This plain view of things, and this positive termination of all hope of romance, did not please Rosamond’s imagination. She was relieved, when at last Caroline surprised her with the assurance that there was no probability of Mr. Barclay’s succeeding in his suit. “And yet,” said Caroline, “if I were compelled at this moment to marry, of all men I have ever yet seen, Mr. Barclay is the person to whom I could engage myself with the least reluctance — the person with whom I think I should have the best security for happiness.”
Rosamond’s face again lengthened. “If that is the case,” said she, “though you have no intention of marrying him at present, you will, I suppose, be reasoned into marrying him in time.”
“No,” said Caroline, “for I cannot be reasoned into loving him.”
“There’s my own dear Caroline,” cried Rosamond: “I was horribly afraid that this man of sense would have convinced you that esteem was quite sufficient without love.”
“Impossible!” said Caroline. “There must be some very powerful motive that could induce me to quit my family: I can conceive no motive sufficiently powerful, except love.”
Rosamond was delighted.
“For what else could I marry?” continued Caroline: “I, who am left by the kindest of parents freely to my own choice — could I marry for a house in Leicestershire? or for a barouche and four? on Lady Jane Granville’s principles for an establishment? or on the missy notion of being married, and having a house of my own, and ordering my own dinner? — Was this your notion of me?” said Caroline, with a look of such surprise, that Rosamond was obliged to fall immediately to protestations, and appeals to common sense. “How was it possible she could have formed such ideas!”
“Then why were you so much surprised and transported just now, when I told you that no motive but love could induce me to marry?”
“I don’t recollect being surprised — I was only delighted. I never suspected that you could marry without love, but I thought that you and I might differ as to the quantity — the degree.”
“No common degree of love, and no common love, would be sufficient to induce me to marry,” said Caroline.
“Once, and but once, before in your life, you gave me the idea of your having such an exalted opinion of love,” replied Rosamond.
“But to return to Mr. Barclay,” said Caroline. “I have, as I promised my father that I would, consulted in the first place my own heart, and considered my own happiness. He appears to me incapable of that enthusiasm which rises either to the moral or intellectual sublime. I respect his understanding, and esteem his principles; but in conversing with him, I always feel — and in passing my life with him, how much more should I feel! — that there is a want of the higher qualities of the mind. He shows no invention, no genius, no magnanimity — nothing heroic, nothing great, nothing which could waken sympathy, or excite that strong attachment, which I think that I am capable of feeling for a superior character — for a character at once good and great.”
“And where upon earth are you to find such a man? Who is romantic now?” cried Rosamond. “But I am very glad that you are a little romantic; I am glad that you have in you a touch of human absurdity, else how could you be my sister, or how could I love you as I do?”
“I am heartily glad that you love me, but I am not sensible of my present immediate claim to your love by my touch of human absurdity,” said Caroline, smiling. “What did I say, that was absurd or romantic?”
“My dear, people never think their own romance absurd. Well! granted that you are not romantic, since that is a point which I find I must grant before we can go on, — now, tell me, was Mr. Barclay very sorry when you refused him?” said Rosamond.
“I dare not tell you that there is yet no danger of his breaking his heart,” said Caroline.
“So I thought,” cried Rosamond, with a look of ineffable contempt. “I thought he was not a man to break his heart for love. With all his sense, I dare say he will go back to his Lady Angelica Headingham. I should not be surprised if he went after her to Weymouth to-morrow.”
“I should,” said Caroline; “especially as he has just ordered his carriage to take him to his aunt, Lady B —— , in Leicestershire.”
“Oh! poor man!” said Rosamond, “now I do pity him.”
“Because he is going to his aunt?”
“No; Caroline — you are very cruel — because I am sure he is very much touched and disappointed by your refusal. He cannot bear to see you again. Poor! poor Mr. Barclay! I have been shamefully ill-natured. I hope I did not prejudice your mind against him — I’ll go directly and take leave of him — poor Mr. Barclay!”
Rosamond, however, returned a few minutes afterwards, to complain that Mr. Barclay had not made efforts enough to persuade Caroline to listen to him.
“If he had been warmly in love, he would not so easily have given up hope.
‘None, without hope, e’er loved the brightest fair;
But love can hope, where Reason should despair.’”
“That, I think, is perfectly true,” said Rosamond.
Never — begging Rosamond and the poet’s pardon — never — except where reason is very weak, or where the brightest fair has some touch of the equivocating fiend. Love, let poets and lovers say what they will to the contrary, can no more subsist without hope than flame can exist without fuel. In all the cases cited to prove the contrary, we suspect that there has been some inaccuracy in the experiment, and that by mistake a little, a very little hope has been admitted. The slightest portion, a quantity imperceptible to common observation, is known to be quite sufficient to maintain the passion; but a total exclusion of hope secures its extinction.
