“Love, I feel thy bitter smart
Wildly throbbing through my heart,
Waking, sleeping,
Smiling, weeping,
Still I think of thee!”
Mr. Barham and his daughters were in London at this time, and a few
days after the Duncans’ arrival, Hilary and Sybil went together to
call on them. The girls were very cordial and glad to meet, especially
Dora, who had ascertained that the _Pandanus_ had arrived in England,
and was, in consequence, in a desperate state of internal anxiety to
hear some news of Maurice.
While they were chatting together, Mr. Barham himself walked in, very
gracefully gracious when he discovered who the visitors were; quite
surprised to learn that they were visiting Sybil, and in London,
without his knowledge, and taking some civil interest in the present
object of their chief concern.
“I do not know any thing about these new steamers,” observed he, “I
have never had an opportunity of studying these subjects; yet it is an
important one, one which deserves the attention of those who hold a
large stake in their country’s welfare; being a subject which must
strongly affect the interest of a great naval power. I must take the
matter into consideration.”
“I am sure my brother would be happy to show you his new ship, if you
would honor the _Erratic_ with a visit,” observed Sybil, very proud of
Maurice and his steamer also.
“Well, Mrs. Farrington, that would be a good idea; what do you say,
Isabel? suppose we were to make an excursion to Woolwich!” observed
he.
“It really would be worth while,” said Miss Barham; “as you say, sir,
one ought to know something about the great means of defense for our
nation. I think it would be a proper thing to do; and as we know both
the captain and lieutenant a little we could not have a better
opportunity than now.”
“Be it so, then,” was his answer. “How shall we arrange about time? it
might be we should go at an inconvenient hour, without some previous
arrangement. How can you communicate with your brother, Mrs.
Farrington?”
“He will be up with us this afternoon, I expect,” replied Sybil;
“shall I send him to you if he comes? That would be simple.”
“Exactly! that would simplify the matter, as you say. Isabel, the
gentleman might dine with us, I think. The table will not be too
full.”
Hilary listened and said not a word; Dora, too, sat in silence, but
her deep interest in the subject could not be concealed from one who
suspected its existence. Finally, it was settled without her
intervention, that Maurice should be there for a seven o’clock dinner,
and if he liked, Miss Barham added, to accompany them to the opera
afterward, they would be very much honored. Would not Hilary join
their party? They would be nearly alone, only Mr. Huyton would be with
them.
It was fortunate she mentioned him, or the temptation to accompany
Maurice would have been irresistible; but that name was enough. Hilary
decidedly declined, and wondering much what the result would be, the
ladies took leave, and returned home.
“I can not go, Hilary,” said Maurice, when he heard the invitation;
“must I?” He looked exceedingly disturbed. Sybil, perfectly unaware of
any private reasons, pressed it warmly. He must, it would be so rude
if he had no reason to give; and then it did not matter, however dull
it might be to go, he could not escape this visit to the ship, and it
would be much better to be civil, and they were always kind, even
though Mr. Barham was tiresome; and he would like to meet Mr. Huyton,
who was to be there, and really the two young ladies were worth
seeing, they were so pretty!
Maurice laughed off his embarrassment, by declaring Sybil’s arguments
were exemplary _non-sequiturs_; but at the same time suffered himself
to be persuaded into what he wished above all things.
His ideas of time that evening before setting out, were somewhat wild,
and the pains that he took at his toilette were not to be told. He
succeeded in reaching the house rather early, and found, as he had
perhaps guessed by intuition that he should, Dora alone in her
drawing-room! Their meeting had all the flutter and emotion of
forbidden pleasure; time had not changed his feelings in the least,
and although hers had by no means been so invariably constant, she
fancied that they had, and told him so, and that did pretty nearly as
well. The sight of the handsome lieutenant, with his pleasant smile,
and captivating manner, revived her somewhat declining affections, and
the conviction that during two years of absence, she had yet retained
all her former power over him, gratified her vanity, as well as her
tenderness toward him.
