THE

OLD VICARAGE.

A NOVEL.

BY MRS. HUBBACK,

AUTHORESS OF

“THE WIFE’S SISTER,” “MAY AND DECEMBER,”
ETC. ETC.

NEW YORK:
W. P. FETRIDGE & CO., PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
FETRIDGE & CO., 100 WASHINGTON ST.
1856.

STEREOTYPED BY
THOMAS B. SMITH,
82 & 84 Beekman Street.

PRINTED BY
GROSSMAN AND WILLETT,
82 & 84 Beekman Street.

THE OLD VICARAGE.

CHAPTER I.

“Children’s voices should be dear

(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;

Children’s voices wild with pain,

Surely she will come again;

Call her once, and come away!”

The Forsaken Merman.

It was a summer’s evening. The yellow sunshine streamed through the boles of the forest trees, tinting them with purple, vermilion, gold, or the richest brown. It gave a metallic luster to the tops of the giant oaks, and lighted up with a silvery gleam the long feathery sprays of the graceful beech-trees, waving gently and slowly as the soft breeze passed rustling among them. The same slanting sunbeams fell on the dark glossy foliage of the tall groups of holly, and twinkled like stars upon their stiff-pointed leaves.

Beneath these ancient and hoary trees, on a natural terrace clothed with soft mossy turf, and commanding, along the glade in the forest, a full view of the glowing west, there walked, with slow and lingering step, two persons, who seemed too deeply engrossed in conversation to heed the loveliness of the evening. One of these was a woman, who might perhaps be half way between thirty and forty, but still possessing a large share of personal beauty; tall, dark, glowing, with bright black eyes, and hair as black as jet, parted off her forehead in rich braids, and as she carried her bonnet in her hand, they caught the gleaming

sunshine, and seemed to turn purple in its splendor. Her companion was a young girl, slender, fair, and rather pale, except that as she listened to the earnest discourse of the matron, the flitting color dyed her cheek for a moment, and then left it pale again. Her slim figure, and girlish proportions, gave a notion of extreme youth and delicacy, and yet her face was of that kind which brings a feeling of trust and repose as you gaze upon it; an idea that, young as she was, there was steadiness and principle to be read there.

“But, dear mamma,” said the girl, “why do you talk in this way? You will soon be about again, and able to see all these things yourself.”

And she gazed with earnest, anxious fondness at the face of her companion, unable to realize that danger could lurk near, or death invade a countenance so healthy, and so invariably cheerful.

“His will be done,” said Mrs. Duncan, raising her eyes, and fixing them on the glowing west. “Life and death are in His hands; but, Hilary, it will neither increase my danger, nor my anxiety, if I give you such directions as may be your help and guide hereafter. It is a great charge, a heavy responsibility which will fall on you, should I be taken from you, but one which will not be laid on you, unless He sees good; and received from Him in a humble, trusting, loving spirit, the event will be blessed. In my weakness and want of faith, I shrink from the idea, sometimes; but I know that all is, all will be right, if you can but believe, and feel it so. Nothing He lays on us is too heavy to bear, if we do not add to it the burden of our own selfish repinings, mistrust, and impatience.”

“Oh! mamma, it can not be best to be without you; such a trial can not be in store for us; for my father too—how could he bear it? and surely be so good, so heavenly-minded, so tender as he is—oh! he can not need affliction; do not talk so, mamma, do not fancy such things; you will do yourself harm by dwelling on it.”

Mrs. Duncan’s eyes filled, and her lip quivered for a minute;

she was silent a little space, and then she spoke again, calmly, firmly, gravely.

“Hilary, ever since I have filled your mother’s place, I have met with the duty and affection of a daughter from you. I came to you when you were too young to understand my claims, but I have never had to complain, so far as our relationship is concerned. Be ever the same! do not now, by giving way to your feelings, make it more difficult for me to control my own. Try to listen to what may be my last wishes.”

Hilary clasped her step-mother’s hand, struggled with her rising tears, swallowed down a sob or two, and then turning quietly round, said—“Go on, dear mother! I will attend, and endeavor to remember.”

“Young as you are, Hilary, I do not fear to trust you, for I know that you have that within you which will lead you right. Experience, indeed, you can not have, and you may mistake sometimes; but with your earnest love of truth, your simplicity, candor, gentleness, and humility, you can not go very far wrong; and I would rather confide my girls to you, than to many an elder head. I know that you will lean on the true, unfailing Support—that you will not trust your own understanding.”

“Dear mother, if I have any good principle or right habit, I owe it to you and papa; what should I have been, had you not led me so kindly and gently in childhood?” said Hilary, blushing at the praise which she could not believe she deserved.

“But my girls are not like you, Hilary,” continued the mother, “and their characters have cost me many an anxious hour. Heaven knows how earnestly I have prayed sometimes, to be spared as their guide; but this is self-will, and self-conceit, perhaps; now my only prayer is, that, in whose hands soever they may fall, whatever troubles may come upon them, they may be brought home safe at last. We are so unbelieving, we would fain choose our own path, and the paths of our dear ones also; as if our narrow view could be better trusted than His, who has told us so plainly what we ought to seek, and what we may then hope for. All will be right at last, and

now I trust them entirely to the Will which can not err: yet not the less would I warn you, Hilary, of the care and discipline they need. Sybil is tender, loving, feeble, clinging for support to those around her; do not act for her, my love; make her feel her own responsibility, or the realities and cares of life will fall with a crushing force on her. Look at the clematis which garlands this lime—such is she; take away her support, and the long wreaths will droop and sink to the earth, and may be trampled by every careless foot.”

“But we can not change the nature of the clematis, mamma; we can only prop it up, and guard it carefully, and rejoice even in its clinging, graceful fragility, which gives a beauty to the bare and rugged stem, or the unpoetical wall and trellis.”

“True, you can not change the clematis, Hilary; but therein a Christian differs from a soulless plant; her nature may be strengthened by attention and discipline, till she may be firm and yet flexible; yielding and yet self-supporting; regaining with elastic vigor the upward tendency, even after the hand has bent it down, or the breeze turned it aside. You can not make a clematis into a willow, but you may teach a feeble mind and drooping heart where to find strength of purpose and constancy of aim. Teach Sybil that the weakest may have strength sufficient to their need, but not in earthly things; earthly props break and crumble away, or are removed in kindness, lest we lean too much upon them. Trust to the One above. He never fails. Poor Sybil! she is very far from knowing this as yet!”

They were both silent for some time; then Mrs. Duncan seated herself, and continued, as Hilary nestled close to her side.

“As to Gwyneth, she is different; she has all the passionate and hasty nature of my country. Welsh blood runs in her veins, and along with this warmth she has much self-will and presumption; she doubts not her own opinion, and can not bear to have it questioned; yet she is so young that I have every reason to hope that attention may check what is wrong, and religion lead her to true strength and confidence. And then for my little Nest—the darling! who can tell what that little

black-eyed, bewitching fairy may turn out? Heaven help me! but it is hard to think of leaving her.”

Mrs. Duncan shuddered, and closed her eyes, as if struggling with some deep emotion.

“Why should you?” said Hilary, anxiously. “Dearest mother, do you feel ill now? It is so long since you have had one of your bad attacks of pain; not for months now; I am sure you need not be alarmed.”

Mrs. Duncan smiled; a faint smile it was, as if she would rather put aside a subject of discussion than enter on it. Then, after a pause, she added, “I believe you will find all my papers and accounts quite clear, and for the rest, dear Hilary, you are well able to take my place in the parish now; and whatever may occur, you must do it for a month at least. But there are horses’ feet upon the turf; your father and sisters are coming home. Say nothing at present of what I have told you, and let us go to meet them!”