Mr. Barclay’s departure was much regretted by all at Hungerford Castle, most, perhaps, by the person who expressed that regret the least, Lady Mary Pembroke — who now silently enjoyed the full chorus of praise that was poured forth in honour of the departed. Lady Mary’s common mode of enjoying the praise of her friends was not in silence; all she thought and felt usually came to her lips with the ingenuous vivacity of youth and innocence. Caroline had managed so well by not managing at all, that Lady Mary, far from guessing the real cause of Mr. Barclay’s sudden departure, repeatedly expressed surprise that her aunt Hungerford did not press him to stay a little longer; and once said she wondered how Mr. Barclay could leave Hungerford Castle whilst Caroline was there; that she had begun to think he had formed an attachment which would do him more honour than his passion for Lady Angelica Headingham, but that she feared he would have a relapse of that fit of folly, and that it would at last end fatally in marriage.
Mrs. Hungerford smiled at the openness with which her niece told her conjectures, and at the steadiness with which Caroline kept Mr. Barclay’s secret, by saying no more than just the thing she ought. “The power of keeping a secret is very different from the habit of dissimulation. You would convince me of this, if I had doubted it,” said Mrs. Hungerford, to Caroline. “Now that the affair is settled, my dear, I must insist upon your praising me, as I have praised you for discretion. I hope I never influenced your decision by word or look, but I will now own to you that I was very anxious that you should decide precisely as you have done. Mr. Barclay is a sensible man, an excellent man, one who will make any amiable woman he marries happy. I am convinced of it, or I should not, as I do, wish to see him married to my niece — yet I never thought him suited to you. Yours is a character without pretension, yet one which, in love and marriage, would not, I believe, be easily satisfied, would require great qualities, a high tone of thought and action, a character superior and lofty as your own.”
Mrs. Hungerford paused, and seemed lost in thought. Caroline felt that this lady had seen deeply into her mind. This conviction, beyond all praise, and all demonstrations of fondness, increases affection, confidence, and gratitude, in strong and generous minds. Caroline endeavoured, but could not well express in words what she felt at this instant.
“My dear,” said M
rs. Hungerford, “we know that we are speaking plain truth to each other — we need no flowers of speech — I understand you, and you understand me. We are suited to each other — yes, notwithstanding the difference of age, and a thousand other differences, we are suited to each other. This possibility of a friendship between youth and age is one of the rewards Heaven grants to the early and late cultivation of the understanding and of the affections. Late as it is with me in life, I have not, thank God, survived my affections. How can I ever, whilst I have such children, such friends!” After a pause of a few moments of seemingly pleasurable reflections, Mrs. Hungerford continued, “I have never considered friendship as but a name — as a mere worldly commerce of interest: I believe in disinterested affection, taking the word disinterested in its proper sense; and I have still, believe me, the power of sympathizing with a young friend — such a young friend as Caroline Percy. Early as it is with her in life, she has so cultivated her understanding, so regulated her mind, that she cannot consider friendship merely as a companionship in frivolous amusement, or a mixture of gossiping confidences and idle sentiment; therefore, I am proud enough to hope that she can and will be the friend of such an old woman as I am.”
“It would be the pride of my life to have — to deserve such a friend,” cried Caroline: “I feel all the condescension of this kindness. I know you are much too good to me. I am afraid you think too highly of me. But Mrs. Hungerford’s praise does not operate like flattery: though it exalts me in my own opinion, it shall not make me vain; it excites my ambition to be — all she thinks me.”
“You are all I think you,” said Mrs. Hungerford; “and that you may hereafter be something yet nearer than a friend to me is the warmest wish of my heart — But, no, I will not indulge myself in expressing that wish; Such wishes are never wise where we have no power, no right to act — such wishes often counteract their own object — anticipations are always imprudent. But — about my niece, Lady Mary Pembroke. I particularly admire the discretion, still more than the kindness, with which you have acted with respect to her and Mr. Barclay — you have left things to their natural course. You have not by any imprudent zeal or generosity hazarded a word that could hurt the delicacy of either party. You seem to have been fully aware that wherever the affections are concerned, the human mind is most tenacious of what one half of the philosophers in the world will not allow to exist, and the other half cannot define. Influenced as we all are every moment in our preferences and aversions, sometimes imperceptibly, sometimes avowedly, by the most trifling and often the silliest causes, yet the wisest of us start, and back, and think it incumbent on our pride in love affairs, to resist the slightest interference, or the best advice, from the best friends. What! love upon compulsion! No — Jupiter is not more tenacious of his thunderbolt than Cupid is of his arrows. Blind as he is, none may presume to direct the hand of that little urchin.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who brought the post-bag, with many letters for Mrs. Hungerford.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The arrival of the post was at this time an anxious moment to Mrs. Hungerford, as she had so many near relations and friends in the army and navy. This day brought letters, with news that lighted up her countenance with dignified joy, one from Captain Hungerford, her second son, ten minutes after an action at sea with the French.
“Dear mother — English victorious, of course; for particulars, see Gazette. In the cockle shell I have, could do nothing worth mentioning, but am promised a ship soon, and hope for opportunity to show myself worthy to be your son.
“F. HUNGERFORD.”
“I hope I am grateful to Providence for such children!” cried Mrs. Hungerford.
Mrs. Mortimer darted upon Captain Hungerford’s name in the Gazette—”And I cannot refrain from mentioning to your lordships the gallant manner in which I was seconded by Captain Hungerford.”
