"Even the good wishes of the dear members of home," he said, "would sound, I fear, but harshly on my ear. I cannot define why I do not wish it known even to those I love; yet, dearest mother, indulge me. The events of one day are hidden from us; how dark then must be those of three years. No plighted promise has passed between us; it is but the confidence of mutual love; and that—oh, mother, I could not bear it torn from the recesses of my own breast to be a subject of conversation even to those dearest to me."
His mother looked on the glowing countenance of her son; on him, who from, his birth had never by his conduct given her one single moment of care, and had she even disapproved of his secrecy, all he asked would have been granted him; but she approved of his resolution, and emotion glistened in her eye, as she said—
"My Herbert, if I had been privileged to select one among my young friends to be your wife, my choice would have fallen, without one moment's hesitation, on Mary Greville. She, amid them all, I deem most worthy to be the partner of my son. May Heaven in mercy spare you to each other!"
Herbert returned to college, and resumed his studies with even greater earnestness than, before. His unrestrained confidence had been as balm to his mother's heart, and soothed the bitter pain it was to behold, to feel assured, for it was no longer fancy, that the confidence of Caroline was indeed utterly denied her and bestowed upon another. Yet still Mrs. Hamilton fancied Caroline loved St. Eval; her eyes had not yet been opened to the enormity of her daughter's conduct. Nor were they till, after a long struggle of fervid love with the tremblings natural to a fond but reserved and lowly heart, St. Eval summoned courage to offer hand, heart, and fortune to the girl he loved (he might well be pardoned for the belief that she loved him), and was rejected, coldly, decidedly.
The young Earl had received the glad sanction of Mr. Hamilton to make his proposals to his daughter. There had never been, nor was there now, anything to damp his hopes. He was not, could not be deceived in the belief that Caroline accepted, nay, demanded, encouraged his attention. Invariably kind, almost fascinating in her manner, she had ever singled him out from the midst of many much gayer and more attractive young men. She had given him somewhat more to love each time they parted; and what could this mean, but that she cared for him more than for others? Again and again St. Eval pondered on the encouragement he could not doubt but that he received; again and again demanded of himself if he were not playing with her feelings thus to defer his proposals. Surely she loved him. The sanction of her parents had heightened his hopes, and love and confidence in the truth, the purity of his beloved one obtained so much ascendancy over his heart, that when the important words were said, he had almost ceased to fear. How bitter, how agonizing then must have been his disappointment when he was refused—when sudden haughtiness beamed on Caroline's noble brow, and coldness spread over every feature. And yet, could he doubt it? No; triumph was glittering in her sparkling eye; in vain he looked for sympathy in his disappointment, if love were denied him. He gazed on her, and the truth suddenly flashed on his mind; he marked the triumph with which she heard his offer; no softening emotion was in her countenance. In vain he tried to ascribe its expression to some other feeling; it was triumph, he could not be deceived; and with agony St. Eval discovered that the being he had almost worshipped was not the faultless creature he had believed her; she had played with his feelings; she had encouraged him, heightened his love, merely to afford herself amusement. The visions of hope, of fancy were rudely dispelled, and perhaps at that moment it was better for his peace that he suddenly felt she was beneath his love; she was not worthy to be his wife. He no longer esteemed; and if love itself were not utterly snapped asunder, the loss of esteem enabled him to act in that interview with pride approaching to her own. He reproached her not: no word did he utter that could prove how deeply he was wounded, and thus add to the triumph so plain to be perceived. That she had sunk in his estimation she might have seen, but other feelings prevented her discovering how deeply. Had she veiled her manner more, had she rejected him with kindness, St. Eval might still have loved, and imagined that friendship and esteem had actuated her conduct towards him. Yet those haughty features expelled this thought as soon as it arose. It was on the night of a gay assembly St. Eval had found an opportunity to speak with Caroline, and when both rejoined the gay crowd no emotion was discernible in the countenance of either. St. Eval was the same to all as usual. No one who might have heard his eloquent discussion on some state affairs with the Russian consul could have imagined how painfully acute were his sufferings; it was not only disappointed love—no, his was aggravated bitterness; he could no longer esteem the object of his love, he had found himself deceived, cruelly deceived, in one he had looked on almost as faultless; and where is the pang that can equal one like this? The heightened colour on Caroline's cheek, the increased brilliancy of her eye, attracted the admiration of all around her, the triumph of power had indeed been achieved. But when she laid her head on her pillow, when the silence and darkness of night brought the past to her mind more vividly, in vain she sought forgetfulness in sleep. Was it happiness, triumph, that bade her bury her face in her hands and weep, weep till almost every limb became convulsed by her overpowering emotion? Her thoughts were undefined, but so painful, that she was glad—how glad when morning came. She compared her present with her former self, and the contrast was misery; but even as her ill-fated aunt had done, she summoned pride to stifle every feeding of remorse.
Mr. Hamilton had given his sanction to the addresses of Lord St. Eval to his daughter; but he knew not when, the young man intended to place the seal upon his fate. Great then was his astonishment, the morning following the evening we have mentioned, when St. Eval called to bid him farewell, as he intended, he said, leaving London that afternoon for his father's seat, where he should remain perhaps a week, and then quit England for the Continent. He spoke calmly, but there was a paleness of the cheek, a dimness of the eye, that told a tale of inward wretchedness, which the regard of Mr. Hamilton could not fail instantly to discover. Deeply had he become interested in the young man, and the quick instinct combined with the fears of a father, told him that the conduct of Caroline had caused this change. He looked at the expressive countenance of the young Earl for a few minutes, then placing his hand on his shoulder, said kindly, but impressively—
"St. Eval, you are changed, as well as your plans. You are unhappy. What has happened? Have your too sensitive feelings caused you to fancy Caroline unkind?"
"Would to heaven it were only fancy!" replied St. Eval, with unwonted emotion, and almost convulsively clenching both hands as if for calmness, added more composedly, "I have been too presumptuous in my hopes; I fancied myself beloved by your beautiful daughter, but I have found myself painfully mistaken."
Sternness gathered on the brow of the father as he heard, and he answered, with painful emphasis—
"St. Eval, deceive me not, I charge you. In what position do you now stand with Caroline?"