“I’m wearing awa’, Jean,
Like snow when it’s thaw, Jean,
I’m wearing awa’ to the land of the leal.
“There’s no sorrow there, Jean,
There’s neither cold nor care, Jean,
But days are all fair in the land of the leal.
――――――
“Then dry that tearful e’e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels beckon me to the land of the leal.
“Then fare thee well, my ain Jean,
This world’s care is vain, Jean,
We’ll meet, and ay be fain, in the land of the leal.”
The feelings which may be clothed in words of earth, and the love
which can be depicted by mortal language, must be shallow, light, and
transient at the best. Those to whom love is but a creature of the
imagination, and sorrow a pleasant fiction, may delight in dressing
their fancies in eloquent phrases, and in dwelling on scenes of ideal
distress. But the heart which has felt the deep-stirrings of true,
holy, devoted affection, and known all the sad and stern realities of
grief, which ever in this world must flow from feeling, shrinks from
portraying it as from sacrilege; and while it feels how vain and
unreal are the most eloquent descriptions, yet holds it a profanation
to lay such feelings bare to the public gaze. It was not the cry of
the _true_ mother in her grief, “Let it be neither mine nor thine, but
divide it!”
A week passed away; it seemed as if skill and tenderness and rest
might perchance prolong the precious life of the invalid officer. He
was certainly better; stronger, with less pain and weariness, and
there was no longer so much opposition on the part of the doctors to
the general wish of himself and his family to transport him to
Southampton.
Hilary longed to move him. The heat, the glare, the dust, the noise,
the weariness of a town, to her eyes were indescribable; and she could
not imagine the possibility of any one recovering their health without
the fresh air, the sunshine and shadows, the soft breezes, the
pleasant scents, and the soothing sounds of the country and the
forest.
Was not the whisper of trees more soothing than the angry dash or
mournful murmur of the waves? and yet this was their most agreeable
music, and was sweet compared to the sharp crack of musketry on the
common, the louder reports of the cannon from the shipping, the
wearisome notes of the bugle giving signals to the parties of soldiers
drilling or parading on the open ground, the wretched street organs
which haunted the vicinity, the cries of itinerant venders of oysters
and such like, the squabbling of children, or the rolling of carts and
drays in the back street, which shook the house to its center.
For herself, she would have borne it all with indifference or
patience――but for him, every jar thrilled through her frame, every
discordant sound made her shrink, and every disgusting odor made her
tremble for his comfort.
Oh! to have him but away in their quiet cottage, where the open
windows would admit only pure air, and pleasant, shadowy sunshine, and
refreshing scents, and songs of birds among the trees; where their
eyes could rest on green grass, and young foliage on the waving
boughs, and flowers unstained by smoke, unwithered by sea-breezes!
And by the end of the week it was done; Lord Dunsmore’s yacht conveyed
the whole party round to Southampton, and by his and Lady Rupert’s
care an invalid carriage was in waiting, which carried Captain Hepburn
to the quiet, pretty home of his wife and her sisters.
The back sitting-room, whose French windows opened on the little
flower-garden, was appropriated to his use, and had been previously
arranged, through the zeal of Gwyneth and Nest, and the kind activity
of their friends, in the way most suitable to his situation and
infirmities.
And so May and June crept by, and the birds sang, and the flowers
blossomed, and the bright tints of early spring deepened into the more
unvaried hue of summer; and Hilary nursed her husband with unwearied
care, and hoped still, and was patient and composed. There was nothing
which friendship or affection could supply, wanting to their outward
comfort; and nothing of cheerful resignation, trustful endurance,
hopeful fortitude, and devoted affection, failing to their mental
support.
Who could have guessed from Hilary’s calm brow, and sweet smile, and
steady voice, as she waited on, and read, or sung to her husband, that
she had the smallest foresight of the inevitable end? She seemed so
cheerful, so even happy while thus employed! and she was happy too.
