It was in one of the most picturesque parts of South Wales, on the
banks of the lovely Towy, that two ladies sat working at an open
casement, which led into a veranda, covered with clematis and
honey-suckle. The elder of the two might be about fifty, perhaps not
so much, for her features bore traces of suffering and sadness, which
plainly told, that sorrow had planted far deeper wrinkles there than
time alone could have done. The younger, an interesting girl of
nineteen, bore a strong resemblance to her mother; they were both
dressed in deep mourning. The room which they occupied, though plainly
and simply furnished, had yet an air of taste and elegance.
Mrs. Fortescue was the widow of an officer, who died of cholera in the
East Indies, leaving her with one daughter, and no other means of
support than a small annuity and her pension. An old servant of her
own had married a corporal in the same regiment, who having purchased
his discharge, now followed the trade of a carpenter, to which he had
been brought up, previous to enlisting, and was settled in his native
place, and the faithful Hannah, hearing of the Captain's death wrote
to Mrs. Fortescue, telling her, not only of the beauty of the spot,
but the cheapness of living in that part of the world, concluding by
saying, a house was then vacant, and could be had on very reasonable
terms. Mrs. Fortescue immediately wrote and engaged it. Though a
common looking building, yet by putting a veranda round, and making a
few alterations inside, it soon, with a little painting and papering,
was transformed into a pretty cottage. The work required was an
advantage to Mrs. Fortescue, inasmuch as it occupied her mind and thus
prevented her dwelling on her recent affliction, in other respects
too, she felt that a kind providence had directed her steps to the
little village in which we find her--and the good she found to do, was
the greatest balm her wounded spirit could receive: for though her
means were so limited, still, a wide field of usefulness lay before
her.
Mrs. Fortescue had a strong mind, and though her trial was hard, very
hard to bear, she remembered from whom it came, and not a murmur
escaped her. Devotedly attached to her husband, she deeply lamented
her loss, still she sorrowed not as one without hope: she had the
consolation of knowing few were better prepared for the change; and
she strove to take comfort in reflecting how greatly her grief would
have been augmented, were not such the case. But she felt that her
shield had been taken from her; and knowing how precarious was her own
health, she saw how desolate would be her child, should it please God
to remove her also, but a true Christian cannot mourn long; and as the
tears of agony would force themselves down her cheek, and her feelings
almost overpower her, she flew to her bible and in its gracious
promises to the afflicted, found that support and consolation, the
mere worldling can neither judge of, nor taste. Some delay, though no
actual doubt, as to ultimately obtaining her pension, had caused
inconvenience, as all their ready money had been absorbed in the
alterations of their house, though they had observed the utmost
economy, and demands were made which they had not at the time funds to
meet. Ethelind was miserable, but Mrs. Fortescue bore against all,
trusting something would turn up,--and so it did; for while discussing
the matter, a letter came, with an enclosure, from an old school
fellow, begging them to procure her board and lodging in the village
for a few months, intimating how much she would like it, if they could
accommodate her themselves. The terms for the first quarter were
highly remunerative and they gladly acceded to Miss Trevor's
proposition, and the few requisite preparations being made, we will,
if our reader pleases, go back to the evening when mother and daughter
sat awaiting the arrival of their new inmate.
Mrs. Fortescue had never seen Beatrice Trevor, but Ethelind was loud
in her praises. They sat in anxious expectation much beyond the usual
time for the arrival of the stage, and were just giving her up for the
night, when the rumbling of wheels was heard, and a post chaise drove
up, out of which sprang a young lady who in another moment was clasped
in Ethelind's arms, and introduced to her mother, who welcomed her
most kindly.
"Oh what a little Paradise!" said Beatrice, looking round her, "how
happy you must be here. Do Ethelind let me have one peep outside ere
daylight is gone;" so saying, she darted through the French casement,
on to the lawn, which sloped down to the water's edge. "Well I
declare, this is a perfect Elysium, I am so glad I made up my mind to
come here, instead of going with the Fultons to Cheltenham."
"I am indeed rejoiced that you are so pleased with our retreat, my
dear Miss Trevor, it is indeed a lovely spot."
"No Miss Trevor, if you please, my dear madam: it must be plain
Beatrice, and you must regard me as you do Ethelind, and be a mother
to me; for I know I greatly need a monitress; for you will find me, I
fear a sad giddy mad-cap."