Their interview was short; another knock at the door warned them of
intruders, and sent Dora hastily from the room, while Maurice turned
round to greet Charles Huyton, whose entrance he had been prepared to
expect. Dora did not reappear until the moment dinner was announced,
just in time to be consigned by her father to Mr. Duncan’s protection,
and she had pretty well recovered her complexion and her serenity when
they took their places at table.
How delightfully the evening went, need not be told; the delicious
little momentary interviews, while cloaking the ladies for the Opera,
the whispered words, the meeting of hands with a thrilling emotion,
the pleasure of sitting beside each other in the carriage, the
intervals when other persons claimed Isabel’s attention, and allowed
Maurice leisure to devote himself to Dora; the stolen glances, the
intelligent, and yet hidden smiles, in fact, all the dear and
dangerous sweets of a clandestine affection, need not be dwelt on.
Then there was the grand, crowning hope of another meeting, the plan
for the excursion to Woolwich, which was fixed for the ensuing
Tuesday, when it was settled that a large party should unite to
inspect the _Erratic_; affording Mr. Barham and Isabel, and such
patriots as were concerned for the good of the nation, an opportunity
of improving their knowledge on an important subject, and providing
for others who were satisfied with more personal and less
philanthropic views, an occasion of a pleasant social meeting, and an
agreeable refreshment. The Duncans, of course, were to join the party,
and Mr. Farrington, if he could steal a day from briefs and business.
Charles Huyton was to be there also. Isabel asked him; they were to go
down by water, and the point of rendezvous, the hour, and the various
other particulars were all settled with accuracy by Mr. Barham
himself.
It was not destined, however, to take place quite so soon. A slight
indisposition on Mr. Barham’s part obliged him to defer the
engagement; for however anxious he might be to benefit the nation at
large, by his practical knowledge regarding screw steamers, yet he
believed himself to be conferring a still more important advantage on
society, in taking care of his own health; at least, this was the
reason assigned for the change of plan, which considerably
disappointed some of the party concerned.
Be his reason good or bad, the excursion was put off for a week, and
in the mean time, each day that Maurice happened to be in town, he
considered it his positive duty to go and call in Eaton-place, to
learn how the invalid was, and when it would suit him to fulfill his
promise. Once or twice too, it happened, through some contrivance of
Mr. Huyton’s and Dora’s, the families met in excursions for other
objects, and Hilary was occasionally thrown into company with Charles;
but as there was never any thing in his behavior to distress her, she
was beginning to feel hardened regarding such meetings, and to view
them with much indifference.
Indeed, her feelings were too deeply engrossed by other matters to
have much thought to bestow on her former lover. Dora and Maurice made
her very uncomfortable; they seemed perfectly infatuated now; were
more desperately in love than ever; and Hilary could not help
expecting that some grand discovery and consequent domestic
disturbance would be the result. She wondered neither Isabel nor Mr.
Barham appeared to notice it. That Charles Huyton had, she knew, for
he had hinted it to her, with a significance and expression not to be
mistaken. But it was not really so evident as her fears and
consciousness made her imagine; Charles discovered it partly by former
observations of his own, but more now, by watching her eyes, and
reading their anxious and troubled looks.
But the hour of parting was drawing near: the _Erratic_ was almost
ready for sea; the crew were on board, and she was reported fit to
sail in four days more. Now then must be the Woolwich party, or never.
Mr. Barham was well――agreed to the plan once more――the weather was
fine――the day and hour came, and they started. It was not to be
expected that Mr. Barham would expose his daughters to the
contaminating mixture of society to be met with in an ordinary river
steamer; they had one hired expressly for the occasion, and every
thing was in as first-rate a style as possible.
Fair shone the sun on the river Thames, as they steamed down its
waters, so famous as a channel of commerce and a subject of indignant
complaint to the citizens of London; and merrily the party were dashed
along, while Mr. Barham descanted learnedly on the subject of trade
and landholders, Britain’s position, privileges, and duties, and the
grand part which a resident proprietor, and one who did his duty to
his country, filled in the vast affairs of the nation; while Isabel
leaned on his arm and approved, and Charles Huyton cast anxious
glances at Hilary, and longed to place himself beside her; and the
others moved about, and talked nonsense at random, and with great
enjoyment.