They rose, and advanced toward the house; crossing a part of the garden, of which the terrace where they had been walking formed the eastern boundary. Dividing the lawn from an open green space which lay in front of the old rectory, was a line of wooden palings nearly covered by ivy, honeysuckle, roses, and many flowering shrubs, and over this they saw, approaching through a shadowy glade, three forest ponies; the tallest bore Mr. Duncan, an elderly man, whose figure was, however, active and upright, and his countenance marked with the glow of health and the look of peace; the other two riders were girls, the Sybil and Gwyneth already mentioned, whose black eyes, and long waving locks flowing from beneath their broad-brimmed straw hats, immediately reminded you of their mother. The children, for they were only girls of twelve and thirteen, sprung from their little ponies, and rushed up to the garden gate, just as Mrs. Duncan and Hilary reached it; and before their father had descended in his more leisurely way, and consigned the animals to the old gray-headed servant who came forward to receive them, they had advanced far in the history

of their ride, its adventures, delights, and novelties. They had found a new path, had come to a beautiful stream; Gwyneth had leaped her horse across before papa came up; Sybil was afraid, and had hung back, even when encouraged by him; then they had seen such a lovely dell, all surrounded with trees—oh! such a place for a gipsey party; mamma must come there some day, and they would have tea out there, under the huge oaks and beech, beside that broken mossy bank, out of which such a bright tiny stream trickled from under a gray stone. Up came papa, and listened to the eager speaker, as Gwyneth, with her cheeks glowing, and her bright eyes glittering, dwelt with rather too much complacency, perhaps, upon the courage she had shown, until her father reminded her, with laughing but affectionate manner, how Gwyneth herself had shrunk and trembled when, as they were leading their ponies down a steep and precipitous path, a large toad had crossed the road, and hopped toward her; while Sybil’s only care had been that the creature should not be hurt by foot or hoof; and after that, Gwyneth held her tongue for a while.

They sat in the large wide porch, which, with its projecting gable and curiously-carved roof, formed so conspicuous an ornament to the front of the Vicarage, and harmonized so well with the many angles, overhanging eaves, mullioned windows, and twisted chimneys of that quaint old house. It was a building well suited to the forest scenery on which it closely bordered, with its time-mellowed red-brick, and gray stone coignings, and huge oaken beams, whose ends were grotesquely carved. From that porch you could see the old church, half concealed in a grove of trees, principally lime and sycamore; and further off, the houses scattered on the village green, or retreating back amid the clumps of oak and holly; while to the south, through a long vista in the forest, you caught a view of distant hills, blue and shadowy, and a winding river, and a wide extended plain.

Here they sat and chatted gayly, while the young girls ate the fruit and cake, for which their ride had given them an appetite, and which Hilary brought out to them in an old-fashioned

china basket, until the hour of bed-time arrived, and the children left them; and then the others returned to the cool parlor, where Hilary made tea, and smiled and chatted with her father; Mrs. Duncan meanwhile resting quietly on the sofa, nearly silent, and perhaps engrossed in thought.

Hilary’s was the hopeful as well as the trustful temper of youth, unaccustomed to the vicissitudes of life; the storm of which she saw no symptoms could not alarm her; and although her step-mother’s presentiments had at first raised a vague terror, she had recovered from this feeling, and was now tranquil.

The trust which she felt that all would be for the best, conspired to increase this peaceful state, for to her young mind, it seemed impossible that good could spring from such sorrow as the loss of the only mother she had known, would occasion her and her family; therefore this loss was not to be expected or feared. Hers was the youthful idea of divine protection, and fatherly care; years of experience alone can teach us that “His ways are not as ours,” and that it is not exemption from suffering which is promised to His children, but such discipline as shall strengthen, and purify, and elevate their hearts.

It was a cheerful family party on which the bright summer moon peeped in through the old windows that evening; and Hilary, as she penned a few words at night, of the journal which she always kept for her only brother Maurice, recorded with a grateful heart, that hers was indeed a happy lot.

Yet scarce was the ink dry on the paper where she wrote these lines, than her pleasant dreams were suddenly dissipated, and the very sorrow which she had refused to consider as probable, was presented to her mind. Mrs. Duncan was ill—very ill—alarmingly so; and before that sun which had set in such glory, returned to their view, the eyes that had gazed on it so earnestly were closed in death, and the spirit which had looked out so clear and loving but twelve hours before, had fled to that land which needs no sun to lighten it, and which knows neither change, nor time, nor darkness.

The mother just now in all the prime of womanhood, in her

glorious beauty, was cold, and white, and silent, and on her arm lay the tiny marble face of that little being, whose entrance to this world had cost his parents such a price, and whose stay had been so short, that you wondered why he came at all.

On Hilary devolved the task of making her young sisters acquainted with their loss; of communicating to them the sad change that one night had occasioned; for this, when all was over, and her father had withdrawn to the solitude of his own study, she crept softly to their sleeping apartment, and sitting down beside the bed, watched patiently and silently for their first awaking.

Her grief was very quiet, although very deep. In idea she tried to follow the departed, and to realize what she now was, so far as mortal fancy might paint it; and the glad, solemn, mysterious thought, that that dear one had felt her last grief, suffered her last pain, heaved her last sigh forever, made it seem even a profanation to indulge regret. It was when she permitted her thoughts to anticipate, that she shuddered and mourned; it was the future for herself, her sisters, her father, which made her tremble. How barren and blank it seemed; the sweet voice which had taught and soothed her, silent now; the bright smile vanished forever; the sunshine of the house gone; who would fill her place? Could it be that she so young, so simple, so inexperienced, that she should be called on to attempt this heavy duty? did it devolve on her to soothe, instruct, watch over her sisters, to think for the household, to comfort her bereaved father, assist in lightening his cares, or sharing his anxieties? She had told her such would be her duty—had bid her reflect on the responsibilities laid on her; had warned, encouraged, and comforted her—and as she had spoken so, Hilary had felt strong and trustful; but now—oh! how miserably weak, ignorant, helpless, and deficient she appeared to herself; the memory of all her own girlish faults, indolence, thoughtlessness, ignorance, selfish indulgences, idle ways, all the many failings for which she daily judged and condemned herself, rose up in her mind, and seemed to say, “impossible;” seemed to whisper

to her that her task was harder than she could endure; that such a life of carefulness and watching, and thought for others, and denial of self, as her mother had depicted for her, could not be expected of one so young; it would wither her youth, and blight her spirit, and darken all the gay happiness which ought to be hers!

Nay, but it was her duty! it was God’s will, and as such, it could not be too hard; her burden would not be greater than she could bear; more would not be expected of her than she would have power to perform; could she but fix her eyes aright, and draw strength from the Source of everlasting strength, she should not find it fail; weak, trembling, insufficient as she was, she need not fear, if she only trusted all to Him, and nothing to herself. And then a voice seemed to whisper to her heart,

“Child of my love, how have I wearied thee,

Why wilt thou err from me?”

and half unconsciously she repeated to herself the succeeding lines of the same hymn; there was soothing in the thought.

Yet ever and again, as she grew calmer, came rushing in the painful memory of her loss; and while she doubted not the wisdom and mercy which had ordered all, and accepted meekly the burden of care which seemed laid on her, her heart ached in bitterness when she remembered what had been, and what was.

That hour of watching and waiting was intensely trying. She had been occupied all the night, so eagerly and energetically, as to exclude thought or anticipation; now she could only sit in silence, and weary, worn out, sorrowful, and yet striving to be patient, remain quietly expecting the painful task before her.

She wished to keep awake, and opening her Bible, she tried to fix her eyes and thoughts upon it, and determined so to pass the time; but blessed sleep stole over her so softly, that she knew not of its approaches, and the tearful eyes closed, the heavy head dropped upon the pillow beside it, and a deep unconsciousness, a perfect dreamless repose wrapped all the past in

oblivion, and brought the refreshment which that young, but willing spirit needed to fulfil her destined task. “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

Gwyneth was astonished that morning, when, on unclosing her eyes, she discovered her eldest sister, half sitting, half lying on her pillow, dressed as last night, and yet sleeping profoundly, even though tears trembled on her eye-lashes, while her long and glossy brown hair lay unbound and unbraided over her neck and cheek.

With the thoughtless impulse of her nature, she at once woke her up, and eagerly inquired why she was there, what was the matter, what had made her cry.

That sudden waking bewildered Hilary; the vague, puzzled feeling which so often follows deep sleep, at an unusual time, or in an unaccustomed place, came over her, and for a minute she could remember nothing; not where she was, nor what had happened, nor why she found herself so strangely sleeping there. She pressed her hands over her eyes; the full tide of thought and memory came back, and she shrank from the pain she was about to give. But it must be done! yes, and done by her too, or the task would fall on her father, perhaps; and done at once, that the first wild agony of tears and grief might be stilled and composed in part before it came to add to that father’s pain and desolation.

She drew the two rosy faces toward her, for Sybil was awake now, and pressing each in her arms, as they knelt or crouched upon the bed, she faltered out the words, through her tears,

“Mamma has been ill in the night!”

Gwyneth fixed her full dark eyes upon her sister’s face with a gaze which seemed to ask for more, for some explanation. Sybil gave a frightened start, and said,

“Oh, Hilary, and how is she now?—has she been very ill?”