Mrs. Fortescue smiling benignly promised acquiescence, and taking her
hand, which she grasped affectionately; led her into the next room,
where tea was waiting. After which, Ethelind took her up stairs, and
showed her the little bedroom prepared for her. They remained here
some time, chatting over their old school days, till summoned to
prayers. On taking leave for the night, Mrs. Fortescue begged if at
all heavy in the morning, that Beatrice would not hurry up. But she
arose early, much refreshed and delighted with all she saw. Ethelind
soon joined her, and offered to help her unpack, and arrange her
things, while the only servant they had, prepared the breakfast.
Soon as the morning meal was over, and little necessary arrangements
made, Ethelind proposed a ramble, which was gladly acceded to on the
part of Beatrice. They passed through an orchard into a lane, and as
they crossed a rustic bridge, the village church came in view. It was
a small gothic structure, standing in the burial ground, and as they
approached it, Beatrice was struck with admiration at the beds of
flowers, then blooming in full perfection on the graves; this is a
very beautiful, and, by no means, uncommon sight in South Wales; but
she had never seen it before. "Well, I declare, this is lovely;
really, Ethelind, to render the charm of romance complete, you ought
to have a very interesting young curate, with pale features and dark
hair and eyes."
"And so we have," said Ethelind, "and had he sat for his picture, you
could not have drawn a more correct likeness; but I regret to say, Mr.
Barclay's stay is not likely to be permanent, as one of Lord Eardly's
sons is to have the living, soon as the family returns from the
Continent, which we are all sorry for; as short as the time is, that
Mr. Barclay has been among us, he is generally liked, and from his
manner, we think the curacy, little as it is, an object to him; though
even now, he does a great deal of good, and you would hardly believe
all he has accomplished. I wish he were here, for I am sure you would
like him."
"I think," said Beatrice, "it is well he is not, for I might fall in
love with him, and then--"
"And then, what?" asked Ethelind.
"Why it must end in disappointment to both; for if he is poor and I am
poor, it would be little use our coming together; but were I rich, as
I expected to have been, then I might have set my cap at your young
curate, and rewarded his merit."
"Oh!" said Ethelind, "he deserves to be rich, he would make such good
use of wealth, for even now, he is very charitable."
"Charitable!" re-echoed Beatrice, "a curate, on perhaps less than a
hundred a year, must have a deal to be charitable with. Absurd: I
grant you he may have the heart, but certainly not the means."
"I know not," said Ethelind, "but I hear continually of the good he
does, and his kindness to the poor, and doubt if the Honourable
Frederic Eardly will do as much."
"Out upon these proud scions of nobility, I have not common patience
with the younger members of the aristocracy, taking holy orders solely
for the sake of aggrandizing the elder branches of the family; they
are rarely actuated by pious motives."
"We had only one service a-day till Mr. Barclay came, and now he
officiates morning and evening, besides managing to do duty, in the
afternoon, for a sick clergyman, who lives five miles off, and has a
large family, two of whom our worthy curate educates,--"
"No more," Ethelind, or my heart will be irrecoverably gone; but what
large house is that I see among the trees?"
"That is Eardly House."
"And do the family ever reside there?"
"They have not, since we have been in this part of the world, but when
in England, I am told, they spend part of every summer here."
"And if they come, they will spoil both our pleasure and our privacy;
say what you will, great people are a nuisance in a small village."
"To those who are situated like us, I grant it is unpleasant, but they
may do a great deal of good to their poor tenants. But, hark, it is
striking two,--our dinner hour,--mamma will wonder what is become of
us; there is a short cut through the Park, which we will take, it will
save, at least, a quarter of a mile." So through the Park they went,
and as they left it, to cross the road, a gentleman suddenly turned
the corner, and Mr. Barclay stood full before them.
"Why, Mr. Barclay," exclaimed Ethelind, "where, in the name of wonder,
did you come from? did you rise from the lake, or drop from the
clouds? I thought you were many miles away."
"And so I expected to be," said he, shaking hands with her, and bowing
to Beatrice, "but circumstances wholly unexpected, compelled me to
return."
"And are you going to remain?"
"For some months, I believe."