They reached their destination at last, landed, and were met, as had
been agreed on, by the captain of the _Erratic_, who conducted them
forthwith to the dock where the steamer still lay. The happy first
lieutenant received them at the gangway, authorized by every
circumstance to take Dora under his peculiar care, even as her elder
sister was the natural charge, for the time being, of the captain.
To the quarter-deck they went first, where they all remained to chat
and discuss their voyage, to peep over the bulwarks, and ask questions
about the vessels lying alongside; or to gaze up with admiration and
wonder at the complicated ropes and spars towering overhead.
The Barhams were quite new to such a scene, and Isabel was rather more
ignorant of the realities of sailor-life than Dora, who was supposed
never to know any thing at all, so that Captain Hepburn had his time
and attention fully occupied by the questions and observations of Miss
Barham and her father, and could only contemplate Hilary from a
distance. Maurice had lost nothing in personal appearance by his
uniform, which Dora, for the first time, saw him wear; his crisp brown
hair looked particularly fascinating, curling out from under the
gold-laced cap which sat so gracefully, she thought, upon his head.
Hilary, too, looked at her lover with feelings of admiration; but it
was not merely for his personal charms; she loved to watch the quick
motion of those fine dark eyes, the intelligence and kindness they
conveyed, agreeing so well with the firm, yet sweet expression of the
mouth; she loved, best of all, to see those eyes settle on her with a
deep, grave look, and to know that it was concern for her interest,
and anxiety for her happiness, which filled them with such unutterable
tenderness; a tenderness that would have prompted him, she knew, to
sacrifice any thing of this world, any pleasure, any advantage, any
hope to secure her happiness and welfare.
Admiration for Maurice’s handsome face had much to do with Dora’s
love, but Hilary’s admiration was rather the result than the source of
hers.
A summons to luncheon in the captain’s cabin called them to the first
serious concern for their visit; and when the repast was concluded, it
was judged appropriate to perambulate the whole ship, and inspect
every thing worth seeing. This ceremony concluded, the party landed,
determined to walk round the dock-yard, and see some of the works
carried on there.
Out of his own vessel, Captain Hepburn by no means considered that
duty any longer attached him to Miss Barham, and by a little skillful
arrangement, and judicious patience, he succeeded, for the first time,
in securing Hilary as his own companion. Sybil was tired, and wished
to sit down, while the greater part of the visitors continued their
investigations; and her elder sister was not unwilling to remain with
her under the special guardianship of Captain Hepburn, whose uniform
was a certain protection against the inquiries and suspicions of
correct policemen, anxious to secure her Majesty’s dockyard from the
possible evil designs of unknown ladies and civilians.
“Now, Hilary, I have one thing to say, one request to make, which, had
I time to spare, I would either omit, or produce with a proper
preface; but I can not do either.”
So began he, as soon as the others were out of hearing. Hilary raised
her eyes to his face with a look of questioning anxiety.
“Sybil, I trust you will support my petition,” continued he, “so I
shall speak before you without hesitation; Hilary, my prayer is, that
you will become my wife before I leave England.”
“Captain Hepburn!” ejaculated she, coloring.
“Why not? you have already promised one day to be so; why not fulfill
that promise at once, and let me know you irrevocably mine before I
leave you?”
“Do you doubt me, then? do you mistrust my faith?” asked she,
hesitatingly.
“If I did, Hilary, I should never have urged such a request; if _I_
thought you would change, I should have small wish to make you my
wife. No, it is no selfish desire to secure any good to myself, or to
gratify a jealous and mistrustful affection, dearest; it is your own
comfort and welfare which occupy my mind.”
“I believe it,” said she, frankly, placing her hand in his; “and as I
have promised to be one day your wife, I will make no foolish and idle
objections. But――”
“But what, love?”
