Hilary saw it all, and watched them with a careful eye. She often felt hurt at the proceedings, on her father’s account, whose tastes and wishes were perpetually over-ruled; he did not like the idea of these new decorations, he feared that the quiet gray church, so dear to him in its serene simplicity, might assume too fanciful an appearance under their plans. The coloring of the walls and ceiling, talked of by them, he thought unsuitable. But he loved peace and hated dissension; and when Mr. Ufford argued on one hand, and Isabel coaxed on the other, he could not resist, but gave them their way.
As yet, however, the greater part of the decorations were only existing in idea, much repair was needed first of a substantial and important character, and it appeared probable that the autumn and winter must pass before Fancy could exercise her power on the colored decorations and ornamental
scrolls. Meanwhile, Isabel drew patterns, and Mr. Ufford applauded.
Gwyneth Duncan had at first noticed this unexpected coalition with considerable uneasiness; the fear she felt of Isabel as a rival, showed her how much her own feelings were interested in Mr. Ufford’s. She wondered that nothing more was said of the journey to Italy, and wished most heartily that the curate had set out before Miss Duncan’s return to the country. By degrees, however, she became more easy; he resumed much of his old manner to her; when Miss Barham was not by, he sought her opinion, claimed her services, and courted her approval almost as much as formerly; and she began to hope that, however he might admire Miss Barham, or be flattered by her condescending notice, that his real preference was confined to her. She was very quiet, and more reserved than ever; not even her sister could penetrate her secret; she never became demonstrative, least of all to him.
Anxiety for Gwyneth’s happiness, and concern for Mr. Ufford’s uncertain conduct, were not the only sources of trouble to Hilary’s mind at that time. Her thoughts would follow her absent sailors. Love would make the heart tremble, although faith whispered of patience and hope, and her husband’s spirit, his devotion to the cause of duty, his calm courage and high aspirations, inspired her too: but yet they could not always check the intruding chills which woman’s weakness threw over her. Generally, however, she was calm and trustful, although the blank of his absence was a sorrow which constant exertion, and devotion to the good of others, could alone alleviate. But for Maurice, poor Maurice, there was more painful thoughts still. His first letter was at once longed for, dreaded, and received with a mixture of feelings which it would be difficult to analyze.
The Erratic had remained some days at Plymouth, quite long enough for Hilary’s letters, with the news of Dora’s engagement, to reach her brother. She had written with the tenderest concern, the most sympathizing sorrow, and yet, fearful
of augmenting his disappointment, she had hardly dared to express what she really felt. To her husband she could confide all; but to Maurice, it seemed to her, that either to pity or to blame, to question Dora’s past or her present feelings, to suppose her faithless or deceitful, untrue either to him or his rival, would be equally inappropriate, unkind, or unwise. She dared hardly do more than state facts, and express anxiety regarding his feelings. Then came his letter, like himself, generous, warm-hearted, high-minded, loving. He had, he said, no right to complain, she had broken no faith to him; he had asked for none; they had parted on the understanding that she was free, disengaged. He had never deserved her, and it would be unjust, then, to claim a place in her memory as any thing beyond a friend; he had no wish to make her unhappy, and since their union appeared to her impossible, she was at perfect liberty to act as she had done. It was like herself, too, if she had endeavored to please her father; it was an engagement which he, no doubt, would perfectly approve; and there was much offered by it to influence and tempt her beyond common inducements. That she would not marry for the sake of rank or fortune alone, she had already proved; beyond a doubt, she had good reasons for her conduct. His most earnest wishes for her happiness, his constant prayers for her, were all he could now give; these she should have. He charged Hilary not to allow her to suppose he felt ill-used, or that he judged her harshly, or blamed her; nor need her affectionate heart grieve for him; she had done him no injustice, no wrong; and the inevitable evils of life he hoped he could bear. A sailor must expect storms in his voyage, and should know what to do under them. A sudden tornado had come down on him, catching him, perhaps, with too much canvas spread, going on too gayly before a light breeze; but should he therefore give up all for lost, and allow the hurricane to overwhelm him without an effort? No, he would shorten sail at once, and trust, by vigorous and timely exertion, to remedy the danger to which incautiousness in fair weather had exposed him.
“Not that I can ever forget her,” continued he, in conclusion, “or am at all likely to find one to fill her place. Her memory will live in mine, as we think of one dead; and her name will ever have a charm for me beyond all other feminine appellations. But do not fret on my account, dear Hilary; you have enough care, without taking another load on your shoulders for my sake.”
But Captain Hepburn told his wife how great was the struggle in the mind of Maurice, how severe the shock had been, and how glad he should be when they had left England, as this weary detention from day to day, kept them all in an irritating state of idle uncertainty. Hilary knew Maurice must feel, yet his letter was a comfort too. If he could so bravely face his disappointment, the severity of the blow would be greatly lessened. If no angry feelings were lurking there, he would escape the bitterest portion of disappointed love; and perhaps, after all, the abandoned lover might be less an object of pity than his successful rival.
Affairs went on at home, for some weeks, much as has been described. Isabel Barham was the most devoted friend to Gwyneth; constantly at the Vicarage, to talk over the building plans, or consult about the embroidery she was occupied with for the church. Penelope’s web hardly gave rise to more discussion and anxiety than did the cushions which Isabel thought she was working. They traveled backward and forward, several times a week, between the Abbey and the Vicarage, in Miss Barham’s britchska; that young lady always expecting to find time to set a few stitches during her visit, and generally proving mistaken in the result; so that the only progress the work made was when Gwyneth sometimes herself took it in hand; indeed, the cushions might be said to live chiefly on the road, if they had actually any other existence than in the imagination of their projectors.