Every day during which her precious charge was spared her, every hour
that she was permitted to spend by his side, every sentence of hopeful
aspiration, or gentle courage, which dropped from his lips, was
received as a heaven-sent boon, a favor, as unexpected as it was
precious.
“I almost think you like to have me ill,” said he, smilingly, one day
to her, “you take such delight in nursing me.”
“Can I ever be thankful enough that you are _here_?” was her reply;
“think what it would have been had your illness prevented you from
leaving Halifax. Had you been lingering there in the hospital.”
“Or buried under those walls, which I so narrowly escaped, Hilary.”
She shuddered, and then added,
“Or had I not been your wife; oh, how thankful I am every time I think
of that; how glad I am we married when we did.”
“Are you Hilary? _I_ ought to be, I know; but _you_! I sometimes think
that it was a cruel and selfish precaution on my part; I reproach
myself for having bound you to one, who, instead of being a protector
and support, is but a useless clog, a heavy burden, a sad incumbrance
upon you.”
“Ah! don’t talk so.”
“And sometimes, when I have felt a little stronger, and thought that
perhaps I might linger on for months or years, chained to this couch,
and making you a prisoner too, wearing out the best portion of your
life in this dull slavery, I have been tempted to repine, and wish the
deed undone which united us; I have longed to give you liberty again!
you might be happy but for me, Hilary!”
“What have I done, or said, or looked, or left undone, that you should
speak so, dearest? Could I be happy otherwise? or is there any thing
in this wide world which I could prefer to being near you, at least,
while I can be of any comfort or use?”
“I know there is not, love,” fondly stroking the head which was
nestled on his shoulder; “I know it, and I thank you every hour of the
day for the ineffable tenderness which makes me so happy. But, Hilary,
you always make a pleasure of your duty, it is your nature to throw
your whole soul into your pursuits, to do your very utmost in what you
feel to be right. It is this which impels you now, which makes you my
good angel, my too-devoted nurse. But were you not my wife, as I
should have had no claim, so you would have felt less inclination for
a task, whose charm to you is, I believe, that it is your duty.”
She gazed at him with her soft, loving eyes; put back the black curls
from his temples, and then answered, quietly,
“You know better than that; you know it is something more than duty
which influences me. A hired nurse might be actuated by duty; _my_
motive is beyond, above that.”
“You do not know yourself, Hilary: you love me well, I know it; but
you would not love me so much, were it not your duty. You would not
have twined all those warm feelings round me, had you not been my
wife; and you would not have had to suffer the grief which I feel it
will cost you, when that day, not very far distant, comes, which will
part us on earth.”
“Are you worse?” said she, the whiteness of her cheeks speaking her
sudden alarm.
“It is coming, Hilary; it came slowly, imperceptibly at first; now I
can feel its advances from day to day. Can you bear it, love?――we must
part!”
“For a time, only for a time,” she murmured.
“For a time, dear love! yes, that is the comfort, we shall meet again;
but you are young, my darling wife! you have perhaps a long life
before you, and I shall not trouble you many days. Do not be too
unhappy when I am gone; remember your promise long ago, to bear it
bravely, and when time has softened your grief, Hilary, do not think
that you will please me by remaining unprotected and forlorn. Do not
let your respect for my memory, fetter your will or your actions. Ah!
you do not like to hear me speak of it, but by-and-by, you will
remember what I have said. There, do not sob so; did you not know from
the very first, that we must part soon?”
“Ah, I thought――I hoped――a little, little longer――!”
“And I am glad I shall not linger to see your cheek grow pale with
care and watching, to keep you from rest night and day, as I do now;
ah, Hilary, you have made me happy, so happy! But would you wish the
deed undone which laid me here? I do not.”
“No, no,” cried she, with energy, “do not be unhappy about me. God,
who takes you from me, will give me strength to bear the loss. Do not
think of it. While you _are_ with me still, let me forget all but your
dear presence; we will not anticipate sorrow. To-day is ours;
to-morrow is in His hands, who will do all things right.”
