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 anecdotes
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.
Caroline had taken an interest in the military profession ever since her
eldest brother had gone into the army. Colonel Hungerford was seven or
eight years older than Godfrey Percy, and had a more formed, steady,
and exalted character, with more knowledge, and a far more cultivated
understanding; but many expressions, and some points of character, were
similar. Caroline observed this, and wished and hoped that, when her
brother should have had as many opportunities of improvement as Colonel
Hungerford’s experience had given him, he might be just such a man.
This idea increased the interest she took in observing and listening to
Colonel Hungerford. After he had been some time at home, and that every
day more and more of his amiable character had been developed, Rosamond
said to herself, “This is certainly the man for Caroline, and I suspect
she begins to think so. If she does not, I never will forgive her.”
One day, when the sisters were by themselves, Rosamond tried to sound
Caroline on this subject. She began, as she thought, at a safe distance
from her main object. “How very much esteemed and beloved Colonel
Hungerford is in his own family!”
“Very much and very deservedly,” answered Caroline. She spoke without
any hesitation or embarrassment.
Rosamond, rather dissatisfied even with the fulness of the assent to her
first proposition, added, “And not only by his own family, but by all
who know him.”
Caroline was silent.
“It is surprising,” continued Rosamond, “that a man who has led a
soldier’s wandering life should have acquired so much literature, such
accurate knowledge, and should have retained such simple and domestic
tastes.”
Full assent again from Caroline, both of look and voice--but still not
the exact look and voice Rosamond desired.
“Do you know, Caroline,” continued she, “I think that in several things
Colonel Hungerford is very like my brother Godfrey.”
“Yes, and in some points, I think Colonel Hungerford is superior to
Godfrey,” said Caroline.
“Well, I really think so too,” cried Rosamond, “and I am sure Godfrey
would think and say so himself. How he would admire Colonel Hungerford,
and how desirous, how ambitious he would be to make such a man his
friend, his--in short, I know if Godfrey was here this minute, he
would think just as I do about Colonel Hungerford, and about--all other
things.”
“All other things,” repeated Caroline, smiling: “that includes a great
deal.”
“Yes, it does, that is certain,” said Rosamond, significantly. “And,”
continued she, “I know another person of excellent judgment too, who, if
I mistake not, is of my way of thinking, of wishing at least, in _some
things_, that is a comfort. How Mrs. Hungerford does adore her son!
And I think she loves you almost as much.” Caroline expressed strong
gratitude for Mrs. Hungerford’s kindness to her, and the warmest return
of affection.
“Then, in one word,” continued Rosamond, “for out it must come, sooner
or later--I think she not only loves you as if you were her daughter,
but that--Now confess, Caroline, did not the idea ever occur to you?
And don’t you see that Mrs. Hungerford wishes _it_?--Oh! that blush
is answer enough--I’ll say no more--I do not mean to torment or
distress--good bye, I am satisfied.”
“Stay, my dear Rosamond, stay one moment, and I will tell you exactly
all I think and feel.”
“I will stay as long as you please,” said Rosamond, “and I thank you for
this confidence.”
“You have a right to it,” said Caroline: “I see, my dear sister, and
feel all your kindness towards me, and all Mrs. Hungerford’s--I see what
you both wish.”
“There’s my own sister Caroline, above all artifice and affectation.”
“But,” said Caroline.
“_But_--Oh! Caroline, don’t go back--don’t palter with us--abide by your
own words, and your own character, and don’t condescend to any pitiful
_buts_.”
“You do not yet know the nature of my _but_.”
“Nor do I wish to know it, nor will I hear it,” cried Rosamond, stopping
her ears, “because I know, whatever it is, it will lower you in my
opinion. You have fairly acknowledged that Colonel Hungerford possesses
every virtue, public and private, that can make him worthy of you--not
a single fault on which to ground one possible, imaginable, rational
_but_. Temper, manners, talents, character, fortune, family, fame, every
thing the heart of woman can desire.”
“Every thing against which the heart of woman should guard itself,” said
Caroline.
“Guard!--Why guard?--What is it you suspect? What crime can you invent
to lay to his charge?”
“I suspect him of nothing. It is no crime--except, perhaps, in your
eyes, dear Rosamond,” said Caroline, smiling--“no crime not to love me.”
