“Captain Westover!” he replied. “Well: so you have found them out; and, therefore, I have had my trouble for nothing.”
His tone, more than his words, made me feel a little ashamed.
“What trouble do you allude to?” I asked.
“Two journeys to Lewisham,” he answered, laughing. “A long conversation with an old woman in a chandler’s shop, and the cross-examination of a tax-gatherer.”
“Indeed!” I said. “And why did you take all this trouble?”
“Merely to ascertain,” replied Westover, “if the lady of the rose cottage, with the beautiful eyes, was in reality your long-lost love, Marietta de Salins. My chandleress could only inform me on Saturday, that it was a French gentleman who inhabited the cottage, with his wife and daughter: that they called him the count; but count or no count, he taught French for two shillings a lesson. The tax-gatherer, she said, could tell me more about them: but the tax-gatherer happened to be absent, dunning some poor devils, I dare say, and so I came down again to-day, and discovered that it is, indeed, a Count de Salins who lives there with his wife and daughter, though how that can be, I cannot make out, for you told me that the count was dead. However, I was just now coming up to tell you what I have found out, and to force a piece of advice upon you.”
I was now heartily ashamed of the feelings with which I had met him, but I explained that I had been deceived with regard to the death of Monsieur de Salins, and then asked in our old friendly tone, what was the advice he intended to give me.
He put his arm through mine, and walked on with me.
“The fact is, De Lacy,” he said, in a meditative way, “you are furiously in love, my dear fellow—far enough gone to be as jealous as a spaniel-dog. Now do not suppose that I am angry with this—for it is very natural; nor even that I should be so, if I found out that, in your innermost thoughts, you fancied just now that I came down here upon some blackguard errand—for there are so many of us in London who care not, so long as they hold their honor fair toward men, how dishonorably they act toward women, that such a supposition might be very natural, too. I see the suspicions have vanished, however, and so now to business. Let me, however, premise one thing. It is perfectly unnatural, and out of the ordinary course of events, that one young man should take a strong and affectionate interest in another, and endeavor to serve him upon perfectly unselfish principles. This postulate is granted. As in what I am going to say, I wish to serve you, I must either be an unnatural monster of generosity, or I must have some selfish motive. That is a fair inference, I think? Well, then, I admit the selfish motives. I do wish to serve you upon principles purely personal. My motives I cannot tell you at present, but I will tell you before I return to my regiment—perhaps, at the very last minute. All this I have said, to convince you of my sincerity, in order that you may take my advice as that of a sincere friend. Now, this love of yours will hurry you on very rapidly, and, without a little prudence, we shall have nothing but marryings and givings in marriage. My advice is, be discreet and patient. Make love as much as ever you like, but do not marry in a great hurry. If you do, you may injure yourself irreparably. Things are, I trust, looking fair for you. You are young, and your fair lady must be a good deal younger. You can both afford to wait a little, and it will be much better for you to do so.”
“Very good advice, Westover,” I replied; “but could you follow it yourself in my case?”