Never before had Clementina found her cousin half so agreeable as now. He was so gentle, so considerate, so ready to sympathize with her, that she began suddenly quite to change her opinion of him, and think the young peer a very delightful companion. She had hitherto been rather provoked at his indifference towards her; now, as she had little idea of the nature of Christian courtesy, she attributed all his kindness to admiration. She thought that the white bandage across her brow might have an “interesting” effect; and Ernest’s gentle consideration would have lost half its power to please, had Clementina been aware that it would have been equally shown to one in a humbler class of life of the age of forty instead of fourteen.
As she reclined on the sofa, and Ernest sat beside her, it was a great comfort to her to be able to pour out her complaints to him. “There never was anything so unfortunate,” said she; “you can’t imagine what it is to have such a disappointment.”
CLEMENTINA AND ERNEST.
“I think that I can, Clementina, for I was once most bitterly disappointed myself.”
“Oh, but you are such a sober creature, such a philosopher. I daresay that you scarcely gave it a thought.”
“On the contrary, I felt myself almost overwhelmed. I could hardly speak, I could hardly keep from tears.”
“You!” exclaimed Clementina in surprise.
“I thought,” continued Ernest, “that there was no one on earth so unhappy as I—that all happiness in this world was gone.”