“Dearest Hilary—
“You see I have got it done at last; I have coaxed, and prayed, and begged; and not in vain. What would I not give to see your dear, beautiful face at this moment! I never forgot you, and I made up my mind at once. I said nothing to papa, because I thought my dear old friend, the earl (he is my godfather, you know) would do it for me; and I believe he only made me beg for the fun of the thing. I went down on my knees to him; we had such a laugh when he brought me the little note inside; I do not think it gave him any more trouble than just asking. Remember, I should not have begged for any body but you; and having never even seen your brother’s face, my efforts must be acknowledged disinterested. Perhaps you had better not tell him; however, you may do as you please, for I am not ashamed. I am not ill yet, but, on my honor, I am not so well as I should be in the country; and though I have tried hard to be rational, I rather think I am as extravagant
as ever. Tell dear Mr. Duncan I am so glad for you all, and I only wish I could have asked for a step or two more at the same time. The pleasure of making you happy is so great, that I think I am best off of the whole party, including your brother. Is that the reason you are so fond of doing good, Hilary? it is much better than jewels or balls; only now the excitement is over, what shall I do? Good-by, you dear darling! Mind, I expect a letter of thanks, of course. Your loving friend.
“Dora M. Barham.”
Hilary read through her friend’s letter in hopes of meeting with something explanatory of her meaning; failing that, however, she did not stop to puzzle over it, but opening the enclosure, found a little note addressed to the Earl, of whom Dora had been writing, informing him that a lieutenant’s commission for Maurice Duncan had that morning been made out, and would be forwarded to the young officer by the next packet.
The delight of the whole family at this very unexpected news was quite as great as Dora could have anticipated; it was only a pity that she was not there to witness it.
Of course there was still considerable anxiety about Maurice’s health; and until the next account arrived from abroad, they were in a state of too great and trembling uneasiness, to dwell very much on the prospect of seeing him again; the certainty of the issue checked their anticipations, and it required no small exercise of patience and trust, on Hilary’s part, to go through her ordinary duties, at moments when her mind was tempted to wander off to the possible or the probable which might yet be in store for them. Mr. Paine’s society was a great comfort to her; she could talk freely to him and his wife of her fears as well as her hopes; while to her father, owing to the relief she thus obtained, she was able to maintain the same cheerful demeanor as ever, and to speak with far more confidence of her brother’s recovery, than she really felt.
Mr. Duncan and his daughters were all seated one day in the
little summer-house at the end of the terrace walk; one of the girls was reading aloud, while the rest were busy with their needles, when a shadow crossed the window which made them look up, and the next moment Charles Huyton turned the corner of the building, and stood in front of them. Down went Sybil’s book and Gwyneth’s work in a moment; while Nest, slipping from her father’s knee, made no scruple of throwing herself at once into the arms which were extended to take her.
“It is Mr. Huyton,” said Hilary to her father, in explanation of the sudden cry of joy from her sisters; and Charles, putting aside the little one, advanced to the vicar, taking at the same time in his own, both the hand which was extended toward him, and that which guided and supported it. Excepting that one tender and prolonged pressure of her slight and trembling fingers, there was nothing in his greeting of Hilary which marked any peculiarity of feeling, and even at that moment he hardly looked at her; his attention was apparently given entirely to her father; his words, his looks, his smiles, half sad, half joyous, were devoted to him. He pressed his hand again and again, inquired most affectionately after his health, and then turning to the others, greeted Sybil and Gwyneth, with looks of open, undisguised pleasure, remarked on their wonderful growth, and paid some little compliments to their personal appearance, which brought a still richer glow into their cheeks, all the deeper because the admiration was but half expressed in words, and much more unequivocally in looks and smiles. Then sitting down among them, he exclaimed at his pleasure in being there once more, glancing from the one to the other of the party with happy eyes, taking Nest upon his knee, and bidding Gwyneth sit beside him, almost as if he had been Maurice himself; and all with such an easy, disengaged air, and so entirely devoid of any appearance of a nature to alarm Hilary, that after the first half hour her heart ceased to flutter, her cheeks to glow with consciousness or fear, and she was soon conversing with him as unreservedly, and almost as readily, as her sisters themselves. He entered into parish matters with Mr. Duncan, and his questions