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 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 LADY GRANARD'S NIECES." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 T. C. N E W B Y, P U B L I S H E R, 
 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 
 1850.
 
 
 SIRARTHUEBOUYEEIE, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LO Belier raon ami, commencez au commencement. — Le Belier . 
 
 CT) 
 
 '^ I'll take it up for pity. — Winter's Tale. 
 
 ^^ One of the prettiest houses in the neighbour- 
 
 CO hood of the picturesque village of Wilverton, in 
 
 Wiltshire, was Bloomfield Lodge, the residence 
 
 ^of the Reverend Mr. Stanhope, vicar of the 
 
 ^above-mentioned place. Standing upon a slop- 
 
 "^^ing green, at the base of which flowed a little 
 
 ^streamlet, its light and elegant structure failed 
 
 v^Tiot to attract the attention of every traveller 
 
 ,who passed on the high road, to the very brink 
 
 .,^.bf whose shelving banks its large and tastefully 
 
 -? VOL. I. 13
 
 2 SlU ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 arranged garden extendi d. Even in the winter, 
 when the country is divested of all its charms, 
 the building had a pleasing appearance ; for the 
 M'alUs in the grounds around it, gravelled with 
 care, were at all times kept free from disorder, and 
 the leafless shrubs that stretched out their naked 
 branches against the sky, still stood there in the 
 same prettily planted groups as when clothed 
 with their summer foliage. And when the win- 
 ter put on some of its sunniest smiles, and 
 frosted the paths with silver, and the trees with 
 long slender icicles, which sparkled in the rising 
 sun like so many bright bars of diamonds, while 
 the trickling flow of the streamdet was frozen 
 up, and all around remained still and bright, the 
 scene was most beautiful to look upon. But 
 yet its summer loveliness was far more attrac- 
 tive ; for then the trelliced shafts of the veranda 
 that encircled the whole house, were covered 
 with an infinite variety of creeping plants, the 
 breezy air seemed lilled with perfume, and the 
 smooth and well-cut lawn, was green with the
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 3 
 
 freshest verdure, and with the most beautiful 
 blossoming shrubs. 
 
 It was, in truth, a charming residence, but its 
 dimensions were not large, twelve or fourteen 
 rooms being all the apartments it com.prised. 
 It was just what a gentleman would call a neat 
 little affair, and a lady a sweetly pretty retreat ; 
 it was, in short, the sort of thing that fashion- 
 able young ladies picture to themselves when 
 they dream of love in a cottage, having never 
 seen a real one. And truly, it seemed the place 
 of others that a pair of reasonable lovers, united 
 by the unchanging bonds of affection, would 
 have chosen to live and die in, as there appeared 
 to be a pleasing solitude around the house, re- 
 moved as it was about half a mile from the vil- 
 lage, according well with the gentle idealities of 
 love. 
 
 The presence of true love had hallowed its 
 walls : when Mr. Stanhope first came to Wil- 
 verton, to enter upon the discharge of his cleri- 
 cal duties, he brought with him a young and 
 
 B 2
 
 4 SIR ARTHUR BQUVERIS. 
 
 loving wife, whose aftection he repaid sincerely 
 and devotedly ; and it was by her persuasions 
 that he erected, on the site of the ancient lodge 
 which formerly stood there, the present pretty 
 building. He had money, he had taste, and 
 the old house being in a very dilapidated state, 
 he thought it was just as well to build a new 
 one as to spend three quarters of the sum it 
 would cost him in repairing the ill-contrived 
 and rambling structure before alluded to. 
 Scarcely, however, had he taken possession of 
 his comfortable and pleasing habitation, ere all 
 his prospects of a peaceful and happy home 
 were destroyed by an event that took place a 
 short time afterwards. Mrs. Stanhope, who 
 had always sutFered from delicate health, died 
 about five years after her first arrival in Wilver- 
 ton, and the sou she gave birth to during that 
 period was left, when only a year old, to the 
 sole care of his father. 
 
