“Or perchance has her young heart
Felt already some deeper smart
Of those that in secret her heart-strings rive,
Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair.”
ISEULT OF BRITTANY.
Wearied in body, and exhausted in mind, Hilary entered the house with
slow and lingering steps. Gwyneth met her in the vestibule with an
exclamation of――
“How late you are, Hilary!”
“Yes,” replied the latter, looking fixedly at her sister. “What is the
matter, dear?”
She saw, by the glow in Gwyneth’s eyes, and the deadly whiteness of
her cheeks, which looked like marble by lamplight, that something had
occurred to stir her feelings. Gwyneth laid her finger on her lips,
and then whispered, as she motioned to the drawing-room door,
“Mr. Ufford has been waiting for a long time to say good-by.”
They entered the sitting-room together. Mr. Ufford was standing by the
chimney in a fit of abstraction apparently, turning over the leaves of
a small prayer-book belonging to Miss Duncan, which he had found on
the table. They had, as I have said, seen but little of each other
since the late vicar’s death. He was devoted to his visits at the
Abbey, which every week had seemed to engross him more and more, while
the curate, whom he had engaged as soon as he had the power to do so,
had taken almost the entire charge of the parish. Excepting chance
meetings, therefore, their interviews had been few and short; but now
he had called to say a last farewell.
Rousing himself when he saw the sisters enter, he tried to say
something kind and friendly, but his words came stiffly and
unwillingly; and his sentences, instead of flowing with their usual
ready freedom, broke down generally in the middle. Hilary was sorry
for him; more so, perhaps, than he deserved, but she did not study to
suit her commisseration exactly to his merits; she helped him all she
could, by ready politeness, and a free, disengaged air; turning the
conversation, so far as was in her power, to safe topics, unconnected
with sentiment or feeling. She told him that they had already engaged
a house near Southampton, situated, as they understood, on the borders
of some forest land; that Mrs. Lawrence, Sybil’s sister-in-law, had
been most kind in superintending the arrangements; that Sybil herself
had been down there to see that all was ready, and that they expected,
therefore, to find the house perfectly habitable on their arrival.
Mr. Ufford expressed the warmest satisfaction at this intelligence. He
was delighted to think that they would have friends in their new home.
Then he looked round the room, where he had spent so many hours, and
inquired if they were not going to have a sale of the furniture.
It was, perhaps, fortunate for the composure of the sisters, if not
creditable to the feelings of the gentleman, that this question was
put in so matter-of-fact a way. It had been a sore trial to them, only
to think of parting with the loved old furniture, companions of
childhood, witnesses of their former life, bound to their affections
by so many ties of association. Scarcely a chair but was filled by the
shadowy memory of some well-known form, or a table but was connected
with some of their daily habits. It had been a struggle to resolve to
part with any thing; but prudence and justice prevailed over
inclination. Much of it, such as side-boards, cabinets, and
book-cases, were extremely heavy, and though old-fashioned, was
valuable from the beauty of the time-stained wood. All these had been
readily purchased by a cabinet-maker of the next town; and as Maurice
had given the whole furniture to his two youngest sisters, the value
of these articles made no inconsiderable addition to their very
moderate portions. Still it was a painful subject, especially to
Gwyneth, and perhaps, had the visitor evinced a shadow of sympathy in
his tone, her composure would at that moment have given way.
He spoke, however, in a voice as indifferent as if he had been merely
discussing the renunciation of a worn-out garment, and his companions
felt at the moment almost surprised at caring so much for what ought
to be so easy, and nearly convinced that it was the simplest affair in
the world to break off half the ties and reminiscences of a life-time.
Hilary answered that the sale was to take place next week; whereupon
he observed that he should then probably be at Paris, as he and Miss
Barham had agreed to pass through France, intending to go by way of
Marseilles to Italy, and to spend great part of the winter at Naples,
with Lord Dunsmore. Accounts from him continued very variable, and it
was his uncertain state that made them desirous to have the wedding a
quiet one.
