“Because she must by this time see that there is no probability of that wish being accomplished: she must, therefore, desire that it should be forgotten. And I trust I have acted, and shall always act, as if it were forgotten by me, except as to its kindness—that I shall remember while I have life and feeling. But if I had built a romance upon that slight word, consider how much that excellent friend would blame herself, when she found that she had misled me, that she had been the cause of anguish to my heart, that she had lowered in the opinion of all, even in her own opinion, one she had once so exalted by her approbation and friendship. And, oh! consider, Rosamond, what a return should I make for that friendship, if I were to be the occasion of any misunderstanding, any disagreement between her and her darling son. If I were to become the rival of her beloved niece!”
“Rival!—Niece!—How?—Which?” cried Rosamond, “Which?” repeated she, eagerly; “I cannot think of any thing else, till you say which.”
“Suppose Lady Elizabeth.”
“The thought never occurred to me—Is it possible?—My dear Caroline, you have opened my eyes—But are you sure? Then you have acted wisely, rightly, Caroline; and I have as usual been very, very imprudent. Forgive what I said about selfishness—I was unjust. You selfish! you, who thought of all your friends, I thought only of you. But tell me, did you think of Lady Elizabeth from the first? Did you see how it would be from the very first?”
“No; I never thought of it till lately, and I am not sure of it yet.”
“So you never thought of it till lately, and you are not sure of it yet?—Then I dare say you are mistaken, and wrong, with all your superfluous prudence. I will observe with my own eyes, and trust only my own judgment.”
With this laudable resolution Rosamond departed.
The next morning she had an opportunity of observing, and deciding by her own judgment. Lady Elizabeth Pembroke and Caroline had both been copying a picture of Prince Rupert when a boy. They had finished their copies. Mrs. Hungerford showed them to her son. Lady Elizabeth’s was rather the superior painting. Colonel Hungerford instantly distinguished it, and, in strong terms, expressed his admiration; but, by some mistake, he fancied that both copies were done by Caroline: she explained to him that that which he preferred was Lady Elizabeth’s.
“Yours!” exclaimed Colonel Hungerford, turning to Lady Elizabeth with a look and tone of delighted surprise. Lady Elizabeth coloured, Lady Mary smiled: he forbore adding one word either of praise or observation. Caroline gently relieved Mrs. Hungerford’s hand from her copy of the picture which she still held.
Rosamond, breathless, looked and looked and waited for something more decisive.