“But it must be before I go, dear,” returned Maurice, eagerly. “If I am ordered off, and have to leave this unexplained, it would be base and cowardly then to throw all the burden and pain on her alone. I could not do that!”
“I think even then, at any rate, it would be right to avow it all, and let the consequences follow as they might. Every week’s delay must add to the evil.”
“If you could but see her, Hilary! but she will not come here, I know. Where could you meet her? Could you go to the Abbey?”
“How, dear Maurice? I have no means,” said Hilary.
“Perhaps Mrs. Paine could take you over, or Miss Fielding. If you could contrive it! do think about some way of meeting!”
Eager to fulfill her brother’s wishes, Hilary turned her mind entirely to the means of their accomplishment; and in her self-devotion to his interest, contrived to forget, in a great degree, her own feelings of suspense and anxiety. She would not indulge in contemplation, she would not listen to the whispers of hope, or to the cold insinuations of fear and doubt. She put away all retrospective glances, and stilled her mind with a calm, but fixed resolution, to wait in patience, and trust for the future, whatever its result might be.
She sent a note to Mrs. Paine to ask if she could drive her over to the Abbey the next day, saying, that having heard from
Isabel that Dora was suffering, and likely soon to leave home, she was very desirous of seeing her. Maurice carried the note, eager to do something, and finding action less painful than quiet and thought. But the owners of Primrose Bank were out when he arrived there; and after wandering for some time in the vicinity, in hopes of meeting them, Maurice was obliged to return home without a reply.
It was about twelve the next day, as the family at the Vicarage were sitting together, that the carriage from “the Ferns” drove up. Much to Miss Duncan’s relief, she saw at a glance that there were only the two ladies in it; and in a few minutes Mrs. Fielding and her daughter were in the parlor, the one as full of kindness, and the other of energy and gayety, as usual. They were delighted to find Hilary so much improved. As well as ever they said, no trace of languor or paleness visible. This was true, for the sight of them excited her, and they could not tell that the pink hue in her cheeks, and her apparent self-possession and activity, were the result of high-wrought, but concealed, feelings of suffering anxiety. Victoria’s object was to take her out for a drive, Mrs. Fielding to remain with Mr. Duncan while his eldest daughter was away.
No answer had come from Mrs. Paine; Hilary saw Maurice look at her with imploring eyes; and although hardly liking to ask the favor of Victoria, she was strongly tempted to beg at once to be driven over to the Abbey. It was, however, by no means improbable that any minute might bring the answer from Mrs. Paine, and until that arrived, she could decide nothing. She could only explain to Victoria how far she was pre-engaged; and while doing so, Mr. Paine himself walked in, bringing an excuse from his wife. She was not well, and the poney-carriage had met with an accident; but if to-morrow would do, it should be at her service. To-morrow, Hilary thought, might be too late: Maurice was in an agony of impatience, Victoria was urgent and persuasive, and she herself, afraid of yielding to selfish feelings, and sacrificing her brother’s happiness to her own scruples,