They all saw now, the end was drawing near; Maurice, Gwyneth, Lord
Dunsmore, they all noticed the increasing weakness, the gradual
change; they left the sick chamber with anxiety, they returned with
trembling; they feared any hour would end it all. Gwyneth especially
was devoted to her sister; her unceasing cares and consideration could
not be excelled by Hilary’s attention to her patient; every household
duty was fulfilled, every wish almost forestalled by the thoughtful
girl; and yet she fancied she did nothing, and was surprised if fear
was expressed lest she should be tired.
Lord Dunsmore sometimes expressed this concern, during those short
intervals when Gwyneth allowed herself the relaxation of conversation
with him, a conversation of which Hilary was usually the topic.
“What have I to tire me?” said she; “you should see Hilary; what a
wife she is!”
“I admit as a wife she is unequaled,” replied he; “but I know one
woman who might compare with her.”
“Do you? I could hardly believe it,” said Gwyneth, innocently
surprised.
“That is her sister Gwyneth. Miss Duncan, if you felt for me one tithe
of the love I entertain for you, you would say yes, when I asked you
to be mine.”
“Should I?” replied she, wondering, and yet thoughtfully. “I do not
know.”
“Dearest, sweetest Gwyneth! will you not?”
“Oh, no, it would be too selfish, too cruel to think of such things
now! Hilary wants my whole time and thoughts, and you would ask them
for yourself!――I ought not――do not tempt me.”
“No, I would not engross them, I would only ask to share your
anxieties, and if I could, to lighten your sorrows and cares. I only
wish to have a right to joy and grieve with you. Could you not love
me, would you not be my wife, if all were well here!”
“All is not well,” replied she, blushing crimson, and turning away,
“why ask?”
But her manner was so little repulsive, that Lord Dunsmore persevered,
and before long, won from her an admission that she would rather he
should continue to frequent their society on the understanding that
she would try and like him, than that he should go away altogether
from the neighborhood.
“But I am so young,” said she, “I can not promise――ask Maurice.”
“I will!” said her suitor.
“I have still another guardian,” continued Gwyneth, with a sigh.
“You have; shall I refer to him?”
She assented softly, and he went immediately to Captain Hepburn.
Hilary, of course, was beside him; Maurice, too, was there.
“Dear Mrs. Hepburn,” said Lord Dunsmore, “do you remember the wish I
once ventured to express to you about your sister?”
“Gwyneth! oh, yes!” said Hilary, eagerly.
“And you do not retract?”
“No, no indeed!”
“And will you then plead my cause with these two?” looking from
Maurice to his brother-in-law; the latter lay with his fine eyes fixed
on him, listening, with the most lively interest, to the conversation,
but evidently without surprise; while the former evinced considerable
astonishment.
“Ask for yourself, Lord Dunsmore,” said Hilary.
“I will. Will you two guardians trust your ward to me? Give me
Gwyneth?”
“Ah, with pleasure!” said Maurice, “if she says _yes_ herself.”
“You have had my best wishes for these two months,” replied Captain
Hepburn; then turning to his wife, he added, “Do you think she would
come here, Hilary? ask her.”
“You would frighten her,” said the lover, anxiously; but Hilary went
to look for her at once.
“I am so glad,” said Captain Hepburn, “I hoped to see this settled; it
is my last concern on earth, and I shall leave her with confidence in
your charge, my lord. Hilary told me.”
It was an effort to him to speak, and his words were faint and slow.
Hilary found her gazing from the window, but her black eyes were dim
with tears, and at the sight of her sister, she threw herself into her
arms, with an entreaty that she would not think her cruel and selfish;
much as she liked Lord Dunsmore, she cared more a hundred times for
her.
