Chapter XXII

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.

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,

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

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

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;

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.

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.”

“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

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

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

“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

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

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,

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

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

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

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

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.

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.