“Very,” replied Hilary, forcing back her tears, and speaking gravely, calmly, but very sadly; “very ill indeed; but, Sybil, she is better now!”

Gwyneth still stared at Hilary. “Then why were you crying?” was her question.

“Let me go to her,” said Sybil, struggling to release herself from her sister’s clasp, which, however, now bound her the closer for her efforts to move. Sybil was quiet without a word, only glancing apprehensively at the face hanging over her, with brimming eyelids and quivering lips. Gwyneth exclaimed again impatiently,

“Speak, Hilary, or let me go;—nay, I will go to mamma.”

“No, Gwyneth, you can not,” said the elder sister, laying her forehead down on her sister’s black curls.

“Who says so?—did she? she never refuses to see us! how unkind you are, Hilary.”

“A higher hand than mine, dear Gwyneth—be quiet; you can not see mamma now, because—” and such a deep, heartfelt sob stopped her words, that Sybil saw it all in one moment, and quietly turning from them both, laid her head among the pillows, and, except for a slight convulsive shiver now and then, was still and silent.

“Why, why, where is mamma?” cried Gwyneth, fighting with the wild, incomprehensible terror which was overpowering her.

“In heaven, we trust,” said Hilary, regaining her composure in a wonderful way; she pressed one hand upon her heart, made a strong physical effort to put away her grief, and then endeavored to draw Sybil toward her, hoping that the sight of her tears would touch Gwyneth’s heart. For Gwyneth sat still now, with wide open, tearless eyes, and parted lips, and cheeks as colorless as her neck; and her breath came slowly and with difficulty, and in deep, sobbing inspirations, and yet there was no tear; it was not like childish grief, it was the stillness of despair—her face might have belonged to a woman of thirty, so old it looked at that moment.

Hilary felt helpless at first; then her whole heart was raised in prayer; words not her own came to her mind, to express her thoughts and wants, as she prayed that in all her troubles she

might put her whole trust and confidence in that mercy which would not, could not fail.

Sense and feeling returned to Gwyneth, and with it the self-will, the passionate independence of her character. Hilary’s arms had relaxed their hold: she seized the opportunity, escaped from the grasp, and springing from the bed, ran out of the room without so much as pausing to put her feet into her slippers. She crossed the broad passage, and rushing to the door of her mother’s chamber, tried violently to force it open. It was locked. Hilary had followed the willful child, and now laid her hand upon her arm. But Gwyneth screamed, bursting into a furious passion, and uttering cries which resounded through the otherwise silent house. It was a mixture of feelings, terror undefined, and therefore the more oppressive, grief, vexation, anger—she could not well have told what it was; but the utterance of these wild screams for a moment relieved her, and appeared to throw off the weight on her heart.

In vain Hilary tried to soothe, to quiet, to command; her gentle voice was unheard, and Gwyneth, clinging to the handle of the door, and hiding her face on her arms, continued to scream with increasing energy. The old nurse appeared, and tried what she could do; but interjectory addresses, supplications, and entreaties, were unnoticed, and force made matters worse; when suddenly the door unclosed from the inside, and Gwyneth was only saved from falling on the floor by being caught in her father’s arms.

The screams stopped instantly; she gave one glance at his pale, sad face, then hid her own upon his shoulder, and indulged in a copious and passionate burst of tears. He held her quietly and gravely, without a word. Hilary stood with the feelings of a culprit; it seemed to her as if in her very first endeavor, she had failed entirely of all she ought to have done; she blamed herself for her sister’s willfulness, and changing color and trembling, waited for what might follow.

By degrees Gwyneth’s sobs subsided, and she lay quiet in her father’s arms.

“What is all this?” said he at length, glancing at his eldest daughter. She could not answer.

Gwyneth whispered, “Mamma—I want mamma.” Hilary looked up hastily and fearfully at her father’s face. A sadder shade swept over it, like the darkening gloom which precedes the heavy shower; then it passed away, and the quivering lip was still.

“Hilary, love, does she not know?” said he, gently, and drawing her close to him.

Hilary conquered the rising inclination to give way to tears; it was a hard struggle first, however, but she felt she must answer, and to her own surprise her voice came.

“I tried, papa, to tell her; but she would not believe—she can not understand—she is so young, and feels so acutely; oh, papa! it was my fault, I did not know how!”

“My poor child,” said he, as he stooped and kissed her forehead, after anxiously scanning her pale cheeks and weary eyes; “you have had no rest; you have overtasked yourself: you should have gone to bed.”

“Never mind me, papa dear! I shall do well enough, but let me take Gwyneth back, she will be cold. Come Gwyneth.”

But the child rebelled again, clung to her father, and seemed about to renew her shrieks.

“Hush, hush! this will not do,” said he, “this must not be. Be still, Gwyneth, and you shall see your mother once more.”

He stepped into the darkened room, whose grave and solemn aspect hushed the mourner’s emotion at once. He opened one shutter a little way; the bright morning sun streamed in upon the white bed-curtains, and danced upon the toilet-glass. He brought his young daughter, clinging to his arms, to the bed, drew back the curtain, lifted the sheet, and Gwyneth’s eyes fell on the cold, still face of her, for whom she had called in vain.

Words can not describe the feelings of a child thus brought face to face with death. The dead flower appears as a shriveled atom—the extinguished fire presents an uncouth heap of ashes—the setting sun vanishes from our sight—these speak

for themselves, here the change is real, perceptible, obvious; but the soul departed leaves the body the same, and yet how different, how slight, yet how immense the alteration. Lost in wonder, unable to realize what is gone, the child gazes in unspeakable awe at what remains—death, is that death? it looks but too like a profound and happy sleep; for a moment the eye is deceived: but to the touch the truth is at once revealed, and the young finger shrinks, and never again forgets the strange, cold, unyielding, icy feeling of the dead. For years it will thrill through her frame.

Perhaps it was a hazardous experiment, to place that young and susceptible girl in such a presence. Mr. Duncan did not know what he was doing; he was one of those individuals who can not in the least understand childhood, its deep feelings, its mysterious impulses, its strange associations, its superstitions taught by Nature herself, its heavenly breathings, to which it can give neither form nor words. He believed the experiment was perfectly successful, for Gwyneth’s tears and cries alike ceased in that solemn presence, and she gazed in quiet, awestruck, breathless surprise at the form before her.

Softly and gently her father talked to her, whispering of the absent spirit which had gone away for a time, but which might even now be near, how near to them they could not tell; and of that day when this spirit should return again, and that fair form, now motionless, cold, inanimate as marble itself, should arise once more to everlasting life. And then he knelt with Gwyneth in his arms, and prayed that they might all meet hereafter in that home of everlasting peace, where no partings come. She was very still and subdued as he carried her back from the room, and gave her to the nurse’s charge, and they did not know the effect that sight had produced on her, for she could not speak of her feelings; but sleeping or waking, that face for weeks was before her eyes, and the coldness of death seemed over her lips and cheeks, such as she had felt it, when, at her father’s bidding, she had pressed a last kiss on the corpse; and she would shrink into corners of the house or garden, to cry

and shudder alone, when none saw her, and muse in silence upon what her mother was.

Sybil was different; she clung to Hilary, she hardly dared to be alone; but with a pallid face, and swimming eyes, and little trembling hands, she followed her sister all day long; and never wearied of talking of her mother; of her wishes, her tastes, her goodness; every action seemed referred to that object; and she spoke of her as one that was absent only for a short time, who would soon return to claim their obedience again.

Gwyneth would turn pale, shiver, and, if possible, quit the room at the slightest mention of her mother’s name; nor could Hilary’s utmost efforts win from her the feelings that oppressed her.

Of course, as time passed, it brought the usual mitigation of acute sorrow. Sybil learned to speak with dry eyes of the departed, Gwyneth taught herself to bear the thought without visible demonstration of feeling; but the effect remained upon their characters; Sybil was more soft and dependent, Gwyneth more reserved in her general demeanor, while the fire which burned below that outward crust of indifference and calmness was but the fiercer for its concealment.

CHAPTER II.

“Blowing between the stems, the forest air

Had loosened the brown curls of Vivian’s hair,

Which played o’er her flushed cheeks; and her blue eyes

Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.”

Iseult of Brittany.

It was about two months after the death of Mrs. Duncan, when the cheering news arrived at the old Vicarage, that the ship in which Maurice Duncan was serving had reached Chatham, and was to be paid off immediately.