"I am really glad to hear it, and so, I am sure, will mamma be; but in
the agreeable surprise your unlooked for return gave, I forgot to
introduce Miss Trevor." The conversation now took a general turn, and
Mr. Barclay accompanied them to their door, where he only staid to
shake hands with Mrs. Fortescue, and then took his leave, promising to
return in the evening.
As may naturally be supposed, many weeks followed of delightful
intercourse; Mr. Barclay, when ever it did not interfere with his
duties, was the constant attendant of Ethelind, and Beatrice; he spent
every evening at Mrs. Fortescue's cottage, affording much speculation
to the village gossips, as to which of the two young ladies would
ultimately become the curate's choice. With their aid he carried out
his much cherished object of establishing a Sunday School, and
everything was going on quietly, till, at length, an unusual bustle
was observed in the village; artizans of every description were sent
from London, and the news was soon spread, that after the necessary
repairs and preparations were completed, the family might be expected.
This was anything but welcome intelligence to Ethelind and Beatrice,
who feared all their enjoyment would be disturbed. When Mr. Barclay
came in the evening, he confirmed the report and little else was
talked of.
"It is really provoking," said Ethelind "I am quite of Beatrice's
opinion, and think great folks anything but desirable in such a small
place, at least, to people circumstanced as we are."
"I am of opinion," said Mr. Barclay, "you will find it quite the
reverse."
"Shall you remain as curate," asked Mrs. Fortescue.
"Frederic Eardly purposes to make poor Bennet his curate."
"But if he is so ill he will not be able to do the duty," said
Beatrice.
"It is not hard, and Eardly is well able to do it himself."
"But will he," said she, "I really feel curious, to see how this
embryo bishop will get on, as I suppose nothing less is the object of
his taking orders."
"Oh, Miss Trevor, judge not so harshly. Is it not possible that in
singleness of heart, he may have gone into the Church, unmindful of
all but the sacred calling? I do not pretend to judge, but I believe
no worldly honour or pecuniary consideration influenced his choice, as
I know his grandfather left him quite independent."
"Oh, don't tell me, Mr. Barclay, it is very unlikely; but it is
natural that you should take his part because--"
"Because, what?" responded Mr. Barclay, "do you think money or
interest would prompt me to say what I don't think or mean?"
"No," said Beatrice, "I think you the last person in the world to
truckle to the great,--but no more of this; what kind of a being is
this Frederic Eardly?"
"I am a poor judge of character, besides, you would hardly give me
credit for being impartial. They say he is spoilt by his mother and
sisters, by whom he is perfectly idolized and to whom he is, in
return, devotedly attached."
"Come, that and helping poor Bennet, are certainly very redeeming
traits; but will his giving him a preference be doing justice to you,
who have done so much, and will it not--" here feeling she was going
too far, she coloured.
Mr. Barclay too, was much confused; and Beatrice was greatly relieved
when Mrs. Fortescue turned the conversation. She had long remarked to
herself, there was a mystery about Mr. Barclay which she could not
understand. There was, at times, a reserve she attributed to pride. If
not well born, he was quite _au fait_ in all the usages of well-bred
society. He never spoke of his family, but Mrs. Fortescue once asked
him if he had any sisters, when he replied, "Two, such as any brother
might be proud of;" but, while he spoke, the blood mantled in his
forehead, and fearing it might result from pride, she dropped the
subject, and, for the future, avoided saying anything that might
recall it, trusting that, in time, she might win his confidence.
Almost unconsciously to herself, was Ethelind, under the garb of
friendship, indulging a preference from which her delicacy shrank. She
could plainly see a growing attachment in Mr. Barclay to Beatrice, and
could not, for a moment, suppose he could be insensible to her
friend's fascinations, which certainly were very great. She was the
more convinced that Mr. Barclay loved Beatrice, for his manners
evidently changed, and, at times, he was absent and thoughtful, and
she sometimes fancied unhappy. Once it struck her, his affections
might be engaged elsewhere, and that Beatrice had shaken his faith to
her to whom it was plighted. She observed Beatrice using all her
efforts to attract and win Mr. Barclay, and yet she doubted if she
were sincere. Many things in her conduct led to this conclusion, and
showed no little coquetry in her disposition. Be it as it may, she met
Mr. Barclay's attentions more than half way, and seemed never in such
spirits as when with him; at any rate, poor Ethelind's delicacy took
the alarm, and she resolved to crush her own growing attachment in the
bud, and hide her feelings in reserve, and so great was her
self-command, that her love for Mr. Barclay, was unsuspected by all
save her mother.
