CHAPTER III.

“I think thee all that e’er was tenanted Of noblest worth in loveliest female form.”

JOANNA BAILLIE’S “_Constantine Palœologus._”

“His countenance was troubled, and his speech Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse At fits constrained, betrays a heart disturbed.”

SOUTHEY’S “_Roderick_.”

During the whole of that winter, the —— dragoons were kept on constant duty in the district in which they were quartered; thanks, however, to the unceasing activity of their commanding officer, his easy and kind manners to the people; his ready perception of their humour; his strict observance of justice and open-handed generosity, which made them deem him a “raal” gentleman—it passed without bloodshed or disturbance. In the following spring the regiment was ordered to England, and several of the officers, of whom Henry Marston was one, obtained leave of absence.

Warenne himself only waited till he should have placed his men in their new quarters at Calbury, to proceed to town for a few weeks, leaving Frank behind him, to amuse himself with the pleasures and occupations of a country town in the summer months. A few hours served to bring Henry to his paternal home in Charles Street, and to the arms of those he loved best in the world, his father and his sister.

Lord Framlingham was a good-natured man, much attached to his children, devoted to politics, and almost wholly engrossed with the cares of an office of some importance, which he held under the ministry of the day. He had ever been a fond parent to Henry, and Henry repaid his love with true filial affection. His sister was his earliest friend, the sharer of his boyish hopes and fears; and now that he had grown to manhood, the object of his fraternal pride. In truth Adelaide Marston was a sister of whom any man might justly be proud. She was at the present time in her twenty-fourth year, the eldest of the three sisters and brothers who composed Lord Framlingham’s family. Tall and beautifully made, her head sprang from her neck, as that of a Grecian statue of old. Her brow was marble itself; her nose thin and sharp cut; her large dark lustrous eyes teemed with expression; and her mouth, perhaps, after all, the most remarkable feature in her countenance, gave a character of loveliness to the whole. Whether she stood before you in silent thought, with her raven hair quietly shading her brow, or shook back her locks in innocent mirth, her bright teeth positively flashing on you as she smiled, she was altogether as glorious an object as eye could look upon. The charms of her mind, though perhaps really as great, were not so evident as those of her person. Her manners were in public rather cold and reserved, and in the eyes of many who did not know her, bore the semblance of pride. Never, however, did there exist a breast in which pride was less an inmate. The truth was, she was shy from too great humility.

She had never been a favourite with her mother, who was a foolish woman, and disappointed that her first-born was a daughter, and she had been from infancy subjected to all those checkings and thwartings which unwise mothers are apt to exercise injudiciously. She had found her sisters constantly preferred to her; and not the less, after they had grown up and made brilliant matches. These circumstances, which, with a disposition less innately good, would probably have produced a soreness of temper, and a disdainful disregard of the opinions of others, in her occasioned only a degree of reserve in general conversation.

Thus, with greater personal attractions than her sisters, and more excellent qualities of mind, she yet remained Adelaide Marston, while they were ennobled matrons. Could the world have seen beneath the surface, how differently would it have judged her—it would have found there strong affections, and kind and gentle feelings, united to a nobleness of spirit, an enthusiastic generosity, and a love of truth, which, while they caused her to render scrupulously unto every one their due, made her scorn to receive credit to which she did not conceive herself justly entitled. Shrinking and retiring on common occasions almost beyond feminine timidity, when called upon for exertion, she was frank, straightforward, decided, and uncompromising. She was altogether a person whom an inferior mind could not estimate, but whom a superior one could never sufficiently admire.

Her mother was now dead, and she lived with her father, his sole companion. To her, therefore, Henry’s return was a source of more than ordinary joy, and the sister and the brother met as if they had been separated for years instead of months.

A day or two after his return, as Henry was relating to Adelaide the adventures of his _début_ as a soldier, he naturally came to the mention of Warenne’s name.

“Adelaide,” said he, “what a man that is! it is worth something to know him, if only to have the benefit of his example, and he has been the kindest friend to me possible. You do not know how much I owe you for recommending me to his care.”

Adelaide listened, unconsciously perhaps, with increased attention; and Henry, thus encouraged, gave the reins to the generous feelings of his warm heart, and did ample justice to Warenne’s merits. He detailed all he knew himself of the object of his praise, both with regard to his character and to his life; and all he had gleaned from his brother officers, and from the old soldiers, with whom some of Warenne’s early and more dashing exploits were a favourite topic of conversation; especially, dilating upon his conduct in the duel with O’Neil, which Henry was conscious he had himself principally provoked.

“Your friend is a perfect _heros de roman_,” exclaimed Adelaide, smiling, as he concluded. “Is he so entirely without fault?”

“Without fault!” replied Henry, half angrily; “of course he has faults: every one has. I do not wish to make him out ‘a faultless monster, which the world ne’er knew;’ but he has better qualities than any other man I ever saw. I shall not say person, because I think you as near perfection as he is, though your question is enough to provoke one; but you shall judge for yourself, and see whether I have said too much. He will be in town in a few days, and I hope my father will make him consider this house as a second home. He has been, I am sure, a brother and a father to me, since I have been with him. I do not believe that I should stand here alive now but for him. I was for ever getting into scrapes when I first joined, owing to my home education, which prevented my learning how to command my temper, and I should never have extricated myself from them without his assistance.”

