“Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce walks are drear,
Madcap, what jest was this to meet me here!
Were feet like those made for so wild a way?
The southern chamber had been, by my fay,
More fitting trysting-place for us to-day!”
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.
Mrs. Hepburn’s fears for her sister were not immediately realized; for
weeks there was no symptom of the reaction she had dreaded. Gwyneth
threw herself with a passionate energy into all the preparations, the
business, and the distressing bustle which must follow the decease of
a clergyman. The necessity of leaving the home of their whole life,
the doubts where to go; the troublesome technicalities of
dilapidations, and other matters of the same kind; the anxiety
regarding what Maurice would wish done in his absence; the misery of
parting with all the treasured relics which a family mansion contains,
of knowing that all they had loved and valued must pass into other and
careless hands, painful as they were, did not daunt her spirit. Her
one wish was to leave the place; her answer, when Hilary begged her
not to overtire herself, was generally, “I can not rest at Hurstdene.”
No, she could not rest there, now she knew that she must, eventually,
leave it; now that her pleasant visions had been so rudely overthrown;
that her day-dreams had proved more evanescent than the sunset glory
on the tree-tops; rest in _his_ house, she could not; knowing, as she
did, that he only waited for their quitting it to pull down the whole,
from ridge-tile to door-sill. Rest there! where he, who was now
whispering soft things to another, had once said and looked such
words, such meanings to herself, as she dared not now recall. She was
incessantly urgent to be gone; but nothing would persuade her to go
first; she would not yield so far as to seem unable to remain. Sybil
took Nest back to London with her, Gwyneth remained with Hilary.
The marriage of Mr. Barham’s daughters was approaching; one ceremony
was to unite the two couples, and the country round re-echoed with
gossip on the subject. The owner of “the Ferns” was at home, Dora,
too, had returned to Drewhurst Abbey; all there looked as bright and
gay, to outward seeming, as the affairs at the Vicarage showed dull
and sad. The black crape of the mourners, and the orange wreaths of
the young brides, were but the symbols of the apparent contrast
between their present prospects.
Yet, perhaps, all was not as it seemed; there might be throbbing
hearts and wrung feelings under the folds of the richest brocades;
there might be bitter tears in secret, shed over the elegant baubles
which custom dedicates as fitting presents for a wedding; there might
be a shadow upon the mental vision, through whose thick gloom the
bridal finery might appear but as a ghastly mockery, more fearful,
more dismal, than a funeral pall.
And there are consolations for unselfish mourners, which bear up the
heart, and support the drooping spirit, and make the feeble strong;
sweet thoughts of peace, which fill the void that death occasions, and
make even memory a comfort and a blessing, though it calls up scenes
never to be repeated here. No, the parting which a hopeful death
occasions, is not the darkest shadow in this world of sorrow!
Isabel Barham in due time paid a visit of condolence to her friends at
the Vicarage. Hilary met her alone, Gwyneth was busy, and did not
appear. Miss Barham seemed really touched as she saw Mrs. Hepburn’s
pale cheeks and black garments; perhaps the contrast of their present
situations struck her, perhaps she remembered how much of pain and
sorrow had followed Hilary, since the time when she had been a bride.
She spoke kindly and affectionately, and inquired with great interest
as to their intentions.
“We shall leave this next week,” said Hilary. “Maurice and Captain
Hepburn are both desirous we should be nearer the southern coast, and
we think of a house not very far from Southampton. Mr. Farrington has
a sister settled there, and though we should not like to live in a
town, it would not be convenient to be very far from one.”
“Then we shall lose you quite, I fear; I was half in hopes we should
have had you settled in this neighborhood still. I was talking to Mr.
Huyton about Primrose Bank for you, but he did not seem much to like
it.”
“Thank you for thinking of us; but to have us within an easy distance
of either London or Portsmouth is my husband’s object, and Southampton
unites both. He and my brother are my sister’s guardians, and we
shall, I hope, always continue to live together.”
“That will be very nice; and Hilary, you will not mind my asking as a
friend, you will be comfortable as to circumstances――income I mean?”
“Yes, we shall do very well; we have never been accustomed to luxury,
and we shall not have much to resign of that kind.”
“I see you have been packing up,” said Isabel, looking round.