Hilary was surprised. “A quiet wedding!” thought she; “I wonder what
they would have had.” She had heard of guests to the number nearly of
a hundred expected at church: she had heard of feasting of the
tenantry, and ale and bonfires, garlands, and flower-strewing,
processions of children in new frocks and bonnets, and other gayeties,
which Isabel seemed indefatigable in planning in the most poetical
style, and arranging in the most symmetrical manner. It seemed very
right and suitable for those in the rank and station of Mr. Barham’s
daughters; perfectly consistent with their future expectations also,
for they were co-heiresses of a large property, and held a leading
position among the county society. Mrs. Hepburn had not a word to say
against the facts, but it amazed her to hear such proceedings styled
“quietness;” so she contented herself with observing that she had no
doubt but that it would all be extremely elegant, and kept her other
opinions to herself.
Mr. Ufford seemed to take for granted that his auditors felt a strong
interest in his proceedings, and accordingly conversed for some time
with fluency on his bride’s various plans; but at length, remembering
that he must go home, he took leave, with sundry good wishes for their
welfare, and a kindness of manner which would have been very pleasing,
had there been no private unacknowledged feelings to turn it into
pain.
Gwyneth, whose face looked in a white heat, perfectly intelligible to
those who knew her well, watched him out of the room, and listened for
the closing of the house-door, then turning away, she murmured, with a
sigh of relief, “To-morrow.”
The morrow came, and early in the dull morning the sisters,
accompanied by one attached domestic, who had lived with them from
girlhood, when she waited on Hilary’s mother, and was now an active
and respectable woman, a little above forty, set off on their journey
to meet some branch of the complicated iron framework which ramifies
so widely through our land, and which, after a due number of changes,
a sufficient degree of waiting at some stations, hurry at others, and
misunderstanding at all, of trouble, of anxiety, and of delay, landed
them safely within as short a distance of their future home as they
could hope to attain.
Mrs. Lawrence kindly met them at the station, and her carriage
conveyed the somewhat dispirited and weary travelers from thence to
their new abode. It had been a mournful day, and one which required
every support that trusting love and humble faith could afford, not to
overpower composure. After catching the last glimpse of those dear old
trees, Gwyneth had drawn down her thick crape vail, and long after
that time no unnecessary word had passed her lips; but whether she
were crying or not her sister could not tell.
Hilary had so many important trifles to attend to that she could not
give her mind wholly to thought or feeling, and for some time she
scarcely realized what had occurred. Still, in those periods of
tranquillity which intervened, when she could think composedly, there
was ever a light rising up clear and pure, although distant far, which
brightened the gloom of her prospects, and prevented her being
overwhelmed with sorrow. Hurstdene was not to her the whole world, as
it was to Gwyneth; and though tender remembrances and buried
affections must hover round the graves of the dear ones lying there,
her heart was not at the Vicarage now: the tie that had bound her was
broken, and another and a stronger bore her on in hope. It was her
husband’s wish she was fulfilling, and she felt as if, now that she
was brought more entirely to depend on him, they were more closely
united than ever. She might now give him the first claim on her
thoughts, which before had been shared with her father; and though
hardly yet accustomed to the void which their recent and great loss
had occasioned, she had hope and tender love to fill it up. Every step
seemed to bring her nearer to her husband, since every step was in
obedience to him, and although the parting from her old home had been
a bitter effort, she was able to throw her mind forward, with some
degree of cheerfulness, to the future.
And more than all the earthly love which brightened her path was that
high and holy, that deeply reverent affection, of which conjugal union
is but a type and an emblem; that trust and simple faith which can
always support the most lonely, and soothe the most sad.
“Yes,” thought she, “if it is so easy to do my husband’s bidding, and
follow his guidance, how much more easy, how infinitely more sweet
ought it to be to submit to the Hand which can not err, to trust to
the Eye which never closes, to obey the Will which has surely promised
good to those who humbly wait on it; only let me stay myself on that
great support, and all will be, all must be well at last.”
