Recollections of a chaperon

CHAPTER I.

One evening in the winter of 182—, a large party of the officers of the —— dragoons were dining together in the best room of the Green Dragon, the principal inn of ——, on the southern coast of Ireland. The district around was under military law, but though occasional outrages marked the wild and turbulent spirit which reigned, since their arrival in their present quarters no disturbances had taken place of sufficient magnitude to cause them serious alarm; and it appeared probable that, notwithstanding the efforts of the agitators to excite tumult, men’s passions would subside, and affairs resume their wonted, if not happy, current. To men under such circumstances, without danger to animate, or occupations to interest them, dinner is a meal of much importance, and the young cornets or captains were busily employed in dispelling their ennui according to the received rules of social indulgence.

Some two or three of the neighbouring gentry had been invited to join the mess; and as the generous wine passed quickly round, many a loud laugh and many a light jest told the gay and unconstrained merriment of the festive meeting. There was, however, one individual at the table, who, though he apparently shared in their mirth, and though no trace of uneasiness on his brow betrayed the working of the mind within, looked upon the proceedings of his young friends and their guests with feelings of an anxious nature. Their commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Warenne, feared that he could perceive, amid the joyousness of their good-humoured revelry, impending discord and confusion.

Warenne, though young in years, was a gallant and very distinguished officer. He had entered the army a boy, at the commencement of the Peninsular war, and was entirely employed from that time till its close. Promotion came quickly to the survivors in those days of perilous glory, and he had successively risen step after step, until he found himself in the spring of 1814 first major of his old regiment, the —— dragoons. At Waterloo his lieutenant-colonel was killed, and Warenne obtained the high rank he held at the moment of which we are writing. Thus, after several years of peace, he was not quite thirty-four. Daring, cool, and firm, with quick perception, great knowledge of his profession, and much general information, he was looked upon by his seniors as one who, if opportunity should be given him, could not fail to raise himself to the highest honours of his profession; kind of heart, and gentle in manner, he was the idol of the soldiery. His form and his features coincided with the character of his mind. Tall and muscular, but spare and active, his broad chest and clean limbs showed at once strength, and capability of continued exertion. His dark and piercing eye bespoke quick comprehension; while his mouth, beautifully formed, and expressing, as its natural characteristics, benignity, and perhaps humour, when through agitation it became compressed, bore the stamp of decision.

On the night in question, a bystander might have detected somewhat of Warenne’s anxiety to keep up a tone of conversation throughout the party rather higher than that which usually graces a mess-table, but otherwise no outward signs denoted his anticipations. He had learnt by accident, in the course of the day, that one of the gentlemen, whom he had invited to dinner, was closely connected with the agitating party; and he every instant expected to hear him break out into some abuse of existing powers, which might not be brooked at a table of his majesty’s officers. He watched therefore the increasing effects of the wine upon his guests with a melancholy foreboding, and was on the alert to put a stop to any discussion that seemed likely to terminate angrily. He turned his keen eye round on all his young subalterns in succession, to see if the colour was yet mounting to their cheeks, or if their knit brows showed symptoms of provocation. More especially did he observe the bearing of two at the table. For the first he was interested by the tie of blood; the second had been committed to his care, a few months previously, by one whom he was strongly disposed to think the handsomest and most charming of her sex.

Frank Warenne was the lieutenant-colonel’s only brother, about six years the younger, a gay, dashing, intelligent puppy, very handsome, and a good deal spoilt, that is to say, as far as a disposition, by nature incorruptibly good, could be deteriorated by the admiration of women, and the good-nature of friends. The affectionate kindness of Colonel Warenne himself had perhaps contributed, as much as any other cause, to render Frank what he was.

Their father, a younger son of the noble house of Warenne, had died when his eldest boy Gerald was only thirteen years old, having, shortly before his death, vested his small property in land. His widow had hoped to be able, with the income arising from this, to educate her two children well, and she had placed Gerald at Eton. Before a year had passed, she too was gathered to the tomb. Mr. Warenne had bequeathed the estate in fee to his wife, trusting to her to divide it between her two sons as she might deem best for their future interests.

She died, however, without a will, and it devolved on Gerald as sole heir. From that moment, Gerald, with the decision and nobleness which formed so prominent a part of his after character, determined, not only to take charge of the instruction and support of Frank during his minority by making over for that purpose a portion of the allowance given him by Chancery, but, on his coming of age, to divide his inheritance equally with him; a resolution which he carried into practice, shortly after his return to England from the army of occupation, in the winter of 1815.

He obtained for Frank a commission in the same regiment with himself, as soon as he was old enough to hold it; and the young cornet fought his first battle at Waterloo under his auspices.

