She was hardly aware who had saved herself; the absorbing idea of Nest’s danger and Nest’s safety, had prevented her making other inquiries, and her head still felt too weak and confused to think with accuracy, or recollect with precision. It all seemed a cloud of fear and agony, from the time when she saw her sister was running into danger, by so rapidly descending the steep bank, and when, in her effort to arrest her, she too had lost her footing on the short, slippery turf, and crumbling, sandy edge, until she had once more recovered herself in her brother’s arms, and had heard the delicious assurance that Nest was safe.
At intervals, Sybil or Gwyneth would softly creep into the room, kiss her, look at Nest, till the tears sprung, and then glide away without a word; or Victoria would come with some refreshment, which she urged on Hilary with whispered eagerness;
or Dr. Pilgrim would steal in with a stealthy, noiseless tread, glance at the child, feel Hilary’s pulse, and in low, positive tones, renew his orders for perfect quiet repose.
The watchful housekeeper, too, was frequent in her silent visits, and the German maid, who sat in her mistress’s dressing-room, knowing no tongue saving her own, was deaf to entreaties for admission from all others, according to the express injunctions of Fraulein Victoria.
Meanwhile, beyond that silent room, away even from sight as well as hearing of its inmates, all was excitement, bustle, interest, and gossip. Seeing that the accident had not been attended by fatal consequences, and that after the first lively alarm there was nothing which need disturb the festal party, the visitors listened to the earnest entreaties of Miss Fielding, and remained as if nothing had happened. Of course, there was much to be said about this interesting circumstance; all who had seen it had to tell their own story, each version differing considerably from the other; all who had not enjoyed the advantage of being spectators were naturally eager to inquire the needful information; and every lady there was loud in praise of the heroism of Mr. Huyton in saving Hilary at the risk of his own life.
It was remarkable how much was said of him, how enthusiastic were the encomiums bestowed on his courage and presence of mind, while the equal devotion of his companion was passed over in silence. Every one could tell that Mr. Huyton, without a moment’s hesitation, had sprung from the bank to rescue the sufferers; none but himself and one other seemed aware that he was second in the attempt, and that it was the prompt decision of another mind which had influenced his conduct. Charles was brave, perhaps, but the total disregard of danger, the self-devotion which could calmly risk death itself in the cause of humanity, the quiet trust in a higher power which true Christianity alone can give, these were not his. Neither had he the quick eye to see the best means of help, the rapid decision to carry it out, nor the unselfish prudence which could
resign the efforts love would have prompted, rather than fail of doing all that was required; to these he had no claim. No human eye could see that jealousy and rivalry had prompted what others call heroism and self-devotion; that but for the example of another, he would have shrunk from the attempt; or that had not his companion been more generous than himself, they might have clashed in their efforts to rescue Hilary, while Nest might have been lost by delay.
When Mr. Huyton returned to his guests, having changed his own clothes, and taken care that Captain Hepburn was properly accommodated, he was received as a hero. Every one crowded round him to congratulate and admire; one enthusiastic lady (she had two grown-up daughters) insisted on his being crowned with laurel; and the professional singer, Madame G——, came forward, and volunteered a grand bravura in his honor. In short, such was the crowd about him, that Maurice could hardly pierce through to shake his hands in both of his, and thank him, with grateful emotion, for the safety of his sister. Charles bore it very well, he put aside the plaudits, escaped from the ovation, gracefully denied all merit, and seizing Maurice by the arm eagerly drew him aside to pour out his rapturous delight at having been of use to Hilary. No one was near, for he had retreated quite away from his guests; and they had the consideration not to intrude on the gratitude and thanks of the brother, whatever they might have wished to do. In this moment of feeling and excitement, Maurice learned, with surprise, what Hilary had hitherto carefully concealed even from him—the ardent, constant, unchanging devotion of his friend for his sister. Charles gave vent to his feelings, told of his love, his disappointment, his hopes, his fears; Hilary was dearer to him than ever, dearer far than life (he really thought so, now there was no danger); had he any chance, could Maurice give him any encouragement; at least, would he give him his good wishes?
Surprise was the brother’s principal feeling; not surprise that Hilary was loved, but that he had never discovered what was
passing close to him. As to his sister’s feelings, could he have guessed them, he would not have betrayed his guesses, nor breathed a word which could make her blush. He was saved from further solicitation by a summons to Charles, who was wanted by his cousin immediately.