It had required all her self-command, and her regard to duty rather than impulse, to avoid showing in her manner how exceedingly she had been annoyed by what had passed, or how entirely she was at “the Ferns” against her will. Her sense of what was due to herself, as well as her hosts, had compelled her to be courteous, and the recollection of what she owed to Charles Huyton, increased her resolution to endure. Victoria knew she had come unwillingly; she could assure Mr. Huyton of the fact; and now she hoped the penance would soon be over, and the painful struggle between gratitude and dislike, or something very near it, might be put away at least for a time. Greatly, therefore, was her annoyance increased, when she heard Charles say, that having some papers to take to Mr. Barham, he should accompany them, and would order his horse at the same time. “Do so, by all means,” remarked Victoria, “if you prefer riding; but otherwise, you know, you could just as well come with us in the carriage. However, perhaps you like being independent.” “What does Miss Duncan say?” said Charles, looking at her. “Miss Duncan can have no choice,” replied Hilary, trying to look indifferent; “since both carriage and horses belong to Mr. Huyton, no one can dictate to him which he shall use.” “But perhaps you have secrets to discuss with Victoria,” said he, playfully, “and then I should be sadly in the way. Is not that the case?” “No, I have no secrets with her!” “Then, since the right of choice is mine, and you will say nothing to direct me, I choose your company, ladies; and if I choose wrong, the consequences be on you, who refused me your advice and counsel.” Hilary wished she had only had the courage to say that he had better ride! The drive to the Abbey would have been pleasant after all, could she have forgotten both the past and the future. Mr. Huyton was not disagreeable; on the contrary, he was once more in one of those moods which made her doubt whether her former fears had not been the mere illusions of vanity. Kind and just quietly attentive to her, to Victoria he devoted all his gallantry, and pretty nearly all his conversation. They were both in good spirits, and without being particularly clever or witty, they were exceedingly amusing and pleasant. But the painful uncertainty which these abrupt variations of manner occasioned, was not to be allayed by an hour’s calm, or by a temporary remission of his attentions. She was uneasy and anxious still, doubting the wisdom of her own decision in accepting Victoria’s invitations, and only succeeding in putting away harassing and useless perplexities, that they might give place to other feelings at least as painful. Dora and Maurice! their difficulties and distresses were too real and too new not to deserve undivided attention, and she felt as if she were even unkindly selfish, as she reverted to them, in having allowed thoughts for herself to occupy her mind.