fortune, or the idle life I lead, will all those make my heart lighter? Compare our fates, and tell me which is most to be pitied. I know, though mine may be bright to look at, it will be all sorrow and misery within.”
“But Dora, dearest Dora, why must this be? All this misery might be spared if you would but speak, or let Maurice speak. There need be no hidden grief then, and even if your father disapproved (which he might not), at least you would have done right, and then trustful patience, and resignation, and brighter hopes might come again. And peace can only be won by walking straight on to it. Believe me, Dora, you can have none unless you take this course.”
“Go, go,” cried Dora, impatiently; and Hilary, hoping that her absence might do what her presence had failed to effect, prepared to withdraw. She met Miss Barham’s French maid at the door, who informed her that Mademoiselle Fielding desired her not to hurry, but she was quite ready to go; whereupon Miss Duncan immediately descended.
Charles Huyton and Mr. Barham were in the room, but she soon discovered that the former was engaged to stay and dine at the Abbey, and Victoria, evidently weary of her visit, was pleasantly bent on hurrying away. Hilary left Mr. Huyton apparently in earnest conversation with Isabel, though, to own the truth, the conversation was all supplied by the young lady; but this, Miss Duncan did not remain to notice; and it was a satisfaction that they were spared his company on their return to Hurstdene. Victoria announcing that her friend was too tired to talk, desired her, laughingly, to be silent, on pain of her high displeasure; and herself taking up a book, their return home was accomplished with scarcely another sentence uttered by either.
Weary and dis-spirited Hilary was in the extreme; she had over-tasked her body, over-excited her mind, and had failed of securing the object which alone had tempted her to set aside her own feelings, and do what she so very much disliked. Now that disappointment was added to weakness and fatigue, she was
inclined to take a most unfavorable view of her own conduct and to doubt whether even success would have justified her in her own eyes, in the step she had taken. At all events, she resolved that nothing but absolute necessity should induce her in future to incur any obligation to either of the cousins; and whatever their wishes or motives might be, she determined that her own rule must, for the future, be strict and invariable. She would neither be betrayed nor tricked into giving the appearance of encouragement to one she never could love.
A shake of the head, and a little glance of concern, was her first intimation to Maurice of her want of success; nor was there time or opportunity for more definite explanation, until late in the evening. When the rest of the family had retired, Maurice drew a large chair toward the moon-lit window, and placing Hilary there, he sat down beside her, and silently kissed her cheek. She laid her head upon his shoulder, and the pent up feelings which had been struggling all the evening for expression, found a channel in a shower of tears.
Silently the sister wept, and silently the brother smoothed her hair, and kissed her forehead, and clasped her closer and closer to him. She was the first to speak.
“Oh! Maurice, I could do nothing, I am so sorry.”
“Did you see her?” was his first question.