The knowledge that Charles Huyton had been perseveringly repulsed, that wealth and station, abilities, personal charms, flattery and importunity, had failed to gain the heart which was now his own, was very sweet. If there is the man in the world whose pleasure in his own success would not be enhanced by such considerations, let him triumph in his conscious stoicism. I do not believe that there is; some might plume themselves on their own superior fascinations, some might rejoice in the lady’s disinterested love; some might value themselves—some her the more for such knowledge, but satisfaction of one kind or other, I imagine, every one would feel. For the present, however, Captain Hepburn concealed this source of satisfaction with as much scrupulous care as Hilary herself; and, but for an occurrence which even on this topic broke down their reserve, they would, probably, have parted when his leave of absence called him away, without any allusion to the matter.
Captain Hepburn had letters of business to write; and Hilary, taking advantage of the opportunity, set off to pay some visits in the village. The night had been stormy, but the morning was fair and bright, and Hilary, walking briskly, was soon at a cottage about half a mile on the road toward “the Ferns,” whose inmates it was convenient for her to visit alone. The food, the clothes, and the advice all given, she was just issuing from the garden gate when she was addressed by Charles, who, throwing himself from his horse, advanced quickly to greet her. She was surprised, for she had believed
him still absent from the country; and a mixture of other feelings, which his sight recalled, gave her an air of emotion, sensibility, and bashfulness, which he readily interpreted in the way most flattering to himself. Had he known whom she had left writing letters at her little table at home, he would perhaps have been as anxious to avoid the interview as herself; but ignorant of what had passed since they last met, he very joyfully took his horse’s reins upon his arm, and walked himself by her side. The usual form of questioning about friends and relations, recent occupations, his journey and his return, was gone through, and was followed by a silence of some duration. This was broken by Hilary, who, casting an anxious look at the clouds now gathering ominously overhead, observed, that she was afraid there was going to be a storm. She had hardly said the words when down came the rain in large drops, rapidly increasing in number every moment. There was a sawyer’s pit at a short distance with a shed beside it, and as this seemed the only shelter within reach, and the rain appeared likely to be violent, they quickly agreed to take refuge there; hoping that the shower would be as brief as it was sudden. She was most anxious to get on home; perhaps Captain Hepburn would have done work, and would miss her; perhaps her father might want her. So she thought, as she stood for a minute or two at the entrance to the shed, looking wistfully up at the clouds, and watching those flitting gleams of brighter sky which occasionally seemed to promise a clearing up. Still the rain went on, and as drops began to penetrate through the slight roof where she stood, he said,
“Come further in, Miss Duncan; it will not clear the quicker for your watching; and here is a nice block of wood, which will form a seat for you, where it is quite dry.”
The easiest thing to do was to comply; she sat down accordingly, and he placed himself beside her. Then a sudden conviction came over her that something was to follow; and with a sort of desperate hope of stopping him, of avoiding a renewal of what was so painful, she began to talk of other things, the season,
the harvest, the people, any thing for a subject. He listened in silence; his eyes were fixed on the open doorway; he might have been counting the drops which fell from the eaves, so steadily did he gaze that way. Her ideas, unsupported by any help from him, necessarily came to an end; and when she paused, it was his turn to speak.
“Hilary, tell me, once more let me speak; has my changeless devotion no influence on you?”
She shook her head.
“None! yet of late you have seemed to encourage me; you have accepted—at least you have not repelled—my attentions; you have allowed me to distinguish you as my first object; you have permitted those advances from my family which were intended to show how they would welcome you as one of themselves; you have graced my fête with your presence; your name has already been whispered round the neighborhood as the object, as the recipient of my vows: has not all this given me a right to hope; does all this go for nothing, for unmeaning form with you?”
“I do not understand your language, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, in great suprise; “your tone and manner are alike new and unpleasant. May I ask you to drop this subject while we are compelled to remain together here!”