They all saw now, the end was drawing near; Maurice, Gwyneth, Lord Dunsmore, they all noticed the increasing weakness, the gradual change; they left the sick chamber with anxiety, they returned with trembling; they feared any hour would end it all. Gwyneth especially was devoted to her sister; her unceasing cares and consideration could not be excelled by Hilary’s attention to her patient; every household duty was fulfilled,
every wish almost forestalled by the thoughtful girl; and yet she fancied she did nothing, and was surprised if fear was expressed lest she should be tired.
Lord Dunsmore sometimes expressed this concern, during those short intervals when Gwyneth allowed herself the relaxation of conversation with him, a conversation of which Hilary was usually the topic.
“What have I to tire me?” said she; “you should see Hilary; what a wife she is!”
“I admit as a wife she is unequaled,” replied he; “but I know one woman who might compare with her.”
“Do you? I could hardly believe it,” said Gwyneth, innocently surprised.
“That is her sister Gwyneth. Miss Duncan, if you felt for me one tithe of the love I entertain for you, you would say yes, when I asked you to be mine.”
“Should I?” replied she, wondering, and yet thoughtfully. “I do not know.”
“Dearest, sweetest Gwyneth! will you not?”
“Oh, no, it would be too selfish, too cruel to think of such things now! Hilary wants my whole time and thoughts, and you would ask them for yourself!—I ought not—do not tempt me.”