 Little Herbert Stanhope was a healthy child, 
 good tempered and courageous, and, being con-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BCUVERIE. 5 
 
 fided to the care of an excellent nurse, his early 
 years caused not more anxiety or trouble to Mr. 
 Stanhope than that which at times every tender 
 parent must feel. And if ever a mother's place, 
 a' mother's love, could have been worthily sup- 
 plied to Herbert by any one, it was so by 
 Bridget Walters. Faithful and affectionate in 
 the highest degree, loving her master, and con- 
 sidering the child with whom she was entrusted 
 as her own, her constant endeavour was to please 
 both, — which, nevertheless, she could not al- 
 ways do, as she was often faultily indulgent 
 towards Herbert, who, passionate in the ex- 
 tiseme, generally had his own way with her, 
 unless Mr. Stanhope interfered with well-timed 
 severity, and set the matter right by punishing 
 him, if punishment were his due, and reproving 
 Bridget for her foolish weakness in good earnest. 
 These scenes were of frequent recurrence; for 
 though Mr. Stanhope was a kind father, he 
 knew well when severity became necessary, and 
 therefore always restrained the impetuous spirit
 
 6 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 of his son, \^ henever it tended to obstinacy or 
 passion. Keen in feeling, gentle and grave, yet 
 firm, he loved Herbert with a strength of affec- 
 tion as judiciously controlled in its weaker 
 points, as it was fervent in tenderness; and his 
 son knew this, and dreaded his quiet displeasure 
 far more than the punishments which his old 
 nurse, notwithstanding all her inclinations to- 
 wards humouring him, felt sometimes obliged 
 to inflict upon him. 
 
 And these were the principal inmates of 
 Bloomfield Lodge, a widowed husband, a mo- 
 therless child, and an old nurse. And time flew 
 on ; but ere three years had elapsed since the 
 loss of her whom Mr. Stanhope mourned, an 
 incident happened, which in some slight degree 
 changed the monotony of his future life, and 
 spread a more cheerful spirit over the Lodge. 
 
 One fine evening, towards the middle of sum- 
 mer, the vicar was returning from the village, 
 whither he had been upon a charitable errand, 
 when, arriving at the gate of his house, he saw a
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 7 
 
 woman with a child in her arms, and apparently 
 asleep, sitting down close beside it. The posi- 
 tion in which she reclined was such as to pre- 
 vent Mr. Stanhope entering the garden with- 
 out disturbing her ; moreover, her appearance 
 seemed to express so much want and misery, 
 that, kind-hearted and benevolent as he was, he 
 did not even wish to pass her until he had 
 inquired whether she really was in need of as- 
 sistance ; therefore, stepping up to where she 
 sat, he called out, and touched her on the 
 shoulder to awaken her. But she did not 
 move ; and bending down again, he spoke in a 
 Imider tone, at the same time shaking her more 
 roughly than before ; still she gave no sign that 
 she either heard or felt him ; and, in surprise, he 
 threw back the large bonnet which hid her face, to 
 know whether she was in truth asleep, or only 
 feigning to be so,— then, with a sudden start, an 
 expression of horror overspread his countenance, 
 — the wayfarer was dead. 
 
 A second glance at the glassy eyes, and the
 
 S SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIB* 
 
 fixed and rigid iramoveability of her features^ 
 confirmed the fact ; and quickly taking from 
 the dead woman the sleeping infant, which lay 
 clasped in her stiff embrace, he hastened to the 
 Lodge, gave it in charge to Bridget, and ordered 
 the mother to be directly carried into the house. 
 Every effort was made, every remedy applied, 
 with the vain hope of bringing back life to the 
 heart of her, from whom it had fled for ever, 
 but all to no purpose. The vital warmth had 
 been long since extinct ; and the medical prac- 
 titioner, who w^as called in, after essaying, in 
 compliance to Mr. Stanhope's wishes, every 
 restorative that could be suggested, at length 
 declared all further attention useless, and took 
 his departure. Night came on, and the vicar, 
 wearied in spirits and in frame by the events of 
 the day, passed into the library for an hour of 
 quiet meditation, before he retired to rest. But 
 his solitude was soon broken in upon by Bridget 
 Walters, who entered with some tea. 
 