“Happy mother that I am! And more happiness still — a letter also from my colonel! Thanks of commanding officer — gallant conduct abroad — leave of absence for three weeks — and will be here to-morrow!”
This news spread through the castle in a few minutes, and the whole house was in motion and in joy.
“What is the matter?” said Rosamond, who had been out of the room when the colonel’s letter was read. “As I came down stairs, I met I can’t tell how many servants running different ways, with faces of delight. I do believe Colonel Hungerford is come.”
“Not come, but coming,” said Mrs. Hungerford; “and I am proud that you, my friends, should see what a sensation the first sound of his return makes in his own home. There it is, after all, that you may best judge what a man really is.”
Every thing conspired to give Caroline a favourable idea of Colonel Hungerford. He arrived — and his own appearance and manners, far from contradicting, fully justified all that his friends had said. His appearance was that of a soldier and a gentleman, with a fine person and striking countenance, with the air of command, yet without presumption; not without a consciousness of his own merit, but apparently with only a consciousness sufficient to give value and grace to his deference for others. To those he respected or loved, his manner was particularly engaging; and the appropriate attentions he paid to each of his friends proved that their peculiar tastes, their characteristic merits, and their past kindnesses, were ever full in his remembrance. To his mother his grateful affection, and the tender reverence he showed, were quite touching; and the high opinion he had of her character, and the strong influence she held over his mind, he seemed proud to avow in words and actions. To his sister Mortimer, in a different but not less pleasing manner, his affection appeared in a thousand little instances, which the most polite courtiers, with the most officious desire to please, could not without the happy inspiration of truth have invented. There were innumerable slight strokes in his conversation with his sister which marked the pleasure he felt in the recollection of their early friendship, allusions to trivial passages in the history of their childhood, which none of the important scenes in which he had since been engaged had effaced from his mind; and at other times a playful carelessness, that showed the lightness, the expanding freedom of heart, which can be felt only in the perfect confidence and intimacy of domestic affection. In his manner towards his cousins, the Lady Pembrokes, who, since he had last seen them, had grown up from children into fine young women, there were nice differences; with all the privileged familiarity of relationship he met the sprightly frankness of Lady Mary, and by a degree of delicate tender respect put the retiring sensitive timidity of Lady Elizabeth at ease. None of these shades of manner were lost upon Caroline’s discriminating observation. For some time after his arrival, the whole attention of every individual at Hungerford Castle was occupied by Colonel Hungerford. All were alternately talking of him or listening to him. The eagerness which every body felt to hear from him accounts of public and private affairs, and the multitude and variety of questions by which he was assailed, drew him out continually; so that he talked a great deal, yet evidently more to gratify others than himself. He was always unwilling to engross the conversation, and sometimes anxious to hear from his mother and sister of domestic occurrences; but he postponed his own gratification, and never failed to satisfy general curiosity, even by the repetition of narratives and anecdotes, till he was exhausted. Conscious that he did not wish to make himself the hero of his tale, he threw himself upon the mercy of his friends, or their justice; and without any of the provoking reserve of affected or cowardly humility, he talked naturally of the events in which he had taken a share, and of what concerned himself as well as others. With polite kindness, which gratified them peculiarly, he seemed to take the Percy family, as his mother’s friends, directly upon trust as his own: he spoke before them, freely, of all his confidential opinions of men and things. He did them justice in considering them as safe auditors, and they enjoyed and fully appreciated the value of his various conversation. In his an
ecdotes of persons, there was always something decidedly characteristic of the individual, or illustrative of some general principle. In his narratives there were strong marks of the Froissart accuracy of detail, which interests by giving the impression of reality, and the proof of having been an eye-witness of the scene; and sometimes, scorning detail, he displayed the power of keeping an infinite number of particulars in subordination, and of seizing those large features which gave a rapid and masterly view of the whole. For his profession he felt that enthusiasm which commands sympathy. Whilst he spoke of the British army, those who heard him seemed to see every thing, as he did, in a military point of view. Yet his love of military glory had not hardened his heart so as to render him insensible of the evils and sufferings which, alas! it necessarily produces. The natural expression of great feeling and humanity burst from him; but he turned hastily and firmly from the contemplation of evils, which he could not prevent, and would not uselessly deplore. In conversing one day privately with Mr. Percy, he showed that bitter and deep philosophic reflections on the horrors and folly of war had passed through his mind, but that he had systematically and resolutely shut them out.
“We are now,” said he, “less likely than ever to see the time when all the princes of Europe will sign the good Abbé de St. Pierre’s project for a perpetual peace; and, in the mean time, while kingdoms can maintain their independence, their existence, only by superiority in war, it is not for the defenders of their country to fix their thoughts upon ‘the price of victory.’”
After explaining the plan of a battle, or the intrigues of a court, Colonel Hungerford would turn with delight to plans of cottages, which his sister Mortimer was drawing for him; and from a map of the seat of war he would go to a map of his own estate, eagerly asking his mother where she would recommend that houses should be built, and consulting her about the characters and merits of those tenants with whom his absence on the continent had prevented him from becoming acquainted. These and a thousand other little traits showed that his military habits had not destroyed his domestic tastes.
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