politeness, “you
are afraid to trust me. Well, so be it. If your suspicions interfere
to prevent Miss Duncan having a friend in need, I can at least assure
you she shall have my best wishes; that is all I can give her.”
Hilary returned at this juncture and Mr. Huyton felt himself obliged
to take leave, although it was evidently with reluctance that he went.
Fast flew the hours, bright and fast, which Captain Hepburn might
spend at Hurstdene; his professional duties too soon forced him away;
but he was leaving with the hopes of speedily returning, perhaps for a
longer time, perhaps to remain entirely, so the separation could be
bravely borne.
“My dearest Hilary,” said he, the evening he was to start, for he
saved time by traveling all night, “do you know what you are doing by
allowing that young man to be so constantly here?”
He looked toward James Ufford, who was loitering as usual on the lawn
with Gwyneth and Nest.
“No! What?” was her answer.
“Do you not see that Gwyneth has fallen in love with the curate?”
“No,” said Hilary, coloring crimson, “has she?”
“So it appears to me.”
“Well, and what then? How could I help it? What must I do? Why should
it signify?”
“Signify! do you think Mr. Ufford intended it?”
“I do not know. I am sure Gwyneth has not such an idea in her head;
perhaps they are both unconscious; but don’t you like him?”
“Not much. I do not think he is _real_. He should talk less, and act
more. He may be half in love himself with Gwyneth; but it is in that
aimless, purposeless way, which will never grow to any good end. He
likes to keep her to himself; he likes to talk to her; but while he
can amuse himself as he does, enjoying her admiration and devotion,
and feeling sure of her preference, he will not ever care to exert
himself for more.”
“But what can I do?” said Hilary, distressed.
“Now a clever, active, manœuvering mother might fix him directly. Any
one, in fact, who would condescend to use the requisite arts and
exertions. There is a tact in managing these affairs, which few girls
possess. They are sincere, ardent, yet shy, modest, undemonstrative;
they can do nothing but waste their own affections. It never succeeds
with a character like Mr. Ufford’s, compounded of much good, alloyed
by selfish and self-indulgent vanity.”
“But, Captain Hepburn, would you have me manœuver to secure a wavering
heart for my sister? I can not stoop to that.”
“No, Hilary, I would not have you different from what you are: but I
wish Mr. Ufford went further off. I have no confidence in him. It is a
pity that you admitted him to such constant intercourse.”
“I am very sorry,” said she, humbly: “it was my imprudence. I did not
know better. I am so ignorant; but perhaps you do not understand
Gwyneth aright. She is enthusiastic and ardent in her fancies, but
they do not always endure. What could I do now to prevent an
intercourse which has grown up so naturally out of our relative
situations?”
“That is exactly the question that I have asked myself again and
again, without seeming to be at all nearer finding an answer. I am
afraid it is one of those imprudences which are irretrievable: which,
in fact, are only proved to be so by the result. You know there are
steps which once taken, can not be retraced, and actions of which we
can not choose but bear the consequences. This is poor comfort for
you, dear Hilary; but do not distress yourself so, my love; perhaps
the effects on Gwyneth may not be evil. I may have imputed too much to
her.”
“She is so young,” said Hilary; “oh, I hope I have not helped to make
her unhappy.”
“Yes, she is very young; young enough to recover from an infatuation
of the kind, should she find her idol is only made of clay, and to be
better and wiser for the experiment.”
“I do believe her admiration is the result of religious feeling; she
would think little of him if he were not our clergyman. It was that
attracted her.”
“These two feelings are constantly acting and reacting on each other,
in rather a confusing way in women. Personal regard for the minister
is either the origin or the result of attention to his doctrines; and
one is constantly increased by the other.”
“It seems so natural, so unavoidable, to care for one who teaches us
our highest duties; instructs us in our dearest interests,” interposed
she, apologetically.
“Yes, it is essentially the nature of woman’s religion, to seek to
expand itself, pour itself out on some visible object. Hence has
sprung the influence which, in every system, the clergy attained over
the female world. It matters little whether it is the priest in the
confessional, or the Presbyterian minister in his congregation. The
degree of power may differ occasionally, but its source is the same;
and where weak heads and lively feelings meet, the result is
perpetually an effervescing enthusiasm, often troublesome and
unsatisfactory at the time, and liable to wear itself out, leaving
deadness and flatness behind it.”
“You are hard upon us.”
“Am I? I do not mean to be unjust: and though I admit there is a great
deal of folly exhibited by those who are guilty of this idolatry, I
respect it in comparison with what I feel toward those idols who
consciously encourage the worship. I should not choose to express my
opinion of those men, who, taking advantage of this feminine
peculiarity gratify their vanity, or indulge their love of excitement,
by winning, under the cover of religious instruction, affections which
they never intended to justify. My words would shock you!”