Mrs. Hepburn smiled, and soothed and caressed her, and whispered her
own joy and congratulations, and led her to the other room; and there
the blushing and trembling Gwyneth had her hand placed in her suitor’s
by the feeble fingers of her brother-in-law, while in few, but
affectionate words, he assured her of his satisfaction, his good
wishes, and his fraternal regard for both.
Maurice too kissed and caressed her, but he said little; it was
impossible to feel otherwise than deeply touched by the strong
contrast between the look and the situation of those two sisters.
Gwyneth’s black eyes were bent down and bright drops trembled on the
long lashes; her color came and went like the flashes of the northern
lights in the clear winter sky. She was excited, hoping, fearing,
trembling between present pain and future joy; looking forward with a
shy gladness into the prospect just opening, and then hurriedly
calling back the glance, because to her dearest companions the hopeful
view was closed; she could scarcely welcome the possible happiness
which they might not share.
Hilary, on the contrary, stood by, with her calm, serene eyes fixed on
her sister with a quiet but heartfelt pleasure; a satisfaction
springing from the very depths of the soul, at the hope that Gwyneth
might, perchance, have one long, plentiful draught of that cup of
happiness of which her own short taste had been so sweet. She knew the
full luxury of loving and being beloved, and what was denied to
herself she rejoiced in anticipating for another. And when she had
gone over in her mind all the bright visions which the future
presented to Gwyneth, and joyed in her promised joy, she turned her
eyes once more on her husband, and the thought flashed across her how
great had been the blessings of her own lot, and how the privilege of
having been his friend, companion, and solace during the last two
months, was well worth the purchase, even though it were to be
followed by a long life of solitary bereavement.
She was happy: not the happiness of this world, not the happiness
which those of this world can understand; a happiness above all
selfish joy, such as words could vainly endeavor to depict,
unspeakable in its depth and purity: for in her earnest anticipation
of peace and rest for him, she forgot herself; she saw him to her
fancy encircled with the crown of martyrdom; and would she have robbed
him of one ray of that future glory for her own selfish indulgence, or
her transitory comfort? Oh no!
But to others, to the eyes of observers, her feelings were a mystery;
and to outward view she stood there, another proof of the fading
nature of all earthly happiness. Hers was the deepening gloom of
twilight, Gwyneth’s the rising of the glorious day-break. Life is full
of such sharp contrasts, ever telling of change and decay to such
thoughtful minds as can raise their eyes beyond their own footsteps.
Human feelings, indeed, afford but a quivering, changeful gleam, by
which to view the edifice of life; as pleasantly deceptive, as unreal
in their lights and shadows as moonbeams on a picturesque ruin; but
there is a Light which does not mislead, which brings out each object
in its true perspective, and decides the value of all earthly
possessions; and it was by this pure Light that Hilary was now gazing
on life; and so her heart failed not in that trying hour.
Gwyneth never forgot her sad betrothal; it was good for her to
remember it; and afterward, in gayer hours, when surrounded by
luxuries, and allured by the soul-engrossing littleness of rank and
wealth, the recollection of the trembling fingers, faint accents, and
calm, holy eyes, of her dying brother-in-law, hovered round her heart,
and his memory, like her guardian angel, still came between her and
temptations to cold selfishness and pride.
His approval spoken, and his blessing given, Captain Hepburn begged to
be left alone with Hilary; so Lord Dunsmore led his young betrothed to
the next room, and then there followed on his part, such an
out-pouring of long-cherished feelings, suppressed and concealed from
regard to his brother, as Gwyneth had little expected to hear; and
which she now listened to in wonder, as she thought of the girlish
infatuation which had made her blind to his merits, and had just
missed making a wreck of her happiness for life.
They talked till twilight came down upon them, and then remembering
the world beyond themselves, they wondered to hear no sound or
movement in the next room; but fearing to intrude, they waited
anxiously, till Maurice returning from a walk, ventured to enter that
quiet chamber. All there was still, profoundly still; for Hilary, with
her hand clasping the cold fingers of a stiffened corpse, was lying in
a death-like swoon beside her husband’s couch.
