She felt how very disinterested it was of a rich man like Mr. Huyton—clever, fashionable, admired, no doubt, in the world—to ask for the hand of a simple country maiden like herself, whose future fortune bore no proportion to his, and whose family could add nothing to his honor or influence. He might represent the county if he chose; he had discussed the subject several times with Mr. Duncan; he might, no doubt, win a wife from any noble family in the land; and yet he loved her, and asked her to marry him. The wonder of her mind at his making such a choice, so unequal in every respect as her modesty made her think it, was only surpassed by her astonishment at finding that she could not love him in return. Why not?—why could not all his good qualities, his ardent affection, and his kindness to her family, influence her to wish to be his wife? Why did the idea seem incompatible with happiness? and why did the notion of reigning at ‘the Ferns’ make her cling the closer to her duties and responsibilities at the Vicarage?
Was it the mere idea of leaving those she loved? there was something in that; for she was not blinded by the fallacies of his arguments; she knew the separation would be more than nominal; she knew it must be real, because it ought to be so. Once mistress of ‘the Ferns,’ in how many new duties and cares should she not be involved, with which her old pursuits at Hurstdene would be incompatible; and once Mr. Huyton’s wife, his claims on her time and society would be paramount; and would he yield them to others? She was convinced he would not. It was true, he was at Hurstdene every day now, but then it would be different; and every future plan on which he now dwelt would call him in an opposite direction.
She did not say to herself in words, or form a distinct idea in
her mind, that he was innately selfish or self-willed; but it was this unexpressed thought and feeling which made her certain that his wife must make him her first and last object, if she would please him, and be at peace.
Hilary could not have told why she mistrusted one who talked so well and acted so fairly; she had unconsciously explained it by a symbol to him when she dwelt on the peculiarities of her favorite plant; but she did not know that she was the Virginian creeper, he the wall which bore the fair appearance of stone, and was in truth only stucco, and that, to one of her nature, the effort to attach herself to him must be utterly vain.
She really wished she could love him; I need not say not from any unworthy motives, but from gratitude for his kindness and his affection for herself; and although hardly believing that any change was possible, she yet engaged to allow him the opportunity to effect it which he desired. One other mistake she committed—one likewise resulting from delicacy and regard to his feelings: she promised to keep what had passed between them a profound secret, even from her father. She fancied she was doing right; a dislike to say what might seem to claim her father’s thanks, a dread of appearing to boast of her attractions and the admiration she had inspired, had a little influence; she felt how unmaidenly it was to triumph in her conquests; but the chief reason for her silence was regard to Mr. Huyton’s feelings, and a fear of mortifying him by making known his disappointment. It was the romantic delicacy of a young mind much accustomed to act and decide for itself—used to bear its own burdens in silence, and to endure rather than to indulge its feelings.
Her theory was right; secresy in such a case being, in general, honorable and just; but hers was one of the exceptions which prove a rule; and in her peculiar circumstances, it would have been her father’s part to decide how their future intercourse should be arranged, as it was his due to know the footing on which they now stood.
Mr. Huyton was well aware of the advantage which he gained
when he won from Hilary’s gratitude and delicacy the promise that nothing should be said to others of this conversation. Conscious how unfair this requisition was, he quitted her, immediately she had given it, with many a word of gratitude, passionate affection, and intense admiration, and many an assurance of the changeless nature of the feelings he professed.
His love for her was very strong, as well as very sincere; he fully appreciated her character; he saw and admired her genuine truth and simplicity—her innocence and modesty—her humility and her loving nature. He had seen a good deal of women of the world—women of fashion—and could value pretty accurately their admiration of him; he understood his charms in their eyes, and despised them accordingly. He did not believe there was another woman besides Hilary who could have been constantly the object of his friendly attentions, and the companion of his pursuits and wishes, as she had been for the last two years, and yet have never understood his motives, or calculated on his probable intentions. He was aware that this was partly owing to her entire ignorance of the manners and habits of men in general, and the circumstance of having been long used to such devoted care and kindness from her brother as could hardly be exceeded by the attentions of a lover himself. But he saw also that it marked an entire disinterestedness of character, a total absence of selfish ambition, and a devotion to the plain, straight-forward duties of life, which, if her affections could but be turned into the channel he desired, would certainly secure his happiness.