“Let her have her proud dark eyes,
And her petulant, quick replies;
Let her sweep her dazzling hand,
With its gesture of command,
And shake back her raven hair,
With the old imperious air.”
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.
“So Charles Huyton is really going to marry Miss Dora Barham,” said
Mr. Ufford to the party at the Vicarage. “I wonder whether she is
satisfied now.”
“How did you hear that?” was Hilary’s reply.
“Oh! I had a letter from Huyton this morning, announcing his good
fortune; hoping my poor brother would not take it amiss that he had
succeeded where George had failed. I own I am more surprised, however,
at Huyton’s proposal than at the young lady’s answer.”
“You have not heard any thing more from Italy, I suppose?” inquired
Hilary, to whom the other subject was distasteful.
“I heard this morning that Lord and Lady Rupert, that is Dunsmore’s
sister-in-law and her husband, have left Florence, and must now be at
Naples with my brother.”
“I am glad of that,” said Gwyneth, eagerly, “it will be a relief to
our mind to know he has some one with him; and you like Lady Rupert, I
think.”
“Yes, I do not feel it so necessary to start immediately, and as
George was so very anxious to hear that his projects are put _en
train_, perhaps it would be better to make some definite arrangements
regarding the church and school, at least before I go.”
Accordingly papers were produced, plans and estimates looked over,
calculations made, and statistics gone into. In the midst of all,
while Gwyneth was busy noting down for Mr. Ufford some important
calculations, and Hilary was explaining to her father the plan
ultimately decided on, Gwyneth suddenly observed,
“I wonder Dora is going to marry before Isabel; I am so surprised that
she should remain so long single. What do you suppose is the reason?”
“I really do not think such things are worth speculating about,”
observed Mrs. Hepburn, who particularly wished to avoid the subject.
“Miss Barham’s position is peculiar,” said Mr. Ufford, “and so is her
character. She is too proud to marry a mean man; too rich to marry a
poor one; too great for a humble man; too clever for a foolish one;
too independent for a mercenary man; and too good for a bad one.”
“Well, that only proves that she must have a wise, clever, rich, and
noble husband,” said Gwyneth, laughing a little; “and I suppose with
so many claims, aided by the addition of grace and beauty, the
probability that she might meet such a one is not very small.”
“Perhaps! but then, this wise, good, clever, rich noble man may not
perhaps submit to be governed by his wife; and I have a notion that
Miss Barham has been too long accustomed to be her own mistress, to
like to give up the privilege, or to be at all ready to lay down her
scepter.”
“Oh, you do not do her justice!” cried Gwyneth; “besides, any woman
who loved, would resign all her prerogatives readily to one who
deserved them.”
“Gwyneth, my love! have you finished those extracts?” said her father.
Gwyneth went on with her work in silence.
“There’s the Abbey carriage crossing the green,” observed Mr. Ufford
presently, he having sauntered away to the window, while the young
ladies managed the details of business.
Hilary changed color; she felt reluctant to meet Dora. “I had no idea
they were in the country!” she observed, in a voice of discomfort.
“Only Miss Barham is,” replied Mr. Ufford, looking with a little
curiosity at Mrs. Hepburn’s face. “Miss Dora is gone to visit some
friends in Northampton, I believe with her aunt, Lady Margaret, while
the happy Huyton is in Germany. The carriage is coming here.”
It did come, and Isabel entered the Vicarage exactly the same as ever
in appearance; her sister’s engagement had made no outward change in
her. It had been a disappointment, but she was too well-bred to show
it; and, except in a hasty abandonment of London, there was no
perceptible effect of the news. However, Dora herself could not be
much more unwilling to discuss the affair than Isabel was, so it was a
mutual accommodation that the sisters should part for the present.
Miss Barham found herself suddenly weary of the London season, and
much in want of rest and fresh air; to face Hilary, to see Hurstdene,
to exist even at home, Dora felt impossible; and she arranged a hasty
plan for accompanying her aunt into Northamptonshire, hoping that
change of place and entire novelty would smother the thoughts which
were burning in her heart, and diminish her regret, despair, and
self-reproach.
Miss Barham was immediately interested in the details of the business
which had just been occupying the others; and both touched and grieved
by the account of the precarious state of the first projector of the
alterations. She had a right, she said, to be interested in any
improvements of a church, which had so long formed part of their
family property, and she insisted on having it all detailed to her.