And so she charmed to rest her mournful thoughts, and took readily and
thankfully the good which still surrounded her. In imagination, she
scanned what her future occupation might be, and half wondered what
work would arise to fill the place of those happy labors which had
formerly engaged her. The education of her youngest sister would, of
course, be her principal occupation, that would supply employment for
many hours; but there must be other duties also to be discovered and
followed up; doubtless they would show themselves in time; and though
her work might not be so obviously laid before her as in her own home
and former situation, she believed that if she faithfully followed the
most apparent duty, and did her best in that, others would present
themselves in time, and make good their claim on her attention, even
as you may reach the extremity of the longest chain, if you have once
secured the first link.
It was from meditations such as these that she was roused by their
arrival at their destination; and she was able to come back from them
with cheerfulness, to greet the kind and thoughtful stranger who had
taken such pains to show them friendly feeling and good will. Mrs.
Lawrence did not enter with them their new residence; she judged that
the sisters would be glad to rest, without feeling constrained to
exercise civility; she therefore left them at the door, with a promise
to see them to-morrow, and trusting they would find all right, she
departed. Hilary took Gwyneth under the arm, and they walked in
together, leaving the two maids to arrange the trunks, while they took
the first view of their new home.
Small it was, but very comfortable, and the furniture had been
arranged by tasteful and loving hands. On the table stood the
tea-service just ready for the weary travelers, and on the cheerful
fire bubbled and hissed the little kettle. Flowers were in the vases
too, and the sofa was wheeled up exactly at the most comfortable
angle, while their books, and some well-known drawings of Sybil’s own,
prettily framed, completed the pleasant aspect of their room, and
spoke audibly of love and remembrance.
Gwyneth looked round for a moment, then, with a sigh, she threw off
her bonnet and cloak, and sinking on the sofa, buried her face in the
cushions. Hilary took in at a glance all that it was intended she
should read there, the gentle thoughts, the sisterly zeal, the
kindly-meant attention, and refreshed and strengthened as she drank in
such pleasant feelings, she turned her eyes on Gwyneth.
There was that in her attitude which told of utter prostration, both
bodily and mental, which showed that the spring which had moved her
hitherto had lost its power, and that her energies were now suffering
a collapse as entire as their former strained motions had been
unnatural. Hilary went round to the back of the sofa, and stooping,
kissed her cheek with gentle love. That soft touch overpowered
Gwyneth; her resolution to conceal her emotions at all hazards gave
way; her customary reserve thawed, and she burst into an agony of
tears, startling and alarming from their vehemence.
But Hilary felt that even this storm was better than the smothered
fire which had for weeks past been burning up her sister’s heart, and
consuming her life by a slow torture, so she rather encouraged than
attempted to stop its progress; by kind caresses and gentle words of
endearment, she increased the flow of feeling for a time, that so the
source of grief being dried by exhaustion, a real and permanent calm
might be the result.
Gwyneth wept till she had no power to shed tears; and when her
mourning hushed itself into a quiet, low sob at intervals, and she was
able to listen, her sister spoke.
“Dear Gwyneth! this is my fault; your sorrow comes of me, my
carelessness; ah, how ill I have fulfilled my charge.”
“Your fault!” cried Gwyneth, “how? you are not to blame for the fickle
temper and the hollow friendship which have cost me so dear. I shall
be better now; this is the last moment I shall give to regret;
to-morrow I will begin a new life.”
“Then I hope that will in part consist, dear Gwyneth, in letting me
know and share your feelings. Do not fear that I shall encourage you
to weak expressions of regret for the inevitable past, only do not
shut yourself up in that frozen reserve.”
“Am I reserved? am I cold to you, Hilary? I did not mean it. But to
talk of the past can do no good. I would rather forget it altogether.”
“If you can: whatever leads to discontent, you ought to forget.”
“So I will: Hilary, I was deceived in him and in her. She has been
treacherous, and he was――ah, I can not tell you what he was to me. I
thought him all but perfect, and now――” she hid her face again.
“He has much which might have been good in him,” said Hilary, gravely;
“much which steady principle would have brought to rich fruit; but his
character is marred by his visionary turn of mind; his want of
practical, hard-working earnestness, and, too, his high thoughts of
himself. He spends his life in dreams of good, and disgust at the
faults of others. But he does nothing to remedy the evils which
disturb him.”