The letter was indeed a sunbeam thrown upon a gloomy path. Some change was greatly wanted at home. Mr. Duncan was a man of deep and true piety, but of little judgment in worldly matters. It would not be easy to find one less fitted to guide aright four girls like his daughters: he had no idea of what was good or hurtful to them. In education, indeed, both intellectual and religious, he could safely lead them; but of their physical natures he was quite ignorant. He had no quickness of perception. He did not see that Gwyneth was becoming daily more gloomy and abstracted, yielding to fanciful terrors, all the more powerful because she dared not speak of them. He did not discover that Sybil was giving way to indolence and repining, loving to indulge in visionary dreams of future happiness, or in retrospective pictures of past bliss, but shrinking from real, actual exertion, and the toils of every-day life. Still less did he perceive that Hilary was working beyond her strength, and sinking under a weight of responsibility which she felt too vividly to endure safely.

She was keenly sensible of her sisters’ defects; she felt them

with an acuteness and a self-condemnation almost morbid in its excess; it seemed to her as if they were entirely her own fault, and she saw that, however she might guard their health, minister to their comfort, and promote their pleasures, she was still failing in the more important part of her stepmother’s charge, while these evils were allowed to increase and overshadow their characters. Yet she could do nothing to repress them by herself, and she was not seconded by her father. Not that he wished or intended to thwart her; he doted on her far too much for that; but he was quite ignorant of the best manner of training children, or of the importance due to the small points of which Hilary thought so much. He secretly attributed the stress she laid on such things to the over-anxiety of a new-made governess, precise about unnecessary particulars from the scruples of a young responsibility; and when Hilary had said as much as duty and respect permitted, and urged her opinions with the small degree of earnestness which diffidence and humility allowed her, he would reply with a kind smile and a kiss, “Very true, my love; you are a good girl to think so much about your sisters, and I hope they will be grateful. I do not know what I should do without you.” But the things to which she objected, the indulgences which she reprehended, were continued just the same.

Theoretically, he would tell the children to obey Hilary; practically, he would encourage the contrary conduct. Not that there was any positive rebellion—there was no passion, ill-will, or disobedience apparent; these would have been instantly suppressed; but these were not necessary to gain her ends, Sybil found, and her nature was too soft to use them. So when she and Hilary differed about her occupations, her manner of employing her time, or her amusements, an appeal to her father, a smile and a kiss, always won him to her side of the argument, and gained for her the right of following her own taste, rather than submitting to the act of self-denial which her sister had proposed. Mr. Duncan only saw that both acts were alike innocent, why then should she not take her choice? Hilary saw

further; for she not only reflected on the results of self-indulgence, but she felt keenly how her power was annihilated, and her actual authority annulled; all the more keenly because it was owing to an affection she could not bear to blame, even in thought.

One of Sybil’s greatest indulgences was in drawing her father into long conversations respecting her deceased mother, recapitulating her virtues, and dwelling on their own loss. Had he possessed judgment enough to turn such recollections to good effect, to increase the child’s desire of excellence by the memory of what her mother had been, to strengthen her faith and love by pointing out how these had been a support in trouble and a comfort in sickness or pain, and to incite her onward in the same course by the wish of meeting again, there might have been more reason in his conduct; but this was not the case, and every such discussion seemed only to soften and weaken her nerves, make her more indolently dreamy, and bring on floods of regretful tears, such as she ought to have checked as willful, not encouraged as amiable and affectionate.

Conversations such as these only drove Gwyneth more completely apart, and made her shudder in silence. If, when the girls were riding or walking with their father, as they did almost every day, Sybil fell into this strain, her sister would draw back, and endeavor to escape beyond hearing; or if this were impossible, her white cheeks, and firm-closed lips, and slightly knitted brows told plainly to Hilary how she was inwardly suffering.

It was too much for Hilary; the household cares, the anxiety for her sisters, the watchfulness and broken rest which Nest, the youngest, often caused her—for she had taken the little one to her room at night, and watched her as her mother had once done; and then the unwearied attention to her father, the arrangement of his books, papers, and accounts, all which she took up where Mrs. Duncan had laid them down; the superintendence of the village school; the parochial cares; all these fell heavily on her young head—on her willing but over-anxious mind. The discipline, however, was good for her, and taught

her many things; she saw much was beyond her power, and that what she could not accomplish, she must be content to leave undone; she saw many things which should not be, and from clearly ascertaining the evil, knew better what was good to seek.

And then at length, when she had taught herself to submit with patience, and to bear what she could not remedy, and to ask and look for help for what she could not supply by her own power, help and comfort were sent to her.

Maurice came home: within ten days of their hearing of his arrival in England, his ship was paid off, and he was free; it was only for a limited period, however, for not having yet served his time as a midshipman, and being little more than eighteen, he had determined not to be idle, and had applied for immediate employment. Consequently he had but six weeks’ leave to spend at home, after an absence of nearly four years.

The delight with which Hilary looked forward to the arrival of her brother, was a stimulus to every power of her mind; and the ecstasy with which she threw her arms around the tall, slight, graceful youth on his presenting himself, seemed at the moment a compensation for all past anxiety and wrong. Maurice was returned to her, and returned with the same loving smile, and dancing eyes, and cheerful voice which had dwelt in her memory for so large a portion of her life; he was the same! could she be thankful enough for this blessing, not only for her own, but still more for her father’s sake?

How delighted she was to watch her father’s eye brighten, and his voice assume a more lively tone, as Maurice laughed and talked, questioned and commented, with the gayety of youth at home and happy. For Maurice was always happy; his boyhood had been all joy and sunshine, so far as he could remember; his school-life had been cheerful and pleasant; and his ship! oh, that had been the happiest on the station; the captain the most considerate, the first lieutenant the best fellow in the world, and all his messmates, great and small, appeared to deserve the same character; and now, though for a short time,

the blank in their home was felt and mourned by him, and he looked grave when he saw the empty chair and the disused work-table placed back in a corner: yet his joyous spirit soon rose again, and with so many blessings left, so much still unchanged, he said and felt it would be ungrateful to repine that one had been taken.

So, when, in company of Hilary, he had visited the spot where his step-mother was buried, and talked with his sister of her last hours, and heard what they had since discovered from her written papers, that she had been warned by a physician some months before, that, in all human probability, her days were numbered, and that she would not survive her next confinement, and when they had recounted her kindness and her virtues, and shed tears together at the memory of past times, and made a solemn engagement to return her affection for them as children, if possible, in double care and attention to the interests of her daughters, Maurice turned his thoughts to other objects, and endeavored to show his reverence for the dead by his consideration for the living. Cheerfulness was what was needed in his dear old home; cheerfulness to restore the tone of his father’s spirits, to cheer Sybil, to excite Gwyneth, and, above all, to aid and comfort and sustain his darling Hilary.

Maurice Duncan had the happy, lively temper ascribed by common report to sailors; but he had not the wild insouciance, the careless, reckless, or coarse habits often attributed to them. He was delicately, exquisitely refined in all his feelings; his behavior to his father was perfect in the respectful attention, engaging confidence, and invariable consideration he showed him. It was a sight worth seeing, too, to view him playing with his little sisters; Nest perched in the back of the old large arm-chair, leaning over his shoulder, and bringing her bright dark eyes, and ebony curls, in such charming contrast with his genuine Saxon features; while two other elder ones each occupied a knee, and drew an arm close round their waists. Then he would pour out long tales of India, China, or some other distant land, of tornadoes and breakers, coral-reefs and palm-trees, of

wild shooting excursions, and narrow escapes from danger—to all which the children listened with wonder and almost awe; and Hilary sat smiling by, with bright eyes dancing in joy and thankfulness, and Mr. Duncan paused over his book, and listened with feelings scarcely less moved and excited than his children.

But, above all, it was beautiful to see how he would wait on Hilary, attend to her least wish, accommodate himself to her habits and occupations, relieve her of every burden he could take upon himself, or share it with her by his sympathy when he could not. Without any verbal communication, he discovered in what respects she was overworked, and to some extent contrived to remedy the evil.

Without seeming to find fault, he contrived to arouse his father’s attention to what was wrong, to what was unfair on her, or pressed too much on one so young. His devoted attention to her wishes, the importance he attached to instant obedience to her words, had a great effect on the younger ones; be the game ever so amusing, the romp ever so exciting, or the tale ever so deeply interesting, all was quitted the moment Hilary spoke; and this conduct in one older and much taller than Hilary herself, could not fail to produce most beneficial results on the children’s habits and actions. Long after he was gone, his sister felt the good effects of his care and kindness.