Mr. Ufford accordingly went through the plans, while she listened with
a most graceful and marked attention. Then she asked, in a pretty,
injured tone, why her father had not been consulted; and was hardly
appeased by the assurance that Mr. Barham having done so much for the
chancel a few years ago, nothing more was required at present, nor
could they feel justified in calling on him for assistance in a matter
of ornament which was purely the wish of Lord Dunsmore.
“Was nothing more really wanted?” inquired Isabel; she should like to
see the church, and judge for herself. She asked Gwyneth to walk down
to it with her; Mr. Ufford, of course, accompanied them. They
sauntered about there for a long time. Isabel was very enthusiastic,
suggesting all sorts of expensive plans for ornament and effect; Mr.
Ufford himself was quite carried away by her zeal, entering into her
ideas with almost equal warmth. It was a subject that exactly suited
him; ideal, imaginative, combining beauty, poetry, and all the unreal,
sentimental, religious feeling, in which his spirit always delighted.
He could arrange a symbolical device, and revel in an illustration of
some fanciful theory, much better than he could go through a dry
detail, or endure a self-denying, sober perseverance against
ill-success.
Isabel was mistress of the elements of her subject; she was acquainted
with the fashionable theories and modern language of church
architecture; she could discourse elegantly on stringcourse, and
reredos, lecterns, open-sittings, equality of ranks, chants, and
responses: galleries and parish clerks were her aversion, and a choral
service her delight. Gwyneth could think and feel, but Isabel could
talk; while the continued references to Mr. Ufford, to his taste,
opinion, wish, decision, not only compelled him to listen, but were so
very flattering to his own self-love, as to convince him that hitherto
he had greatly undervalued Miss Barham’s good qualities.
They lingered long together, and when he had handed her into her
carriage, and watched her drive off, he said a hasty farewell to the
family at the Vicarage, and walked home, leaving the young ladies to
put away his papers at their leisure.
Gwyneth was thoughtful and silent the rest of the day.
The curate came the next morning to the Vicarage soon after breakfast;
but hardly had poor Gwyneth time to be glad to see him, when her joy
was dissipated by his words.
“Oh, Mrs. Hepburn, will you give me those plans and sketches for the
new buildings? Mr. Barham wants to see them, and I am going over to
the Abbey this morning to consult about them with him; and shall
probably not come back till to-morrow.”
He went, and for some little time there was occasionally a change in
his tone and manner toward Gwyneth Duncan; his words were often few,
and hurried; there was no more loitering on the terrace, or dreaming
over books of religious poetry with her. He did not absent himself
from the Vicarage, but she was no longer always his object, even in
the undecided and indolent way in which she had formerly been. His
whole mind seemed engrossed in the decorations of the church, and
things connected with it, including Miss Barham. Isabel promised a
great deal toward providing funds; the chancel was, of course, her
peculiar care: and deeply interested as she was, it was natural that
she should be constantly driving over, to see how the work progressed.
There was scarcely a day in which it was not necessary that the curate
and the lady should meet; either at Hurstdene to consult on the spot,
or in the library at the Abbey, to examine books on decorative art, or
illuminations copied from old MSS.
Hilary saw it all, and watched them with a careful eye. She often felt
hurt at the proceedings, on her father’s account, whose tastes and
wishes were perpetually over-ruled; he did not like the idea of these
new decorations, he feared that the quiet gray church, so dear to him
in its serene simplicity, might assume too fanciful an appearance
under their plans. The coloring of the walls and ceiling, talked of by
them, he thought unsuitable. But he loved peace and hated dissension;
and when Mr. Ufford argued on one hand, and Isabel coaxed on the
other, he could not resist, but gave them their way.
As yet, however, the greater part of the decorations were only
existing in idea, much repair was needed first of a substantial and
important character, and it appeared probable that the autumn and
winter must pass before Fancy could exercise her power on the colored
decorations and ornamental scrolls. Meanwhile, Isabel drew patterns,
and Mr. Ufford applauded.
Gwyneth Duncan had at first noticed this unexpected coalition with
considerable uneasiness; the fear she felt of Isabel as a rival,
showed her how much her own feelings were interested in Mr. Ufford’s.