“Oh! is that all? Now I understand and forgive you,” said Rosamond, “if
it is only _that_ you fear.”
“I do not recollect that I said I _feared_ it,” said Caroline.
“Well, well--I beg pardon for using that unguarded word--of course
your pride must neither hope nor fear upon the occasion; you must quite
forget yourself to stone. As you please, or rather as you think proper;
but you will allow me to hope and fear for you. Since I have not, thank
Heaven! made proud and vain professions of stoicism--have not vowed to
throw away the rose, lest I should be pricked by the thorn.”
“Laugh, but hear me,” said Caroline. “I make no professions of stoicism;
it is because I am conscious that I am no stoic that I have endeavoured
to guard well my heart.--I have seen and admired all Colonel
Hungerford’s good and amiable qualities; I have seen and been
grateful for all that you and Mrs. Hungerford hoped and wished for my
happiness--have not been insensible to any of the delightful, any of
the romantic circumstances of the _vision_; but I saw it was only a
vision--and one that might lead me into waking, lasting misery.”
“Misery! lasting! How?” said Rosamond.
“Neither your wishes nor Mrs. Hungerford’s, you know, can or ought to
decide, or even to influence the event, that is to be determined by
Colonel Hungerford’s own judgment and feelings, and by mine. In the mean
time, I cannot forget that the delicacy, honour, pride, prudence of our
sex, forbid a woman to think of any man, as a lover, till he gives her
reason to believe that he feels love for her.”
“Certainly,” said Rosamond; “but I take it for granted that Colonel
Hungerford does love you.”
“But why should we take it for granted?” said Caroline: “he has not
shown me any preference.”
“Why--I don’t know, I am not skilled in these matters,” said
Rosamond--“I am not sure--but I think--and yet I should be sorry to
mislead you--at any rate there is no harm in hoping--”
“If there be no harm, there might be much danger,” said Caroline:
“better not to think of the subject at all, since we can do no good by
thinking of it, and may do harm.”
After a pause of surprise, disappointment, and reflection, Rosamond
resumed: “So I am to understand it to be your opinion, that a woman
of sense, delicacy, proper pride, honour, and prudence, must, can, and
ought to shut her eyes, ears, understanding, and heart, against all the
merit and all the powers of pleasing a man may possess, till said man
shall and do make a matrimonial proposal for her in due form--hey!
Caroline?”
“I never thought any such thing,” answered Caroline, “and I expressed
myself very ill if I said any such thing. A woman need not shut her
eyes, ears, or understanding to a man’s merit--only her heart.”
“Then the irresistible charm, the supreme merit, the only merit that
can or ought to touch her heart in any man, is the simple or glorious
circumstance of his loving her?”
“I never heard that it was a man’s supreme merit to love,” said
Caroline; “but we are not at present inquiring what is a man’s but what
is a woman’s characteristic excellence. And I have heard it said to be a
woman’s supreme merit, and grace, and dignity, that her love should _not
unsought be won_.”
“That is true,” said Rosamond, “perfectly true--in general; but surely
you will allow that there may be cases in which it would be difficult
to adhere to the letter as well as to the spirit of this excellent rule.
Have you never felt--can’t you imagine this?”
“I can well imagine it,” said Caroline; “fortunately, I have never
felt it. If I had not early perceived that Colonel Hungerford was not
thinking of me, I might have deceived myself with false hopes: believe
me, I never was insensible to his merit.”
“But where is the merit or the glory, if there was no struggle, no
difficulty?” said Rosamond, in a melancholy tone.
“Glory there is none,” said Caroline; “nor do I claim any merit: but is
not it something to prevent struggle and difficulty? Is it nothing to
preserve my own happiness?”
“Something, to be sure,” said Rosamond. “But, on the other hand, you
know there is the old proverb, ‘Nothing hazard, nothing have.’”
“That is a masculine, not a feminine proverb,” said Caroline.
“All I meant to say was, that there is no rule without an exception, as
all your philosophers, even the most rigid, allow; and if an exception
be ever permitted, surely in such a case as this it might, in favour of
such a man as Colonel Hungerford.”