In this manner, under his brother’s fostering eye, Frank had grown up to his present age of manhood, in perfect freedom from care, in the enjoyment of as much money as he needed, with the advantages of birth, of friends (for his brother’s friends were his), and of personal beauty—a pleasant introduction into life; but not one to bring to maturity the seeds of good implanted by nature. The consequence of this was, that though Captain Warenne was an excellent officer, and a gay, agreeable companion, he wanted that vigour of mind and intellectual superiority which Colonel Warenne himself possessed.

The other object of anxiety to Warenne, on this evening, Henry Marston, was a wild, thoughtless, impetuous boy, with high and generous feelings, undisciplined by education. When he joined the regiment, only a few months before, he first quitted the paternal roof beneath which he had been brought up under a private tutor, who had consulted his own ease more than his pupil’s advancement, and had never attempted to teach him the necessity of self-command, or even of concession to the prejudices and opinions of others. From him, therefore, Warenne momentarily expected some burst of temper, or some passionate interruption of his Irish guests, which must lead to a quarrel. His fears were not without reason;—by degrees the little softening remarks which he from time to time threw in were less attended to, while the agitator grew more violent and seditious in his language, louder in tone, and more offensive in his gesticulations. By degrees Henry passed from a state of good-humoured amusement to a feeling of intense provocation, which hardly permitted him to observe the usual courtesies of society; and the former at last venturing to declare in a threatening manner, that “England, if she chose still to continue her galling oppression of Ireland, should remember that Irishmen had hearts and hands, and that she did it at her peril,” he angrily demanded,—

“Peril! of what?”

“Do you ask of what?” rejoined the indignant orator. “Of war, war to the knife. Ireland cannot—will not—longer be the slave of England. We bid her, and her bloodthirsty myrmidons defiance.”

In an instant more than one young officer started from his seat, and together with Henry, who was thoroughly exasperated, loudly took him to task for his ill-timed and ill-placed tirade against their country. At this moment the well-known voice of their lieutenant-colonel was heard.

“Mr. Marston, Mr. Kennedy, Captain Warenne; I beg of you to remain quiet.”

The clear stern tone in which these few simple words were uttered, permitted not any hesitation. The young soldiers reseated themselves, and a general silence ensued.

“Gentlemen,” continued he, speaking slowly and calmly, “this for the present is my table, these gentlemen my guests.” Then addressing himself to the unlucky cause of the disturbance. “Mr. O’Neil, as the countenances of my young friends do not seem to promise much more agreeable conversation, perhaps we had better retire.”

He rose from his chair as he concluded, and bowing, led the way to the door. The Irishman followed him, and they all left the room. Colonel Warenne quietly walked before them from the door to the court-yard of the inn, courteously showing the way; as soon, however, as he had reached a spot where he could not be overheard, he turned round and said,—

“After what has passed, Mr. O’Neil, you must be aware that you and I cannot again meet as friends without some explanation; I must therefore wish you good night. To-morrow morning, perhaps, your present feelings of excitement will be past away, and you will be sorry for the intemperate language you have used. I shall be happy to find that such is the case, when I send my friend Major Stuart to wait on you.”

O’Neil seemed struck by the collected and business-like tone of this address, but made no answer, and departed with his companions.

As soon as they were gone, Warenne sought Major Stuart’s apartment, and placed the matter in his hands. He then retraced his steps to the mess-room, revolving in his mind many various schemes for preventing all inquiry, on the part of his young friends, into the measures he had taken, or was about to take, when, fortunately for him, an orderly rode into the yard with orders from General Unwin, who commanded the district, to move the regiment the next day to ——. With the despatch in his hand, he re-entered the dining-room, where, during his absence, his conduct had been canvassed. The younger officers were strongly disposed to think that he had treated the impertinent stranger with too much consideration; and, as he returned, Henry Marston was in the act of saying to Frank, that he was inclined to quarrel with his brother for not allowing him to kick the rascal out. He quickly, however, silenced their incipient questionings, by occupying their attention with the change of station to be effected on the morrow, with the line of route, &c.: and soon afterwards, breaking up the party, dismissed them to their rooms in utter forgetfulness of the mischance which had thrown them into such disagreeable confusion.

CHAPTER II.

Frank Warenne alone was not deceived, and could not doubt that his brother would resent the insult which he had received. He knew too well Warenne’s delicate sense of honour; and, recognising in the tranquillity of his demeanour the settled calmness of decision, he intuitively guessed the truth. Want of fraternal affection was not one of Frank’s failings, and he sought his chamber in a state of serious disquietude. He saw no means by which a rencontre could be prevented, nor any by which he might transfer to his own person the danger that threatened him he loved so dearly. He felt that honour, according to military custom, demanded from Warenne himself that he should require an apology from O’Neil; that in all probability O’Neil would not apologize; and they must therefore necessarily meet each other. He could not rest—he did not even attempt to lie down, but paced his room in restless anxiety hour after hour, forming a thousand different schemes to ensure his brother’s safety, yet unable to find one which should not compromise his fame. At last, about five o’clock, resolving to ascertain whether his fears were well founded, he stole across the passage to the door of Warenne’s room, and gently opened it. Warenne was writing, but started up at Frank’s entrance.