She wondered that nothing more was said of the journey to Italy, and
wished most heartily that the curate had set out before Miss Duncan’s
return to the country. By degrees, however, she became more easy; he
resumed much of his old manner to her; when Miss Barham was not by, he
sought her opinion, claimed her services, and courted her approval
almost as much as formerly; and she began to hope that, however he
might admire Miss Barham, or be flattered by her condescending notice,
that his real preference was confined to her. She was very quiet, and
more reserved than ever; not even her sister could penetrate her
secret; she never became demonstrative, least of all to him.
Anxiety for Gwyneth’s happiness, and concern for Mr. Ufford’s
uncertain conduct, were not the only sources of trouble to Hilary’s
mind at that time. Her thoughts would follow her absent sailors. Love
would make the heart tremble, although faith whispered of patience and
hope, and her husband’s spirit, his devotion to the cause of duty, his
calm courage and high aspirations, inspired her too: but yet they
could not always check the intruding chills which woman’s weakness
threw over her. Generally, however, she was calm and trustful,
although the blank of his absence was a sorrow which constant
exertion, and devotion to the good of others, could alone alleviate.
But for Maurice, poor Maurice, there was more painful thoughts still.
His first letter was at once longed for, dreaded, and received with a
mixture of feelings which it would be difficult to analyze.
The _Erratic_ had remained some days at Plymouth, quite long enough
for Hilary’s letters, with the news of Dora’s engagement, to reach
her brother. She had written with the tenderest concern, the
most sympathizing sorrow, and yet, fearful of augmenting his
disappointment, she had hardly dared to express what she really felt.
To her husband she could confide all; but to Maurice, it seemed to
her, that either to pity or to blame, to question Dora’s past or her
present feelings, to suppose her faithless or deceitful, untrue either
to him or his rival, would be equally inappropriate, unkind, or
unwise. She dared hardly do more than state facts, and express anxiety
regarding his feelings. Then came his letter, like himself, generous,
warm-hearted, high-minded, loving. He had, he said, no right to
complain, she had broken no faith to him; he had asked for none; they
had parted on the understanding that she was free, disengaged. He had
never deserved her, and it would be unjust, then, to claim a place in
her memory as any thing beyond a friend; he had no wish to make her
unhappy, and since their union appeared to her impossible, she was at
perfect liberty to act as she had done. It was like herself, too, if
she had endeavored to please her father; it was an engagement which
he, no doubt, would perfectly approve; and there was much offered by
it to influence and tempt her beyond common inducements. That she
would not marry for the sake of rank or fortune alone, she had already
proved; beyond a doubt, she had good reasons for her conduct. His most
earnest wishes for her happiness, his constant prayers for her, were
all he could now give; these she should have. He charged Hilary not to
allow her to suppose he felt ill-used, or that he judged her harshly,
or blamed her; nor need her affectionate heart grieve for him; she had
done him no injustice, no wrong; and the inevitable evils of life he
hoped he could bear. A sailor must expect storms in his voyage, and
should know what to do under them. A sudden tornado had come down on
him, catching him, perhaps, with too much canvas spread, going on too
gayly before a light breeze; but should he therefore give up all for
lost, and allow the hurricane to overwhelm him without an effort? No,
he would shorten sail at once, and trust, by vigorous and timely
exertion, to remedy the danger to which incautiousness in fair weather
had exposed him.
“Not that I can ever forget her,” continued he, in conclusion, “or am
at all likely to find one to fill her place. Her memory will live in
mine, as we think of one dead; and her name will ever have a charm for
me beyond all other feminine appellations. But do not fret on my
account, dear Hilary; you have enough care, without taking another
load on your shoulders for my sake.”
But Captain Hepburn told his wife how great was the struggle in the
mind of Maurice, how severe the shock had been, and how glad he should
be when they had left England, as this weary detention from day to
day, kept them all in an irritating state of idle uncertainty. Hilary
knew Maurice must feel, yet his letter was a comfort too. If he could
so bravely face his disappointment, the severity of the blow would be
greatly lessened. If no angry feelings were lurking there, he would
escape the bitterest portion of disappointed love; and perhaps, after
all, the abandoned lover might be less an object of pity than his
successful rival.
Affairs went on at home, for some weeks, much as has been described.
