And the morrow’s post brought the dreaded, the expected change; the summons to duty, which, for his sake, Hilary welcomed with a smile, a cheerful tone, an energetic kindness. But when the parting was over, all her strength gave way, physical weakness asserted its supremacy, and she was forced to allow depression and pain to take their course. She could not raise her head from the sofa all that day, and when Charles Huyton called, she was too ill to see him. There was some comfort in that; it partly paid her for her nervous languor, for her aching head, and fevered frame; she was able to be invisible, without a fear of ingratitude.
The strong stimulus withdrawn, the occupation ended, the anxious suspense for Maurice terminated, her own thoughts would turn to her own affairs. It was a week, only a week, since the memorable Thursday, the day when she had last seen Captain Hepburn; how long it seemed; double that time, at least. She had to tell herself it was only a week, to suppress the rising impatience, to quell the incipient murmur. Duty with him must be first; public before private duty; patriotism before feeling; honor before love; his country before his friends.
This she knew right well; and she ought not to feel herself neglected, or fear herself forgotten, merely because a week had passed without direct intercourse. No, not if vanity did not mislead her, not if she had understood him rightly, and read his character correctly. He did love her! that she believed, but there were other doubts more harassing than to doubt his love. Her present torment was to doubt what her duty should be.
Had she not resolved, promised, bound herself to sacrifice her whole time, care, and affection to her father and sisters? this had been her most solemn determination. How had she kept it? By yielding to the first impulse of affection; by allowing her mind, her fancy, and her feelings to be engrossed by another; by one who, a fortnight ago, was an entire stranger to her; by one who had never told her that he loved her; by one whose professional duties might make an engagement to him, even if he offered it, incompatible with her own domestic ties. What was she wishing to do? where were her resolutions, her promises, her intentions of self-devotion and self-forgetfulness? Forgotten at the very moment when they were put to the test. Thoughts such as these, self-torturing and reproachful thoughts, were not of a nature to still her throbbing pulses, or cool her aching brow; they were hardly more medicinal than the hot tears which the parting with her brother cost her.
Her sisters watched her with affectionate care, and forced her to take such bodily repose as her actual weakness required; playfully declaring, if she attempted to exert herself again, they would tell her father of her pale cheeks and heavy eyes; so she felt it her duty to lie still, although stillness of mind was for some time quite unattainable.
But quiet and repose brought strength of body, and with it came back more command of her spirit also. She saw her way, she understood her duty, and right well she knew that duty was truly the safest, smoothest path that she could tread. To put away thoughts of the past, to bend her attention to her domestic cares, to control her memory and curb her fancy, this she resolved, Heaven helping her, to do. Could she not? Yes; the
events of the last ten days had not surely robbed her of the mastery of her mind. She could govern it still! What else had she been learning all her life? and should she now give up the attempt because the task was less easy than heretofore? should the charioteer drop the reins because the road was narrow and rough; or the pilot abandon the helm, just when the vessel came amid the shoals and breakers?
So argued Hilary; and if the expectation of a happy result, as men say it does, aids greatly in the performance of a difficult task, that, perhaps, was one source of the success which now attended her efforts.
Her strength slowly returned, her equanimity came with it, and although she was somewhat paler and more languid than formerly, although she still had struggles against depression, and fits of painful recollection, they were not apparent to her companions, who only saw that she was more easily tired than formerly, rather more silent, and a good deal less excited when Maurice’s letters arrived.
It was a very quiet week which followed. The Barhams left the Abbey, the master of “the Ferns” was also absent. He had accompanied his aunt and cousin to London, from whence, Victoria told Sybil when she called to take leave, the ladies were going on to the sea-side, perhaps, or possibly to the north of England, and it was by no means unlikely that Charles would go with them.