“You have been disappointed in him, too, Hilary; I have seen it long.”
“I have. I doubt whether Isabel will make him happy; but it is his own
choice.”
“No, it is hers, Hilary; she had set her mind on it. I have been their
plaything, but I will not be their victim. He will never know what he
has cost me.”
“You must not dwell on thoughts of injury or unkindness done you,
Gwyneth. Second causes must be forgotten, if you wish to forgive. I
was highly imprudent in allowing so much intercourse, and shall not
cease to blame myself as the cause of your sorrow.”
“No, you have done nothing to blame yourself for, dear Hilary. The
past is gone――let it go. Hope for this world, and love, with its
bright fancies, and all the youthful visions in which I once indulged,
have been dissipated forever. Henceforth my life will be one of quiet
devotion, and charitable exertion, and such other occupation as may
suit a calm and contemplative existence. To marriage and all its
attendant joys and sorrows, I have said farewell forever. For you and
Nest, all my cares shall be; and my hopes shall be fixed on an
immovable futurity. We will never mention this subject again.”
But Gwyneth’s frame was not equal to her resolution; Nature would have
its way, and the long-continued exertion, followed by a sudden
relaxation of the strain, told now in a severe attack of nervous
fever, which prostrated her for many weeks.
Hilary’s first work in her new home was that of sick nurse to her
sister.
Languid and restless, too weak for exertion, and too excited for
repose, Gwyneth saw the day arrive which she knew was to unite her
cold-hearted and successful rival to the man she once believed
attached to herself. She could not turn her thoughts from what she
supposed to be then taking place at Drewhurst, and her imagination,
morbidly active from her illness, presented to her mind the whole
scene. She saw the picturesque park, with its ancient avenues and
groves, glowing in the sunshine of a fine autumnal day; every leaf
tinted by the early frost, which had changed the hue of the foliage
while yet thick, and given the most glorious shades of orange, gold,
and pale lemon, to the majestic oaks and beeches.
So had looked her native woods, as they last met her gaze, and the
picture dwelt in her mind. Then she fancied the assembled friends, the
gay groups of patrician beauty, the humbler concourse of tenantry and
laborers; she seemed to see the broadly-smiling faces of the merry
throng, to hear their joyful shouts, their clamorous good-wishes for
their young ladies’ welfare. She pictured those two fair girls, in all
their bridal splendor, flushed with triumph, or coloring with bashful
feeling; she saw the bridegrooms standing by their side, she heard the
words pronounced which decided their future life’s history; she
followed in imagination to the banquet, she listened to the speeches
of congratulation; she saw Isabel’s proud bearing, and unwavering
self-possession, as she passed from her father’s halls, amid admiring
guests and shouting dependants; she saw her enter the carriage, whose
four noble horses stood prancing at the door, half startled by the
bustling throng; she saw her wave a graceful farewell to the
crowd――and then she started with a sigh, to awake to the consciousness
of her own quiet room, its simple furniture and cheerful aspect, and
Hilary’s soft voice and tender hand, presenting to her the draught
which it was needful she should take.
Yet when her head was again laid upon the pillow, the same vision
returned, still the sound of wedding bells seemed to float in her
ears, the shouts of the crowd seemed to ring around her, and the
flutter of bridal robes and bridal vails seemed ever wavering before
her eyes. She did not know that they were the idle visions of a fever
which so distressed her; but in her weak and nervous state, she almost
fancied herself endowed with some preternatural sense; she believed
herself the victim of some strange power of _clairvoyance_, and could
not distinguish, in her languid condition, truth from error, reality
from fancy.
Several days passed, and Hilary felt half inclined to wonder that she
had not heard from Dora. Her friend still had possession of the letter
from Maurice, on which she had so resolutely seized, but she had
repeatedly promised to return it on her wedding-day, and the arrival
of that letter had been looked for as a token that the sacrifice was
complete. Why did it not come? Had her resolution failed her at last,
and was she weakly unwilling to resign a memento which she had now no
right to retain? Or had any circumstance occurred to delay or prevent
this unwilling and unpropitious union? The former seemed most
probable, and Hilary blamed herself again and again, for having done
what she really could not help, but which she felt now as if she ought
to have prevented.