As Beatrice and Ethelind were returning one evening from a long walk,
and being very tired, they sat down on a bank facing the Towy to rest
themselves, and watch the setting sun sink behind the undulating
mountains that almost surrounded them. They were, for some minutes, so
absorbed in the scene before them, that neither spoke; at last
Beatrice exclaimed:--
"What a pity it is, Ethelind, that you and Mr. Barclay never took it
into your heads to fall in love with each other; you would make such a
capital clergyman's wife."
"Beatrice!" said Ethelind, "why talk thus; do you mean to say that you
have been insensible to his attachment to you?"
"I do not mean to say that," replied she, "but I can assure you, that
if there is such a feeling, it is only on his side."
"And yet, you have not only received, but met his attentions with such
evident pleasure, and given him such decided encouragement."
"Now, Ethy, how could I resist a flirtation with such an interesting
character?"
"Oh, Beatrice, did you never think of the pain you might inflict by
leading him to suppose his affection was reciprocated."
"Never, my consciencious little Ethelind, he is too poor, nay, too
good, for me to think seriously of becoming his wife."
"Oh, Beatrice! I thought you had a more noble heart than to trifle
with the affections of such a man, particularly now there is a chance
of recovering your property; you might be so happy, and make him so
too."
"And do, you think, if I do recover it, I should throw myself away on
a poor curate, and that I should like to lead such a quiet hum-drum
life. No, my dear girl, I was never made to appreciate such goodness
or imitate it either."
"Then, of course, you will alter your conduct, ere you go too far, and
not render him wretched, perhaps for life."
"Of course, I shall do no such thing, his attentions are too pleasing;
it does not appear he will be here long, so I must make the most of
the time."
"Oh, Beatrice, think what havoc you may make in the happiness of a
worthy man; look at his character; see his exemplary conduct; and
could you, for the paltry gratification of your vanity, condemn him to
the pangs of unrequited love. He has now, I fear, the ills of poverty
to struggle against; did you notice his emotion when speaking of his
mother and sisters? perhaps they are dependant on him,--you must not,
shall not trifle with him thus."
"And why not, dearest Ethelind; I shall really begin to suspect you
like him yourself; oh, that tell tale blush, how it becomes you."
"I think," said Ethelind, "any one would colour at such an
accusation."
"Well then, to be honest, I have no heart to give."
"No heart to give! surely you are not engaged, and act thus?"
"I am, indeed."
"Cruel, heartless Beatrice," said Ethelind, "you cannot mean what you
say."
"I do most solemnly affirm it; but I will tell you all bye and bye:
now I cannot. I am smarting too much under you severe philippic, you
shall indeed know all,--but," said the thoughtless girl, "let us go
home, as your mother will be waiting tea, and Mr. Barclay with her."
"How can you face one you have so injured," said Ethelind, "I could
not."
"When you see a little more of the world, you will call these little
flirtations very venial errors."
"I hope," said Ethelind, "I shall never call _wrong right_, or _right
wrong_; neither, I trust, shall I ever act as if I thought so."
They reached home, and found tea ready, but Mr. Barclay was not there,
nor did he visit them that evening, but about eight o'clock Mrs.
Fortescue received a note, begging her to excuse him, as he had so
much to attend to, preparatory to the family coming to the Park.
They saw no more of him during the week. On Sunday, he looked,
Ethelind thought, very pale. Coming out of church he spoke to her
mother, and she thought there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke,
as if concealing some internal emotion. They made many conjectures as
to the cause of this extraordinary conduct, but both Mrs. Fortescue
and Ethelind felt certain there must be some good reason, as caprice
had, never since they had known him, formed any part of his conduct;
they were, therefore, obliged to come to the conclusion, that if they
knew it, they would find he had good reason for his conduct.
