Herbert did not linger with his father and sister; a few minutes private interview with the former caused his most sanguine hopes to become yet stronger, then travelling post to London, where he only remained a few hours, returned with all haste to his college.  In his rapid journey, however, he had changed his mind with regard to keeping what had passed between himself and Mary a secret from his mother, whom he yet loved with perhaps even more confiding fondness than in his boyhood.  He saw her alone; imparted to her briefly but earnestly all that had passed, implored her to promise consent, and preserve his confidence even from his brothers and sisters; as so long a time must elapse ere they could indeed be united, that he dreaded their engagement being known.

“Even the good wishes of the dear members of home,” he said, “would sound, I fear, but harshly on my ear.  I cannot define why I do not wish it known even to those I love; yet, dearest mother, indulge me.  The events of one day are hidden from us; how dark then must be those of three years.  No plighted promise has passed between us; it is but the confidence of mutual love; and that—­oh, mother, I could not bear it torn from the recesses of my own breast to be a subject of conversation even to those dearest to me.”

His mother looked on the glowing countenance of her son; on him, who from, his birth had never by his conduct given her one single moment of care, and had she even disapproved of his secrecy, all he asked would have been granted him; but she approved of his resolution, and emotion glistened in her eye, as she said—­

“My Herbert, if I had been privileged to select one among my young friends to be your wife, my choice would have fallen, without one moment’s hesitation, on Mary Greville.  She, amid them all, I deem most worthy to be the partner of my son.  May Heaven in mercy spare you to each other!”

Herbert returned to college, and resumed his studies with even greater earnestness than, before.  His unrestrained confidence had been as balm to his mother’s heart, and soothed the bitter pain it was to behold, to feel assured, for it was no longer fancy, that the confidence of Caroline was indeed utterly denied her and bestowed upon another.  Yet still Mrs. Hamilton fancied Caroline loved St. Eval; her eyes had not yet been opened to the enormity of her daughter’s conduct.  Nor were they till, after a long struggle of fervid love with the tremblings natural to a fond but reserved and lowly heart, St. Eval summoned courage to offer hand, heart, and fortune to the girl he loved (he might well be pardoned for the belief that she loved him), and was rejected, coldly, decidedly.