“Yes, such things as we take with us; Maurice would like us to keep
all, but there is much that it would not be worth while to move. He
has left it entirely to my discretion.”
“And this will be my farewell visit then; I am afraid I shall be too
much occupied to come again. By-the-by, Dora told me to ask if you
would see her; I wanted her to come with me, but she had some
scruples, I could not understand what, and only sent a message.”
“Yes, I should,” said Hilary, with warmth, “I should indeed like to
see her, pray tell her so. How is Lord Dunsmore now; have you better
accounts of him?”
A shade passed over Isabel’s face.
“Why, the accounts lately have spoken of his being better; he has
seemed to rally a little since the death of his child, but those sort
of partial revivals are not uncommon in pulmonary complaints, and I
can not imagine that, ill as he has been, he has any real chance of
recovery.”
“I thought,” observed Hilary, “that it was doubtful whether his was a
pulmonary attack.”
“I believe one or two physicians pretended to doubt it,” replied
Isabel, a little impatiently; “but the most eminent declared it
hopeless, and no one could see him, I should suppose, and question his
having every appearance of a victim to consumption.”
“Can I not see Gwyneth?” continued Isabel, after a pause.
“I will try to find her if you will excuse me for a few minutes.”
Hilary had no little difficulty in persuading her sister to appear;
she made some excuses about business and unfitness of dress, but
finally yielded, with the air of one who resigns herself to walking to
the stake. Her heart revolted from meeting her successful rival, and
when she remembered the visits of former days, when her company had
been assiduously sought as a screen and an excuse for other
interviews, when she had been made so unconsciously to administer to
her rival’s objects, and her own disappointment, it did require no
small share of resolute fortitude to go through the ordeal before her.
It was borne, however, as many other trials had been borne, by putting
away thought and feeling, by avoiding to scan her own sensations, and
simply taking pains to do the present duty rightly; as a traveler
among precipices, on a narrow path, refuses to look down into the
unguarded gulf below him, and keeps his faculties steady, by engaging
every one in the task of setting the next footstep safely.
The next day, as Hilary was busily engrossed in writing, she thought
she heard a step behind her, and looking round, saw, to her surprise,
Dora Barham standing there alone.
Apparently she had just ridden over from the Abbey, but her hat was
thrown off, and her long hair was hanging somewhat disordered down her
pale cheeks, while she stood, with parted lips and fixed eye, and
hands half raised, as if hesitating whether to speak, or to retire.
“Dora, dear Dora!” said Hilary, holding out her hands. In another
moment Dora was in her arms, hiding her face upon her shoulder, and
sobbing out incoherent words of tenderness, sorrow, and self-reproach.
Her friend did not speak, but caressed her softly, and waited until
this ecstacy was over, well knowing, from experience, that Dora’s
moods were somewhat changeable.
At length she raised her head, and with downcast eyes, and tears
trembling on the lashes, she asked, in an agitated voice, “Oh, Hilary!
what do you think of me?”
“That you are very kind to come and see me, dear,” replied Mrs.
Hepburn, smiling gently.
“Ah, well! perhaps it is wisest to say nothing of the past, we will
talk of something else. This dear old place, this happy, happy room,
that beloved garden. Oh, Hilary, Hilary! my heart will break.”
“It is very painful to leave it,” replied Hilary; “it is always hard
to give up scenes to which the heart clings, and I understand Mr.
Ufford means to pull it all down, and build a new and larger vicarage.
He can hardly make it grand enough for your sister’s habits, without
making it too grand for the living.”
“I dare say not,” said Dora, abstractedly. “You have removed the
pictures?” Her eye had sought for one portrait which used to hang in
that room.
“Yes, most things are packed up, ready for removal: we go ourselves
very soon.”
“Ah, me! ah, me! and how is――how are your sailor friends?” Her cheeks
varied from red to white.
“Well, quite well.”
“Hilary!”
“Well, dear, what?”
“Tell me! oh, tell me!――in another week I may not ask, or even think
of him――tell me now in mercy――” she put her hand to her head.
“Yes, but what am I to tell you, Dora? he is well, quite well.”
“Tell me what he thinks of me; tell me or I shall go mad! Does he hate
me, despise me, as an idle, giddy, trifling coquette, a heartless,
ambitious girl, content to sell my hand and person? Does he not loath
me from his heart? He must, he can not help it.”
