“But,”—she continued, hesitating, “I trust you will find that the regard which Frances and I have felt for you, from our earliest childhood, will prove, through life, an unshaken friendship!”
This was valiantly said of Julia; and the speech took all the breath, of which she was mistress, to bring it to so handsome a conclusion.
“If your friendship,” he replied, with sudden depression of manner, “and that of your family were withdrawn, what would be left to the desolate Edmund!” A short silence ensued. “Promise me, Julia,” he recommenced, taking again the hand that leaned on his arm, and trembling as he reflected that he might yet lose all share in her regard, if his rash passion should ever be discovered; “promise me, that you never will, under any circumstances, withdraw your friendship from me.”
Julia, after hesitating a little, said—“I may, I think, make that promise, Edmund, for I am sure you never will deserve to lose it, and—even—” She stopped as if uncertain whether or not she ought to proceed.
“Do not check that kind sentence, Julia!” he exclaimed, in a tone of entreaty. “You were going to say, that you would still regard and pity the unfortunate Edmund, even if he were in fault, and condemned by strangers!”
“Well, I am sure I would, Edmund,” she replied, after a moment’s pause; “and so would Frances, and so would grandmamma,” she added, eagerly, as Edmund pressed the hand which leaned on his arm against his heart, to express his gratitude.
At this moment, Henry, who had been sent to call them in to breakfast, came up. He curled his lip as he observed Edmund let go the hand of Julia, and all three walked towards the house in silence.
“That won’t do, Captain Montgomery,” whispered Henry, as they entered, affecting a laugh.
Edmund reddened, and turning on him with a frown, said, “I request, sir, that you will spare yourself the trouble of thinking for me.”