“We must be careful in telling it,” continued he; “you will be able to break the news to him, perhaps; a woman’s tact is best: you will undertake it.”
“I have no doubt but that I can do it—I am not at all afraid. There is every probability that Hilary will be home to-morrow,” repeated she.
Gwyneth’s sanguine anticipations rather surprised Captain Hepburn; he had seen Dr. Pilgrim himself, just before quitting “the Ferns,” and had learned that the danger of fever was very far from passed away: the doctor had spoken openly to him, considering him a friend of the family, who had a right to know, and had told him that the result must be a matter of great anxiety, while the symptoms were so alarming. As, however, there was room to hope that to-morrow might bring a
better report, and relieve all apprehension, he considered that there was no reason for exciting unnecessary fears; and also that if Gwyneth did not know how much there was still to dread, she would be quite secure from giving alarms which might eventually prove unfounded.
She really managed it very well; and though Mr. Duncan heard the intelligence with emotion, he bore it with the firmness and resignation of a Christian. It was quite evident, however, to the keen perception of his guest, that he did not share in the hopeful anticipations of his daughter. He did not check her, it was true, but allowed her to reckon with confidence on the safe return of the other three to the Vicarage the next day; but when she was out of the room, forgetful of Captain Hepburn’s presence, who had been sitting some time in silence, the blind old man clasped his hands together, and breathed out in deep, heartfelt tones of patient resignation, his fears, and his aspirations for submission, if the stroke he dreaded should be really impending.
Captain Hepburn was deeply affected. The thoughts of what Hilary was in that home, of her importance to her sisters, her indispensability to her father; of what it would be for them to lose the music of her voice, the sunshine of her smile; for that parent no more to feel the touch of those gentle hands, tending his infirmities with such indefatigable zeal; or to hear the light echo of her busy feet, as she passed by in her accustomed household duties: for all, to miss her in her usual seat, in her daily walks, from her place at church; these thoughts were so replete with sadness, so full of heart-sinking desolation, that his whole soul was moved at the idea.
He crossed the room, and laying his hand gently on that of his host, said in a voice which, in spite of his utmost efforts, was unsteady with deep feeling—
“Dear sir, if your fears should be realized, may your prayers be granted too! but, from my soul, I trust they may prove groundless, and that Heaven may long, long bless you with such a treasure as your daughter must be to you.”
“Thank you, Captain Hepburn; I believe you are a true friend to me and mine, and I owe you much, much more than I can speak. If you could save Hilary for us, I believe you would, although you do not know half her worth. But when one has an angel-visitant on earth, one feels her stay must be precarious, and may be short.”
“Perhaps so; but surely Heaven will hear your prayers, and she will be restored.”