Page:The European Magazine and London Review - Vol. 87.djvu/267

 in all its bearings, until it was agreed that the marriage state does make adequate compensation for the loss of those tender blossoms with which the passion of unwedded lovers is adorned.

But the consequences of that charming party were not yet over: the Colonel redoubled his visits, and became at length, a necessary appurtenance to the family.

Von Eschenburg had some suspicion of Wartenstein. The town pretended to know that he set no bounds to his passion, but let it carry him whithersoever it would, regardless of the happiness it might destroy, or, indeed, of any consequences it might occasion. Judging from his palpable attentions to the Baroness, it would appear that he had no design to proceed very cautiously in his present amour. However, the Baron was aware of the decided aversion which his wife had for the Colonel; and he confided in the tried virtue of his lady, and even more in her taste. For vanity persuaded him it was impossible that a lady of taste could prefer the insignificant looking Colonel, to one of his own prepossessing exterior. Daily experience warned him in vain, for his obstinate vanity had made him deaf to her voice. In the meanwhile the Colonel had, by a thousand trifling attentions, gradually ingratiated himself so much with Lady Von Eschenburg, that every evening in which she was deprived of his society, was followed by a sleepless night. Unknown to herself, “the friend of the family” had risen so high in her estimation, that among her confidential acquaintances, when the conversation turned upon particular virtues, or traits of character, she generally found examples of them in the Colonel’s life and conduct.

At first Wartenstein appeared only occasionally and accidentally to drop in at those hours in which the Baron was absent; but in a short time Clotilde discovered it was at such times only that he seemed delighted with her society. She reproached herself with not having earlier opposed and discouraged his growing passion. She could not but be conscious that she had deviated almost too much from her former harsh conduct towards him. Yet, said she, excusing herself, how could I afterwards have begun to discourage an attachment, which from its unpretending delicacy, seemed, and seems to this hour, deserving not merely of pardon, but of gratitude.

Her goodness of heart led her to remove everything that could give the Colonel a pang. She had remarked that a ring with Eschenburg’s portrait was hateful to him, and she avoided wearing it in his presence. Her gratitude for his good opinion shewed itself in a thousand similar observances, which, however innocent they were in themselves, nevertheless tended naturally to fan the Colonel’s flame.

One favour only he had begged of her, namely, the liberty of calling her by her Christian name, and, for the very reason that it was his only request, she considered that she ought to grant it.

The Colonel evidently had long sought an opportunity of giving vent to some powerful feeling that agitated his bosom; this the Baroness perceived and avoided. One day he suddenly surprised her with the following declaration.

“Clotilde,” said he, “you must long ago have perceived that my whole existence depends on you.” Lady Von Eschenburg was the more startled at this abrupt declaration, as he accompanied it with a passionate grasp of her hand, and she was on the point of withdrawing it, when he continued in a milder tone—“Let me but speak, Clotilde! This suppression of my feelings has torn my bosom; if it continued longer it must destroy me utterly, and that would surely pain you a little?”

“What would you have, when you know”—here she cast a look at her husband’s portrait, which hung over the sopha, “I know—and I request no more than the acceptance of my vows of eternal constancy.”

“Impossible, Wartenstein—What return could I make you?”

“Have I then desired a return? Is it not the ravishing thought of the sacrifice that renders me happy—the sacrifice I make for thee? I stand upon the brink of a precipice—your refusal will thrust me headlong down it.”

With these words he threw himself at her feet, and, at the same instant Madame Selter entered.