“Are such things done, out of books and plays? in real life?”
“Are they not? but you, dearest, can but little answer such a
question; and the flagrant examples which come beneath one’s own
knowledge, are not what one can quote or repeat. Suppose you were to
call Gwyneth in at this moment. Can you not make an excuse for
interrupting that eternal wandering under the trees?”
“Oh, yes, I really want her, and I, too, am wasting my time here;
there are some things to be looked out for Maurice, which you ought to
have to pack up. Would you tell her, please?”
Accordingly, Gwyneth was summoned into the house, and Captain Hepburn
joined the young clergyman on the lawn.
“How beautiful this place looks under a setting sun,” observed the
former, gazing round.
“Yes――pretty well. I shall make a great change, though, if ever it is
mine. Many of these trees must come down, and the flower-garden must
be modernized; it is in wretched taste.”
“It seems to me to suit well with the house; are you a gardener!”
inquired Captain Hepburn.
“Not personally in the least; but I like to have things nice, only
somebody must do the work for me; I know nothing of details,” replied
Mr. Ufford.
“I always think a practical knowledge and love of gardening, give a
certain reality and sincerity to a man’s character, which is
singularly useful; especially in your profession, Mr. Ufford.”
“It would be a curious speculation,” replied the other, “whether facts
bear out your idea. I will take it into consideration, whether the
best gardeners of my acquaintance are the best clergymen, and the most
practical men. Would not a love of construction save a man’s
character? I have a great fancy for building, I own; and I expect some
day to realize my plans on the Vicarage. That old house must come
down. I could not live in it.”
“I have received so much kindness here,” replied his companion, “that
I can not contemplate such a change without regret. It is a comfort,
however, to think that when an event so trying to the Vicar’s
daughters arrives, as that which will make you master here, they will
have a friend, and not a stranger, to deal with.”
“Poor things! I am really sorry for them,” said the curate; “it will
be a sad trouble. I think an Elizabethan house would look best here;
would suit the place and country. Don’t you?” eyeing the old Vicarage
as he spoke with an air of consideration.
“I have not thought about it at all,” replied Captain Hepburn, with
internal disgust. “I fear they will be sadly forlorn and unprotected;
their brother away, perhaps, and they so young and ignorant of the
world.”
“You are unnecessarily anxious about them, Captain Hepburn; they will
find friends, depend on it. I can understand your feelings of
interest, however, although I can take more cheerful views of their
prospects. Believe me, nothing on my part shall be wanting. I have
strong motives to influence me――my sincere gratitude――remembrance of
kindness received――regard, honor; in short, make yourself easy. Their
comfort and happiness shall be my first object. I pledge myself to
that. Pray trust me!”
Roused out of his selfish dreams, Mr. Ufford spoke what he felt at the
time, and meant all that he said. Captain Hepburn could understand his
words and tones to have but one meaning; his admiration for Gwyneth
was sincere, and his purposes settled. If he had not the steadfast,
straightforward strength of will, which the sailor possessed, he might
yet have sufficient firmness of character to secure his own
respectability, and Gwyneth’s happiness. One must not quarrel with a
man because he is more cautious in his movements, or more slow in his
decision, then one’s self. Captain Hepburn hoped the best from him,
and while he trusted his warning to Hilary might not be useless, he
flattered himself that his fears might be entirely unfounded.
“I shall trust implicitly to such an assurance, satisfied that they
will have a friend in you. They have their brother-in-law in London,
to take care of them in case of need,” continued Captain Hepburn; “I
have a great respect for Mr. Farrington; from what I have heard of
him, he must be a very well-judging man.”
“I must be going,” said Mr. Ufford; “if the young ladies are busy, I
dare say they will not care to see me just now; pray make my excuses
to them. I wish you a good journey;” and he went accordingly.
Two hours afterward, Captain Hepburn was also on his road to London,
speculating a little on whether he had done more good than harm, by
what he had ventured to say about Mr. Ufford. The first result of his
observations was, that after a great deal of indecision, Hilary took
courage to hint to Gwyneth, that now she had really grown up, and was
neither in years nor person a child, she should be careful to behave
as became a young woman, and that it might be as well, perhaps, to
adopt a little more reserve toward Mr. Ufford, and not spend quite so
much time in his society. Gwyneth heard her quietly, took in her
meaning, and secretly deduced from it the assurance, that Hilary
probably thought the curate was falling in love with her, a notion
which had not before crossed her mind. Hitherto her admiration had
been, so far as she knew, purely of a spiritual nature; but this
observation gave it another turn, and from considering Mr. Ufford in
the light of a superior being, raised above human weaknesses, and only
to be admired at an humble distance, she suddenly discovered that he
was a gentleman, an unmarried man, and a young man, and one whose
affections and future intentions might be subjects for speculation and
doubt.