No summer sea sparkling in the sunshine was ever more bright and buoyant than his spirit; and not even those same waves could exceed his determined energy of character, his steady perseverance in right, or the gradual but resistless force with which he won his way through impediments, and silently swept away obstructions and prejudices.

One Saturday afternoon, the young people all set out together for a long ramble through the forest, the two girls on their ponies, Hilary and Maurice arm-in-arm, an arrangement which suited them admirably, as affording pleasure to the young ones, and securing at the same time the luxury of confidential communication between the brother and sister. Thus they strolled

along, the children choosing the way, and leading them down beautiful glades carpeted with mossy turf, and over-arched by the old elms, and beech, and oak, where thickets of holly, underwood, and fern made what Maurice called reefs, promontories, islands, or sheltering bays; winding about sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another, at length they were entirely beyond the knowledge of any of the party, and it suddenly became a matter of doubt which way they were to turn. Hilary had gone on, leaning, figuratively as well as actually, on her brother; and it had never occurred to her, that with all his experience, and knowledge, and learning, he might not be so well qualified to guide them as to deserve this implicit credit. They all came to a stand-still at last, and looked about them with different degrees of wonder and uneasiness. There was no track, no mark of foot-steps, no sound of man to guide them. Hilary sat down on a fallen tree, puzzled and yet amused, while Maurice and her sisters made little excursions in different directions, to endeavor to discover some leading indications. They had gone a little out of sight, and she was looking toward the point from which she expected them to return, when she heard footsteps approaching, and turning round, saw, through a thicket of thorn, hazel, and holly, a person whom at first she believed to be her brother.

“Maurice, have you found the path?” exclaimed she, eagerly; but the next moment she perceived it was a stranger who advanced, and who, springing over the intervening underwood of fern and bramble, presently stood by her side.

“I beg your pardon,” said Hilary, as she looked at him; “I thought it was my brother when I spoke.”

She addressed him with an easy grace and courtesy, which was very attractive; and the intruder replied, with as much eagerness as politeness permitted,

“I have not seen your brother; can I be of any service to you? may I infer from your question that you have lost your way?”

“Indeed we have,” replied Hilary, frankly; “well as I know

the forest generally, I am quite puzzled now, and my brother and sisters are gone a little way to try and find a path.”

“If you will allow me to remain with you till their return,” replied the stranger, “I shall be most happy to act as your guide. In which direction do you wish to proceed?”

“We belong to Hurstdene,” replied Hilary; “I am the clergyman’s daughter; perhaps you know the name of Mr. Duncan?”

“Perfectly; though I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance; but you are a long way from Hurstdene; five miles, I should think, at least.”

“I have no idea where we are,” replied Miss Duncan, looking round; “I never was so far on this side of the wood. Is there any hamlet or village near us?”

“I think my house must be the nearest inhabited spot,” said the gentleman; “perhaps you may know that by the name, ‘the Ferns,’ and that may give you some idea where you are.”

“Oh, yes, I know the gates and fences of ‘the Ferns’ very well,” answered Hilary, looking with a sort of modified and restrained curiosity at her companion; “but I had no idea it was inhabited; I thought the owner was abroad still.”

“I was abroad,” said he, smiling, “until very lately; but just at present I am living on my own domain. Is this your brother approaching?”

Hilary looked round: Maurice and the children approached quickly, evidently surprised to find she had a companion.

“We can not see any path,” cried Gwyneth; “what shall we do? we are quite lost.” She looked exceedingly frightened.

“Maurice,” said Hilary, stepping forward to meet him, “this is Mr. Huyton, of ‘the Ferns.’ I believe I am right,” added she, looking with a sort of apologetic smile at the stranger.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Duncan,” said he, frankly holding out his hand, “and still more happy to think that I can be of service to your party. I learn from Miss Duncan that you have lost your way, and I believe I can direct you to the road home. But do you know how far you are?”

“I am so great a stranger here,” replied Maurice, “that it is easy for me to lose myself, and I have no bearings to direct me: so we shall be really obliged if you can set us right.”

“But will Miss Duncan be able to walk back five or six miles?” inquired Mr. Huyton.

“Hilary, dear, you can not do that, I am sure,” said Maurice, anxiously.

“Necessity knows no law,” was Hilary’s cheerful reply. “I am not so very tired; besides, I can ride a little to rest myself, you know; neither Sybil nor Gwyneth have walked at all!”

Both girls, who had been gazing most attentively at the stranger, now cried out that Hilary should ride when she liked; all the way, if she liked.

“Then your shortest way home,” replied Mr. Huyton, “is through my park, and out into the road which skirts the side of it; that will lead you direct to Hurstdene.”

The children looked delighted, and whispered, audibly enough, how they should like to go through the “the Ferns;” they had never been inside the gates.

This point was soon settled, and he led them along a green alley of the forest, until they came to the park palings. The fence was of the wildest description. Ivy, clematis, and woodbine, mixed in the utmost profusion with bryony, bind-weed, and other climbing plants, overshadowed by gigantic ferns and gorse, which might almost be classed among trees. Over these, huge forest trees swung their ancient branches, and made a sort of twilight of the spot. The children wondered what would come next; but Mr. Huyton, drawing a key from his pocket, and pushing aside a tangled screen of green boughs, soon threw open a little door, which at first had hardly been perceptible, and the party found themselves within the park.

A narrow path, which seemed but rarely trodden, leading between thickets of tall fern, picturesque old thorns, and ancient hollies, opened before them. Eager and amused, the girls pressed their ponies along at a quick pace; Hilary still leaned on her brother’s arm, while Mr. Huyton walked by her side, and assisted

Maurice to hold back the encroaching brambles, or overhanging prickly branches, which might have impeded her progress.

A turn in the path brought them suddenly in sight of the house, and then the owner, turning to Hilary, said,

“If you will trust yourself to the wild style of housekeeping which a bachelor hermit’s establishment affords, you will come in and rest yourself, Miss Duncan?”

Hilary at first declined, but her companion would not be refused, and Maurice was so charmed with the manners of their new acquaintance, and with the style of his conversation, that he seconded his proposal, when, of course, Hilary yielded.

“Thank you, very much,” exclaimed Mr. Huyton, warmly; “but I must tell you that to rest in my house is but a part of my plan. You must let me have the pleasure of taking you all home in my carriage, I am sure Miss Duncan is too fatigued for more exertion; and perhaps the young ladies would not mind exchanging their saddle for a seat in the britschka?”

“Oh, no; we can not think of giving such trouble,” exclaimed Hilary quite shocked at the idea.

“Besides, there are the ponies!” suggested Maurice.

“Never mind them, the groom shall bring them home in the evening,” replied Mr. Huyton; and without listening to any further objections, he called to a man who was standing by the gate of the stable-yard, close to which their path led them, and gave orders for the carriage to be got ready.

Their path now emerged into a beautiful triple avenue, which extended at least half a mile from the front of the house, along which Hilary’s eye glanced with intense admiration, and a low exclamation of “beautiful!” escaped her.

“My ancestors must have loved trees,” said Mr. Huyton; “there are avenues extending from each side of this huge, unwieldy house. I should like to show them to you some day.”

“Is this the front?” inquired Maurice.

“Yes; I fancy this is; but the house is square, and either side looks like the front; each has an entrance in the same heavy, substantial style; but I like the south rooms, so I have

chosen this part for my residence. Let me welcome you to my domicile,” added he, smiling with captivating grace on Hilary, as he pushed open the door, and ushered her into a broad entrance passage. He then turned to assist the others from their ponies, and after directing a stable helper to lead off the animals, he took the hands of the girls and led them in.

“Oh, how charming!” cried both Sybil and Gwyneth, as they glanced along the passage which opened into a great hall, occupying the center of the house. They caught sight of a wide branching staircase with a heavy balustrade; of sundry trophies of the chase, and ancient arms and armor, of various unknown articles, and not a few packing-cases and great boxes, standing about in extraordinary confusion.

Mr. Huyton seemed amused at their wondering admiration. He opened a door on the right. “Here is my room,” said he, “no other is quite habitable yet; I have not been home long enough to get another furnished.”

“We never heard you were at home at all,” said Sybil; “when did you come, sir?”