One morning, it was at least a week after the day fixed on for the
double wedding, the letter arrived; but it was not Dora’s hand which
had directed the envelop, and there was also a note inclosed for
herself: she read it hastily.
“MY DEAR MRS. HEPBURN,
“You have, no doubt, heard of the strange and unexpected
calamity with which it has pleased Providence to visit my
household. Great as the trial is, I am thankful to say my
daughter Isabel is supported under it wonderfully, and the
poor sufferer herself is making slow progress to bodily
health. The inclosed portion of a letter, I imagine, belongs
to you: as there was no address, I had no idea, until
perusing it, what it was; though it appeared to have much
mysterious connection with the sad event I have referred to.
It has, however, furnished some clew to the melancholy
catastrophe; but permit a most unfortunate parent to express
his regret that it should have come into her hands; and in
addition to say, that though highly applauding your
brother’s fine sense of honor, I must consider it most
lamentable that he should have scrupled to make known his
views and wishes to me, now that the result has been so
disastrous; it is evident that the struggle between duty and
feeling has been too much for my daughter’s tender frame;
had I been aware how the case stood, or at all foreseen such
a conclusion, my conduct would have been (as that indeed, of
any affectionate father would be) extremely different.
Trusting that you and your family are in good health, in
which wishes my eldest daughter joins,
“Believe me,” etc. etc.
Hilary’s astonishment and alarm at the receipt of this letter were
very great, almost overpowering her self-command. What awful event,
what terrible catastrophe had occurred to Dora, so to humble Mr.
Barham’s tone, so to affect his mind, as that he would have preferred
encouraging Maurice’s suit could he have foreseen the result? The most
fearful ideas entered her mind, and she could hardly sufficiently
abstract her thoughts from this perplexing and agitating subject, to
attend to the wants of her sister, whose state of weakness required
the most incessant care.
Had the marriage really taken place; why was Isabel still then at the
Abbey? where was Mr. Huyton or Mr. Ufford? what had Dora done? it was
all perplexity, darkness, and fear. Her only resource was to answer
Mr. Barham’s letter by a simple acknowledgment that she had heard
nothing of the events at Drewhurst Abbey, and would be grateful for
intelligence concerning her friends. “I have deeply regretted,” she
continued, “that my brother’s letter accidentally met your daughter’s
sight. The difference in rank and fortune between him and a Miss
Barham, in his opinion, placed an almost insuperable barrier between
them; the attachment which he could not avoid feeling, he endeavored
to subdue or control; and as she refused to allow him to refer the
matter to you, they parted with no expectation on his side of meeting
again. His own present happiness has been sacrificed to a purely
unselfish desire for her best good; and if he has been mistaken, I am
sure it will increase to an inexpressible amount the sorrow he has
already experienced.”
So wrote Hilary, anxious to state the truth, fearful of compromising
Dora, ignorant of what had happened, and thoroughly alarmed and
distressed by what she dreaded to hear.
Isabel replied to her letter, and gave all the explanation in her
power. Hilary knew the rest, better even than her correspondent did!
Very different, in truth, had been the scene at the Abbey, from what
Gwyneth’s imagination had depicted. The ceremony had, indeed, been
gone through, and Isabel herself did not seem more composed and calm
than her younger sister; Dora’s pretty face was white as her vail and
robe, but scarcely an eyelash quivered, and her voice, though low, was
steady. Kisses and congratulations she bore with perfect
self-possession, she graced the breakfast-table with her presence, and
went through its ceremonies as if they concerned her not; but when the
moment came for rising from the feast, she trembled visibly, uttered
one piercing scream, and pressing her hand to her head, she sank down
insensible. Her husband caught and supported the death-like figure,
and would not resign the charge. She was carried by him to her room;
no one dared to dispute a right to attend her, which he fiercely
asserted; he continued by her side, and when she opened her eyes they
fell immediately on his gloomy countenance. The effect was
unfortunate; she was attacked at once by terrible hysterical
convulsions, repulsing him with evident horror, raving at intervals,
wildly and incoherently, of strange and alarming topics, and calling
for Hilary Hepburn, in piercing tones.