That he was heir-presumptive to a barony, and might look for rank and
fortune in his wife, if he chose to have one, occurred to her at the
same time with a sudden chill, which depressed her spirits to a
painful extent; it was little likely that he would stoop to a
portionless and undistinguished girl like herself, unless――and the
thought gave her peculiar pleasure――he should really have fallen in
love with her, as he told her Mr. Huyton had done with Hilary. The
contrast between herself and the clergyman was not greater than
between this other couple; and if love had been so strong in one case,
why not in another?
So she reasoned with herself, and concealed her feelings, and resolved
to wait and watch his conduct. Apparently, Mr. Ufford was anxious to
justify his promises, and prove his friendship to the Vicar’s
daughters. His visits were for the next two days quite in the usual
style, quietly walking in just when it suited him. Hilary, however,
was more watchful, and allowed no more of those unrestricted rambles
which had latterly been so greatly extended. Gwyneth had more
occupation at home, and was obliged to be quiet and useful.
The third day brought an entirely new set of ideas. A letter came from
Captain Hepburn, which was of some importance to their plans. The
first page of this letter, though, no doubt, gratifying to the
receiver, need not be transcribed; what relates to my narrative ran as
follows:
“The result of the survey is that the boilers are found in a very bad
state, and need so much repair, that in the mean time the whole ship’s
company are to be turned over to the _Erratic_, a sister-ship, just
getting ready for sea. This alters my plans, and puts an end to all
hopes of a few months’ rest on shore. We shall probably be off again
in less than a month, and for who knows how long! no prospect of
another leave long enough to reach Hurstdene; I could almost regret
the change of ship, and do heartily wish she had not been in so
advanced a state. However, it would be foolish, as well as wrong, to
murmur at what most men would consider a singular piece of good
fortune. But, my darling, shall I not see you again? can you not all
come to London? We talked it all over, Sybil, Maurice, and I,
yesterday, for I got your sister and her husband to come down and look
at the steamer, and she is delighted at the plan. They can take you
all in, she says, and she, of course, would be gratified by a visit
from her father. It is almost your only chance now of seeing Maurice.
Do arrange and come immediately.”
There was a letter from Sybil to the same effect, and a most pressing
one from Maurice, urging the proposal most warmly.
There was no room for hesitation, and no time for delay. Arrangements
were made in haste, and the evening of the next day saw the family
domiciled for the present at Mr. Farrington’s.
Maurice was there to receive them; the captain had sacrificed his own
pleasure, and allowed the leave to his first lieutenant, which they
could not both have at once.
It is not my intention to narrate minutely all the events which
occurred in London; the interviews between the lovers, the excursions
to Woolwich, to inspect the _Erratic_, and many other particulars not
directly bearing on the result to Hilary. Days passed rapidly, and
except for the parting in prospect, would have been very happy. There
was a charming uncertainty about the chances of meeting, which
increased the pleasure; and besides, there was enough of novelty in
the great change to three girls from the forest, to excite and
interest them.
Mr. Duncan never would allow his inability to accompany them on many
excursions to interfere with their enjoyments; he had his own share,
he said, in the different accounts they brought back to him, and it
would be a positive loss to him, if either of his daughters were to
shut herself up on his account; he had long ago learned to read by
himself, and although he had never attained the fluency and ease which
some blind persons acquire, perhaps from beginning so late in life, he
was yet independent in some respects, and able to occupy his lonely
hours by the study now dearer to him than any other, of the Book of
Life, which had been his consolation and support in all his trials.
“Shall I, or my rival, have the pleasure of your society to-morrow?”
said Hilary, laughingly, to her lover, one evening. His visits were
generally made after the hours of work in the dockyard were over.
“Are you jealous of the wandering lady at Woolwich, Hilary?” was his
answer.
“Perhaps I might be, if I did not know that, as you deserted her
predecessor, and transferred your attentions to her, so you would be
equally ready to forsake your present favorite on detecting some
defect in her constitution or her powers.”
“A sad specimen of inconstancy,” said he, playfully.
“No, not inconstancy,” replied she, “because the feeling remains the
same; it is devotion to your profession which actuates you, and the
ship, though well-beloved for a time, is cared for only as an
embodiment; a visible symbol of this feeling. It is your profession
which is really my rival.”
“You are wrong, love; to which did I devote myself first?”