“Dangerous exceptions!” said Caroline. “Every body is too apt to make
an exception in such cases in their own favour: that, you know, is the
common error of the weak. Oh! my dear sister, instead of weakening,
strengthen my mind--instead of trying to raise my enthusiasm, or
reproaching me for want of sensibility, tell me that you approve of
my exerting all my power over myself to do that which I think right.
Consider what evil I should bring upon myself, if I became attached to a
man who is not attached to me; if you saw me sinking, an object of pity
and contempt, the victim, the slave of an unhappy passion.”
“Oh! my dear, dear Caroline, that could never be--God forbid; oh! God
forbid!” cried Rosamond, with a look of terror: but recovering herself,
she added, “This is a vain fear. With your strength of mind, you could
never be reduced to such a condition.”
“Who can answer for their strength of mind in the second trial, if it
fail in the first?” said Caroline. “If a woman once lets her affections
go out of her power, how can she afterwards answer for her own
happiness?”
“All very right and very true,” said Rosamond: “but for a young person,
Caroline, I could spare some of this premature reason. If there be some
folly, at least there is some generosity, some sensibility often joined
with a romantic temper: take care lest you ‘mistake reverse of wrong for
right,’ and in your great zeal to avoid romance, run into selfishness.”
“Selfishness!”
“Why, yes--after all, what are these cold calculations about loving
or not loving such a character as Colonel Hungerford--what is all this
wonderfully long-sighted care of your own individual happiness, but
selfishness?--moral, very moral selfishness, I grant.”
Caroline coloured, paused, and when she answered, she spoke in a lower
and graver tone and manner than usual.
“If it be selfish to pursue, by the best means in my power, and by means
which cannot hurt any human being, my own happiness, must I deserve to
be called selfish?--Unless a woman be quite unconnected with others in
society, without a family, and without friends--which, I thank God,
is not my situation--it is impossible to hazard or to destroy our own
happiness by any kind of imprudence, without destroying the happiness
of others. Therefore imprudence, call it romance, or what you please,
is often want of generosity--want of thought for the happiness of our
friends, as well as for our own.”
“Well come off!” said Rosamond, laughing: “you have proved, with
admirable logic, that prudence is the height of generosity. But, my
dear Caroline, do not speak so very seriously, and do not look with
such ‘sweet austere composure.’--I don’t in earnest accuse you of
selfishness--I was wrong to use that ugly word; but I was vexed with you
for being more prudent than even good old Mrs. Hungerford.”
At these words tears filled Caroline’s eyes. “Dear, kind Mrs.
Hungerford,” she exclaimed, “in the warmth of her heart, in the fulness
of her kindness for me, once in her life Mrs. Hungerford said perhaps an
imprudent word, expressed a wish of which her better judgment may have
repented.”
“No, no!” cried Rosamond--“her better, her best judgment must have
confirmed her opinion of you. She never will repent of that wish. Why
should you think she has repented of it, Caroline?”
“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.
“My mother wished for a copy of this picture,” said Lady Elizabeth, in
a tremulous voice, and without raising her eyes, “for we have none but a
vile daub of him at Pembroke.”
“Perhaps my aunt Pembroke would be so good to accept of the original?”
said Colonel Hungerford; “and my mother would beg of Lady Elizabeth to
give her copy to--our gallery.”
“Do, my dear Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Hungerford. Lady Elizabeth shook her
head, yet smiled.
“Do, my dear; you cannot refuse your cousin.”
“_Cousin!_ there’s hope still,” thought Rosamond.
“If it were but worthy of his acceptance,” said Lady Elizabeth.--Colonel
Hungerford, lost in the enjoyment of her self-timidity and retiring
grace, quite forgot to say how much he thought the picture worthy of his
acceptance.
His mother spoke for him.
“Since Hungerford asks you for it, my dear, you may be certain that he
thinks highly of it, for my son never flatters.”
“Who? I!--flatter!” cried Colonel Hungerford; “flatter!” added he, in a
low voice, with a tenderness of accent and look, which could scarcely be
misunderstood. Nor was it misunderstood by Lady Elizabeth, as her quick
varying colour showed. It was well that, at this moment, no eye turned
upon Rosamond, for all her thoughts and feeling would have been read in
her face.
“Come,” cried Lady Mary, “let us have the picture in its place
directly--come all of you to the gallery, fix where it shall be hung.”
