CHAPTER VI.
“But in the world, I learnt, what there
Thou too wilt surely one day prove—
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.”
Arnold.
“I can not leave England, and quit for an indefinite time the spot which contains all that is dearest on earth to me, without one more attempt to avert the necessity of separation from you; one more endeavor to soften an indifference which occasions me so intense a regret. Dearest Miss Duncan, I fear, in my efforts for your father’s benefit, I have increased your sorrow, have deepened and aggravated the wounds, from which your loving heart was already so acutely aching. Forgive me the deed for the intention; may I suggest that, however bitter was the pang of disappointment, it must be less severe than would hereafter be the misery of self-reproach, had you neglected any means which might have alleviated his affliction? Your pale face of suffering, self-command, and fortitude is ever before me; I longed intensely yesterday to speak words of sympathy and affection; my heart was yearning to pour out its passionate pity for your agony—but I might not—I whose love for you is, oh, so deep! so pure, so strong! I was forced to be silent, or to breathe only calm sentences of courteous regard, and polite, well-bred, decorous compassion. Do not be angry with me for putting on paper the feeling I can not hope to express otherwise; condescend to read and give some attention to what I say. Must I leave you now, with this sad destiny closing darkly round you! leave you to struggle alone, to toil beyond your strength, to sacrifice yourself in the melancholy fate that awaits
you! Do you think I can contemplate such a conclusion with calmness? Oh, no! it is agony to me to dwell upon the idea, which haunts me night and day. Beloved, excellent, adorable Hilary, you have an angel’s spirit in an angel form, but your strength, alas! is mortal, and well I know that rest and comfort for yourself will be your last thought, while your services of love are poured out on the helpless ones around you. May I tell you what is my dream, my vision of bliss? I fancy I see you all transported to ‘the Ferns,’ your younger sisters making joyous with their bright presence the dreary walls of the old house, and causing their empty chambers to echo to their merry voices; there I see them in idea, growing up under every advantage which can be procured by love and wealth united; proper attendants, masters, literature, enjoyments in doors and out, every taste developed, every talent cultivated to the utmost. I see your dear parent, too, enjoying under the same roof every blessing and comfort which perfect filial love and unbounded power could shower on him—every compensation for this new affliction which could assist to lighten the burden, and brighten the remainder of his path through life. And there I see, reigning supreme over all, with all the despotic power of love, and gentleness, and tender firmness combined, one whose presence is like a ray of sunshine, blessing and gladdening every thing within reach. I think I see you, ruling the family, governing the parish, protecting the weak, comforting the unhappy, delighting the gay; influencing all around by the imperceptible power of goodness, even as a delicate odor spreads itself unseen, and yet all-pervading, driving away what is bad, and purifying the surrounding atmosphere. Do you frown upon my dream? alas! that there should be that in me, which prevents its realization; that though to me it looks so fair and beautiful, my presence should cast the shadow on it, which alone makes it impossible. But is it so? let me ask, is there no change? may I have no hope? Have the three months which have elapsed since I first ventured to express my feelings passed, and left no trace behind? am I as far off as ever from the point, the only
thing which can make me happy? If so, I go to exile and solitary misery to-morrow, for solitary I must ever be where you are not; solitary I shall continue until the weary months roll by, which you may consider necessary. But, tell me how long must it be? how long must my home duties be laid aside, my house be left untenanted, and myself a wanderer in foreign lands, away from all who have any claim on me? Hilary, you shall dictate; but remember you decide for more than yourself; look at the whole circumstances, and then tell me how long shall I be justified in absenting myself from what you have taught me to consider duties and responsibilities? Deign to give me an answer to this question. Must my dream continue nothing but an empty dream, while I go, and for how long—or may I remain and realize it?
“Charles Huyton.”