 " I kaew,^^ said the old servant, as she sat*
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 9 
 
 down the tray before her master, " I knew that 
 you had taken nothing since dinner, sir ; and 
 so I brought you this. I quite forgot all about 
 it before, — I was thinking so much of that poor 
 woman." 
 
 " Never mind, never mind," said Mr. Stan- 
 hope, *'* it will do just as well now, Bridget; — 
 indeed, I scarcely want any thing to-night." 
 
 *^0h, sir !" answered Bridget, "you have had 
 nothing since dinner, only think ! you ought to 
 take something." 
 
 " Very well," said Mr. Stanhope, "leave the 
 tea here then." And Bridget, empty-handed 
 w^ent towards the door ; but there she Ungered, 
 and seemed to wish to say something, which she 
 did not exactly like to begin, until seeing that 
 her master took no further notice of her, she 
 said, — 
 
 " I've put Master Herbert to bed, sir." 
 
 " Very right," Mr. Stanhope replied. 
 
 " And the little girl, sir — you know, sir, that 
 
 B 3
 
 10 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE* 
 
 the poor woman's child is a Uttle girl, don't you, 
 sir? — well, sir, I've put her to bed too." 
 
 *' Very well," again answered Mr. Stanhope. 
 
 " You meant the little girl to sleep the night 
 here, sir?" once more began Bridget. 
 
 *^ Of course ; I should otherwise have given 
 you contrary orders/' said Mr. Stanhope. 
 
 But these pieces of information, and inqui- 
 ries were evidently not all that Bridget had to 
 say ; they were only the preliminaries to some- 
 thing else. Mr. Stanhope saw this ; and as she 
 was still standing with the lock of the door in 
 her hand, very undecided whether to stay or 
 go, he dispelled her embarrassment by address- 
 ing her. 
 
 " What now, Bridget/' he said, " you have 
 something to tell me, I see — is anything the 
 matter with Herbert?" 
 
 *' Oh no ! sir," replied Bridget, ^' the darlings 
 asleep as quiet as a lamb ; no, sir, there's 
 nothing the matter with him.'' 
 
 " Well then, what is it ?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 11 
 
 " Why, sir," said Bridget, sidling up to the 
 library table again, '^ it's just this ; — and yet I 
 didn't like to disturb you before morning, still 
 I wanted to tell you too — only it's a shocking 
 thing to say, though I can't help thinking it, 
 nevertheless ; yes, indeed, master, if J did not 
 feel quite certain of it, I shouldn't speak my 
 mind to you ; but as I do, I really must tell 
 youj I don't think the little girl the woman's 
 child." 
 
 " Not the woman's child I" said Mr. Stan- 
 hope, '' and why V 
 
 "Why, look you, sir, they're quite different 
 in face and feature — quite ; not a bit of like- 
 ness between them, none at all. The little one 
 is the prettiest little thing you ever saw — she 
 must be about two years old, I think, while 
 the mother is a hard-featured, cross-looking 
 woman, poor thing !" 
 