“I do not see the reason, the occasion, the propriety of this step; so
sudden――I had not thought of it.”
“I am aware that there are objections, but they seem to me slight
compared with the advantages of the measure,” said he, gravely. “What
say you, Sybil, does it shock you so much?”
“No, indeed!” cried she, speaking with all the enthusiasm of a happy
young wife, “I think there would be no harm, if there is time.”
“We could manage that, unless Hilary is very particular about her gown
and bonnet,” said he, smiling; “and even such things can be got in
London, on the shortest notice, if she wants them.”
“Ah, no, I do not care for that,” said Hilary; “but tell me what you
ask, and why, and give me time to think and breathe; if I were to――to
do this――I can not leave my father, even to follow you, Captain
Hepburn.”
“No, that is not what I mean; don’t be so frightened, and look so
pale, dear Hilary; we move out of dock and drop down the river on
Saturday, probably about the middle of the day; what I ask is, that
early on that morning, you would meet me at the church here, and
become my wife; the business part I will arrange. Your whole party
could come with you to Woolwich, your father and all; and Maurice
would be there too; surely that would secure respectability enough!
and then when I leave you, you shall be as much your own mistress with
regard to your movements as ever. Hurstdene can be your home during
your father’s life, Hilary; but should you lose that, before I return,
you would have at least the additional protection which the name of a
married woman can confer; and in this country that is of no small
importance. And, Hilary, then you would be forever safe from the
intrusions, the attentions, the insidious friendship of Mr. Huyton.”
“Do you fear him?” said she, looking up.
“I mistrust him; as to _fear_, that is not the word. Once my wife, and
you will be safe, there will be nothing for him to hope more, and,
perhaps his passion will really expire; but till then, I am certain he
will continue to haunt you, and his disposition makes me tremble.”
“You judge him hardly,” said Sybil; “you are a prejudiced rival.”
“Not a jealous one, at least, Sybil: but I watched him to-day; I saw
his face darken and his very lips grow pale, as his eyes fell on the
portrait of Hilary, in my cabin. I saw a world of evil and envious
passions pass over his brow as he stood and gazed at it. He said the
truth when he declared in the hut in the forest, that while you
continued single he would never cease trying to win you. Let me place
one insurmountable barrier between you and him, and let us extinguish
the last faint hope of your changing. He will then leave you in
peace.”
Hilary paused, pondered, and hesitated. “It is so soon,” was all that
she could say in objection, there really seemed no other to urge.
“However long you defer it, if your wedding day is ever to come at
all, we shall eventually come within four days of it,” observed he,
smiling a little.
“So sudden!” ejaculated she again.
“I thought you had been contemplating it these two years past――I am
sure I have,” was his answer.
This time she could not forbear smiling a little herself, and the day
was won by her lover.
“Really,” observed Sybil, “I think you are quite right, nobody can
call it sudden after an engagement of two years; and if the next three
days allow all necessary arrangements to be made, the time is as good
as a month or two.”
“I do not suppose many people will concern themselves about our
wedding,” replied he; “and those who do, may have facts explained to
them.”
It was agreed to before the rest of the party rejoined them, and the
thanks and gratitude of the gentleman were also sufficiently
expressed.
It made Hilary very grave and thoughtful for the whole way home,
although Captain Hepburn was by her side, and trying to cheer her. She
was reviewing what she had undertaken; yet it was by no means
alarming. There was no new anxiety or responsibility thrown on her at
present; nothing which need break in on her quiet course of life, or
disturb her care for her father and sisters. His absence would not be
more painful, nor occasion greater uneasiness, and she should at least
bear his dear name, have an open, acknowledged claim to care for him,
an avowed interest in his welfare and prosperity. And at some future
time, she might hope for protection, support, assistance from him, to
guard and guide her through life’s troubles when they came. Such were
her thoughts, as she leaned upon his arm, and spent the time in a
dream which left her no notice to bestow on those around her.