“Is it you, Frank!” he exclaimed.

“Forgive me, Gerald,” rejoined Frank, “but I am certain you are going to fight that scoundrel O’Neil, and I am wretched about it: I have passed the whole night in utter misery. Gerald! this may be our last meeting,” and as he spoke he flung himself upon his brother’s neck.

“Do not unman me,” said Warenne; “just at this moment I have need of all my firmness, for I will not deny your conclusion with respect to O’Neil. Would that I could! for I abhor duelling from my soul. I cannot disguise from myself that it is a wicked and abominable practice, expressly contrary to the law of Him, in whom, notwithstanding the irregularities of my soldier’s life, I most sincerely trust,—if I may dare to say so in such an hour as this; neither can I forget that I am perhaps about to appear before him with the crime of murder, in intention at least, upon my soul. Still I have not the moral courage to break through custom, when the alternative is disgrace—but I must not think of these matters now. Let us talk of something else, Frank—I had just finished a letter to you as you came in, which I meant should be delivered to you in case I fell;—put it in your pocket, and return it to me, if all goes well—nay, do not read it. It contains only a few words of advice from your old Mentor, who would fain have you do justice to his instructions, and to yourself.”

As he proceeded, Warenne regained his habitual self-command, and Frank, his mind unconsciously imbibing a portion of his brother’s calmness, became more tranquil. They talked on with composure, and even cheerfulness, of the future prospects of the latter. It was now six o’clock, and Warenne begged Frank to leave him to a few minutes repose. The sad conviction that this might be their last interview once more forced itself on the mind of the latter, and he would have relieved his bursting heart by tears, had he not feared to give pain to one he loved better than himself. He lingered for a while on his brother’s neck, pressed him yet closer to his heart, then invoking every blessing upon his head, and receiving from him a fond but solemn benediction in return, he rushed to his own chamber, where he threw himself on his bed, and, after a few minutes, fairly sobbed himself to sleep.

About a quarter before seven Stuart knocked at Warenne’s door, with the intelligence that O’Neil would not apologise. Nothing remained therefore to be done but to proceed to the meeting, and in a few minutes the two friends were on the road to a sequestered spot a short distance from the town, which Stuart and O’Neil’s second had selected. It is not necessary to relate the particulars of a duel; suffice it to say, that the affair was properly conducted, and that O’Neil fell at the first fire, severely, but not dangerously, wounded; while Warenne received his antagonist’s ball in the fleshy part of his right arm, just above the elbow. As soon as the latter saw the effect of his fire he ran up to O’Neil, and endeavoured as well as he could to raise him up, with a feeling of anguish he alone can estimate who finds himself with blood upon his hand, shed, not under excitement, nor in a moment of passion, but coolly and unnecessarily, in compliance with the customs of the world. Nor was his distress alleviated, when as he waited with impatience the opinion of the surgeon on the nature and extent of the injury he had inflicted, the wounded man took his hand and said—

“If I die, I forgive you; my own folly has been the cause of my death.”

He could have cursed himself for his crime. His suspense, however, lasted not long. The surgeon, after an accurate examination into the direction of the ball, pronounced that no vital part was injured, and that “Mr. O’Neil would be as sound a man as ever in three months.”

Never did sounds of sweetest melody fall so pleasantly on Warenne’s ear, as the oracular dictum of his old fellow campaigner, Mr. Morris, the regimental Æsculapius. There seemed to be a weight taken from his breast, which he felt it would have been impossible for him to sustain.

“Thank Heaven!” murmured he to himself, “I am not a murderer!” Then turning to O’Neil, he said aloud, “We part friends, I hope, not the less that you are to live.”

O’Neil smiled faintly, and once again held out his hand. Warenne shook it warmly, and immediately proceeded on his return to ——, that he might procure further assistance, and the means of conveyance for his former foe.

As he turned to leave him, he laid his hand, as he supposed, on Stuart’s arm for support—it was Frank’s! Poor Frank had slept but for an instant, and on awakening, had sought his brother’s apartment. Finding that he was gone out, he had immediately ran down, through the court-yard of the inn, to a spot in the high road from whence he could command a view over the adjacent country, where catching a glimpse of two figures, about a mile from him, quitting the beaten track, he had rightly conjectured they were Stuart and his principal. He followed as fast as he was able, and arrived on the ground just in time to see O’Neil fall. He had then stolen up during the interval of confusion which ensued, and behind his brother had awaited the surgeon’s decision.

