“I thought that at the time, dear Hilary; and but for the abrupt conclusion to your share in the amusements, I should
have taken the opportunity that afternoon, there in the very midst of my rival’s splendor and all the riches and temptations which he displayed to bribe or buy your love, to offer you my hand, and a share in my humble fortunes.”
“What consummate vanity!” said Hilary, smiling up at him with eyes that told a very different tale from her words; “could not your triumph in forcing me to like you be complete without the glory of such a contrast?”
“Presumption I would plead guilty to; but if you knew the doubt and hesitation with which I contemplated the effort, you would not think it was the easy feeling of satisfied vanity, Hilary. To plunge after you into the lake was a trifle, compared to the plunge I meditated at the moment. But now I will not be baffled by smiles; tell me, if you love me, all that passed between Mr. Huyton and you just now.”
With crimson cheeks, she repeated as well as she could the dialogue in the shed, until he stopped her by saying, “His last speech I heard! I never liked him or his cousin; there was a something of intrigue and manœuver in her which shocked me; and for him—perhaps I was unjust, however. But his unmanly violence to you now, is hard to forgive. Is that what he calls love? or can he suppose affection is won by threats? Dear Hilary! for your own sake, I am glad you did not love him.”
“There never was any danger that I should,” said she, calmly.
“Yes, there was great danger; young, simple-minded, and inexperienced as you are; too pure to suspect evil, too ignorant to know it, there was the greatest danger that this man, handsome, clever, rich, ardent, devoted, with every advantage which seclusion and leisure, time and place could supply, should have won your heart before you could rightly read his character. That your affections should have continued disengaged until I had gained them appears to me a wonder, and a thing to fill me with gratitude. Dearest Hilary! how can I be thankful enough?”
“You can not imagine,” said Hilary, after a pause of gratified
feeling, “how great a shock it has been to me to find that he has shown himself what he is; I never could have loved him, but I did esteem and like him. I thought well of him in many respects, and to find that he is so desperate, so self-willed, so violent, has really given me great pain. Oh, I hope he will leave the country now, that we shall never meet again!”
“It was ungoverned temper, Hilary, made him speak as he did; a disposition quite unaccustomed to be checked or thwarted. It will wear off. When he really sees that it is hopeless, I do not think he will continue to vex himself about it. The quick, fiery passions which explode so vehemently are not those which are the most lasting and effectual in their results. Do not vex yourself, dearest, about it. Time will smooth down his asperity, perhaps. At any rate, he can do you no harm, he can not alter my trust in you, nor, I should hope, shake your confidence in me.”