When the plan was announced in the family party that evening, it was
highly approved by all; even Mr. Farrington gave his opinion in favor
of the arrangement, especially after he had some private conversation
with Captain Hepburn respecting settlements and such lawyer-like
affairs. To arrange these matters effectually before Saturday, was
impossible; but the lover had no intention of profiting by the haste
he urged in a pecuniary way.
Hilary’s portion, being her share of her mother’s fortune, was five
thousand pounds; and the whole of this, with an addition that nearly
doubled it from himself, he promised to settle on her, empowering his
future brother-in-law to see the business arranged, and granting him
such legal authority as he recommended, to proceed about it. But of
these matters Hilary knew nothing, and she never gave the subject a
thought; whether she would be richer or poorer for the marriage, she
did not know; the wealth of love and protection she was acquiring
satisfying her for the present.
Had there been no peculiar necessity for haste, in the conclusion of
the marriage, nothing would have been further from Miss Duncan’s wish
than to have a public wedding. A cortège of bridesmaids, a splendid
breakfast, a grand assembly of fine bonnets, and fine dresses, seemed
to her simple and youthful mind altogether inconsistent with a solemn
religious ceremony, although perfectly befitting the more worldly view
in which this engagement is too often considered. Quietness,
simplicity, and solemnity, would have been her objects, such as would
neither invite criticism, call for observation, nor serve as a display
for vanity and pomp. She would have been the last to desire to publish
their intentions, or to call on her neighbors for congratulations or
envy. But the same delicacy which would have made her shrink from
display now acted somewhat differently, in producing a fear that a
clandestine appearance might be the result of this haste. There were
few, indeed, who would concern themselves about her or her
proceedings; but it was these very few whose opinions she valued, or
whose censure she wished to avoid. It was this feeling which induced
her to impart her intended marriage to Miss Barham and her sister when
they met on the Thursday afternoon. The young ladies were extremely
interested in the narration, and expressed a great desire to be
present at the ceremony themselves. Dora first started this idea, but
Isabel was pleased with it, and finally it was settled that if their
father did not object they should join the wedding party; although
Gwyneth and Sybil both laughingly declared they would never be able to
rise early enough.
“Rather than not do that,” exclaimed Dora, “I would sit up all night!”
Hilary thought she understood the secret of Dora’s extreme anxiety,
and hardly knew whether to be most sorry or glad that Maurice and she
should have the dangerous pleasure of another meeting. It seemed to
her to be only laying up additional stores of sorrowful remembrance
and hopeless regret. But the company of the sisters was offered and
pressed in such a way as to leave little real choice to her on the
occasion. Yet, why Isabel Barham should so wish to be present, as to
propose taking the trouble of rising much earlier than usual, and
driving all the way to Woolwich before ten o’clock, was a little
incomprehensible. Sybil said privately that Isabel liked a freak as
well as any body where it did not compromise her dignity, and that
this little exertion had a degree of novelty about it which made it
irresistible to one weary with the platitudes of polite society and
elegant decorums. Even Isabel had her portion of romance in her
character, and though she would never do any thing incorrect herself,
she yet enjoyed the sort of secrecy and mystery which naturally
attended the present affair.
Mr. Barham made no objection to his daughters’ plans, and according to
the latest arrangements, the carriage from Eaton-place brought the two
young ladies over to Mrs. Farrington’s in very good time to take an
early, though rather hurried breakfast, with the bridal party, before
starting on their long drive to Woolwich.
It all seemed unreal and strange to Hilary, as she sat by her father’s
side during that drive. Her thoughts were very busy, and yet would not
settle on any thing steadily. The purpose of the present meeting, the
engagement she was about to contract, occupied her less than the
parting which must immediately follow. Happiness was very far from her
heart; patience and hope were what she needed. The most unwavering
confidence, the most perfect dependence and trust prevented her having
any misgivings as to the step she was taking. She had no hesitation in
bestowing her hand where her heart had long preceded it. Up to that
point her path was easy and bright, and could he but have remained
with her she would not have had a shadow to dim her serenity. But that
inevitable absence, what a chasm, what a dark, impenetrable abyss it
seemed; what an abrupt termination to the sunshiny road she had been
lately treading; how uncertain its length and its depth? All she knew
of it was that it was dark and dreary in prospect, and that she must
pass it as best she could, bridging it over with hope, and faith, and
patience, and an earnest steady perseverance in daily duties. These
would bring her to that other side, which now seemed so dim, so
uncertain, so distant, and yet which appeared to the fancy, through
all the mists of futurity, fair and pleasant in prospect.
