“How late you are, Hilary!”
“Yes,” replied the latter, looking fixedly at her sister. “What is the matter, dear?”
She saw, by the glow in Gwyneth’s eyes, and the deadly whiteness of her cheeks, which looked like marble by lamplight, that something had occurred to stir her feelings. Gwyneth laid her finger on her lips, and then whispered, as she motioned to the drawing-room door,
“Mr. Ufford has been waiting for a long time to say good-by.”
They entered the sitting-room together. Mr. Ufford was standing by the chimney in a fit of abstraction apparently, turning over the leaves of a small prayer-book belonging to Miss Duncan, which he had found on the table. They had, as I have said, seen but little of each other since the late vicar’s death. He was devoted to his visits at the Abbey, which every week had seemed to engross him more and more, while the curate, whom he had engaged as soon as he had the power to do so, had taken almost the entire charge of the parish. Excepting chance meetings, therefore, their interviews had been few and short; but now he had called to say a last farewell.
Rousing himself when he saw the sisters enter, he tried to say something kind and friendly, but his words came stiffly and unwillingly; and his sentences, instead of flowing with their usual ready freedom, broke down generally in the middle. Hilary was sorry for him; more so, perhaps, than he deserved, but she did not study to suit her commisseration exactly to his merits; she helped him all she could, by ready politeness, and a free, disengaged air; turning the conversation, so far as was in her power, to safe topics, unconnected with sentiment or feeling. She told him that they had already engaged a house near Southampton, situated, as they understood, on the borders of some forest land; that Mrs. Lawrence, Sybil’s sister-in-law, had been most kind in superintending the arrangements; that Sybil herself had been down there to see that all was ready, and that they expected, therefore, to find the house perfectly habitable on their arrival.
Mr. Ufford expressed the warmest satisfaction at this intelligence. He was delighted to think that they would have friends in their new home. Then he looked round the room, where he had spent so many hours, and inquired if they were not going to have a sale of the furniture.
It was, perhaps, fortunate for the composure of the sisters, if not creditable to the feelings of the gentleman, that this question was put in so matter-of-fact a way. It had been a sore trial to them, only to think of parting with the loved old furniture, companions of childhood, witnesses of their former life, bound to their affections by so many ties of association. Scarcely a chair but was filled by the shadowy memory of some well-known form, or a table but was connected with some of their daily habits. It had been a struggle to resolve to part with any thing; but prudence and justice prevailed over inclination. Much of it, such as side-boards, cabinets, and book-cases, were extremely heavy, and though old-fashioned, was valuable from the beauty of the time-stained wood. All these had been readily purchased by a cabinet-maker of the next town; and as Maurice had given the whole furniture to his two youngest sisters,
the value of these articles made no inconsiderable addition to their very moderate portions. Still it was a painful subject, especially to Gwyneth, and perhaps, had the visitor evinced a shadow of sympathy in his tone, her composure would at that moment have given way.
He spoke, however, in a voice as indifferent as if he had been merely discussing the renunciation of a worn-out garment, and his companions felt at the moment almost surprised at caring so much for what ought to be so easy, and nearly convinced that it was the simplest affair in the world to break off half the ties and reminiscences of a life-time.