Nina started as if stung by an adder; the blood rushed and mantled over her face and neck; her eyes glowed with indignation, as she exclaimed, “I abhor and detest Monsieur Bertrand. I would die before I would marry him!” Then adding in a low voice, the sadness of which went to his heart, “and this from you too!” She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Never was man more astonished than Ethelston at the sudden storm which he had inadvertently raised. Remembering that Madame L’Estrange had told him of the engagement as being known to Nina, he had been led to suppose from her usual flow of spirits, that the prospect was far from being disagreeable to her. Young L’Estrange had also told him that Bertrand was a good looking man, of high character, and considered, from his wealth, as the best match in the French islands; so that Ethelston was altogether unprepared for the violent aversion which Nina now avowed for the marriage, and for the grief by which she seemed so deeply agitated. Still he was as far as ever from divining the true cause of her emotion, and conjectured that she had probably formed an attachment to one of the young officers on board her father’s ship. Under this impression he took her hand, and sympathising with the grief of one so fair and so young, he said to her kindly, “Forgive me, Nina, if I have said any thing to hurt your feelings; indeed I always have believed that your engagement to Monsieur Bertrand was an affair settled by your parents entirely with your consent. I am sure Monsieur L’Estrange loves his favourite child too well to compel her to a marriage against her inclination. Will you permit your Mentor (as you have more than once allowed me to call myself) to speak with him on the subject?”
Nina made no reply, and the tears coursed each other yet faster down her cheek.
“Your brother is absent,” continued Ethelston; “you seem not to confide your little secrets to your mother—will you not let me aid you by my advice? I am many years older than you.—I am deeply grateful for all your kindness during my tedious illness; believe me, I will, if you will only trust me, advise you with the affectionate interest of a parent, or an elder brother.”
The little hand trembled violently in his, but still no reply escaped from Nina’s lips.
“If you will not tell me your secret,” pursued Ethelston, “I must guess it. Your aversion to the engagement arises not so much from your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand, as from your preference of some other, whom perhaps your parents would not approve?”
The hand was withdrawn, being employed in an ineffectual attempt to check her tears. The slight fillet which bound her black tresses had given way, and they now fell in disorder, veiling the deep crimson glow which again mantled over the neck of the weeping girl.
Ethelston gazed on her with emotions of deep sympathy. There was a reality, a dignity about her speechless grief, that must have moved a sterner heart than his; and as he looked upon the heaving of her bosom, and upon the exquisite proportions unconsciously developed in her attitude, he suddenly felt that he was speaking, not to a child in the nursery, but to a girl in whose form and heart the bud and blossom of womanhood were thus early ripened. It was, therefore, in a tone, not less kind, but more respectful than he had hitherto used, that he said, “Nay, Nina, I desire not to pry into your secrets—I only wish to assure you of the deep sympathy which I feel with your sorrow, and of my desire to aid or comfort you by any means within my power; but if my curiosity offends you, I will retire, in the hope that your own gentle thoughts may soon afford you relief.”
Again the little hand was laid upon his arm, as Nina, still weeping, whispered, “No, no,—you do not offend me.—Do not leave me, I entreat you!”
A painful silence ensued; and Ethelston, more than ever confirmed in the belief that she had bestowed her affections on some young middy, or lieutenant, under her father’s command, continued, in a tone which he attempted to render gay: “Well then, Nina, since you will not give your confidence to Mentor, he must appoint himself your confessor; and to commence, is he right in believing that your dislike to Monsieur Bertrand arises from your having given your heart elsewhere?”