A Book For The Young by Sarah French

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"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."

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