As to Gwyneth, ever since their first interview, she had given him credit for every virtue under the sun, and invariably believed him to be perfectly right, let who would differ from or disagree with him. She was the confidante, consequently, of all his theories for the improvement of his people, of all his wishes that they were very different from what they were, and of all his doubts of ever making them any better. His theories certainly were beautiful: it was unfortunate that they should be based on the most ideal foundations, and so be generally impracticable. It was unfortunate, too, that those changes which he did introduce did not work well. For instance, as I said before, his attempt to re-model the school ended in the secession of the schoolmistress; but as his plans were never sufficiently fixed to be acted on, the new schoolmaster fell into his own ways, and the routine became rather more inefficient than before, while Mr. Ufford, in disgust, pretty well ceased to visit it.
And so it was in every thing else; things did not suit his fancy, were imperfect, or inappropriate; he made violent changes, was opposed, was determined, carried his point, made enemies, gradually grew indifferent, and gave up his object, contenting himself with strolling about the Vicarage garden, detailing impracticable schemes to Gwyneth, and drawing imaginary pictures of what might be.
He was one of those people who never have time for any thing, and who, from want of reality, do nothing in the end, although avowedly always busy. What could be effected by
others in his plans, was well done; what depended on himself alone, was well talked of. Yet he was a great favorite with many, especially with recent acquaintance, and his friends always formed the highest estimate of his powers, and the liveliest expectations of their results.
Hilary was most anxious to think well of him. She discovered in time that he was expecting to succeed her father in the living; and this created a strong source of interest in him, and a most ardent wish that he should prove all that he was supposed to be. She shut her eyes to his deficiencies, excused any mistakes or neglects, labored to supply the care and zeal which were occasionally wanting, and to reconcile all apparent inconsistencies or short-comings. She had often hard work, and did sometimes feel as if she were endeavoring to make ropes of sand, although she laid all the blame of failure on her own mal-adroitness and ignorance.
Left as Hilary was almost entirely to her own discretion, it was not surprising that she sometimes made mistakes of conduct, acting on an innocence and ignorance of the world beyond her own village, which made her singularly unsuspicious of evil, and blind to imprudence. It certainly was a mistake to allow such unlimited and unreserved intercourse between Mr. Ufford and her own family; or rather, perhaps, the mistake was in those who placed so young a man in a situation where such intercourse was unavoidable. She herself heartily wished he were married; she missed Mrs. Paine more every month of their separation, and especially after Sybil had left Hurstdene; for Gwyneth was so much more reserved and silent than her sister, besides being younger, that she could not entirely fill her place; and her feelings were so enthusiastic, and so little regulated by reason, when she did express them, that Hilary had some trouble in guiding her at all.
Of course, Miss Duncan’s bright spot in the future was the Pandanus; for however unremitting and unreserved a correspondence might be, it was impossible for the letters of a lover in the West Indies to supply all the daily counsel, the prudence,
and the judgment which she needed to guide her; and what could possibly stand instead of the charm of his personal presence?
Mr. Ufford’s father had died about a year after that gentleman had settled at Hurstdene, and his elder brother, after some occasional and rather lengthy visits to the village, had just gone abroad, partly for his own health, which was precarious, still more for his daughter’s, which was decidedly delicate. Their mother had died of consumption, the second son, too, had shared the same fate, and many people thought the present Lord Dunsmoor had inherited the same weakness. James Ufford appeared the most robust of the family, and there seemed considerable probability that the title would eventually devolve on him.
Not that this idea had ever occurred to the sisters at the Vicarage, who, from seeing him every day, observing his simple habits, and quiet, gentlemanlike indolence, quite forgot that he belonged by birth to another sphere than themselves, and might some day rise to a circle where they could not hope to reach.