Isabel Barham was the most devoted friend to Gwyneth; constantly at
the Vicarage, to talk over the building plans, or consult about the
embroidery she was occupied with for the church. Penelope’s web hardly
gave rise to more discussion and anxiety than did the cushions which
Isabel thought she was working. They traveled backward and forward,
several times a week, between the Abbey and the Vicarage, in Miss
Barham’s britchska; that young lady always expecting to find time to
set a few stitches during her visit, and generally proving mistaken in
the result; so that the only progress the work made was when Gwyneth
sometimes herself took it in hand; indeed, the cushions might be said
to live chiefly on the road, if they had actually any other existence
than in the imagination of their projectors.
The curate was not excluded from the cabinet councils held on these
topics, and he rarely absented himself. None of the lookers-on could
at all make out the meaning of the several parties; even Hilary
doubted what were Mr. Ufford’s views and intentions; and as to Miss
Barham, when at Hurstdene, she seemed to care little for any thing but
the vicar’s daughter. The accounts from Naples, meanwhile, were most
unfavorable; there seemed scarcely a hope of Lord Dunsmore’s life,
which faded and flickered apparently like a dying lamp; but as his
sister-in-law and her husband were devoted to him, his brother was
content to remain in England.
It was a wild and stormy day, such as not unfrequently breaks up the
fine weather at the commencement of August; the curate had not
presented himself the whole morning at the Vicarage, and the family
supposed him confined to his house by the tempest.
The church bell began to toll, and its long, mournful vibrations
seemed to come sadly and awfully, with a warning sound, across the
furious blast; sometimes swelling loud in a transient lull, sometimes
almost swept away by the violence of the roaring gale.
“That is old Martha Blake’s funeral,” observed Hilary; “what a day for
the poor people.”
“Yes; and Mr. Ufford, too,” observed Gwyneth.
The bell tolled on, and by-and-by Nest, who was watching from the
window, remarked that the party had just appeared. Slowly, and with
difficulty, the black group made their way across the green, the wind
violently opposing their progress, and threatening at every moment to
overpower their feeble and tottering steps. Gwyneth’s eyes were fixed
on the procession as it wound its way along; she expected to see Mr.
Ufford issue from the church to meet the mourners; but they paused at
the Lychgate, set down the corpse, and sheltered themselves as well as
they could beneath the walls. It was evident the clergyman had not yet
arrived. Five minutes passed; ten, a quarter of an hour; still the
bell tolled on; and still the mourners stood huddled together by the
gate of the dead.
“How wrong to keep those poor people waiting there,” said Hilary, a
little indignantly.
“I dare say there is some mistake about time,” replied Gwyneth; “and I
am sure they have often kept Mr. Ufford for an hour or more.”
Still time went on; at length, after a long hour, a messenger came to
the Vicarage, to ask what should be done; they had sent to Primrose
Bank, but the clergyman was out, and had left word that he need not be
expected back.
“Then I must go and bury my old parishioner,” said the vicar, rising
up. “Hilary, my hat and coat, please, love; old Martin will guide me
down to the church; so do not disturb yourself.”
Hilary was thunderstruck; for her father to go out in such weather
might be fatal; he had not been so well as usual for some days. She
knew not what to do; ah, could she but have exposed herself for him!
Vain wish; she watched him preparing with a sad presentiment, then
resolutely threw on her own black cloak, and determined to accompany
him. The storm which he must encounter, she too would brave; perhaps
she might assist, or shelter him from its fury.
With many sorrowful charges from her to Gwyneth to have a fire
lighted, and dry, warm clothes in readiness, the couple took their way
together, although the father earnestly remonstrated against Hilary’s
exposing herself to such needless inconvenience. It was vain to
attempt to hold an umbrella; petticoats flapped wildly in the wind,
and caught the dashing torrents of rain as they fell; but under the
churchyard wall, there was a little shelter, and rain alone
comparatively inconvenienced them, during the out-of-door service.
When it was over, Hilary, bidding the poor women, all so wet and
draggled, to come up to the Vicarage to dry and warm themselves,
hurried her father home as fast as infirmity and tempest would allow
him; and wet, breathless, exhausted by the contest with the elements,
they reached the house at last. But the struggle had almost
overpowered him, and on his arrival, he was attacked with a sort of
faintness which greatly alarmed his daughters. He revived after a
short time, and smiled at their solicitude; but although he seemed to
rally, he complained once or twice in the evening of extreme
chilliness, and before night it was quite evident he had caught a
violent cold.
