Hilary went straight in-doors, and sought Mrs. Paine, who was in her own room; but the other two, tempted by the fineness of the day, lingered on the little lawn, looking at the blossoms of the laurustinus bushes, and planning imaginary changes in the flower-beds, until they were rejoined by the others, who loitered behind.
Mrs. Paine and Miss Duncan having finished their business, came down stairs together, when they found the drawing-room full. Besides those for whose presence they were prepared, Charles Huyton was there, whose visit was unexpected by either; he had, however, come over from the Abbey in company with George Ufford, and while the latter had followed his brother, he had been wandering about with Mr. Paine, inspecting the outhouses, which wanted some alterations, and planning other improvements in the place.
He was now gayly conversing with Dora Barham, and even after he had advanced to greet the two ladies, he again returned to her side; while she, with more coquetry than Hilary had suspected her of feeling, seemed encouraging him, either from actual preference, or to pique George Ufford; it was not easy to decide which. Miss Duncan made up her mind that day, that constancy and earnestness were not a part of Dora’s nature; that her conduct depended on her feelings; while her feelings
appeared entirely under the influence of chance or accident varying at every turn.
Perhaps Dora was afraid of her friend’s reproaches, for after their return home, where they were escorted by James Ufford alone, the other gentlemen being obliged to ride back to the Abbey, she carefully avoided any occasion of having a confidential discussion of the past. In a very few more days she was to return home, and Hilary hoped sincerely they might part without any further reference to her personal affairs. But this was not the case. Miss Duncan discovered accidentally that in a letter Gwyneth had been writing to Maurice, Dora had persuaded her to insert so many messages, so much of reminiscence and kindness, as must tend to delude Maurice, as it perhaps deluded herself, into the idea that she was still constant to him in her affections, and unchangeably bent on loving him alone.
Hilary felt obliged to remonstrate.
“Please don’t, Dora, another time. It is not right to any one; to Gwyneth, or to Maurice, or yourself, or your father; if I had known it in time, I should have stopped the letter.”
Dora looked half-vexed and half-foolish.
“You are so precise, Hilary; you are not like any body else.”
“Perhaps not; but we are not talking of myself, but of Maurice and you.”