“No, indeed.”
“Has he mentioned my name to you? What did he say? What _could_ he say
but words of contempt and scorn!”
“No, neither contempt nor scorn; far from it he says. I will read you
what he says;” and turning to her desk, Hilary presently produced the
letter containing the allusions to Dora’s marriage. She read his
message, while Dora, listening, held her breath as if afraid to lose a
word.
“Good, noble, honorable Maurice, too good, too kind,” said she at
length, “happy, happy for you that you are not bound to so worthless,
so feeble a creature as I am! Ah! I am glad, glad, most glad that you
are not miserable. Read it again, Hilary, once more; or no, let me see
for once, only once, his blessed writing.” She caught the letter from
her friend, and began to read it herself. Mrs. Hepburn remonstrated,
but Dora held the letter with both hands, and read, eagerly devouring
the words with her eyes, and totally deaf to her companion’s voice.
Then, when she had done, she passionately kissed the paper, pressed it
to her heart, looked at it again; and again, with streaming eyes, put
her lips to the signature.
“Wretch, wretch that I am!” she cried, frantically; “oh, Hilary! I
shall die, my heart will break, I know I shall! I often have a burning
pain here in my bosom, or my head, which can not last; iron, flint,
granite, breaks or pulverizes; surely human life is not harder, not
more tenacious than those. Tell me, shall I not die?”
“Yes, Dora, one day; we must all die once: but death is a solemn
thing, not to be met unprepared; and these wild and passionate
expressions are not a fitting preparation for this great reality. Give
me back that letter.”
“No, let me keep it; it is mine, for me, concerns me most.”
“You must not, Dora; remember, you are to be another man’s wife next
week.”
“Next week! ah! when I am, I will send it to you; let me keep it now.”
“To keep it now ought not to be any object to you. Give it me back. If
you value it, you must not retain it; if you do not, you will not wish
to keep it.”
“Till the last――till my――my wedding-day!” said she with a ghastly
smile.
“If you wish for happiness, if you value peace, return it!”
“Happiness! Peace! we have long parted company――I lost them when the
_Erratic_ sailed; happiness, as the wife of a man who does not care
for me――for whom I have no regard; peace with a husband who weds me
while his heart is another’s, knowing, too, that mine is pre-engaged;
who seeks me from pique; whom I have accepted from cowardice. Yes,
ours will be a home of happiness and peace, the hearth of domestic
felicity, the very center of all true and happy virtues.”
“Dora! Dora! how can you talk so!” cried Hilary, shocked and dismayed.
“Talk! ask me how I can act so! what does talking signify! ah me!”
“But, Dora, is it possible that with such sentiments, such feelings,
you can be really going to marry? oh, think before you take an
irrevocable step; before you deceive yourself and him, too far!”
“I am not deceiving him, Hilary; he knows what he is about; come, I
will tell you all, only listen.”
She threw herself on the ground at her friend’s feet, her favorite
attitude, and poured out her story.
“We parted coldly, I was offended, vain, foolish thing! I
misunderstood the very devotion of his heart; then came Charles
Huyton, tempting me with wily words. I knew he did not love me. I knew
it was you he worshiped; I saw through his motive, and trusting that
he would himself weary of so unsuitable a union, I said yes! I was
mad――provoked; but I did not mean it, I thought I should have escaped.
But I knew not his resolution in evil; his stern purpose, his dark
determination; day after day have the toils closed round me; the net
in which I wound myself has entangled me more. I can not shake myself
free; he _will_ marry me; and I can not, dare not, say _no_. Oh,
Hilary! do you know his dark expression, did you ever see how his eyes
can glow and sparkle with gloomy fire? Once I did not dislike him; now
I dread him beyond measure, and compared with Maurice! don’t tell him
how miserable I am, it would make him sad; at least, not till it is
over! when I am dead, then, then, tell him that my heart was broken.
Ah, Hilary!”
“Dear Dora! what can I say to you? do not go on with this; not for
Maurice, not for his sake, but for your own. For your conscience, your
honor, your virtue, do not risk all by such a fatal step. Think,
pray――pray for strength, for light, for guidance, and stop before it
is too late.”