“About a month ago,” replied he, as he pushed up a large easy chair, and made Hilary seat herself in it; “I will tell you all about it presently, but you must let me attend to your sister’s comfort first, will you not?”

He rang the bell as he spoke, and then looked round to see what more he could do for her convenience, bringing her a foot-stool, and drawing down the blind, that the sun might not shine on her head; and showing, by his whole air and manner, how anxious he felt for her comfort.

“Bring some wine and biscuits, or bread and butter, or something,” said he, as a servant presented himself at the door.

“Not for us, Mr. Huyton,” exclaimed Hilary, eagerly; “pray do not take the trouble; we never touch wine, except Maurice, and I do not suppose he would either, now.”

“Some ladies do not, I know,” replied he, gently; “then bring coffee as soon as possible, and tell Leblanc to make it, that it may be good.”

The servant disappeared, and Hilary found it vain to contend against such politeness and hospitality,

“Those are beautiful specimens of wood-carving, are they not?” said their host to Maurice, who was examining some book-shelves at one end of the room; “they are for my library—nothing is in its place about the house. Indeed I have hardly had time to get my things unpacked yet.”

“You have always been abroad, Mr. Huyton?” said Sybil, coming up to his side.

“Yes,” was his reply, with a smile, as he looked at her face of curiosity. “I have spent twenty-five years, my whole life indeed, abroad; but I mean to settle in England now, and make this my home. Look at these beautiful cameos, shall we show them to your sister? would she like to see them?”

“Oh, yes! Hilary has some of her own, which I know she likes very much,” replied Sybil, eagerly.

“But she would like these best,” said Gwyneth, decidedly; pointing to a book of drawings, between the leaves of which she had furtively peeped. It was a collection of drawings, copied from some of the most celebrated works of good artists, all done in a masterly style.

“She shall have her choice,” replied their host, looking much pleased; “you bring the book, and I will carry the case of cameos.”

Again Hilary begged him not to trouble himself, but without any effect: a small table was placed beside her, and one article after another produced for her amusement. Her admiration of the colored drawings was extreme, and evidently highly gratifying to her host.

“How much my father would enjoy these,” said she to Maurice.

“If you think them worth the trouble of carrying home with you,” said Mr. Huyton, “I shall be only too much flattered to lend them to you. I can see, by your careful handling of them, the book would be as safe with you as with me.”

“They are exquisitely beautiful,” said Hilary, gazing with

intense admiration at a copy of one of Raphael’s best works. “Who was the artist?”

“I made the copies myself,” was his reply; an answer which brought Hilary’s eyes on him with a look of reverence and admiration.

The coffee was soon brought in, most excellent of its kind; indeed, whatever they saw, belonging to Mr. Huyton, which could be supposed finished, appeared as perfect as possible. Although it was evident that as yet hardly any thing was in its place, and the whole house had the air of having been so long neglected, that Hilary could not wonder that its progress towards order and classification had gone on slowly.

“I shall get on by degrees,” said he, in answer to some observation of hers relative to the labor before him. “By-and-by, when the library has been new floored and cleaned, we will have these carved book-frames put up, of which that is a specimen. But I like to superintend the whole. It doubles the value of a place to arrange it all oneself: unless one had the happiness of falling in with some second mind and fancy, which could sympathize with and enter into one’s own peculiarities and wishes.”

“And do you not find the noise and bustle of workmen disagreeable, Mr. Huyton?” asked Hilary.

“I do not mind it; and when I am tired I go out in the forest, or stroll about, and form plans for the ground and gardens.”

“There used to be a famous garden here always,” observed Maurice; “many a time have I bought peaches and nectarines at the Lodge gates in former years.”

“These windows look up that beautiful avenue, I see,” said Hilary; “what magnificent timber you have about here.”

“Yes, and so quaintly planted,” replied he; “one wonders at the taste. Straight rows seem the prevailing idea. Rows of oaks, rows of cedars, rows of larch trees, varied by quadrangles of enormous yews, or of double rows of limes, which must be delicious in summer. Miss Duncan, I do not wish to hurry you away, but whenever you please, the carriage is at your service.”

Hilary rose to prepare for her departure. The children cast

many a longing, lingering look towards the unexplored regions of the house, which Mr. Huyton observing, told them that they should come again some other day, and they would have a good game at hide-and-seek all over the house; a promise which they resolved not to allow him to forget.

The most unqualified admiration was excited by the beautiful horses and carriage which stood at the door, Sybil declaring they were just what he ought to have, and Gwyneth whispering to Maurice that the afternoon’s adventure was quite like a fairy tale.

“Are you going to drive, Mr. Huyton?” asked Sybil, as he was preparing to hand Hilary in.

“Not if you can make room for me inside,” was his answer; “do you think you two little girls could sit by your sister without squeezing her too much?”

“Easily, easily,” cried Sybil, springing up and down on the elastic cushions of the carriage. “Oh, Hilary, is it not delicious? if we had but such a carriage as this for every day!”

Maurice preferred going on the box, when it came to the point, so that after all there was plenty of room; and Sybil and Gwyneth were able to change sides in the carriage every five minutes, a process which any one less patiently indulgent than Hilary would soon have stopped.

Mr. Huyton, however, sitting opposite to her, kept her in such pleasant conversation on really interesting subjects, that she had not much time to be worried by any restlessness of her sisters; and the half-hour’s drive passed only too rapidly. He was as enthusiastic an admirer of scenery as she herself, and with an eye and taste cultivated by familiarity with the best examples; yet he did not despise or look down contemptuously on English scenery, or an English climate, because the one could not show the Alps, nor the other boast of the bright suns of Italy or Greece. The small specimen that he had seen was enough to give him most favorable impressions; and he was equally prepared to like the women of his country. His expectations were high, but he had not as yet met with a disappointment.

“I am so glad of that,” replied Hilary, with a simplicity and candor which told how little she suspected that she was the first English lady he had conversed with since his return from abroad. The idea of his intending a compliment to her was as far as possible from her mind.

Mr. Duncan was naturally a good deal surprised when he perceived the style in which his children had returned home; but nothing could be more cordial and grateful than his thanks and his invitation to their new acquaintance to walk in and share their tea. Sybil and Gwyneth, too, seconded the invitation with all their might; but Hilary was engrossed with little Nest, and either did not or would not attend; he was not sure which was the case.

“I must say good evening,” said he, approaching the end of the room, where she was sitting on the end of the sofa, with her arms around the little one. “Is this another of your sisters, Miss Duncan? I never saw more lovely children; and yet how unlike they are to you!”

Nest fixed her large black eyes on Mr. Huyton, with a perfect appreciation of his compliment. Her sister colored, looked grave, and then rising, held out her hand, only replying, “Good evening, then, and we are so much obliged to you!”

“The obligation is to me,” replied he, gracefully; then stooping down to kiss the beautiful little face, which, half-shyly, half-coquettishly, rested against Hilary’s shoulder, he added, “It has been a bright afternoon to me, and the acquaintance I have formed I shall not easily relinquish!”

No sooner was he gone, than the whole party joined in one unanimous chorus in praise of their new friend, his house, his trees, his manners, his carriage, and his coffee.

Maurice was as enthusiastic as the girls, and the whole of tea-time was spent in recapitulating the charms and virtues of Mr. Huyton. In short, the entire thing had so much the air of a romance, and they had so rarely met with any adventure before, that enough could not be said in praise, or delight.

After tea, Hilary produced the book of drawings, and they

were thoroughly appreciated by Mr. Duncan, who had, in his youth, made a tour abroad, and taken the opportunity of cultivating a natural taste and love for painting.

In the middle of this occupation, a message was brought in, that Mr. Huyton’s groom had brought home the ponies, and also a basket of peaches and grapes from “the Ferns;” sent specially directed to Mr. Maurice, to remind him of old times; an attention to her brother’s pleasure which charmed Hilary more than all the rest of the transaction together.

CHAPTER III.

“Her ’haviour had the morning’s fresh, clear grace,

The spirit of the woods was in her face,

She looked so witching fair——”

Iseult of Brittany.

Sybil’s lessons, the next Monday morning, were much disturbed by sundry dreams and visions; she was possessed with the idea that Mr. Huyton would drive over in his beautiful carriage again to-day, and perhaps take them all back to the Ferns, for the promised game of hide and seek. She was listening every moment for the sound of wheels, and trying to catch a glimpse of the carriage driving over the green, toward the house.