The greatest fear was entertained by the doctor, who was summoned, of
the result; he declared that unless she could be calmed, reason, if
not life, might be the forfeit, and insisted upon every thing in the
slightest degree connected with the late ceremony, being removed from
her sight. Gradually her fits subsided, and she sank into a state of
torpor, supposed by her attendants to be sleep.
This alarming event, of course, delayed the departure of Mrs. Ufford,
who could not quit the house, with her sister in that state; and while
the rest of the guests took a sorrowful leave, Mr. Barham, his
daughter, and son-in-law, endeavored to console each other in their
mournful terror.
Charles Huyton, yielding to the solicitations of the doctors, agreed
to banish himself to “the Ferns” for the present, lest some unlucky
circumstance should reveal his presence to his distracted bride, and
so bring on a relapse.
“When Mrs. Ufford entered her sister’s apartment the next morning, the
attendant told her, in a whisper, that the patient slept. Then, in an
unadvised moment, she added:
“We found this letter yesterday, in the bosom of Mrs. Huyton’s gown;
had you not better take care of it, madam?”
It was an unfortunate whisper; Dora was not sleeping, only lying in a
half-unconscious, dreamy state of exhaustion; but the mention of her
hated name, the allusion to that too-dearly valued letter, roused
every emotion again, and a terrible scene ensued. Her fearful screams
brought her father and the medical attendants, but it was too late,
the sudden shock had quite overset her reason; and from that time she
had continued for several days, alternately raving wildly of the
letter and of Maurice, or bewailing distractedly over her broken
faith. That she was in the worst access of a terrible brain fever was
their only hope; it was possible that could that be subdued all would
yet be well.
The unfortunate letter had been placed in Mr. Barham’s hands, and he
began to examine it, under the idea that it had been addressed to Dora
herself. He had previously entertained occasional misgivings as to his
daughter’s feelings; he had once or twice fancied she entertained a
preference for the young lieutenant; but pride would not listen to the
notion, and her ready acceptance of Mr. Huyton’s addresses had, for a
time, relieved him from alarm. On Dora’s return home, however, still
graver doubts had risen; her manners to Mr. Huyton were of a kind
which spoke of indifference, if not dislike; and there was so entire
an absence of confidence between the two, such coldness in the
gentleman, such waywardness in the lady, so little interest or concern
for each other, that he had often feared a violent and complete
rupture would be the result. Mr. Barham had thought himself a happy
man when, the marriage writings having been signed, the young couple
had turned away from church united for life. Such is happiness based
on a worldly fabric; such are human calculations, human foresight.
Now he would have given any thing to cancel the ceremony, could he by
that means have recalled his daughter’s reason, and insured her life.
Now he fancied that had he known of her prior attachment, he would
gladly have gratified it; and struggled to believe that he would have
really bestowed her hand and fortune on Mr. Duncan, had he been aware
how deeply her happiness was concerned. Vain self-delusion; indulged
in only to palliate, to his own reproachful conscience, the fact that
he had never consulted her feelings, or really considered her
happiness. It was easy to say what he would have done under
circumstances which had not happened, and not very difficult to
persuade himself that had Maurice made formal proposals for his
daughter’s hand, he would have been listened to with ready
acquiescence, and not rejected with polite contempt.
Days rolled heavily on, and brought no change for the better. The
fever gradually subsiding, left the unhappy bride weak as an infant,
in body, and little stronger in mind. Her intellect seemed lost
entirely, and it became an anxious question, whether returning
strength would bring back memory and reason, or whether every faculty
of the mind had been for ever annihilated in the struggle she had
undergone.
Hilary’s sorrow was intense when she heard this sad narrative. Oh! the
misery that pride and passion, that weakness and want of principle,
that sin, in short, brings into this world. What a wreck had Charles
Huyton’s wicked vehemence occasioned! How mournful that such suffering
should be brought on others by the willful folly and self-love of one.