Colonel Hungerford seized upon it, and following Lady Elizabeth,
accompanied Lady Mary to the gallery. Mrs. Hungerford rose
deliberately--Caroline offered her arm.
“Yes, my dear child, let me lean upon you.”
They walked slowly after the young party--Rosamond followed.
“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Hungerford, as she leaned more upon Caroline,
“I am afraid I shall tire you, my dear.”
“Oh! no, no!” said Caroline, “not in the least.”
“I am growing so infirm, that I require a stronger arm, a kinder I can
never have.”
The door of the antechamber, which opened into the gallery, closed after
the young people.
“I am not one of those _exigeante_ mothers who expect always to have
possession of a son’s arm,” resumed Mrs. Hungerford: “the time, I knew,
would come, when I must give up my colonel.”
“And with pleasure, I am sure, you now give him up, secure of his
happiness,” said Caroline.
Mrs. Hungerford stopped short, and looked full on Caroline, upon whom
she had previously avoided to turn her eyes. From what anxiety did
Caroline’s serene, open countenance, and sweet ingenuous smile, at this
instant, relieve her friend! Old as she was, Mrs. Hungerford had quick
and strong feelings. For a moment she could not speak--she held out her
arms to Caroline, and folded her to her heart.
“Excellent creature!” said she--“Child of my affections--_that_ you must
ever be!”
“Oh! Mrs. Hungerford! my dear madam,” cried Rosamond, “you have no idea
how unjust and imprudent I have been about Caroline.”
“My love,” said Mrs. Hungerford, smiling, and wiping tears from her
eyes, “I fancy I can form a competent idea of your imprudence from my
own. We must all learn discretion from this dear girl--you, early--I,
late in life.”
“Dear Rosamond, do not reproach yourself for your excessive kindness to
me,” said Caroline; “in candour and generous feeling, who is equal to
you?”
“Kissing one another, I protest,” cried Lady Mary Pembroke, opening the
door from the gallery, “whilst we were wondering you did not come after
us. Aunt Hungerford, you know how we looked for the bow and arrows, and
the peaked shoes, with the knee-chains of the time of Edward the Fourth.
Well, they are all behind the great armoury press, which Gustavus has
been moving to make room for Elizabeth’s copy of Prince Rupert. Do
come and look at them--but stay, first I have a favour to beg of you,
Caroline. I know Gustavus will ask my sister to ride with him this
morning, and the flies torment her horse so, and she is such a coward,
that she will not be able to listen to a word that is said to her--could
you lend her your pretty gentle White Surrey?”
“With pleasure,” said Caroline, “and my net.”
“I will go and bring it to your ladyship,” said Rosamond.
“My ladyship is in no hurry,” cried Lady Mary--“don’t run away, don’t
go: it is not wanted yet.”
But Rosamond, glad to escape, ran away, saying, “There is some of the
fringe off--I must sew it on.”
Rosamond, as she sewed on the fringe, sighed--and worked--and wished it
was for Caroline, and said to herself, “So it is all over--and all in
vain!”
The horses for the happy riding party came to the door. Rosamond ran
down stairs with the net; Caroline had it put on her horse, and Lady
Elizabeth Pembroke thanked her with such a look of kindness, of secure
faith in her friend’s sympathy, that even Rosamond forgave her for being
happy. But Rosamond could not wish to stay to witness her happiness just
at this time; and she was not sorry when her father announced the next
day that business required his immediate return home. Lamentations, loud
and sincere, were heard from every individual in the castle, especially
from Mrs. Hungerford, and from her daughter. They were, however, too
well bred to persist in their solicitations to have the visit prolonged.
They said they were grateful for the time which had been given to them,
and appeared kindly satisfied with their friends’ promise to repeat
their visit, whenever they could with convenience.
Caroline, tenderly and gratefully attached to Mrs. Hungerford, found it
very difficult and painful to part from her; the more painful because
she feared to express all the affection, admiration, and gratitude
she felt for this excellent friend, lest her emotion might be
misinterpreted. Mrs. Hungerford understood her thoroughly. When she took
leave of her, she kissed her at first in silence, and then, by a few
strong words, and more by her manner than by her words, expressed her
high esteem and affection for her young friend.