The road to the Abbey led them up a thick avenue, where
the leafless branches of the trees threw a most perplexing checker-work of darkness across the white moonbeams as they lay on the ground, or fell on the figures of the ladies. Suddenly they saw a gentleman approaching them. Isabel uttered a little exclamation, indicative of very pleased surprise, before her companions recognized the new comer; but the next moment Hilary saw with a mixture of uncomfortable feelings that it was Mr. Huyton himself. The dread of meeting him had been one motive for her unwillingness to go to the Abbey, and great had been her relief on learning, soon after her arrival, that he was not at all expected. By what unlucky accident he chanced to come at the very time when it was least desirable, she did not know; but she saw from the manners of Miss Barham, that though very welcome, he was yet quite an unlooked-for guest.
It was impossible in such a light, to mark any expression of features or changes of complexion, so Hilary’s varying color was safe from notice. How they should meet she could not guess; but nothing was left to her decision. Mr. Huyton advanced, took Isabel’s proffered hand, made his excuses with grace, spoke easily to Dora and Mrs. Paine; and added, as he turned to her,
“And I have the pleasure, too, of seeing Miss Duncan. I hope you are quite well, and all your family.”
If ever Hilary was surprised in her life, it was at the composure and calmness with which her hand was taken, and these words were said. She would gladly have avoided shaking hands, but that was impossible; he went through the ceremony with such perfect grace and self-possession, as prevented it being awkward even to her, but with an air of indifference which amazed her when she thought of the past. As they returned to the house along the moon-lighted terrace, she could catch indistinct glimpses of his face, while he conversed gayly and courteously with her companions; and there was neither look nor tone which could convey the impression that her presence was a matter of the smallest consequence to him. Could he have
quite recovered from the infatuation of past years! had he learned to regulate his affections and govern his feelings, to acquiesce in her decisions and participate in her indifference? Might they associate on an easy footing, as friendly acquaintance, without awkwardness or reluctance? She would have gladly believed this to be the case; but she feared to trust too entirely to appearances, when she remembered that more than once before she had been misled by his assumed calmness, to believe in the extinction of feelings, which seemed to have been only the fiercer for suppression.
No, she could never be comfortable with him again; she dared not trust him, so long as he continued single. If he would but marry some other woman, what a blessing she would esteem it. As she walked along musing thus, she only heard the sound of his voice mingling with the tones of her companions; she did not understand a word they said; her memory was away in the sawyer’s hut in the forest, and to her imagination, she was again listening to his threatening accents, or again clinging to that dear arm, which so tenderly supported her from the unpleasant scene. She was so engrossed in these thoughts, that when Mr. Huyton turned to her, and observed that he had seen Mr. Duncan in the house, and was glad to find him well, she really, at first, hardly knew what he was talking of, and her answers betrayed her wandering thoughts so clearly, as to make Dora and Isabel both laugh at her absence of mind.
It was late enough when they reached the Abbey porch to make it quite allowable that the young ladies should retire to their several toilettes; and then Mrs. Paine begged Hilary’s company at hers for a moment, to explain some circumstances which she could not so well speak of before their hostess. It appeared that the intelligence that the living of Copseley was vacant, had reached the Paines the day after they arrived at the Abbey, and that Mr. Barham, on learning it, immediately expressed a strong wish to secure the future curacy of Hurstdene for Mr. Ufford. Why he was so anxious about it, or what particular inducement there was to place that gentleman in so retired
a position, Mr. Barham did not mention; but this was avowedly his object in sending for Mr. Duncan. He wanted to settle it all immediately. That he had some ulterior motive, nobody who knew Mr. Barham could doubt, and Mrs. Paine had her own ideas on that point; but she did not think it right to mention mere conjectures; so she said she should leave Hilary to guess for herself. As to Mr. Ufford, she saw no harm in him, he seemed to be zealous, and talked well; but she was rather doubtful of his sincerity; he had a way of not speaking his opinions frankly, which made her uncomfortable, and she half-suspected him of extreme views, which might lead to injudicious innovations. But she was not sure of her own opinions, and most people were captivated by him; even Mr. Paine thought him a most excellent young man; so that it was, perhaps, bold in her to say that she did not quite like him.
“But he strikes me,” continued she, “as having an idée fixe of his own extreme personal importance and dignity; and you know, Hilary, that even very good men do often go very much astray, and become exceedingly inconsistent and strange, from having an ill-balanced character; from allowing one notion to overgrow their mind, and so warp or conceal other estimable qualities.”