“Indeed, Henry, I did not mean to be provoking,” replied Adelaide. “I have every disposition to admire one you love so much; but why give yourself a bad character? Praise your friend, but do not abuse yourself.”

“I do not think I deserve much commendation,” said Henry, smiling in his turn; “when I can fire up at an innocent expression from you, my actions would belie my words.”

Had Henry been able to read Adelaide’s heart, he would not have suspected her of a wish to treat Warenne’s good qualities with lightness. She had been impressed with a very favourable idea of him during the three weeks she had passed in his society at Norton Chenies, and was sufficiently disposed to admire a character, in many respects congenial with her own. Not that she had, what is commonly called, fallen in love with him, but that she had been pleased with his spirit, his superior intelligence, and his high-minded chivalrous tone of sentiment. He had also appeared to appreciate her from the first moment of their acquaintance, and she was grateful to him for his discernment. When Henry left her, she could not help reflecting upon what had formed the principal topic of their conversation, and she certainly did not find her esteem for Warenne decreased by Henry’s commendation. She thought over, one by one, the little incidents which had been mentioned, with a secret feeling of satisfaction at his strict observance of her request to him; and though she did not yet think of love, Warenne, it may not be denied, would have been gratified, had he known how much his image occupied her mind: to him the three weeks at Norton Chenies had been the bright epoch of his life.

In a few days Warenne came to town; and after notifying his arrival at the Horse Guards, &c. &c., was brought by Henry to his father’s. Lord Framlingham received the man who had been so true a friend to his son with marked consideration, and pressed him to come frequently to Charles Street—an invitation which Warenne was not the less disposed to accept, when Adelaide, with extended hand, and radiant looks, welcomed him, and thanked him for his kindness to her brother.

From that time he was a constant visiter at Lord Framlingham’s. A club of military men possessed small attractions for one who sought in London a _délassement_ from military duty; and the cold civility of Lord Warenne, and of other connections of his family, did not lead him to desire a greater degree of intimacy with them. Thus he had leisure, as well as inclination, to profit by Lord Framlingham’s hospitality; and when the old lord himself appeared to like his society, and to derive pleasure from conversing with him on the interior policy of the country, its power, its laws, and its sources of wealth (subjects on which he had reflected much, and accumulated much information in his wanderings through the different garrison towns of England); when Henry seemed gratified by his coming; when, above all, Adelaide seemed to meet him with gladness; he, on some pretence or other, found himself almost daily in Charles Street.

His admiration of Adelaide quickly ripened into love, pure and ardent love, and to hear her speak and see her smile, became his only wish. He could listen for hours to her sweet voice as she joined in conversation with her father and himself, or with Henry talked over the incidents of the day; and he knew no greater happiness than to trace the high character of her mind, as, in the intimacy of friendship, she gave scope to her generous feelings.

Adelaide, too, had learned to love, and her heart, which had passed unscathed through the gay dawning of her career, throbbed with the tumultuous impulses of imperious passion. She loved, and life to her was now one dream of pleasurable emotion, for, with a woman’s intuitive tact, she could trace the workings of Warenne’s heart more plainly than those of her own, and she saw that she there reigned undisputed mistress of his affections. That commanding spirit, which was wont to assert its mastery over the feelings, and to control and discipline them within the bounds of wisdom, lived on her every look. If he spoke, he turned to discover if she approved; if he did aught, he was not satisfied till he knew she deemed it well done. Conscious thus of her power over him, she for a while drank of the cup of joy which hope presented to her lip, and permitted it not to be embittered by any fear for the future.

Her father perceived what was going on, but gave no outward sign that he should oppose himself to the result to which circumstances were apparently leading. In fact, he had not come to any decision on the subject, for though he was a worldly-minded man, and wished his daughter to make what is termed a good match, he was aware that, with her small fortune, she could not command one; and he knew from experience, that she would never sacrifice her feelings to the prospect of a brilliant establishment. He was not, therefore, disinclined to her marrying a person of moderate means, for whom she had conceived an affection. Adelaide interpreted silence to mean consent, and feeling complete confidence in Warenne’s love for her, gave him, in return, the full affection of her maiden heart.

What happy and blissful hours were these, when each, though they had not told their love, lived but for the other. They lasted not long. Warenne soon awakened to the real difficulties of his situation, and took himself severely to task for the headlong impetuosity with which he had set at hazard his own, and, perhaps, another’s happiness. Had he a right to ask one who had been from childhood surrounded by every luxury affluence could purchase, to descend, for his sake, to comparative indigence? Could he request her to quit the brilliant circle she adorned to become the inmate of a barrack yard? His soul revolted at the thought. What was he, that he should outweigh in her estimation privations such as these? She would, he doubted not, if she loved him, despise all worldly advantages, but should he subject her to them because she loved him?