So her mind wandered away while her eyes were fixed on the passing
houses and the flying trees, to scenes where all would be certainty,
and enjoyment, and peace; and as she looked upward at the clear, blue
sky; unsullied by the smoke, and undisturbed by the noise and bustle
of the vast city, whose long suburbs they were traversing, she thought
of that future which alone may be depended on, that love which never
wearies or grows cold, that protecting care which can not err nor
cease. She remembered that her lover and herself had alike anchored
their hearts there, with the sure anchor of Hope, her restless fears
dispersed, and her heart grew calm and quiet.
There was no hinderance, no delay; the drive to Woolwich had been so
accurately calculated, that they reached the church within two minutes
of the time appointed; the gentlemen were ready, waiting their
arrival, and after a very brief interval more, the couple stood side
by side, and hand in hand, to answer those words which bound them for
life to each other.
Concentrating every feeling in the present moment, giving her whole
heart and soul to the words she was repeating, and the prayers in
which she was called on to join, the bride forgot all that was
immediately to follow, and went through with a calm, grave,
self-possession her part in the short and yet impressive ceremony.
And they were pronounced to be man and wife; and it was over, and the
party gathered in the vestry to sign the register, and whisper a few
subdued words of good wishes (for who could talk of congratulations or
joy at that moment?) and Hilary awoke to a consciousness that it was
all real. She leaned against the end of the table, while her husband
held her hand in silent, speechless, subdued emotion; as if nerving
his whole frame, gathering all his strength of mind for the great
trial before them. It needed not words to tell her how he felt; she
knew it in the close and tender clasp of those fingers on her own; she
read it in the grave, sad look of his eyes, in the lines of emotion
about his mouth, which his utmost efforts could not conceal.
However, the parting need not be immediately, there was yet an hour of
reprieve; the tide would not serve till afternoon for the steamer to
leave the dock, and it had been before arranged, that the wedding
guests should all go to the hotel, where a second breakfast, most
acceptable to those who had left London so early, was prepared for
them by the bridegroom’s orders; as in the _Erratic_, in her present
state, it was not convenient to receive such a party. But what was the
use of lingering at such a time? true, every minute was precious, and
yet every minute was pain. Little mirth and little conversation was
there at that board, where even yet the time, though dull, went all
too fast.
They rose from the table, and, as if by one consent, the guests betook
themselves to the balcony overlooking the river, that the parting
between the husband and wife might at least be undisturbed. None
remained with them, save the blind father, who was sitting, as if in a
reverie, in a large arm-chair.
Hilary hung on her husband’s neck in speechless grief; ah! this was a
different thing from parting two years ago; and yet why? now that he
was all her own, why did it make it so infinitely harder to let him
leave her?
“My wife, my own dear wife! we shall meet again!”
She tried to smile a “yes,” but tongue and lips alike disobeyed, and
tears alone answered her best efforts to be calm.
“Hilary, your brother-in-law will tell you about settlements, what, as
my wife, your income will be; I can not speak of money now; only I am
thankful that I can assure you an independence, which to your moderate
wishes will be comfort, and almost wealth. Now farewell, my own, my
best-beloved, my darling! GOD guide and bless you――once, and once
more! and now farewell!”
