“And will you, Caroline Percy, like Lady Angelica Headingham, leave your heart at the mercy of a foreign adventurer?”
“Oh! stop, ma’am,” cried Caroline, putting her hand before Lady Jane’s mouth: “don’t say that word—any thing else I could bear. But if you knew him—education, character, manners—no, you would not be so unjust.”
“You know you told me you were sensible you ought not to indulge such a weakness, Caroline?”
“I did—I am sensible of it—oh! you see I am; and my best—my very best have I done to drive him from my memory; and never, till I was forced to make this comparison, did I recollect—did I feel—Weak, I may be,” said Caroline, changing from great agitation to perfect decision; “but wicked will not be: I will never marry one man, and love another. My own happiness if I sacrifice, mine be the consequence; but will never injure the happiness of another. Do not, madam, keep that noble heart, this excellent Lord William, in suspense—What are your commands?”
“My commands!” cried Lady Jane, raising her voice, trembling with anger. “Then this is your gratitude—this your generosity!”
“I cannot be generous—I must be just. I have concealed nothing from Lord William—he knows that my heart was engaged before we met.”
“And this your affection for all your friends—all who wish for your happiness? You would sacrifice nothing—nothing—no, not the slightest fancy, disgraceful fancy of your own, to please them, when you know how ardently too they wish to see you happily married.”
“To marry to please others, against my own inclination, against my own conscience, must be weakness indeed—self-deception; for if my friends wish my happiness, and I make myself miserable, how can that please them? Any sacrifice I could make, except that of principle, I would; but that I never will make, nor will my friends, nor do they, desire it—Forgive me, dear Lady Jane.”
“I never will forgive you,” interrupted Lady Jane. “Ring!—yes, ring the bell—and when rung, never expect my forgiveness.”
It must be done, thought Caroline, sooner or later.