After all, Mr. Huyton came, but so quietly, that Sybil was perfectly ignorant when he entered the house. He rode over, rather early for a morning visit, and met Maurice on the green, who put his horse in the stable, and took the visitor into the garden, to wait till lesson-time was over, as he knew Hilary did not like to be interrupted in her teaching. They were all much surprised, in consequence, when, just as the children were putting away their books, the two young men walked into the room. None of the party was sorry to see Mr. Huyton; he seemed to have such genuine pleasure in the intercourse, that it naturally communicated itself to the whole family.

Mr. Huyton, indeed, was delighted with the acquaintance. The simplicity, frankness, and refinement of the whole family enchanted him. Weary of the fashionable manners, and artificial style of living, prevalent among the circles in foreign capitals, which he had frequented, there was something bewitching

in this little glimpse of nature and truth now presented to him. Of English society he knew nothing, save such as he had met abroad, seldom the best, or under the best aspects; and without troubling himself to discover in what the peculiar charm consisted, he resolved to cultivate the acquaintance of the Duncans, and make himself at home with them.

He was surprised to find in a girl of Hilary’s age, and educated completely in retirement, such a degree of elegance, and what he called high-breeding. It was a wonder to him how she learned a style of courtesy, which is sometimes wanting under what he would have considered much more favorable circumstances. He had yet to learn that real Christianity is the best school of good manners; and that the rule of doing as we would be done by, secures that substance, of which politeness and refinement can only give the shadow or the reflection.

She was so unconsciously pretty too, with all her delightful simplicity; so unintentionally graceful, and quietly elegant, that he never discovered how plain her dress was, nor how slightly it conformed to the prevalent fashion. The black close-fitting gown, with the clean little white collar, seemed made precisely to show off her slender form and fair skin; and the pretty brown hair, with its long curl, just put back behind a small delicately-shaped ear, and the rich braid forming a Grecian knot, needed no coiffeur to make it look smoother, more glossy, or more becoming to the classic shape of her little head.

Without forming any definite ideas as to the ultimate results likely to ensue, he entered at once with youthful ardor upon an acquaintance so accidentally formed. It was not likely that a young man of large fortune and prepossessing person and manners, would long be left to the solitude of his own country house, nor obliged to pick up his acquaintance at random in the forest; but he was sufficiently peculiar and independent in his tastes and habits, to take his own line and adhere to it; and for the present his chosen line lay in associating almost exclusively with the Duncans. Prudent fathers of families, and speculating brothers, hoping for future battues or other delights, made visits

at the Ferns, as soon as it was generally known that the owner was resident there; and, thanks to the necessity of eating and drinking, and the circulating nature of butchers and bakers, as well as gossip in a country place, that was pretty soon after his arrival.

No one had, however, as yet got further than the doorway, the answer being apparently stereotyped, that the house was in confusion, and Mr. Huyton did not receive company. The Duncans alone had been permitted to enter. They were perfectly unconscious of the superior privilege accorded them. They were out of the way of gossip, and had few visitors except the farmers’ and cottagers’ wives of their own village. Mr. Huyton himself was the only landed proprietor in the parish, and on that account might be considered as belonging to them. The lay-impropriator resided six or seven miles from them; he was a man generally well-spoken of, and the father of two daughters, but there had never been any intercourse between them.

In short, Mr. Huyton’s appearance among them was like the discovery of a new and wonderful comet to an enthusiastic astronomer; and he could not be more ready for the acquaintance, than they were to admit and encourage it.

Had Mr. Duncan been really a prudent father, he might have hesitated, perhaps, to admit to such an intimacy a young man of whom they knew only the name and the residence; but his charity made him literally think no evil; and the young men proved so congenial to each other in general taste, that they speedily became as nearly inseparable as the five miles between their respective homes would permit.

Maurice would have been constantly at the Ferns, if the owner of that place had not been so often at Hurstdene; and the little girls never seemed to think of riding in any other direction, unless he was with them to guide them in a different path.

All his plans were brought over to the Vicarage to be discussed and re-arranged according to the tastes of his friends

there; nominally of the whole family, actually of Hilary herself, in most cases, with the assistance of her father’s opinion.

The number of nutting parties, whortle berry parties, and other rambling, scrambling expeditions in which he was engaged by the children, was wonderful. It was apparently all the same to him, whether their object was to pick berries or make sketches, he was an adept at either, and he soon constituted himself drawing-master to the whole party, and presented Sybil with a stock of materials for the work, which amply supplied, as it was perhaps intended it should, both her sisters also.

Then he was delighted to encourage Gwyneth’s natural and native love of music, and finding their only instrument was such a piano as you might expect to find in an old-fashioned country vicarage, he transferred to her as a birth-day present, a small but beautiful instrument, which he had ordered for his own room at the Ferns, but which he succeeded in persuading Mr. Duncan, it would greatly oblige him if he could now get rid of. There were some scruples about accepting so valuable a present, but Mr. Huyton had his own way after all. If he expected Gwyneth to be able to play the music which accompanied the piano, he must have formed wonderful ideas of the capabilities of the child: but Hilary reveled in Beethoven and Mozart for months afterward, and it certainly was an advantage to Gwyneth herself, to hear such good music as was now placed within her reach.

So the weeks sped away, fast and bright, as the evening rainbow fades from the sky, until Maurice’s leave was over, and the sad eve of parting arrived. It was a subject which had never been discussed in Mr. Huyton’s presence, and one which had not occurred to his mind; so that it took him quite by surprise when, late one afternoon, on arriving at the Vicarage, after an accidental absence of nearly forty-eight hours, he found Sybil and Gwyneth with very sober faces, sitting in the porch, and was told by them, with tearful eyes, that Maurice was really to go early to-morrow, so Hilary was helping him to pack his trunk.

The door of the little room on one side of the hall was opened as they spoke, and Maurice called out, “Oh, Charles! is that you? I began to think I should have to leave without seeing you again!”

The visitor entered the door, and there he found Maurice sitting on a portmanteau, in the hope that his weight would bring the two sides into fair proximity to each other; while Hilary was half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, from which she made a sort of motion to rise as he entered, looking at him with very pale cheeks and mournful eyes. “I had no idea, my dear fellow! you were going so soon,” said Charles Huyton, quietly placing himself beside his friend on the portmanteau. “Oh the misery of packing up,” added he, taking a curious look round the room at the various litters it contained.

“Well, we have done for to-day,” replied Maurice; “I never got through it so nicely before; but Hilary, dear, we will rest now. I say, Charles, where have you been?”

“I had to go to Hitchinboro’ about some business, and could not come earlier. Miss Duncan, is it too late for a walk? I had hoped to be in time to finish that sketch of the old oak-tree.”

“I don’t know,” said Hilary, trying to rouse herself. “What do you say, Maurice?”

“If my father will come,” replied he. “I should not like to leave him for the whole evening; and he talked of wanting to visit those cottages by the tree.”

Hilary said she would go and see; and rising, left the room.

“Poor dear girl!” said Maurice, looking after her; “do you know what it is to leave such dear ones, Charles?—I could cry just now with pleasure.”

“Your sister will miss you immensely,” replied Mr. Huyton; “but she has so uncommon a degree of self-control and firmness of character, that I have no doubt but she will bear up under it with vigor.”

“Hilary is not the least like any other girl I ever saw,” replied Maurice, thoughtfully, “and I have seen a good many, one way

or another; she is just a hundred times better than any one I ever came across; you might live with her ten years, and never know her do a selfish or an unkind thing. I really do not believe she ever thinks of herself.”

“It is certainly rare to see one so young so thoughtful and womanly in her mind,” said Charles Huyton, earnestly. “I think you told me she is not yet eighteen?”

“Oh! no, only just turned seventeen; most girls are mere children at her age. To see how she teaches and manages the little ones, and cares for my father, and attends to all the old women and babies in the parish, knowing exactly who wants a flannel petticoat, or a pig, or a dose of rhubarb: it is really something wonderful! I do not believe she ever forgets any thing from one Sunday to another!”

“Except herself,” replied the visitor.

“Ay, except herself, in the right sense. I say, Charles, though, I have seen many girls forget themselves when I could have wished them a little more memory, for their own sakes; and you never see Hilary do that.”

“Never—I wonder you can make up your mind to leave your family,” observed Charles Huyton, with the utter unconsciousness of the laws of necessity which young men of large fortunes, independent of guardians, sometimes feel.

