“Hurstdene Vicarage.
“Dear Hilary,
“You know how little I wished to come here, but George thought it right, and so we came; and the old place is so changed that it is not so very painful; only the date above looks like old times, and reminds me, more than any thing else, of the past. It is a fine large house, but I hope all future vicars will be rich, or I do not know what they will do. Isabel complains of it as cramped and small, however; it was too small to ask nurse and baby here, so my boy is at home. She considers it unhealthy too!
“The church is finished quite. It would not have been, but for ‘my lord’s’ perseverance and purse; and as Isabel’s extravagant plans were abandoned, it looks very nice. The graves at the east end are fresh and well-cared for; that dear old spot!
You may guess how I went there first; and the seat under the lime-tree is carefully painted, and a date cut on it, of the day before we left Hurstdene. Why?
“I asked James who had done that? He did not know, but old Martin told me it was Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns’—again I ask why? He is still abroad, poor man! and oh! poor, poor Dora! she is much the same, yet they fancy there are dawnings of intellect sometimes. I have seen her companion, Miss Lightfoot; I am not allowed to see her. Lady Margaret, you know, lives at the Abbey. Poor Mr. Barham is so changed; he looks humbled and heart-broken.
“After all, Hilary, real sorrow may be a great blessing; and can those who have never known grief—a grief they were not ashamed to feel and acknowledge, can they know how to feel for others? I think not.
“Lord D. went round with me, and visited all the old people; they seemed quite glad to see me again, and asked, oh! so many questions about you all. The curate is very good and attentive; I don’t fancy they see much of the vicar; I wonder why I ever supposed him such a devoted clergyman; yet he seems always immersed in business, desperately occupied. I believe it is system he wants; I am sure our parish at Ufford is much better managed; but then with two such heads as ‘my lord’s,’ and Mr. Barton’s, no wonder.
“Things have certainly got wrong somehow. Isabel would have made a better wife to a peer than a priest, and there can not be a doubt but that George would have been a better clergyman than his brother; though to fill his own station better than Lord D. does would be quite impossible. I must not write any more, he is calling me to walk—”
Maurice listened in silence to this letter, and after some meditation, he observed,