“No, you have done nothing to blame yourself for, dear Hilary. The past is gone—let it go. Hope for this world, and love, with its bright fancies, and all the youthful visions in which I once indulged, have been dissipated forever. Henceforth my life will be one of quiet devotion, and charitable exertion, and such other occupation as may suit a calm and contemplative existence. To marriage and all its attendant joys and sorrows, I have said farewell forever. For you and Nest, all my cares shall be; and my hopes shall be fixed on an immovable futurity. We will never mention this subject again.”
But Gwyneth’s frame was not equal to her resolution; Nature would have its way, and the long-continued exertion, followed
by a sudden relaxation of the strain, told now in a severe attack of nervous fever, which prostrated her for many weeks.
Hilary’s first work in her new home was that of sick nurse to her sister.
Languid and restless, too weak for exertion, and too excited for repose, Gwyneth saw the day arrive which she knew was to unite her cold-hearted and successful rival to the man she once believed attached to herself. She could not turn her thoughts from what she supposed to be then taking place at Drewhurst, and her imagination, morbidly active from her illness, presented to her mind the whole scene. She saw the picturesque park, with its ancient avenues and groves, glowing in the sunshine of a fine autumnal day; every leaf tinted by the early frost, which had changed the hue of the foliage while yet thick, and given the most glorious shades of orange, gold, and pale lemon, to the majestic oaks and beeches.
So had looked her native woods, as they last met her gaze, and the picture dwelt in her mind. Then she fancied the assembled friends, the gay groups of patrician beauty, the humbler concourse of tenantry and laborers; she seemed to see the broadly-smiling faces of the merry throng, to hear their joyful shouts, their clamorous good-wishes for their young ladies’ welfare. She pictured those two fair girls, in all their bridal splendor, flushed with triumph, or coloring with bashful feeling; she saw the bridegrooms standing by their side, she heard the words pronounced which decided their future life’s history; she followed in imagination to the banquet, she listened to the speeches of congratulation; she saw Isabel’s proud bearing, and unwavering self-possession, as she passed from her father’s halls, amid admiring guests and shouting dependants; she saw her enter the carriage, whose four noble horses stood prancing at the door, half startled by the bustling throng; she saw her wave a graceful farewell to the crowd—and then she started with a sigh, to awake to the consciousness of her own quiet room, its simple furniture and cheerful aspect, and Hilary’s soft
voice and tender hand, presenting to her the draught which it was needful she should take.
Yet when her head was again laid upon the pillow, the same vision returned, still the sound of wedding bells seemed to float in her ears, the shouts of the crowd seemed to ring around her, and the flutter of bridal robes and bridal vails seemed ever wavering before her eyes. She did not know that they were the idle visions of a fever which so distressed her; but in her weak and nervous state, she almost fancied herself endowed with some preternatural sense; she believed herself the victim of some strange power of clairvoyance, and could not distinguish, in her languid condition, truth from error, reality from fancy.
Several days passed, and Hilary felt half inclined to wonder that she had not heard from Dora. Her friend still had possession of the letter from Maurice, on which she had so resolutely seized, but she had repeatedly promised to return it on her wedding-day, and the arrival of that letter had been looked for as a token that the sacrifice was complete. Why did it not come? Had her resolution failed her at last, and was she weakly unwilling to resign a memento which she had now no right to retain? Or had any circumstance occurred to delay or prevent this unwilling and unpropitious union? The former seemed most probable, and Hilary blamed herself again and again, for having done what she really could not help, but which she felt now as if she ought to have prevented.
One morning, it was at least a week after the day fixed on for the double wedding, the letter arrived; but it was not Dora’s hand which had directed the envelop, and there was also a note inclosed for herself: she read it hastily.