“Pray! what, when about to do what is so wrong?” murmured Dora; “would
such prayers be heard?”
“Yes; prayer to do better, to have grace to repent! prayer is always
heard.”
“Nay, then, I will pray for death! that would be the greatest boon to
me.”
“Dora, if you had stood as I so recently did by a death-bed, if you
had witnessed how solemn a thing it is to prepare to render up the
soul, how the weakness of the body prostrates the powers of the mind,
and how even the humblest, truest faith, does not exclude bitter
penitence for failings long past and errors known besides only to the
Great Creator, you would not, you could not, wish to rush unprepared
to such a solemn work as dying. Think, Dora, if after such a life as
my father’s, there was so much regret for misspent moments, such
humble acknowledgment of unfulfilled duties, think what it would be to
face our end, because we are too weak to suffer for the truth; what
madness to call on death to save us from earthly fears, and dare to
face our Judge, because we will not do our duty here, from dread of a
fellow-creature’s censure! oh, Dora, consider!”
“Tell me about your father, Hilary,” said Dora, in a broken voice, and
hiding her eyes against her friend’s knees; and Mrs. Hepburn thinking
that, perhaps, to turn her thoughts from herself might be useful,
related such particulars of Mr. Duncan’s death-bed as she believed
might soothe and interest her auditor. She was seriously alarmed for
Dora’s state of mind. There was a restlessness in her eyes, a nervous
twitching of her muscles, a variation in her complexion, and other
similar symptoms, which she thought indicated extreme mental
excitement; and her wildly variable manner, her sudden changes of
subject in conversation, and her extraordinary tones, confirmed these
fears. She appeared, so far as Hilary could judge, like one on the
brink of a violent fever; and the thought passed through her mind,
that, perhaps, the marriage she so deeply deprecated, might, after
all, be arrested by causes over which even Mr. Huyton had no control.
Dora sat for some time profoundly silent, and, except for the
occasional deep heaving of her breast, quite composed outwardly. At
length, when Mrs. Hepburn ceased speaking, she slowly rose, and after
kissing her two or three times, she walked away to the window, and
stood there looking out in silence. Then she said, but without turning
round:
“Hilary, if there is one person whose influence could induce Charles
Huyton to break off this hateful marriage, one who could soften his
heart, and lead him to have pity on me, on Maurice, on himself, it is
_you_. If you would intercede for us!”
“Dora,” said Hilary, hurriedly interrupting her, “you mistake; you are
not thinking of what you are saying. I can have no such power as you
suppose; and for me to interfere in any way with him, would be alike
useless and impossible. I can do you no good.”
“Ah, you do not know――his former feeling for you is still――”
“Hush, Dora; if former feeling for me exists, it is an insult and a
wrong to hear of it; an insult to me, a wrong to my husband. What
influence could the wife of Captain Hepburn exercise over the mind of
Mr. Huyton, in such a cause?”
“It might not be a wrong influence; I meant no harm! I know that,
though angry at your marriage, he still looks up to you, respects you,
esteems you above all other women; and a word from you, such as you
have spoken just now to me, would, perhaps, awaken him to a sense of
right and wrong, might arouse some remorse and repentance before it is
too late.”
“Dear Dora, I believe you to be most entirely mistaken; and even could
I with propriety speak, the opportunity may never occur, and your
conduct, your decision, ought not to depend upon the chance of my
speaking, or the possibility of my influencing him. Act for yourself;
follow your own sense of duty, and dare to be true even at last.”
Dora sighed heavily, and turned away. More Hilary said to the same
purpose, but in vain; Miss Barham continued uncertain and miserably
undecided, and when at length she quitted the Vicarage, it was with no
assurance that she would not, after all, pursue the dangerous road
that she was treading.
Her last words were:
“Oh, Hilary, why did you not love and marry him, then we might all
have been happy!”
The sisters’ residence at the Vicarage was rapidly drawing to a close.