“Ah! you mean that I am the rival,” said she, looking up, with a
smile.
“My profession is my duty, Hilary,” said he, gravely; “would you rival
that? I hope not.”
“Never!” was her energetic answer. “And yet, am I only your
plaything?” it was spoken with hesitation.
“That depends on yourself, Hilary!”
She looked as if to ask how; but pondered in silence.
“You may be, I trust you will be, my good angel! my better self! to
inspirit, cheer, guide me in the path of honor; not the weight to draw
me back, the bait to allure me to forget the grand object of life.”
“That is not professional honor!” said she, doubtingly.
“No, it is to do my duty in the state of life to which it has pleased
God to call me,” was his quiet answer. “And, Hilary, professional
honor is only dear to me, I trust, in so far as it may reflect light
on a profession dearer still――that of a Christian warrior.”
“Ah! I felt that was the foundation of your zeal.”
“The only sure foundation, love; the feeling, or rather the principle,
which will carry one unflinchingly through danger, difficulty, trouble
of every kind. Life to every one is full of deep mystic meaning; the
life of a sailor above all. The troubled waves, the wearying calm, the
changeful winds, the uncertain currents, the dangerous rocks and
shoals, the tedious length of voyage, the joyous arrival at home, all
realities to us, are figures appropriated to mystic subjects. Then we
have the lonely watch, the strict discipline, the hardships and
self-denial, the temperance, the necessary obedience to superiors;
ought not each one of these to remind the Christian of the duties of
his calling? each in itself a religious duty exemplified!”
“Like the chivalrous devoirs of the knightly warriors of old,” said
Hilary; “an actual realization in deed of the intangible theories of
the Christian faith.”
“Yes! the whole of a sailor’s life is an allegory; an acted picture of
things unseen. But that is not what I meant to speak of when alluding
to a possible rivalry between duty and you. Hilary, while health and
strength are granted to me, they must be at my country’s service when
required; and no domestic tie, not even that of a wife, dear as it may
be, may interfere. Not from the old heathen pride in patriotism which
made one’s country’s glory the idol of life, but for the higher,
holier reason, the belief that my path has been appointed by my
Heavenly Father; and that to follow it with all my might, is but doing
my duty in its simplest form. Do you not think me right? Life itself,
were I called on to lay it down on service, would be gladly devoted;
not to win the praise of men here, but to testify to the truth and
sincerity of my profession!”
Hilary’s eyes filled; and as she sat silently thinking on his words,
almost unconsciously her fingers pressed the ring which he had placed
there as a sign of their betrothal. He watched her countenance
anxiously.
“You are not satisfied,” continued he; “your look asks where you come
in my estimation of life. Is not that it?”
“Am I selfish? I did think that.”
“First of this world’s objects; reward of labor and peril here in
hours of rest; companion for ever in that life where duty will involve
no sacrifice, and love will bring no pain or tears.”
She could not answer, except by the quivering lip and drooping eyelid,
which spoke of strong, but suppressed, emotion.
“I had not loved thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more!”
continued he, taking her hands in his, and speaking in a voice of
ineffable tenderness.
“I believe it! I feel it!” she answered, eagerly. “I know that while
Heaven has the first place in your heart, I am sure of retaining my
rightful portion there. I am not, indeed, I am not jealous of your
devotion to what is so high and holy――only――”
“Only what?” inquired he, as she hesitated.
“Only I would rather you should serve your country, mankind, and above
all, the cause of religion, by living, and not――” her words failed her
again.
“To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late,” was his
reply; “and, Hilary, ever since I can remember, it has been my dream,
my wish, my hope to devote my life――I do not mean to _live_, but to
_die_――in some great, high, holy cause, something which may show that
a Christian, with the hope of salvation and the promise of Heaven, is
not afraid to do and dare all that a heathen warrior might have done
with the poor promise of an earthly glory. But to no other ear than
your own would I breathe this aspiration; who else would understand my
feelings? In confiding to you the deepest passion of my soul, Hilary,
I prove to you how I have merged my life in yours. To ordinary
companions such thoughts do not find words to express them.”
“They do better,” said she, with a glowing cheek and sparkling eye;
“they find actions. You have proved your sincerity again and again in
your dauntless defiance of danger. Yes, and I will not draw you back;
woman though I am I will not weaken you, nor bid you pause for my
sake: rather let the thought of me nerve you in the hour of danger,
make you stronger, braver, more intrepid in a worthy cause. And should
our hope be fulfilled――ah! believe me, I will try to follow your
example, and bear the agony for your sake, that you may wear a
martyr’s crown!”
“My own, true-hearted love!” was his only answer.