Warenne recognised Frank, but simply pressed his arm with affection. His heart was too full for utterance, and the silence was not broken, until the latter exclaimed, “Thank God! Gerald, you are yet spared to us!”

“Thank God, indeed!” replied the other. The deep but subdued tone of his voice expressing the sincerity with which he acknowledged the mercy of that Being, not only in preserving his life from destruction, but his conscience from a horrible crime.

Stuart soon afterwards joined them. “Warenne,” said he, “I congratulate you on being so well out of this business; for the wound in your arm is a trifle. Of all life’s disagreeable accidents, in my opinion, there is nothing so unpleasant as a duel; nothing so unsatisfactory; nothing—I beg your pardon—so foolish.”

“Do not beg my pardon,” replied Warenne; “all you say is true, and if the encounter ends in the death of either party, nothing so dreadful, both with regard to him who is hurried from the very act of sin, into the presence of his Maker, and to him who survives, to wear out a melancholy existence in unavailing remorse.”

Such weak and unstable creatures are we! Knowing the better line of conduct, but preferring the worse; afraid of the breath of our own species, who can only hurt the body, yet scrupling not to incur the anger of Him who can destroy both body and soul.

Warenne, a man of excellent principles, of commanding talents, and in the habit of controlling his passions, though he acknowledged the heinousness of the offence he was about to commit, and though he avowed his obligations to obey the commandment, “Thou shalt not kill!” could not subdue his worldly pride, but shrank from the danger of disgrace.

A quarter of an hour’s walk brought the party to their quarters; and Warenne, having thanked his old friend Stuart for the kind fulfilment of the disagreeable office which had devolved upon him, retired with Frank to his apartment.

When the two brothers were again alone in that room in which, not much more than two hours before, they had parted from each other with such painful emotions, Warenne, who could not reconcile to his conscience the steps which he had taken, though he had wilfully blinded himself to their inconsistency with his duty as a Christian, and was, moreover, much agitated with his narrow escape from more serious and irretrievable guilt, gave way to his feelings, and hastily saying, “Frank, you must pray for forgiveness for me!” threw himself on his knees by his bedside, and earnestly entreated pardon of his offended Creator.

Frank silently placed himself beside him, and for a few minutes both were absorbed in their devotions; those of the latter, perhaps, assuming the tone of grateful thanksgiving, rather than of anxious supplication. Warenne then rose composed and calm, and looking affectionately on his brother, whose tearful countenance betrayed the sincerity of the feeling in which he had prayed, bade him hasten to prepare for their march. How lightly, how gladly did Frank now obey him!

In an hour the bugles sounded, and the busy scene of departure commenced. The street was alive with men and horses, as the small parties came up from their different billets, and respectively fell into their places. Warenne had taken advantage of the interval to have his wound examined and dressed, and walked down the ranks to assume the command of his regiment with his cloak drawn over his bandaged arm, a little paler, perhaps, and graver than usual, but collected and self-possessed. A glance at his men showed him, that in the short time which had elapsed, the particulars of the duel had transpired. They were standing by their horses ready to mount; and as he passed along their front, one or two of the old veterans, who had fought through the peninsular campaigns with him, and considered him almost to belong to them, ventured to murmur reproachfully,—

“Surely, sir, you need not have gone to show your courage; if any thing had happened to you, what would have become of us? It’s a’most too bad of you.” And in a second more Henry Marston came up with a flushed face, and asked him how he could think of putting his life in danger to cover his foolish disputes with the Irish guests.

“Why,” said he earnestly, “did you not let some one of us young ones fight O’Neil?”

Warenne’s pale cheek received a slight tinge of colour, as he heard the affectionate remonstrances of his old soldiers; but he answered them only with a look of kind acknowledgment; to Henry, however, he replied smilingly, “Never mind now, Henry, I promise you that you shall shoot the next man who behaves ill at our mess; in the mean time I’ll try if I cannot occupy you more profitably.” Then hastening to mount his horse, he gave the signal for immediate departure.

CHAPTER III.

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.

CHAPTER IV.

The next day accordingly at an early hour, Warenne sought the residence of Lord Framlingham in Charles Street, when, on his knocking at the door, the servant who opened it presented him with a note from Henry, stating, that in the course of the preceding night an express had reached them from Epworth Castle, the seat of Mrs. Honoria Epworth, who was Adelaide’s godmother, desiring them to set off immediately if they wished to find her alive, and that his sister and himself were in the act of commencing their journey at the moment at which he wrote.

Poor Warenne, who had hoped to ascertain his future destiny before he again quitted Charles Street, was sadly disappointed at this intelligence. The evil, however, was without remedy, and he was obliged to retrace his steps towards home, there to await the hour of their return in all the misery of suspense. During this period he received the following letter from Frank:—