A long farewell had been said to every well-known forest nook and
glade, each beloved haunt of bygone days; a sad leave had been taken
of each parishioner, each lowly friend and affectionate well-wisher,
many parting tokens had been humbly but kindly offered, from those who
had known them from childhood, or begged as precious memorials of the
late Vicar and his daughters, by the sorrowful parishioners, who still
grieved for their best friend. The last Sunday came, and they knelt
for the last time on the spot where for years their devotions had been
offered up. Every look was now a pain, every action almost caused a
pang, and both sisters ardently wished the time were come which should
put an end to the sorrowful dream in which they now seemed to move.
There was no outward demonstration of their grief, it wore the calm,
grave, torpid aspect, that a dull November day presents, when the sky
is all shrouded in a somber vail of gray, and the distant hills wear
the same heavy tint; while no wind moves through the half-bare trees,
or wakens the waters to life. Over such a scene silence and stillness
brood, the silence of death-like sleep, made only more apparent as the
soft rustle of a falling leaf catches the ear, or the eye is attracted
by its movement, as it calmly floats to the dull earth beneath.
The afternoon of Monday, the last afternoon they were to spend in
their old home, Hilary walked down alone to visit for the last time
the graves of those so dear to her, and look once more on the favorite
spot where many a peaceful hour had been spent.
She walked slowly and softly all round the western end of the church,
scanning its gray tower, and casting loving glances at each well-known
window. The workmen had not been there for several days, but their
poles and scaffolding encumbered the place, and spoke of decay and
change, of old things being replaced by new, of all passing away and
being forgotten in turn. Her mind went off to scenes where change is
unknown――where rust and moth do not invade――where decay comes
not――where, blessed thought! distance is not, separation can not
grieve, where there is no more sea! Her thoughts were with her husband
then, as she must, at least in idea, share all gentle, happy thoughts
with him; but her hopes were not bounded by earth; they had gone on
into futurity, and time seemed but an atom in space, while she gazed
on the vast prospect of eternity.
Slowly and softly she trod over the grass, among the graves of
hundreds who had loved, and suffered, and wept as she had, and then
lain down to sleep and be forgotten. She passed the northern transept,
and turning the corner, came forward, with inaudible footsteps, to the
eastern end. She was startled suddenly from her reveries, for there,
under the old lime-tree, whose yellow leaves now thickly strewed the
ground, stood one whom she little thought to see there at such a time;
Charles Huyton stood beside her father’s grave.
Roused by her footsteps, he looked up suddenly, and starting as he saw
her, he raised his hat, with an air of almost haughty defiance, but
stood still.
Old memories flashed thick and fast on each, as they stood there once
more together, and their eyes wandered away to the church-wall, and to
the Virginian creeper, whose long sprays still showed some crimson
leaves clinging to their parent stem, waiting their turn to fall to
rest. Then their looks met, and they each aroused themselves to speak.
“Mr. Huyton,” said she, advancing a step, “we are both changed since
we stood here once before; and after all that has passed, there is,
perhaps, no spot on earth so appropriate as this for us to part. Here,
by the grave of one who loved you, and whom I know you must have
esteemed and valued in return, let us bury all that may have caused
pain to either, and exchange a farewell and forgiveness together.”
“I do not agree with you,” replied he, coldly, and making no offer to
receive her hand; “it does not appear to me that any two people on
this earth can have less reason to wish to speak, or that a spot so
unfortunate for a meeting could be found.”
She was silenced for a time; he stood gloomily looking at her; at
length she said, very gently:
“We leave this place to-morrow morning, and I am come now to pay a
last, a final visit, to this solemn spot. Need I say more, or need I
ask you, as a gentleman, not to intrude on a seclusion so sacred; not
to persecute me here with unkind and unholy emotions!”
“Have I wronged you, Mrs. Hepburn, that you talk of forgiveness?” said
he, sternly.
“If _your_ conscience can acquit you, Mr. Huyton, it is not necessary
for me to recall unpleasant recollections. Do not let us discuss the
subject.”
“Forgiveness implies a sense of injury,” persisted he; “I have a right
to know how I have incurred the charge.”
“When we last parted,” said she, after a pause, looking at him with
gentle eyes, “you asked earnestly and urgently to be considered as my
friend. What have I done since, to cause this change in you; that now,
when we are parting, perhaps for ever, you will not say one kindly
word; will not bid me good speed, nor let me give you my good wishes?”
