A Book for the Young | Page 8

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