Morning did not bring the comfort which he had endeavored to persuade
his daughters would accompany it; sore throat and fever were apparent,
and Hilary, in great alarm, dispatched a hurried messenger for the
doctor. Gwyneth was most miserable; her father’s illness overpowered
her feelings, and that it should be caused by the apparent neglect of
Mr. Ufford, aggravated her distress. She wearied herself in inventing
unsatisfactory excuses for his absence, each one of which was
abandoned as unlikely, after being entertained for a short period; and
the conviction that he would call that morning to excuse his absence,
was so strong, that every moment she fancied she heard the latch of
the wicket-gate.
The doctor came, prescribed for his patient, shook his head, and
avoided giving a definite opinion; contenting himself with observing,
he had taken a chill, and they must make him better if they could.
Hilary kept her own thoughts to herself, unwilling prematurely to
alarm her sisters; but she wrote to Sybil. The vacation was so near,
that she thought Mrs. Farrington would easily arrange to hurry her
departure, even if she were obliged to leave her husband behind for a
few days.
The day passed heavily away; the storm had ceased, but the sky was
dull, and the earth damp and dreary; and the exterior dullness was
well answered by the blank within. All there was dull indeed.
Many parishioners came toward evening to make anxious inquiries for
their pastor, and Gwyneth had to see and answer them; and many and
deep, though not loud, were the murmurs that his reverence, who never
spared himself, should have been forced out in such a storm, through
the inattention of one, who――Gwyneth had to stop them abruptly, to
charge them not to judge hastily, to make excuses, and invent possible
reasons for the mistake; which sometimes brought her such an answer
as,
“Ah, well, miss, I dare say you doant like to hear ’um blamed, but
’ees not like his reverence, and will never fill his shoes.”
An observation which brought the color into her cheeks more than once.
“Belike, miss, ye doant know Mr. Ufford was gone over to the Abbey
yesterday?” said one old gossip to her; to which Gwyneth replied, with
as much unconcern as possible, she did not: but there was something in
the tone and manner which startled her.
The second morning of Mr. Duncan’s illness brought Gwyneth a note from
Isabel. She was sitting with Hilary beside her father’s bed, when it
was placed in her hand. She opened and read it; then silently laying
it down before her sister, she left the room.
Mrs. Hepburn hurriedly perused it. It was to announce, in most
graceful and well-chosen words, the fact that she was engaged to Mr.
Ufford. She was sure the intelligence would interest her friends at
the Vicarage.
Hilary had hardly time to understand this announcement, and none at
all to calculate its effects on Gwyneth, when her attention was called
to her father. He awoke suddenly, in such intense pain, that every
thought had to be given to his relief. She was obliged to summon more
help, and Gwyneth, hearing the subdued bustle, came out of her room.
Her countenance was white as marble, and almost as composed as a
statue; there was no other sign of emotion than the shadow under her
eyes; her whole attention was devoted to her father; and her energy
was astonishing. The alarm of the daughters was great, though
intensely quiet; and an urgent message was sent to the apothecary to
come immediately. Much to their relief, he was met near the house, and
hurried forward. Every application which skill could devise, or care
employ, was made use of to relieve the patient; but for hours the
sisters, though working with untiring energy, saw no beneficial
result. At length, however, there came a cessation of pain, followed
by sleep.
Now Gwyneth insisted Hilary should rest. She had been up the whole of
the preceding night; she must take repose. Gwyneth’s black eyes burned
with a fever fire as she spoke; her cheeks were white, but her hand
did not tremble, nor her lip falter.
“And you, Gwyneth,” said Hilary, kissing her, as she listened to her
low, yet impressive whispers; “do you not want rest?”
“No, not now, not yet; when I am tired I will rest, but it would be
useless to try now, and I would rather be doing something.”
“There are carriage wheels,” said Hilary, listening. Gwyneth’s face
flushed for one moment, but the color died away as her sister said:
“It must be Sybil!”
It was Sybil, not alone either; she was accompanied by her husband’s
uncle, a physician whom she had brought with her from London, a
gentleman they all knew and liked exceedingly. The relief which the
sight of the travelers afforded was very great; but as the patient was
sleeping quietly, there was nothing else to be done but to welcome and
refresh them.
Mr. Wild, the apothecary, was to call again in an hour or two; he had
already hinted at the propriety of calling in more advice, and would,
no doubt, be glad to have Dr. Symons to share his responsibility.
