"Good-bye, dear, happy Emmeline," he said, with earnestness. "May you be as light-hearted and joyous, and as kind, when we meet again as now; may I commission you with my warmest remembrances and kind adieus to your cousin, whom I am sorry I have not chanced to see this morning?"
"They shall be duly delivered," answered Emmeline, and kissing her hand gaily in adieu, she tripped lightly out of the room, and St. Eval instantly turned towards Mrs. Hamilton.
"In this intention of leaving England for a few months, or perhaps a year," he said, striving for calmness, but speaking in a tone of sadness, "you will at once perceive that my cherished hopes for the future are blighted. I will not linger on the subject, for I cannot yet bear disappointment such as this with composure. Were I of different mould, I might, spite of coldness and pride, continue my addresses; and were you as other parents are, Caroline—Miss Hamilton might still be mine; a fashionable marriage it would still be, but, thank God, such will not be; even to bestow your child on one you might value more than me, you would not trample on her affections, you would not consent that she should be an unwilling bride, and I—oh! I could not—could not wed with one who loved me not. My dream of happiness has ended—been painfully dispelled; the blow was unexpected, and has found me unprepared. I leave England, lest my ungoverned feelings should lead me wrong. Mrs. Hamilton," he continued, more vehemently, "you understand my peculiar feelings, and can well guess the tortures I am now enduring. You know why I am reserved, because I dread the outbreak of emotion even in the most trifling circumstances. Oh, to have been your son—" he paused abruptly, and hurriedly paced the room. "Forgive me," he said, more calmly. "Only say you approve of my resolution to seek change for a short time, till I obtain self-government, and can behold her without pain; say that I am doing right for myself. I cannot think."
"You are right, quite right," replied Mrs. Hamilton instantly, and her husband confirmed her words. "I do approve your resolution, though deeply, most deeply, I regret its cause, St. Eval. Your disappointment is most bitter, but you grieve not alone. To have given Caroline to you, to behold her your wife, would have fulfilled every fervent wish of which she is the object. Not you alone have been deceived; her conduct has been such as to mislead those who have known her from childhood. St. Eval, she is not worthy of you."
Disappointed, not only at the blighting of every secret hope, not those alone in which St. Eval was concerned, but every fond thought she had indulged in the purity and integrity of her child, in which, though her confidence had been given to another, she had still implicitly trusted, the most bitter disappointment and natural displeasure filled that mother's heart, and almost for the first time since their union Mr. Hamilton could read this unwonted emotion, in one usually so gentle, in her kindling eyes and agitated voice.
"Child of my heart, my hopes, my care, as she is, I must yet speak it, forget her, Eugene; let not the thought of a deceiver, a coquette, debar you from the possession of that peace which should ever be the portion of one so truly honourable, so wholly estimable as yourself. You are disappointed, pained; but you know not—cannot guess the agony it is to find the integrity in which I so fondly trusted is as naught; that my child, my own child, whom I had hoped to lead through life without a stain, is capable of such conduct."
Emotion choked her voice. She had been carried on by the violence of her feelings, and perhaps said more in that moment of excitement than she either wished or intended.
St. Eval gazed on the noble woman before him with unfeigned admiration. He saw the indignation, the displeasure which she felt; it heightened the dignity of her character in his estimation; but he now began to tremble for its effects upon her child.
"Do not, my dear Mrs. Hamilton," he said, with some hesitation, "permit Miss Hamilton's rejection of me to excite your displeasure towards her. If with me she could not be happy, she was right to refuse my hand. Let me not have the misery of feeling I have caused dissension in a family whose beautiful unity has ever bound me to it. Surely you would not urge the affections of your child."
"Never," replied Mrs. Hamilton, earnestly. "I understand your fears, but let them pass away. I shall urge nothing, but my duty I must do. Much as I admire the exalted sentiments you express, I must equally deplore the mistaken conduct of my child. She has wilfully sported with the most sacred of human feelings. Once more I say, she is not worthy to be yours."