Her ardent affection and admiration for her half-sister, convinced Mr. Farrington that Sybil herself must be equally amiable, and perhaps equally clever to appreciate her so entirely; and altogether he was so much interested in his companion, as to feel disinclined to quit her again during the rest of the evening.
Sybil was too tired, from excitement and exertion, to be disposed to do any thing but sit still beside Mrs. Fielding, except at the intervals when she stole up stairs to learn how Hilary slept; and her spirits being naturally depressed by what had already passed, and anxiety for the future, she was just in that state of mind which made her communicative of her hopes and fears, inclined to take retrospective views of bygone happiness, and thankful to hear cheerful anticipations for the morrow.
As to Maurice, after he had made the arrangements before recorded, feeling easier for his sisters at “the Ferns,” and depending entirely on his friend’s direction to give as little pain as possible to his father in making known the accident, he suddenly returned to thoughts of his own affairs, that is to say, to recollections of Dora, whom he had left with her sister, and wonder what they had done, as well as what they would think of his conduct.
Isabel he saw was with her aunt, Lady Margaret, and her party, which was tolerably numerous, but Dora herself was invisible. He went up to Miss Barham, and apologized for his conduct, in quitting them so abruptly in the boat; an apology which she declared totally unnecessary, as of course Hilary must be his first object; but in answer to his inquiries after her sister, she could only tell him, that Dora had gone in doors to rest, as she said she had a head-ache, and the band made it worse. As
soon as he could, Maurice went to the house to look for her, but was unsuccessful in his search through all the public rooms. Vexed and disappointed, he strolled out again, but on the opposite side to that on which the pavilion stood, and wandered away by himself, into a small thicket of laurel and other evergreens, overhung by some remarkably fine old hawthorns, whose long sprays, wreathed with snowy blossoms, shed around their rich and enervating perfume.
A sudden turn in the walk brought him to a small alcove, and there, reclining on a bank of turf, her face concealed partly by her arm and partly by her handkerchief, was Dora Barham, sobbing as if her heart was broken, and so engrossed by the cause of her agitation, as to be quite unconscious of his approach.
He hesitated a moment, for he could not leave her in such grief, and yet he did not dare to intrude upon it; he stopped, looked at her, waited, and was then resolved to go back, when accidentally treading on a broken stick in the path, the sharp crack it gave under his foot, startled Dora, and made her instantly raise her head.
“Mr. Duncan!” exclaimed she, trying to brush away her tears in a great hurry, as she saw him, but not looking at all sorry at the interruption.
“I hope I do not disturb you,” said he, apologetically. “I had no idea of finding you here.”
“Not in the least,” looking at the bank beside her (she was now sitting upright), as if she longed to ask him to sit down. “How is Hilary?”