The sisters clustered together round the drawing-room fire, for the
evening was so chilly that the travelers were glad of its warmth, and
spoke in low, anxious tones of their hopes and fears. Sybil’s
indignation at the cause of this illness was less suppressed than her
sisters; and murmurs of “careless,” “thoughtless,” “unpardonable,”
crossed her lips.
Then came Mr. Wild again, and a consultation between him and the
physician; and then the sinking spirits with which they listened to
the faint encouragements and doubtful words of the doctors. However,
it was no time to give way; feeling and fear must be crushed down into
the smallest possible space, anticipation must be prohibited, action
and energy were what were now required. Gwyneth took the watch; her
sisters were to sleep, and they could sleep all the more quietly,
knowing that Dr. Symons was within call, if necessary.
There was scarce a shadow of amendment the next day, to cheer them;
but there were no worse symptoms in the sick man; he slept much and
heavily in the night, but when awake, pain was lessened, and
consciousness more alive. The day passed in slow hours, marked by the
changes in the sick room, as one sister after the other took her seat
beside the bed. Gwyneth’s restlessness increased hourly, when not
stationed there; nothing else seemed to afford her a moment’s quiet.
Whatever of active exertion was required, she was the doer of it; she
never tired, except of being unemployed, and her quickness of eye,
readiness of thought, and lightness of finger, were much praised by
Dr. Symons, who little guessed the source whence this unfailing
activity sprung.
It was on the afternoon of Saturday, the third of Mr. Duncan’s
illness, when, as Gwyneth was crossing the vestibule, the pleasant
sunshine streaming in at the open door, tempted her for a short space
to pause in the porch. She lingered a minute, the next, as she turned
away, a step caught her ear; it was Mr. Ufford. Her first inclination
was to draw back, her next, and the governing one, was to advance
composedly with extended hand.
There was, perhaps, a little confusion in his countenance as he looked
at her; a little surprise at the deadly whiteness of her cheeks, the
strange glance of her dark eyes, as he greeted her.
“You have been long coming,” said she gravely; “my father has asked
for you several times.”
“I am sorry; I am but just returned from the Abbey. I will go to him
now,” he said, in great confusion and haste.
“No, you can not, he is asleep, now; Sybil just told me so; and Dr.
Symons would not have him disturbed for the world.” She spoke with an
effort; she dared scarcely allow her breath to come, lest it should
overpower her self-command. Each nerve was stretched, each muscle
rigid in the exertion to seem calm.
“Asleep――Dr. Symons! Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired he,
startled into forgetting his own concerns, and really thinking of her
words.
“Do you not know?” she paused. “Walk in, I will tell you when I can!”
Another pause, during which she tried to strangle some heaving sobs,
she overpowered some rebellious flutterings. “I think I will call
Hilary!” she added, quickly, as a last resource, and hurried away from
the room door. He entered. Nest was there alone. She rose, but would
hardly speak or come forward.
“What is the matter, Nest?” exclaimed he, abruptly.
“Papa is no better,” replied the child, looking down; “no better at
all; and Dr. Symons, who came here yesterday, does not know how to
make him better, and Sybil says, Mr. Ufford, it is all your fault!”
“My fault!” cried he; “how in the world? what have I to do with it?”
“Your being away, and obliging him to go out on Wednesday to the
funeral, in all that storm; nobody knew where to find you, so poor
papa had to do it himself.”
A very unpleasant conviction accompanied the light which his
understanding received by Nest’s plain speaking. He colored, sat down,
and was silent for some minutes.
“How long has he been ill?” said he, at last.
“Ever since Wednesday evening, when he caught cold; but here is
Hilary.”
Mr. Ufford rose, feeling singularly uncomfortable and embarrassed.
“I can not tell you how shocked I have been, Mrs. Hepburn, to hear of
Mr. Duncan’s sudden illness,” said he; “I had no idea of it!”
“Did you not receive a message from me? we sent yesterday to beg you
would come as soon as you could, as my father asked for you several
times.”
“I am but just returned from the Abbey!”
Hilary was silent and grave. Her looks were more of a reproach than
any words she could have uttered; they spoke so plainly of grief,
anxiety, and patience. He felt obliged to say something in excuse or
apology; and with ever-increasing embarrassment, he said:
“I am so sorry it should have happened; but I quite forgot the notice,
and all about the funeral――it was most unfortunate!”