No doubt good would arise in some inexplicable way from all this
fearful train of sorrow and pain: no doubt, to those who received it
humbly and faithfully, even this terrible event might prove a
blessing. Still it was awful and almost overpowering, filling all
those concerned with sadness and distress; and turning to bitter
mourning an event which had been expected to make them glad.
Oh! how she thanked Heaven that Gwyneth’s sufferings were of a lighter
kind, that her illness was so far more hopeful; that her mind was so
humbled and purified by her trial.
“I do not deserve to be so waited on,” said Gwyneth, in return for her
sister’s care. “I am not worthy of giving so much trouble; you are too
good to me, dear Hilary!” And her only care then seemed to be to
lessen her sister’s fatigue, and repress all symptoms of suffering
which might distress her. And days increased to weeks, and she began
gradually to amend; her strength slowly returned; her appetite, her
spirits improved. She had laid down her disappointment and regret on
her sick bed: she did not resume them when her powers of mind
returned.
The autumn had found her a romantic and heart-broken girl; the spring
left her a sober, thoughtful, and yet cheerfully-active woman.
One day very early in the spring, before Gwyneth’s eyes had yet lost
their languor, her cheeks the pallid hue of sickness, and her
attenuated figure had acquired its former elasticity and vigor, they
had a visitor at their house, who, of all their former acquaintance,
they perhaps least expected to see again. This was no other than Lord
Dunsmore, who, instead of dying in Italy, as his friends had
anticipated, had entirely recovered and returned to England.
Those were right who said that his disease had nothing to do with the
lungs; his lordship was now in the enjoyment of good health, with no
other remains of his former illness than a slight degree of pallor
which suited well with the refined and aristocratic style of his
countenance; it gave him an interesting appearance, which
distinguished him at once among the many coarsely-colored complexions,
thick features, and dumpy figures, so prevalent among Englishmen of
plebeian birth.
How Mrs. James Ufford had borne the recovery of her husband’s elder
brother, the sisters did not know: people do not like to have their
predictions falsified, and Isabel had confidently expected that he
would die; but, as she had never even mentioned the subject of his
return to Hilary in a very recent letter, they were only able to draw
what conclusions they thought most probable from her silence.
Lord Dunsmore told them he was settled at Southampton for a few weeks,
for the accommodation of yachting, which he intended to pursue as soon
as the weather permitted, and he hoped during that time Mrs. Hepburn
would allow him occasionally to visit at her house. He looked with
great interest at the traces of recent illness on Gwyneth’s face, and
on her leaving the room he inquired with a degree of particularity as
to the commencement, the duration, and the cause of her loss of
health, that compelled Hilary to own it was sorrow and over-exertion
which had been the origin of her nervous attack.
Lord Dunsmore made no further comment on that topic; but observed,
that of all remedies for such complaints, sea-air was the most
efficacious; and he hoped Mrs. Hepburn and Miss Duncan would try what
effect a few excursions in his yacht would have toward bringing back
the color to her cheek, and the symmetry to her figure, which he had
once before so much admired. Hilary smiled at what she considered an
idle compliment, and let the matter drop.
With a little hesitation of manner, he then mentioned that he had been
to Hurstdene; he was almost afraid to enter on the topic; but Hilary
was not overpowered by the reference, and gladly questioned him of her
old home and neighborhood. He told her all by degrees.
The Vicarage had been entirely pulled down, and a modern house was now
erecting on the spot; why, Lord Dunsmore said he could not imagine, he
was sure his sister-in-law would never live there when it was built;
she would not like to give up the importance of being mistress of the
Abbey; which eventually would, in all probability, be her own
property.
He paused, and a shadow passed over his face. “Poor Dora!” sighed he,
presently. She looked up at him, and then averted her eyes; but he
read the glance.