He placed her on a sofa, hurried to the balcony to see his other
friends, whispered to Sybil to take care of her precious sister, and
wrung the hands of all the bridesmaids in silent sorrow and repressed
feeling; then he returned to the parlor. Hilary sat as he had left
her, absorbed in an endeavor to conquer her despairing grief, by
thoughts of hope and aspirations for patience. She heard her father
call Captain Hepburn to him. She heard the warmest blessings invoked
upon his head; she listened almost as if in a dream, as if it
concerned some other than herself; but when her husband’s step again
approached her, she roused herself at once; with a short exclamation,
speaking of unutterable struggles within, she sprang up, threw herself
into his arms, held him for one moment in silence, and then
withdrawing calmly from his embrace, she said, with energy――
“Now go! I will never be a hinderance to you in the path of duty. Go,
we shall meet again in happier times, and then!――”
“And then: ah, Hilary!――”
Eyes and lips finished the sentence, but not with words, and he was
gone!
Maurice must go next; there had been but little intercourse between
him and Dora; he had seemed to shun her, and to devote himself to his
younger sisters. This was very natural, perhaps, certainly very
prudent; for Dora’s share of self-control was small, and she would
easily have been betrayed into exhibitions of feeling, equally unwise
and unsafe. But Dora could not reason calmly, and was as unwilling to
allow that others had higher claims on Maurice than herself, as she
would have been to admit her influence was declining. Foolish and
excitable, she felt angry and ill-used, that he should shun her, or
that when she had taken that early drive for his sake, he should have
either looks or thoughts for his sisters in preference to herself.
What right had he to be more cautious than herself? why should he draw
back when she advanced? In her desperation at the idea of parting, she
had rather wished that their secret should be discovered; though she
had not dared to tell it, she would have liked that it should be found
out; and now he was, all of a sudden, so careful, so reserved, so
cold. Ah! she would be cold too. She tried, but not very successfully;
she could not assume the tone of indifference she wished; then she
grew angry; vexed with herself and her feelings, which she fancied so
much warmer than his; she became careless, flighty, and wild in
manner; she laughed and talked one moment in an idle way, the next she
was silent and dull; to him she was absolutely cross, and very nearly
rude; yet he was calm and unmoved, as she thought, only turning with a
graver, lower, more subdued tone toward his sisters, or his father,
and decidedly avoiding her. What he was really suffering, the various
emotions and changeful feelings which were torturing his heart, she
did not know: she gave him no credit for an endurance which was little
short of martyrdom; and was indignant at a self-control assumed almost
entirely for her own sake. Not to compromise her any further was his
object, and although he greatly feared that she was displeased, he had
resolved that before the eyes of Isabel, no demonstration on his part
should betray a secret she had but recently enjoined him to keep at
all hazards.
The very last time they had met, he had again ventured to urge an
explanation with her father, fearful from a chance remark of Charles
Huyton’s, that their secret might otherwise be betrayed to him; but
this she had again forbidden; and his earnest prayers and
expostulations had been silenced and set aside. He had been
disappointed, and though forced to yield, he had warned her that evil
would come of it. It was this which had made her so eager to go to the
wedding, and it was this which so bitterly affronted her, when she
found him coldly reserved. She thought him sullen, but he was only
firm, and thus they parted; she with her girlish heart swelling with
pride and mortified feeling, a sense of wrong on her own part,
unavowed to herself, and therefore rankling deeply; a wounded
conscience, to which she would not attempt to apply the only balm that
could have cured her. He with pain and grief, doubled and trebled as
he calculated all the circumstances; a pain greater than quitting his
sisters, severer than saying a long farewell to his father; the pain
of a noble mind, feeling it has done wrong, and condemned to suffer
and repent in silence. He saw she was angry, and he writhed under the
notion, but what could he do? she had forbidden him the step which
could alone make reparation for his conduct; the alternative to
renounce all claim on her he had fairly stated, and although she had
denied the necessity of so doing, she could not alter his
determination.
So they parted, with formal phrases of courtesy from him, with averted
eyes, and unwillingly extended hand, and tones of coldest civility
from her; and he dashed away, to busy himself in professional duties,
while she drove back to Eaton-place, with a flushed cheek, and an
aching brow, and a heart wildly throbbing with a strange mixture of
remorse, anger, and regret.