Читать книгу A Book for the Young - Sarah French - Страница 6

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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,