To Ethelind, when he met her alone, his manner was friendly as ever,
but she fancied he had often avoided them, when she and Beatrice were
together; sometimes she suspected he doubted Beatrice's sincerity. He
sent books and fruit to Mrs. Fortescue, as usual, but rarely went to
the cottage, and if he did, always timed his visits, so as to go when
the younger ladies were out. He would however, saunter home with
Ethelind, if alone, after the duties of the Sunday School, and consult
her on many of his plans; in short, he daily became more like his
former self.
The fact was, that the day on which Beatrice and Ethelind held the
discussion, he had started to meet them, but feeling tired, sat down
to rest on the very same bank they afterwards occupied: but the sun
shining fully on it, he had retreated behind a large tree, and having
fallen asleep, was awakened by their talking, and thus became an
unintentional auditor of their conversation.
It was a thunderbolt to him, to hear Beatrice acknowledge herself
positively engaged, and yet wilfully resolve to encourage his
attentions, and thus trifle with his feelings. Before Beatrice came,
he had been much pleased with the unaffected manner of Ethelind, whose
character he highly respected; but her reserve made him conclude she
was indifferent to him, but how did she rise in his estimation, as he
heard the conversation. Not a word of her advice to Beatrice was lost
on him, and he only wondered he had not done her more justice; how
grateful he felt for the noble indignation she expressed at her
friend's levity, and the honest warmth with which she took his part,
and strove, as it were, to prevent his being betrayed by the heartless
coquetry of Beatrice. He regarded all that had occurred as a special
intervention of Providence to save him from future misery. His regard
for Beatrice was daily increasing and believing her good and amiable,
he desired to win the affection, which he fully thought was
reciprocal; and how did the discovery of her treachery dash the cup of
happiness from his lips; but as it was because he believed her truly
amiable that he loved her, he thought, now the veil was drawn aside,
he should soon get over his disappointment. But, unworthy as she was,
she had so entwined herself in his heart, that it was no easy task to
tear her image from it--however, he was strong-minded, and soon
reflected that instead of grieving, he ought to be thankful for his
escape. Ethelind saw he was wretched, and fancied Beatrice was, some
how or other, the cause. She pitied him, and prayed for him, but it
was all she could do; but she was not sorry to hear Beatrice say she
had an invitation to Miss Fulton's wedding, which she was determined
to accept. The night previous to her departure, Mr. Barclay, unasked,
remained to tea, and when he took leave, he put a letter into the hand
of Beatrice, which she slipped into her pocket, she thought, unseen by
any one, but Ethelind saw it, though she took no notice, nor did
Beatrice mention it Before retiring to rest, she read as follows:--
"MY DEAR MISS TREVOR,
"I should ill act up to that fearless line of duty my sacred
calling prescribes, were I not, as a friend, to urge you to reflect
on your present line of conduct, and ask you to pause on it, ere
you wreck, not only the happiness of others but your own, at the
shrine of inordinate vanity. Shall I honestly own, that mine has
narrowly escaped being wrecked; and that, from your own lips, I
learnt such was the case. Believing you good and amiable, as you
seemed, I was fascinated, and allowed my feelings to outrun my
judgment, and yet I can hardly say that such was the case, for I
thought you all a woman should be. Let me warn and entreat you, on
all future occasions, as you wish to be happy, to deal fairly and
truly with him who may seek to win your affection. I was an
unwilling listener to your conversation with Miss Fortescue, the
other day, and there, from your own lips, learnt that while engaged
to another, you scrupled not to receive and encourage my
attentions; and more than that, you declared your resolution, of
holding out hopes you never meant to realize. Had I known you were
bound to another, whatever my feelings had been for you, I had
never sought to win your love, but I fully believed you ingenuous
as you seemed. Had you not met the advances so sincerely made by
me, with such seeming pleasure, whatever the struggle might have
cost me, it had passed in silence. I will candidly own, that while
my respect is lessened, I cannot forget what my feelings towards
you have been. Time alone can heal the peace of mind you have so
recklessly wounded; but I again advise you to reflect seriously on
the past, and be assured, that she who pursues such a line of
conduct as you have done, will ever find it militate against her
own happiness, as well as that of others; and I fear, it has done
so in the present instance, for while smarting under the bitter
feelings your behaviour called forth, I wrote to an intimate
friend, and spoke of my disappointment, and the struggle I had to
obtain such a mastery over myself, as would prevent it interfering
with my duty. Unfortunately, that friend was the very man to whom
you are engaged; which I did not know at the time, nor am I
prepared to say if I had, how I should have acted. George Graham is
an honourable fellow, who believed you as faithful as himself. Thus
has your thoughtless, nay, I will go farther, and say highly
culpable levity, sacrificed the happiness of two as honest hearts
as ever beat in the human breast; I would say I pity you, but I can
hardly expect your own peace to have suffered.