Still Mrs. Hepburn was silent.
“My housekeeper ought to have reminded me, when I told her I was going
out,” continued he; “it was excessively careless of her to forget; I
shall speak to her about it.”
“If you usually depend upon her for those sort of things――” began
Hilary, and then stopped suddenly.
“Besides, who could ever have supposed that people would be so mad as
to go out in such weather at all?” added he, determined to be angry
with somebody. “These old women have no more sense than a post; it was
irrational, and I really think they must have intended to vex and
annoy me.”
“I think they are hardly to blame for keeping an appointment,” said
she; “they could not tell you would not be there, and, perhaps, were
as much inconvenienced by the weather as you could have been, had you
been present.”
“I don’t know that; they are used to rough it; and there is a sad
spirit of spite and ill-will prevalent among them; a more selfish,
ungrateful, thankless, obstinate set, I never met with. They are
equally devoid of sense and affection.”
“You do them injustice, I am sure; you would not doubt their
affectionate feeling, if you heard their anxiety for my father. But I
can not stay with you now. Can you wait here on the chance of my
father’s waking, or will you call in again by-and-by?”
Mr. Ufford was too glad to make his escape at that moment, and
promising to call again in an hour’s time, he walked off, trying to
drown his own sense of wrong, by throwing the blame on every body in
the parish except himself.
Mr. Duncan’s attack proved an influenza of a most dangerous nature;
and no skill or care from physicians or nurses, could arrest its
progress or prevent its effects. He lingered on for nearly three
weeks, and then darkness and silence fell on the Vicarage, sorrow and
tears filled the village dwellings, for the father was taken from his
children, and the pastor from his people, and the place that had known
him would know him no more.
The sisters sat together in the gloomy rooms during those long summer
days which intervened between the death and the funeral, each,
perhaps, going over in silence in her own mind the scenes of childhood
so deeply impressed on memory; the happy hours, the kindly-given
lesson, the birth-day treat, the pleasant surprise, all coming from
him who was now gone from them; each one a joy that never could recur
again, but which, although now receding into the shadowy regions of
the past, was yet even in recollection a thing to be valued and to be
grateful for.
They had some great comforts also. Mr. Paine and his wife contrived to
come to them, and he was dearly welcomed, both as friend and priest,
and she was an unspeakable solace to Hilary. Their brother-in-law had
joined them the week after Sybil came, and his presence relieved them
of the painful intrusions which funeral arrangements gave rise to.
Hilary knew that support and comfort would come alone from a higher
source than earthly friendship, or domestic affection; but the gift of
these latter was received as a favor to deserve gratitude, a token
that He who provided even for temporal blessings, would not forsake
his children, nor withdraw from them the necessary help.
Her greatest anxiety was for Gwyneth now; and, perhaps, her bitterest
sorrow was caused by Mr. Ufford.
The latter, indeed, had deeply disappointed her by the coldness and
reserve which, like a damp, wrapping mist, had crept over him. His
visits had been few and hurried, except when absolutely sent for; his
words cold, stiff, and unwillingly given. His time was principally
devoted to riding over to the Abbey, which swallowed up most days in
the week. His own prospects, of course, chiefly occupied him, and, no
doubt, the visits at the Vicarage were painful for more than one
reason; yet, when they remembered the past, their father’s kindness to
him, his previous conduct, and friendly professions, and his
connection with their sad loss, they all felt that something more was
due from him than they received; perhaps he, too, was conscious of
ingratitude, which made the sight of former friends unpleasant;
perhaps he was simply self-engrossed, and thoughtless regarding the
sorrows which did not touch him.
But Gwyneth was a nearer, deeper trouble, and Hilary could not look at
her without fear. The same stony composure wrapped her still. Ever
since her father’s death she had shed no tear; but her dark eyes
looked blacker than ever by contrast with her white cheeks; she spoke
little, never of her feelings; she rested little; but with a strange,
untiring energy, she seemed always engrossed by some object for the
good of others. An ordinary observer would never have guessed the
amount of agony and endurance that pallid brow concealed; but Hilary
read it in her silence, in her downcast eyes, and in the burning touch
of her fevered fingers, and she read it with fear; for such unnatural
suppression of feeling, such intense and over-wrought calmness must,
she knew, break down at last: and what would be the end of it?