“If my memory serves me rightly, you refused those urgent entreaties,
you declined decidedly, the friendship which I offered. Am I to
conclude that your refusal was insincere, and that you wished to keep
me at your feet, even while you affected to repulse me?”
“You are cruelly unjust, Mr. Huyton,” was her answer; “I told you that
intercourse between us must cease, until――I am sure you must remember
the condition――nor have I even now, when that condition is about to be
fulfilled, the slightest wish to carry on the acquaintance; I only
asked for an exchange of parting words; and my only wish now is, that
you should leave me in peace. At least do not profane this spot with
bitter words. I pray Heaven to bless you, and lead you to true
happiness here and hereafter.”
“Yes, the condition _is_ about to be fulfilled,” repeated he, as if in
a dream; then starting, he said, with more animation; “and the
fulfillment of this condition then meets your entire approbation?”
He fixed his eyes on her with a piercing glance, under which she
shrank and colored. “The choice you would not make yourself, you
approve of for your friend, do you?”
“If you think you can make Dora happy, Mr. Huyton, if that is your
wish, your determination, all your friends and hers must approve of
your choice.”
“Happy!” repeated he, scornfully, “oh, yes! very happy; as happy as
she deserves, and you know how much that is. Tell me now truly,”
coming a step closer to her, “would you rather see the object of your
idolatry, of your passionate devotion, happy with another, forgetful
of your affection; or know her miserable, but constant at heart?”
“Real, devoted affection must wish its object to be happy; it is a
very selfish love which can endure no pleasure which it does not
share,” said she, gravely.
He seemed to be pondering her words, then answered: “That may be
woman’s love; a man’s is different. I do not believe the man exists
who would make such a choice.”
“I know you are mistaken,” she said, and her looks told him where her
thoughts had flown.
“Answer me one other question,” said he; “I know you can not choose
but answer sincerely. Tell me has my intended marriage occasioned you
either pain or pleasure?”
She hesitated. Dora’s wild words crossed her mind. Would her answer
have any influence on her friend’s fate? could it be that he regretted
the grief he had occasioned, and would repair it even now?
“Speak, I implore you,” added he, as she waited to consider.
“Would my reply make any difference in the result? would the knowledge
of my opinion influence your conduct?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Try,” said he; but it was with an expression of eye she did not like.
“No, I will not. I see no good could come of the answer!”
“Thank you, that is enough!” said he, with a bitter smile; “I know
that could Hilary Duncan have expressed any pleasure or even
unconcern, she would have done so at once; and I do not suppose Hilary
Hepburn is less sincere.”
She colored again, and after a momentary hesitation, she said: “I
believe you may be right in your inference, but the cause of the pain
must be unknown to you.”
“Is it? do not fear that I should attribute it to piqued feminine
vanity, or disappointment of selfish triumph, which would gladly
retain the love it does not return. I know you better than that. I
know that thoughts of self did not mingle with your pain; the
disappointment Dora’s marriage cost you, has but little to do with
mine.”
“Much of the disappointment I have felt, arises from regret, Mr.
Huyton; regret to see a mind formed for better things and nobler,
holier tempers, a mind which can appreciate the beautiful, the true,
the good, perverted by an unwise and ungoverned passion, till it could
stoop to malicious retaliation and mean revenge, for imaginary
injuries; to deception and hypocrisy to carry out its objects.
Whatever other sorrow I may have felt, my keenest has been to lose the
power of esteeming one whom I had known so long.” Tears started into
her eyes as she spoke, and she looked at him with an expression of
pity he found it hard to withstand. She thought she saw a wavering,
uncertain glance, and she hoped that, perhaps, even now he might
relent. She ventured to speak again.
“Forgive me for uttering what may seem harsh; my words were, perhaps,
too strong; but let me say one thing more. In three days you are, they
say, to give your hand to Dora Barham, and with your hand to promise
your love! Is it affection for her that actuates you? and shall you be
sincere in the vows you plight her? If not, what hope of happiness is
there for you or for her?”
“I neither know nor care,” replied he, hastily; “all I know is, that
Thursday I will wed Dora, and that no persuasion, no argument of
yours, shall move me from my purpose. No, Hilary! you were deaf to my
prayers, cold to my earnest love, you turned from me with
indifference, again and again. Now――” He did not finish his sentence,
but raising his hat from his forehead, he bowed low, and then strode
hastily away. Hilary sat down on the bench under the lime-tree, and
wept bitterly. It was long before she raised her head from her hands;
when she did, and looked round, twilight had fallen on the earth, and
her last day at Hurstdene had closed in.
