“But, Hilary, ‘the Ferns’ is not so far off, as to be called leaving them. If you give me no other objection, I need not despair; if your feeling for me would not prevent you giving me your hand, your feelings for them need not surely. I come here every day, so could you; the separation would be merely nominal, and how much more I could and would do for them, as my father and my sisters, than I could or might do now; what they lost in one way, might be more than compensated in another.”
Hilary shook her head, and then, pointing to the grave before her, she said: “I promised her not to desert her children; I have since renewed the promise more than once, on this very spot; and for my father—oh, Mr. Huyton, what excuse could I have for leaving him? What selfishness to think of it?”
Mr. Huyton bit his lip, and then answered:
“If it is on their account you act, that need not prevent my hoping; if regard for them prevents your entertaining the thought of leaving them now, this reason will not always exist. In a very few years, Sybil will be able to take your place, and then—”
“But you mistake,” said Hilary, drawing back, “if you think they are the only reason; I do not wish to give you pain, and I hope you will not think me proud, or any thing wrong, but, indeed I must tell you the truth—I do not feel for you what you would like; I hardly know what to say, but I mean, what you would wish your wife to do. I do not think I should make you happy, or that I could be happy with you, feeling as I do; and while I really am very much obliged to you for your good-will to my sisters, and all that you say, I do wish you to leave off thinking of any thing more. Find somebody more suited to be your wife, and the mistress of ‘the Ferns,’ somebody who could do you credit, and not a poor, ignorant country girl, like me, quite unused to society, and hardly knowing even how ignorant I am.”
“I might search through all the world, and not meet one more thoroughly good, elegant, refined, and excellent than yourself, Hilary. It is no use to tell me not to hope and wish; it is no use to tell me to love another, after a two years’ acquaintance with you. Only let me try to win you. I do not ask you to bind yourself—you shall be quite free and unfettered by promises of any kind; only do not send me away; suffer me in your sight, though I have had the presumption to love you!”
“I thought you would have wished to leave me of yourself, after what has passed,” replied Hilary, in a little surprise.
“You did me injustice, then; while you are free, and therefore to be won by the man who can best deserve you, I will not leave you, unless you drive me away; and you will not do that, will you? I ask no more; only allow me to go on as I have done.”
Poor Hilary! she was very young, very innocent, and very
ignorant of the selfish pride of a man’s nature, or she would not have yielded this point. She had no female friend to guide her—to warn her of the difficulties in which a promise which seemed so fair and simple might involve her, or to teach her how far the mere permission to try to win her might be interpreted in favor of her suitor’s claims.