“What would you have?” said Maurice. “I must work, and, indeed, I love my profession; and but for these leave-takings, have nothing to complain of. If I am only lucky enough to get promoted by-and-by, when I am older, Hilary and I will settle down together in some little cottage on the sea-shore, and live on my half-pay and her fortune together, and be a regular old cozy brother and sister. That’s my notion of happiness. I don’t think either Hilary or I shall ever want to marry!”

“Don’t you?” observed his friend, with a somewhat incredulous smile.

“I only hope she will not over-work herself; she is too anxious about every thing; and with nobody to help her, the

three children come heavily upon her. Charles, you will come and see them sometimes when I am gone?”

“Sometimes!” replied Mr. Huyton, quietly.

Maurice turned round abruptly. “I am selfish for her sake, perhaps; but you must excuse me; don’t come if you do not like, however. I thought perhaps—but never mind; I daresay you have plenty to do much pleasanter than dawdling about here with such rustics as we all are.”

“There is nothing I like better, upon my honor. My great fear has been, that your absence would make a difference—that perhaps I should not be admitted. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to think there need be no change.”

“No change! well, I do not say that; but let Hilary settle the change for herself. I only wish you could help her teach the children a little,” added he, laughing; “but I am afraid you can not quite take my place as tutor.”

“We will see,” was the reply, gravely given.

The little girls came running in, equipped for walking, and summoned the two young men to join Mr. Duncan and his daughter, who were out at the gate, settling Nest in the pannier of a pony, that being the way in which that young lady made her excursions with her sisters; and on this occasion she was not to be left behind.

There was a good deal of desultory conversation passed between the family, not the least connected with the subject which occupied their minds; that was too sorrowful to be dwelt on; and both Maurice and Hilary thought more of their father, and of amusing him, than of indulging their own low spirits at the moment.

When they came to the Great Oak, it was settled that Maurice should accompany Mr. Duncan as he went round to visit a few scattered huts and hovels, inhabited by a wild and somewhat lawless race of wood-cutters, brickmakers, and poachers, who had located themselves in this secluded spot, while Hilary and Sybil sat down, under Mr. Huyton’s protection, to finish a sketch of the old tree.

“How well it looks this evening,” observed he; “the tawney russet shade which has tinged the leaves, shows well against those orange-colored beech-trees which back it up. If you can but catch the effect of that slanting sunbeam falling on those bright leaves, and tinging the trunk with gold! It is made for a picture!”

Hilary laid down her pencil, and gazed abstractedly at the scene till the tears gathered in her eyes, and first blinded her sight, and then dropped on her sketch-book and blotted her drawing. Her companion saw it, and gently drew it away from under her hands, to which she passively submitted, hardly knowing what he did, and hoping to quiet her emotion more easily by keeping silence.

“The sunbeam may fade to-night,” whispered he, “but it will come again to-morrow, Miss Duncan; and we can sleep away the hours of darkness, with the hope of a brighter dawn.”

“I was thinking,” said Hilary, after a pause, and carefully steadying her voice, “that that oak was like my father, how grand and venerable it looks; and that glowing, golden sunbeam was Maurice’s visit to us, just slipping away; what a bright gleam it shed on us for a little time; and now it is over, and he will be left—as that tree will be—to the night-dews, and the cold light of the moon and stars, which may glimmer round him, and seem to make a show and brightness, but have no real warmth, or strength, or power, in their poor feeble beams.”

“That is a comparison which does little justice to the bright light which shines on your father’s home and household,” replied Charles Huyton, warmly.

“I know it, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, understanding his words in a different sense from what he intended; “I know that he has that light within which makes external lights of little consequence. But yet, I can not help feeling that our home is not what it was once, and how sad, how desolate it must look to him. If I could but fill the place more effectually—but I am such a child—”

“Maurice says, your only fault is that you are too anxious,” replied Charles Huyton, who found it much easier to praise Hilary than to answer her feelings.

“Ah, Maurice does not know—” was her only answer.

“You do not in general dispute his judgment,” said Charles, smiling a little. “Do not take your responsibilities so to heart—do not fancy that you are called on to wear yourself out; the very fact of taking things easily yourself, will make them easy to others also. Nobody expects a woman’s grave and severe prudence and consideration, from your youth. Give yourself more liberty, and take less trouble.”

“Did Maurice tell you to say that to me?” inquired Hilary.

“No—I say it of myself; I can see that you are over-anxious.”

“Perhaps I am—but can one really be too anxious to do one’s duty, Mr. Huyton? Do I take uncalled-for tasks on myself—and if not, if, as I believe, what I do is merely what I ought to do, then, you know, it is what I have the power to do also. More is not required than is possible; ours is not a hard Master; but then the proper interest must be returned for the talents committed to us, or we are unfaithful as well as unprofitable servants.”

He was silent, for she was talking in an unknown tongue to him, alluding to things as realities, whose existence he hardly recognized.

“I know the fault is mine when I fail; and the merit, if I ever succeed, is His from whom help cometh,” added she, a little hesitatingly, as if in deprecation of his grave looks.

“Maurice has given me leave, as far as he can, to try and fill his place,” said the young man; “and he referred me to you, as to the way in which I could be of use, and when I may come and see you.”

“Will you really?” said Hilary, showing the most innocent pleasure at the prospect; “I thought when he was gone, you would not care much for coming here as you have done.”

“Then you are mistaken. I have known no pleasanter

hours than those I have spent at the Vicarage. Besides, how could I get on with my improvements? who would plan my walks, or choose my papers, or design my greenhouses?—no, I am not such an idiot as to throw away a valuable friendship when I have once made it.”

Hilary laughed lightly, as her only reply.

“Gwyneth,” added he, pulling the child toward him as he sat on the turf, “you know very well that I could not do without you and Sybil to help me, don’t you?”

“We could not get on without you,” replied Gwyneth; “Hilary wants to go on learning German, and I am sure nobody could teach her so well; and your French and English books, and your music and paintings are much better, and nicer, and prettier than any we have of our own.”

“But then, Gwyneth,” whispered he, “you have things which I have not—much better things, things that I can not buy.”

“I thought you had money enough to buy every thing you wanted,” said Gwyneth.

“Not every thing. I can not buy a father, or sisters, or a brother like Maurice—and you have all these, which I want; so who is best off?”

Gwyneth looked uncertain, or unwilling to speak.

“Suppose you were to give me back my sketch-book?” said Hilary, stretching out her hand for it; but he drew it back out of her reach, with a look which quieted Hilary, and prevented her saying any more, although she could not easily have told why.

The father and son returned, during the silence which ensued after Hilary’s last speech; and Sybil, who had been very industriously working away at her sketch, now held it up for approbation, which it obtained, as it deserved. The party then prepared to return homeward, and little Nest, who had been wandering about under the charge of Gwyneth, was recalled, and once more lodged in her pannier.

Mr. Huyton was pressed to come in as usual; but thinking

that on the last evening the family would be more comfortable without a stranger of the party, he declined, and mounting his horse, after very cordial farewells to Maurice, he rode slowly home, meditating on the charms of Hilary, and thinking what he should do with regard to her. To let things take their own course, and be decided hereafter by events, seemed to him the best thing to do.

In the mean time he carried away the sketch-book, with the intention of abstracting and appropriating the unfinished sketch on which her tears had fallen, and giving her a copy, of his own doing, of the scene she had attempted to delineate.

So things did take their course; and acting on impulse, with out any definite idea, or decided plan, Charles Huyton continued to come and go, between the Ferns and the Vicarage, all through the autumn and ensuing winter. He finished his house, and arranged his grounds, and returned his neighbors’ visits, sometimes accepting invitations to dinner, sometimes even appearing at a ball, being exceedingly admired, and very much courted, and making himself universally agreeable when he did go into society; but withal preserving a sort of mystery about his usual pursuits and amusements, which rendered him piquant and interesting in the highest degree.

He never gave parties of any kind, not even to gentlemen; did not preserve his game, and did not either hunt or shoot; men were as much puzzled to account for his oddities as women. The neighborhood—that is, the part of the country inhabited by gentlemen’s families—lay almost entirely in the opposite direction to Hurstdene, and so far removed from the vicinity of the Vicarage, that the length and frequency of his visits to the Duncans passed unheeded and unheard of.

All his leisure time was spent there, reading, drawing, teaching, gardening for them, and with them, and discussing his own plans and projects. Inspired by Hilary, and advised by her father, he did some very useful things: he built and endowed a school at the edge of his park, for some of the scattered population around; he improved the dwellings of the poor tenants,