"Mine is a responsible and sacred calling; and feeling it to be
such, I want, when I marry, a woman who will _aid_, not _hinder_ me
in my arduous duties; I have, as far as human infirmity permits,
done with the world and its pleasures; but I am but mortal, and who
knows to what frivolity, nay to what sin, but for the merciful
interposition of God, you might have led me; and that, while bound
to teach and guide others, I might, in my daily conduct, have
contradicted the truths I was bound to enforce.
"On first coming to reside here, I was much pleased with Miss
Fortescue, and I felt that with her, I could be happy, but her
reserve made me fancy her indifferent to me, and I judged she could
not return my love; and while her conduct increased my esteem, I
resolved that I would not forfeit her friendship by persevering in
attentions, I feared, she cared not for. You came: your beauty
struck me; your fascinating manners made an impression I could not
resist; your seeming pleasure in my attentions misled me, and my
heart was enslaved ere my judgment could act. But no more! you have
yourself, undrawn the veil, and humbly do I thank the merciful
Providence that has thus over-ruled things, and interfered to save
me from--, I hardly know what. You can scarcely wonder that I
avoided you, after what I heard; and it was not till to-day I could
sufficiently command my feelings, to stay at Mrs. Fortescue's, and
see you; it is not that I still love you, for I cannot love the
woman I no longer respect. I do not hate you; but I do sincerely
pity you, and humbly, and fervently do I pray that you may, ere too
late, see the errors of your conduct. You, by your own confession,
deem coquetry a venial error; can that be such, from which come
such cruel and mischievous results. But no more. I forgive you most
freely, and shall ever fervently pray that you may see and feel how
inimical to peace _here_, as well as _hereafter_, is such conduct
as you have shown.
"Ever your sincere friend, F.B."
No words can do justice to the agony of Beatrice's feelings, as she
read the foregoing letter. She was thunderstruck; here was a blow to
her happiness, how completely was she caught in her own toils; she
could but feel the retribution just. Of all men, she knew, George
Graham to be one of the most fastidious, and that of all things he
held the most despicable, she well knew, was a coquette. She loved him
with passionate devotion, but knew, if the effort cost him his life,
he would cast her from his affections. She was almost maddened with
the thought. She did indeed feel that Mr. Barclay was amply revenged,
and in feeling every hope of happiness was lost, she could judge to
what she had nearly brought him; though she perhaps forgot that he had
a support in the hour of trial to which she could not look, for she
had wilfully erred. It had always been her practice to go daily to the
village post office, consequently, no suspicions could arise on the
part of Ethelind, as they would have done, had she seen the frequency
of her friend's receiving letters. She rose early, and went the
morning she was to leave. She started, as the well known writing met
her eye on the address: her limbs trembled, and she feared to open the
packet put into her hands. Her own letters were returned with the
accompanying note:--
"FAITHLESS, BUT STILL DEAR BEATRICE,
"Farewell, and for ever! May you never know the bitter pangs you
have inflicted! I may be too fastidious, but I could never unite my
fate with yours; the woman I marry I must respect, or I can never
be happy; and miserable as I shall be without you, I feel that I
should be still more wretched did I unite my fate with yours. My
whole heart was, and is yours only, and had your feelings been what
they ought, you would have spurned the paltry gratification of
winning the affection you could not return, I sail for India
to-morrow; to have seen you would be worse than useless; as we can
never now, be anything, to each other.--Once more, adieu!
"Your once devoted,
"GEORGE GRAHAM."
