"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.