For the first time in his life his want of riches galled him; he felt as though he were guilty of presumption in loving Adelaide, and he hesitated to make the avowal which for ever hovered upon his lips. Adelaide perceived his disquietude, and from some expressions he inadvertently let fall, pretty accurately conjectured its cause. At first she was inclined to be angry with him, under the false impression that he conceived her capable of being influenced by a regard for wealth; but she could not retain her anger when she overheard him one day say to Henry, who had been blaming an acquaintance of theirs for not proposing to a lady to whom he was tenderly attached, “Henry, you forget that Compton is a poor man. How can he ask Miss Thornton to leave her comfortable home and share his poverty?”

There was a bitterness in the tone with which he uttered these words, which betrayed the secret feeling that prompted the reply. Then she was aware that he considered a woman of any refinement to be singularly misplaced in the midst of the quarters of a regiment, for, in the earlier days of their intimacy, when laughing and talking with her and her brother, over the _agrémens_ and _desagrémens_ of a soldier’s life, he had often expressed an opinion to this effect.

She reflected on the sentiments which he evidently entertained on these points, and her resentment vanished. She might, perhaps, deem his delicacy over-strained, but she knew, if he left the army, that he must forfeit, not only his fair hopes of fame and advancement, but also a large proportion of his income; and she could not blame him for being unwilling to subject her to the discomforts of a profession which he might not with any degree of prudence desert. But when she had arrived at this better understanding of Warenne’s motives, she was perplexed how to act. Her affections had been given; they could not be recalled; she could not retrace her steps; yet how proceed? She was ready to submit to whatever sacrifices might be necessary for the sake of him she loved, but till he afforded her an opportunity, by first openly declaring his own passion, she could not acquaint him with her determination. She longed to bid him throw aside his scruples, and give her liberty to decide in her own cause; but maidenly reserve prevented this virtual avowal of her preference for him—reserve which, in her shrinking and timid nature, might be with difficulty overcome, even under happier circumstances. There remained no alternative but to wait for Warenne’s proposals, though when he would make them, or whether he would make them at all, seemed a matter of uncertainty. He still lingered on in town, unable to tear himself from her presence, yet fearing to speak; living but for her society, yet far from satisfied in his own mind of the propriety of his continuing to seek it. At length, one morning that he called in Charles Street, to know if he might accompany Adelaide and her brother in their ride, he was so depressed in spirits that she could not avoid asking him, with some appearance of anxiety, if he was unwell.

“I am, indeed, Miss Marston,” exclaimed he, forgetting for a moment his resolutions of prudence in the emotions which the kind manner of her inquiry had conjured up; “but not in body; I am ill in mind, displeased and angry with myself, for wanting the courage, when my duty and inclinations clash, to sacrifice the latter to the former; but I cannot do so, were my life the forfeit.”

He spoke hastily and passionately; Adelaide made no reply, she did not even raise her eyes from the ground. Warenne looked at her earnestly for a moment, then feeling that as they were at present circumstanced, he had said either too much or too little, he resolved to proceed. He could not, however, utterly control the contradictory impulses which distracted his mind, and his words appeared to flow from despair, and scorn of his own presumption, rather than from love.

“Tell me,” said he, “is not a man unjustifiable who would have another submit to sacrifices for his own welfare?”

He paused for her answer. Adelaide pitied him from her soul; she felt how much mental agony he must have endured ere he could thus, on a point where his whole happiness was at stake, so frame his questions as if he wished her to decide against him. She therefore replied timidly and evasively,

“Surely, Colonel Warenne, this must depend very much on the circumstances of the case, on the extent of injury to be inflicted, and the degree of advantage to be obtained.”

“True,” rejoined he, his voice gradually losing its tone of bitterness, and becoming mournfully tender, “true,” said he, “and I cannot disguise from myself that though the benefit to myself would be inexpressibly great, greater far than I have any right to hope for, yet the injury which I should inflict would be certain and considerable. Would to Heaven I could come to a contrary conclusion, but I cannot.” He buried his face in his hands on the table which stood before him; a second afterwards, however, he looked up, with a deep flush crimsoning his very brow, and continued in a hurried manner, “I cannot, however, renounce my chance.”

Henry’s voice at this instant was heard at the door, and Warenne ceased abruptly. Henry came to tell Adelaide that her aunt was waiting for her below in her carriage. Adelaide obeyed the summons, and with a lighter heart than she had borne for many days, ran down the stairs to her aunt. “He must speak out now,” thought she; “he must confess his love:” and in the certainty that an explanation would take place when next they met, she forgave Henry his interruption of their interview.

Warenne departed under the influence of very different feelings. He was ashamed of his own irresolution, and afraid that he had acted dishonourably in betraying the state of his mind to Adelaide. Ere he reached his lodgings, however, the very consciousness of having committed himself relieved his breast of much anxiety. He had not again to weigh the value of the different arguments which love and honour suggested, for the adoption of one line of conduct or the other. Henceforth he had one only measure to embrace, viz. to lay his fortunes, such as they were, at Miss Marston’s feet. He resolved to try his fate on the following morning.