Beatrice's eyes were red with weeping when she returned from the
village. She hesitated whether or not to show Ethelind the letters;
but she well knew her disposition and that although she highly
disapproved her conduct, still she would feel for her, and she needed
consolation; accordingly, calling her into her bed room, she put both
epistles into the hand of her friend, begging her to try and read them
through before the carriage came that was to take her away. Ethelind
was little less astonished than Beatrice had been, and truly did she
feel for her mortification. Many and bitter were the tears she shed on
reading Mr. Barclay's letter, for she well knew how strongly he must
have felt. Most thankful, too, was she that, by striving to overcome
her own attachment she had spared herself from having it even
suspected. Without a remark she returned the letters to Beatrice, who
could only beg to hear from her, and she promised to write, when the
post chaise drove up, and after affectionately embracing Mrs.
Fortescue and Ethelind, she was soon out of sight.
Mrs. Fortescue was, for some days, very poorly, and at length took to
her bed. Mr. Barclay was daily in attendance, affording her all the
religious consolation in his power, but he saw, although resigned,
there was something on her mind; and was not mistaken. She felt her
earthly race was well nigh run, and she was anxious as to Ethelind's
future fate. She knew God had said, "leave thy fatherless children to
me," and she felt she could do so, and she knew also, that it was
written, "commit thy way unto the Lord, and he shall bring it to
pass;" he had said, and would he not surely do it? She was one on whom
sorrow had done a blessed work.
Mr. Barclay calling one morning, found Ethelind out. It was an
opportunity he had long desired, and having read and prayed with Mrs.
F., he told her he feared some anxiety was still pressing on her mind.
"Yes," said she, "though I feel it to be wrong, I cannot help wishing
to be permitted to linger a little longer here, for Ethelind's sake,
though I know that God is all sufficient, still it is the infirmity of
human nature."
"Make your mind easy on that head, my dear Mrs. Fortescue, for if
Ethelind will but trust her happiness with me, gladly will I become
her protector."
"Oh, Mr. Barclay how thankfully would I trust my child in such
keeping, but would your means support the incumbrance of a wife."
"Believe in my truth, at such a moment; I have sufficient for both."
"Almighty God, I thank thee!" exclaimed the invalid.
Mr. Barclay now insisted on her taking her medicine, which had such a
soothing effect that she soon after fell into a peaceful slumber. He
sat sometime musing, when Hannah, who had alone been helping Ethelind
nurse her mother, came in, and Mr. Barclay rose to go.
He met Ethelind at the door, and finding she was going to her mother,
told her she was asleep, and asked to speak with her in the parlour.
Only requesting permission to be assured that he was not mistaken as
to Mrs. Fortescue not being awake, she promised to join him
immediately.
"Ethelind," said he with some emotion, "will you, dare you, trust your
happiness with me? Can you be contented to share my lot, and help me
in the discharge of my duties. Will the retired life I lead, be
consonant with your tastes and wishes. Tell me honestly; you, I know,
will not deceive me. Your mother, I fear, is seriously ill, and if, as
I sometimes dare hope, you love me, let us give her the satisfaction
of seeing us united ere she is called hence."
"Mr. Barclay," said Ethelind, soon as she could speak, "were I
differently circumstanced, gladly would I unite my fate with yours,
but with your present limited means, I should only be a burden. You
have, perhaps, a mother and sisters dependent on you, with whose
comfort I might interfere."
"They are," said he, "perfectly independent of me; but tell me if I
have that interest in your affections that alone can make me happy,
tell me the truth, I shall not respect you the less."
"Oh, Mr. Barclay, I shall be but too happy," said Ethelind, bursting
into tears, "but can I really believe you."
"I was never more earnest, and I will add, more happy in my life; but
my Ethelind," continued he, "your mother's health is so precarious
that I must insist on your consulting her, and naming an early day to
be mine."
"But I cannot, will not leave her; no, we must wait."
"You shall not, my sweet girl, leave your respected parent. No, while
it pleases God to spare her life, you shall not be separated from her
one hour; she shall live with us, But I shall write to my mother and
sisters, who must witness my happiness;--but you are agitated,
dearest, do you repent or desire to rescind?"
"Oh! no;" said Ethelind, "but this is so unexpected. Oh, let me go to
my beloved mother, pray do, Mr. Barclay," said she, drawing away the
hand he still strove to retain in his.
"Have done with Mr. Barclay, and call me Frederic." Waiting only till
she assented to this, he took his leave; and Ethelind went, with a
heart overcharged with joy, to her mother, who had just awakened from
a tranquil slumber. It is needless to say how truly thankful Mrs.
