The morrow came, and the visitors arrived punctually. After a brief interview between the clergymen in Mr. Duncan’s study, he repaired to the drawing-room, and seating himself according to the oculist’s directions, quietly submitted to his examination. His daughter stood beside him, her hand clasping his, her breath almost stopped from agitation, her very lips white with intense excitement, and yet her face calm, rigid, and pale as marble. Oh! the suspense of that moment: her eyes eagerly bent on the oculist’s countenance, endeavored to read his decision in his face, before his lips pronounced it; and, unconscious of all beside,
her whole mind and understanding was centred on that one object.
Charles was close to her, his eyes intently gazing on her, but she knew it not: had he been a hundred miles off she could hardly have been more indifferent about him.
It was over at last; that prolonged agony was ended; M. de la Récaille shook his head, sighed, and announced there was no hope, no human probability of any cure; perfect rest might delay the result, agitation might expedite the evil; but come it must; total blindness, sooner or later, was inevitably impending.
Mr. Duncan heard it unmoved; he only drew Hilary’s hand closer to his heart, and said, in a cheerful voice,
“Then, my child, I must submit to be dependent on you for eyes; thank God, that I have still a daughter!”
She pressed his hand, words could not come, and she was too shy to caress him before strangers; but Charles saw that her feelings were wrought to the uttermost, that composure was on the point of giving way, and only anxious to release her, addressed Mr. Duncan, so as to call off his attention. Hilary had sufficient fortitude quietly to withdraw her hand, and then escaping from the room, rushed into her father’s study, where, throwing herself on a chair, and burying her face in her hands, she gave way to sobs deep and agonizing, such as are the outpourings of suppressed feeling alone, the quivering of the spring long held in suspense.
She was not aware that Mr. Paine had continued in the study after her father left it; at the moment of her entrance he was sitting in a large chair, engrossed in reading, but startled from his occupation by her appearance, and the expressive agony she betrayed, he looked at her for a minute in silent commiseration, and then rising, and approaching close to her, he said, in a peculiarly gentle and sweet voice,
“Miss Duncan, I am grieved to see you so much distressed; has any thing occurred?”
She started at the sound of his voice, but her feelings were