Her last words were:
“Oh, Hilary, why did you not love and marry him, then we might all have been happy!”
The sisters’ residence at the Vicarage was rapidly drawing to a close. A long farewell had been said to every well-known forest nook and glade, each beloved haunt of bygone days; a sad leave had been taken of each parishioner, each lowly friend and affectionate well-wisher, many parting tokens had been humbly but kindly offered, from those who had known them from childhood, or begged as precious memorials of the late Vicar and his daughters, by the sorrowful parishioners, who still
grieved for their best friend. The last Sunday came, and they knelt for the last time on the spot where for years their devotions had been offered up. Every look was now a pain, every action almost caused a pang, and both sisters ardently wished the time were come which should put an end to the sorrowful dream in which they now seemed to move. There was no outward demonstration of their grief, it wore the calm, grave, torpid aspect, that a dull November day presents, when the sky is all shrouded in a somber vail of gray, and the distant hills wear the same heavy tint; while no wind moves through the half-bare trees, or wakens the waters to life. Over such a scene silence and stillness brood, the silence of death-like sleep, made only more apparent as the soft rustle of a falling leaf catches the ear, or the eye is attracted by its movement, as it calmly floats to the dull earth beneath.
The afternoon of Monday, the last afternoon they were to spend in their old home, Hilary walked down alone to visit for the last time the graves of those so dear to her, and look once more on the favorite spot where many a peaceful hour had been spent.
She walked slowly and softly all round the western end of the church, scanning its gray tower, and casting loving glances at each well-known window. The workmen had not been there for several days, but their poles and scaffolding encumbered the place, and spoke of decay and change, of old things being replaced by new, of all passing away and being forgotten in turn. Her mind went off to scenes where change is unknown—where rust and moth do not invade—where decay comes not—where, blessed thought! distance is not, separation can not grieve, where there is no more sea! Her thoughts were with her husband then, as she must, at least in idea, share all gentle, happy thoughts with him; but her hopes were not bounded by earth; they had gone on into futurity, and time seemed but an atom in space, while she gazed on the vast prospect of eternity.
Slowly and softly she trod over the grass, among the graves
of hundreds who had loved, and suffered, and wept as she had, and then lain down to sleep and be forgotten. She passed the northern transept, and turning the corner, came forward, with inaudible footsteps, to the eastern end. She was startled suddenly from her reveries, for there, under the old lime-tree, whose yellow leaves now thickly strewed the ground, stood one whom she little thought to see there at such a time; Charles Huyton stood beside her father’s grave.
Roused by her footsteps, he looked up suddenly, and starting as he saw her, he raised his hat, with an air of almost haughty defiance, but stood still.
Old memories flashed thick and fast on each, as they stood there once more together, and their eyes wandered away to the church-wall, and to the Virginian creeper, whose long sprays still showed some crimson leaves clinging to their parent stem, waiting their turn to fall to rest. Then their looks met, and they each aroused themselves to speak.