 " That may be occasioned by penury and 
 various other circumstances ; many children do 
 not resemble their parents/' said Mr. Stanhope,
 
 12 SIPw ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 *' but if the child be not her real offspring, ^vhat 
 would you infer from thence V 
 
 " That she stole it, sir ; aye, stole it/^ replied 
 Bridget getting warmer, and speaking more 
 firmly than she had done hitherto. " I know," 
 she continued, "it is a wicked thing to say of 
 any woman, master, if it is not true ; much 
 less of a dead person, who can't speak for her- 
 self ; but still I do think so, because see what 
 I found, bound round the child's arm." And 
 she placed in Mr. Stanhope's hand a small 
 morocco case about two inches long, and an 
 inch and a half broad; inside of which, on 
 opening it, he saw the portrait of a young and 
 pretty female. To judge from the homely dress 
 in which she was represented, Mr. Stanhope 
 could scarcely deem her station in life to be 
 above the middling class ; but yet there was a 
 delicacy and elegance about the face and form, 
 which at times made him think otherwise ; and 
 what puzzled him still more was the appearance
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 13 
 
 of a crest embroidered upon the velvet that 
 lined the inside of the cover. 
 
 " Ah ! master/' said Bridget, when she saw 
 him looking at the crest, ^' you are trying to find 
 out what the use of that piece of work can be; 
 I am sure I can't guess ; nor can I think, sir, 
 why a little black cross and star should be done 
 in black upon the child's temple." 
 
 '^ On the child's temple I" exclaimed Mr. 
 Stanhope in some surprise. 
 
 "Dear yes, sir," answered Bridget, '^ and all 
 her clothes, though they are very ragged and 
 dirty, are marked with that same dog's head, and 
 thejiame of Amy.*' 
 
 "Amy,'^ repeated Mr. Stanhope, musingly, 
 " that must be the child's name. It is not a 
 very common name," he added, after a pause. 
 
 " No, sir," said Bridget, catching at his half- 
 expressed idea, " not a common name, to be 
 sure; it's more like a lady's than a beggar- 
 woman's name, isn't it ?" 
 
 '^True," answered Mr. Stanhope, smihng,
 
 14 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 *^but beggar-women sometimes give their 
 children fine names." 
 
 " Well, yes, master, so they do at times ; not 
 often, though — yet, isn't it a strange thing alto- 
 gether, sir ?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Mr. Stanhope slowly and 
 thoughtfully, '' but go your ways now, Bridget, 
 and leave the miniature with me ; I will see 
 your little charge to-morrow/' 
 
 " Beg your pardon, sir ; I didn't know it was 
 so late. Dear me, it's past eleven o'clock, I 
 declare! — good night, sir." 
 
 " Good night," replied Mr. Stanhope, and off 
 Bridget went ; and at length he was left alone. 
 
 His thoughts, which until the entrance of 
 Bridget, had dwelt more upon the fate of the 
 poor woman than that of her child, now took a 
 different turn, and were wholly engaged in 
 questioning the probabihty of his servant's sup- 
 position regarding the parentage of the latter. 
 The more he thought of it, the more his reason 
 concurred in its possibility ; for the portrait he
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 15 
 
 held in his hand could not have been intended 
 to delineate the beggar-woman, who dark in 
 complexion, had also coarse and masculine fea- 
 tures/ while the female, whose face and form 
 were pourtrayed in the miniature, was perfectly 
 fair, with light hair and blue eyes. Earnestly 
 Mr. Stanhope gazed upon the picture before 
 him, and wondered in the next place, whether 
 the unknown wanderer was in any way related 
 to the slight and delicate creature there pour- 
 trayed. Within himself he felt certain she was 
 not — such is, at times, the strange sway of im- 
 pulsive romance within us ! — and many were the 
 plausible histories his imagination suggested to 
 him, respecting the birth of the little stranger, 
 whom his timely charity had saved, perhaps, 
 from a still harder fate than that of her seeming 
 mother. 
 
 Mr. Stanhope was yet young ; that is to say 
 he was about eight or nine and thirty years of 
 age ; and therefore, the touch of romance which 
 just then seized him, quiet and grave as he
 
 16 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERTE. 
 
 waSj may upon due consideration be forgiven 
 him. 
 