* * * * *
Three months passed away.
It was autumn again, a beautiful October morning, and the yellow
sunshine which fell on the green-sward between the boles of the old
trees, like bars of gold, streamed also gladly into the pretty chamber
where Hilary, in her widow’s dress, was attiring Gwyneth for her
bridal. It was Mrs. Hepburn’s earnest wish that it should not longer
be delayed; it had been her husband’s last act to join their hands,
and till the union was accomplished, she felt his will was but half
fulfilled. “Let it be then,” she said, “that autumn;” and so it was to
be; they could not have resisted her calm, sweet request, even had she
demanded a sacrifice of them; and when she only bade them be happy,
who could say no?
But it was really to be a very quiet wedding; Sybil and her husband
came to them; and Lord and Lady Rupert joined the party; that was all;
no pomp of gay bridesmaids, only little Nest――no grandeur, no display.
Hilary’s weeds were too deep to grace a wedding, too recent to be laid
aside even for a day; no one asked her to be present, no one thought
of it; but her absence was a blank; it toned down gay spirits, it was
the fennel-leaf in the cup, the skeleton at the feast, the thorn to
the rose of love, which else had blossomed so sweetly for the married
pair.
Maurice, anxious to remain with his sisters, had applied for an
appointment to the Coast Guard; and through the interest of Lord
Dunsmore and the Governor of Nova Scotia, just then in England, had
obtained his request; and immediately after the marriage, they were to
remove to his station, which was at a distance.
Mrs. Hepburn was very glad of the prospect of employment for him; he
needed something to occupy his time, and engross his mind; and active
as his duties would be, they would not take him from her, which was a
blessing. The solitude of their future home was no evil to her; and as
to Nest, when old enough to need society, she could go to her other
sisters for a time.
So Gwyneth was married; and it was, perhaps, no small increase to Mrs.
James Ufford’s matrimonial discomforts, to learn as she did, about
that time, how far her own manœuvers had contributed to place the late
Vicar’s daughter in the situation she now filled; for Mr. Ufford
affirmed, that but for her intervention he should have made Gwyneth
his wife. So he said, at least, and so he believed, whether truly or
falsely, who can venture to tell, when we reflect on the inconsistency
of human feelings.
It was a comfort to Lady Dunsmore’s womanly feelings at last, when she
heard from her husband’s lips, that her brother-in-law, when appealed
to on the subject by him, before the journey to Italy, had avowed an
intention of proposing to her; since it proved that the feelings of
girlish tenderness which she had wasted on him, had not been unsought,
although undeserved.
Indignation at James’s fickleness, and concern for Miss Duncan’s
feelings, heightened by very warm personal regard for herself, had
hurried Lord Dunsmore straight home from Italy to Hurstdene, to find
her; and the result was happy for both.
Mrs. James Ufford never forgave her brother-in-law for not having died
in Italy; but she knew that family quarrels were ungraceful and
unbecoming, so she abstained from them; and welcomed her dear Gwyneth
with a cordiality and affection which deceived every one except their
respective husbands.
In a house on the outskirts of a small town, on one of the most wildly
picturesque shores of the kingdom, Captain Duncan and his two sisters
soon settled themselves. There the days passed in the quiet but busy
monotony, which makes time fly so fast. Affection and unreserved
confidence were their solace; and Maurice, occupied daily, and often
nightly, by his situation, soon recovered the cheerful tone of mind
which, when springing from a right source, is one of life’s best
blessings.
As to Hilary, her resignation was calm, perfect, and even cheerful
too; and strangers little guessed the history of her feelings from her
face. They saw the surface only, and could not look into the depths of
her heart; and yet, even that surface told as clearly of the peace of
her mind as the waveless sea reflects the blue heaven which looks down
upon it.
Nest was the glancing sunbeam of their house, and to make her happy
was a sufficient object to excite the energy of both her affectionate
guardians.