“No, I do not need your pity, Mrs. Hepburn,” said he, with a half
smile, and then immediately resuming his grave and feeling air; “the
sentiments which would have given me a personal interest in her
melancholy fate, died out long ago. Before I went to Italy you must
have seen that I was cured of that complaint. No one with an ordinary
human heart can do otherwise than pity a creature so young, so fair,
so interesting, struck down by such a fearful blow; but I have no
regret for her which the wife of Charles Huyton might not justly
inspire.”
He went on to describe her condition as he had learned it from his
brother. She was usually calm and quiet, in tolerable health,
sometimes sunk in the profoundest melancholy, sometimes showing the
indifference and carelessness of a child; but memory seemed completely
gone; she was subject to the strangest vagaries of fancy, and though
generally gentle and obedient, occasionally betraying a violence at
contradiction which proved she was not to be trusted. They talked of
removing her in the spring, and trying the effect of traveling and
change of air; her husband, who was strictly prohibited her sight, was
gone abroad already; her maiden name alone was used to her, and not
the slightest allusion suffered to remind her of her marriage or
preceding history. Her favorite companion was the lady who had
formerly been her governess, in whose presence she seemed to feel
herself once more a happy child.
Hilary shed many tears over the melancholy fate of one whom she had so
greatly loved, and Lord Dunsmore himself could not detail the
particulars without emotion. He told her that Isabel was become an
object of extreme aversion to her sister, who was, however, very fond
of her father, and her aunt, Lady Margaret.
“And poor Mrs. Ufford must feel it so much,” observed Hilary.
“Isabel is so accustomed to hide her feelings, if she has any,” said
he, quietly, “that one can hardly tell. Mr. Huyton’s conduct surprises
me most.”
Mrs. Hepburn looked up quickly.
“He absolutely and most vehemently refused to have any measures taken
to pronounce the ceremony void, which, under the circumstances, the
father wished to adopt. He declares that the insanity is simply the
effect of fever ensuing after the marriage; that she was completely in
her right mind at the time; and that should she recover, of which he
professes to entertain the strongest hopes, she is still his wife. It
was with difficulty that her father persuaded him to leave her in his
keeping, but I believe every expense of her separate establishment is
defrayed by himself, and he seems wildly anxious to assert his title
as her husband, and proper guardian, wherever the opportunity offers.
Yet the physicians unanimously declare that in her present state, to
meet might be to hazard her life, and would, at least, in all human
probability bring on a hopeless relapse.”
Hilary was silent, but her features told of a strong mental emotion,
with difficulty subdued.
“For my part,” continued Lord Dunsmore, “I look on him as little less
insane than his unhappy wife, and can not help fearing but that some
day he will prove even more so.”
Hilary heard Gwyneth’s step on the stairs, and had only time to give
her companion a hasty caution to avoid the subject, when her two
sisters entered together.
Their visitor seemed so little anxious to go away, and altogether
remained so sociably with them, that Mrs. Hepburn could not avoid
asking him to join their early dinner; which he agreed to with an
alacrity that bespoke either a good disposition for their society, or
a good appetite for his meal. Nest had a hundred questions to ask him
about Hurstdene, when she learned he had been there recently; and his
replies were so interesting, that even Gwyneth was drawn into the
conversation, and found herself inquiring about old friends and old
haunts, although, theoretically, she would have concluded that it was
a subject she could not approach.
From that day Lord Dunsmore often was their guest; their little house
and modest establishment seemed to have peculiar attractions for him;
and he was continually doing something to show his concern for
Gwyneth’s delicate health, and to expedite her recovery.
He was most anxious that they should take advantage of his carriage,
horses, and servants, which he declared were idling away in
uselessness, as he never wanted them; he made his sister-in-law, Lady
Rupert, who was staying with him, call repeatedly to carry them out
for drives in the country; he induced them, as the weather grew
warmer, to make excursions in his yacht, and in many other ways
testified his friendly feeling toward them.
Best and most delightful of all, he one day brought them news of their
brother’s promotion, a circumstance which, as he was not appointed to
any ship, would probably bring him home in less than a month.
He did not say that it was his interest which had procured the step,
but the sisters felt that it was, and thought that they had good
reason to be grateful.