Startled to find how late it was, she rose to return home, and with a
lingering glance at the swelling turf and white tombstones, she walked
toward the church-yard stile, her heart full of deep and holy
thoughts, of heavenly aspirations and hopes. Her mind was brought back
to present things by one of those rude contrasts which jar so
painfully at such a time, while they recall the sad reality of sin in
its coarsest aspect.
Lolling upon the stile over which she had to pass, she saw through the
gloom the figure of a man who, as well as she could judge, appeared to
be a stranger, perhaps a traveling peddler, for his pack was on the
wall beside him. He did not move as she approached, but seeing her, he
said, in a voice which betrayed that he had been drinking,
“A pleasant evening, my dear!”
Hilary felt alarmed for a moment; but she had the courage of a brave
woman, which, though it does not make her insensible to danger, even
in the moment of alarm leaves her the calm possession of her
faculties. She believed that to seem gravely self-possessed was the
best check to vulgar insolence; and remembering that there were
cottages close at hand, whose inmates she could summon by a cry, she
said, in a calm voice, which would have influenced a sober man
immediately――
“I will trouble you to allow me to pass, my good man.”
The ruffian, however, was insensible to the tone and manner of her
appeal, and only quitted his position to grasp her arm, swearing that
he always made a pretty girl pay toll.
Hilary started back, and raising her voice, called by name upon the
inhabitants of the nearest dwelling for assistance; but hardly had she
uttered a single cry when a strong arm was thrown round her waist, and
so powerful a blow at the same moment was discharged in the face of
her assailant, as leveled him to the ground. Half-lifted,
half-voluntarily springing over the stile, she found herself safe upon
the green, while Charles Huyton, whose arm had so opportunely defended
her, supported her in silence toward her home. At the same time other
steps were heard approaching, and the cottager on whom she had called,
hurried up to demand whether any thing were the matter.
Hilary paused, and though with some difficulty commanding her voice,
she replied,
“There is a man in the church-yard who has had a fall, Martin; go and
see if he is seriously hurt.”
“And tell him,” added Mr. Huyton, “that if he does not instantly
decamp, I will send a constable after him to-morrow, and punish him
for his conduct. The atrocious ruffian!” added he, in a lower voice,
which yet trembled with passion, “to dare to insult you with his
vulgar insolence. Thank Heaven that I was there to save you!”
Hilary could not answer for a little while; her nerves were unstrung,
and tears were following each other down her cheeks, choking her
voice, and agitating her whole person. They walked on for some yards
in silence; but by resolute efforts she so far conquered her emotion
as to be able to speak.
“I am much obliged to you; I need not detain you longer, I am quite
safe now!”
She would have drawn away her hand from under his arm, but he retained
it still, and finding he was resolved to accompany her, she seized the
opportunity to make one effort more.
“Mr. Huyton you are indignant at the man who, in his stupid,
half-insensible brutality, has just alarmed me by his coarseness; but
is it more inexcusable than the refined and considerate cruelty which
tortures the feelings and wrings the hearts of those who having never
offended, are yet sacrificed to the revengeful determination of
another?”
He made no answer at all; but she fancied, from the motion of the arm
on which she rested, that he was contending with suppressed agitation.
It was too dark to see his features distinctly.
“I know,” she continued, softly, “that you have good and noble
sentiments left in your heart; your interference for my rescue shows
that; your evil angel may whisper dark thoughts to you, but the
promptings of a better spirit are still heard; oh! listen, and yield
to it; and, not for my sake, but for your own, your happiness now, and
your welfare in eternity, banish revengeful thoughts; forgive _me_ for
the fancied injury which you resent, and make poor Dora happy!”
They had reached the wicket gate. She paused, and held out her hand.
“Say one kind farewell, and let us part as friends!”
He grasped her hand so firmly as almost to cause unbearable pain,
hesitated, and then said in a wild tone,
“No――no, I have sworn, and will not falter from my word;” and throwing
her hand from him, he rushed rapidly away.