Fortescue was. Her child's happiness seemingly so well secured, she
had only now to prepare for the solemn change that she felt was not
far distant.
From this time, however, her health gradually amended, and the day was
fixed for the union of Ethelind and Mr. Barclay. He settled that they
should, for the present, reside at the Rectory. Ethelind's countenance
brightened, for she fancied she had solved part of the mystery, and
that Mr. Eardly was not yet coming, and till his arrival they would be
permitted to reside there.
The evening before the ceremony was to take place, Mr. Barclay came in
with two ladies. One, a benign but august looking personage; the
other, a sylph-like, beautiful creature of eighteen, whom he
introduced as his mother and younger sister. Ethelind timidly but
gracefully received them. Their kind and easy manner soon removed the
little restraint there was at first, but she was still bewildered, and
could hardly fancy she was not dreaming; their appearance, too,
increased rather than diminished her wonder, for they were most
elegantly attired. After allowing a short time for conversation, she
went out and fetched her mother, and all parties seemed delighted with
each other. After sitting some time, Mr. Barclay, looking at his
mother, rose, and taking Ethelind's hand, said, "now, my disinterested
girl, allow me to introduce myself as Frederic Barclay Eardly!"
"Can it be possible!" exclaimed Mrs. Fortescue and Ethelind at once,
and with the utmost surprise, while Lady Eardly and her daughter sat
smiling and pleased spectators.
"Yes, my dear Ethelind; but the deception has been very unpremeditated
on my part, as you shall hear. Arriving in England alone, I came down,
merely intending to look round, having had some reason to be
dissatisfied with Mr. Jones, the acting curate, by whom, when I got to
the inn, I was supposed to be the new curate, and as such, I believe,
received very differently to what I should have been as the rector;
and anxious to know exactly the state of my parishioners, thought, in
the humble capacity, they had taken me, I might better do this. In
calling to see your mother, who, I thought, from her previous good
deeds in the parish, was likely to be an efficient adviser, I was
invited to tea, and from the conversation of both you and her, I
found, that while as the curate I should have free intercourse at the
cottage, as the Hon. Frederic Eardly the doors would be closed on me;
added to this, was a lurking hope that I might, eventually, gain your
affections, and know that you loved me for myself alone. Your reserve
however, dispelled, for a time, that illusion. Beatrice Trevor came
and threw out lures I could not resist, and I was fairly entrapped;
however, I will not dwell on what has led to such happy results.
Bennet, alone, knows my secret."
Lady Eardly now took an affectionate leave. She had brought a splendid
wedding dress for Ethelind, but her son insisted on her wearing the
plain white muslin she had herself prepared.
A union founded on such a basis, could not fail to bring as much real
happiness as mortals, subject to the vicissitudes of life, could
expect. Frederic Eardly passed many years of usefulness in his native
place, aided, in many of his good works, by his amiable wife. But
though blessed with many earthly comforts, they were not without their
trials, they had a promising family, but two or three were early
recalled; and in proportion to their affection for these interesting
children, was their grief at the severed links in the chain of earthly
love. The mother, perhaps, felt more keenly than the father, but both
knew they were blessings only lent, and they bowed submissively.
Beatrice was not heard of for some time, though Ethelind wrote
repeatedly, and named her second girl after her, and some eight or ten
years afterwards a letter came, written by Beatrice as she lay on her
death-bed, to be given to her little namesake on her seventeenth
birth-day. She left her all her jewels and a sum of money, but the
letter was the most valuable bequest, as it pointed out the errors
into which she had fallen, and their sad results. She had, it would
seem, accompanied the friend abroad to whose marriage she had gone,
and had once more marred her own prospects of happiness by her folly,
and once more had she injured the peace of others. Farther she might
have gone on, had she not sickened with the small-pox, of a most
virulent kind; she ultimately recovered; but her transcendent beauty
was gone, and she had now time to reflect on the past. Her affliction
was most salutary, and worked a thorough reformation, which, had her
life been spared, would have shown itself in her conduct.
Although Ethelind needed it not, it was a lesson to her to be, if
possible, more careful and anxious in the formation of her daughters'
principles as they grew up, and more prayerful that her efforts to
direct their steps aright, might be crowned with success. Her prayers
were heard, and the family proved worthy the care of their excellent
mother.