“If he still love her, as his letters would betray, let him come and plead his own cause; never will I say anything that can make Caroline believe I am in secret negotiating for him.”  Such was the thought that ever checked her, when about to speak of him in the common course of conversation, and baffled all Caroline’s secret wishes that she would speak in his praise as her sisters and Lord Louis so constantly did.

But even as delicacy prevented all allusion to him from the lips of Lady Gertrude, so it actuated Caroline with perhaps even greater force.  Would she betray herself, and confess that she repented her rejection of St. Eval? would she by word or deed betray that, would he return to her, she would be his own, and feel blessed in his affections?  She shrunk almost in horror from doing so, and roused her every energy to conceal and subdue every emotion, till she could hear his name with composure.  Yet more than once had Lady Gertrude, as she silently watched her countenance, fancied she perceived sufficient evidence to bid her wonder what could have induced Caroline’s past conduct, to imagine that if St. Eval could forget that, he might be happy yet; and for his sake, conquering her scruples, once she spoke openly of him, when she and Caroline were visiting some poor cottagers alone.  She spoke of his character, many points of which, though she admired, she regretted, as rendering him less susceptible of happiness than many who were less gifted.  “Unless he find a wife to love him as he loves—­one who will devote herself to him alone, regardless of rank or fortune, Eugene never can be happy; and if he pass through life, unblest by the dearest and nearest ties, he will be miserable.”  So much she did say, and added her earnest wishes for his welfare, in a tone that caused the tears to spring to the eyes of her companion, who permitted her to speak for some time without in any way replying.

“What a pity you are his sister,” she replied, rallying all her energies to speak frankly and somewhat sportively; “a woman like yourself is alone worthy of Lord St. Eval.”

“You are wrong,” replied Lady Gertrude, sadly; “I am much too cold and reserved to form, as a wife, the happiness of such a character as my brother’s.  We have grown together from childhood, we have associated more intimately and affectionately with each other than with any other members of our family, and therefore Eugene knows and loves me.  The wife of St. Eval should be of a disposition as ingenuous and open as his is reserved; her affection, her sympathy, must make his felicity.  He is grave—­too grave; she should be playful, but not childish.  Even if she have some faults, with the love for which my brother pines, the ingenuousness unsullied by the most trifling artifice, her very faults would bind her more closely to him.”