 But after all what is to be forgiven ? a little 
 romance? What is romance ?— enthusiasm of 
 feeling, and of fancy ; or if you will, give it the 
 cold world's name for it, folly. And yet what 
 a pleasing folly it is ! how it brightens the past, 
 the present, and the future, and makes even 
 pain, if unembittered by guilt or falsehood, 
 sweet ! If we live in this life easily and well, 
 with but few crosses and disappointments, we 
 may carry that fervour of feeling, quietly pent 
 up within our own bosoms, to the grave with 
 us ; but should we meet adversity early in 
 youth it is destroyed, even before we have 
 passed our priip.e. 
 
 This spirit of romance, exercises itself upon 
 the past, as much, perhaps, as upon the future ; 
 and brings to our imagination, scenes that never 
 have been, or will be, in which, however, we 
 make ourselves, our friends, or our foes, bear 
 the principal parts ; and language flows, and
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 1? 
 
 deeds are enacted, which, though not real, we 
 feel for the time as if they were. Sometimes, 
 too, in fancy, we frame the histories of any of 
 our acquaintances we are most struck with, or 
 of the strangers we may chance to meet, always 
 supposing we do not know their true ones. 
 
 And thus it was with Mr. Stanhope; he 
 began by thinking quietly upon the fate of the 
 little beggar girl, until giving way to a com- 
 passionate impulse of the moment, in his mind, 
 he seemed to adopt her as his daughter, saw 
 her educated with his son, and gradually qyow 
 to womanhood, respected and beloved by all 
 around her. Then, strange scenes began to 
 mingle with his musings ; smiles, and sighs, 
 and tears were there, happiness and misery : 
 the foundling was claimed ; her parents known ; 
 yet her early benefactor seemed to feel her lot 
 was not an happy one. And was it thus to be ? 
 was this the fate of the stranger child ? Alas ! 
 strange, and, at times, as full of care, as was 
 the path in life the vicar's imagination uncon-
 
 18 SIR ARTHUR BOTJVERIE. 
 
 sciously shadowed forth for her, still stranger 
 and more painful was the one she was destined 
 to tread ! 
 
 The clock struck one ; and Mr. Stanhope 
 rose, and, smiling at his waking dreams, retired 
 to rest. Yet the idea of adopting the little 
 foundling clung to him ; nor did a night's 
 consideration upon the subject, at all weaken 
 it ; for, when he descended to breakfast the 
 next morning, the project was still uppermost 
 in his mind. He had a fortune of his own, 
 and therefore was not dependant upon his 
 living for subsistence ; he had more than enough 
 to gratify every wish, that either he or his son 
 could form consistently with their station in 
 society ; and he thought that the maintenance 
 of a young and friendless girl, would not much 
 increase his yearly expenses. He resolved, 
 therefore, that after making all the efforts he 
 could, to discover her parents, and affording 
 them every facility for claiming her, if none
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 19 
 
 came forvrard for that purpose, to adopt her 
 as one of his own family. 
 
 In this resolution he was the more confirmed, 
 when, upon Bridget bringing in the child for 
 his inspection, as he sat at his morning's meal, 
 he observed her extraordinary beauty. The 
 extreme delicacy of her features, the fairness 
 of her skin, but ill accorded with the supposi- 
 tion that the dark and harsh looking woman, 
 to whom she seemingly belonged, was her 
 mother; and he could not help believing within 
 himself, that she had been stolen from, or lost 
 by, her true parents. 
 
 " A^nd, now Bridget," said Mr. Stanhope, 
 after hstening to a few rambling suggestions of 
 the old servant, about what might be done with 
 the child, " and, now show me the mark you 
 noticed last night upon her temple." 
 
 " There it is, sir," answered Bridget, pulling 
 up the little girl's golden hair, and pointing to 
 a black spot upon her forehead, '* see, there it 
 is, sir." And Mr. Stanhope saw minutely, yet
 
 20 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 distinctly traced just above the temple, as if 
 punctured with a fine needle, the cross and star 
 Bridget alluded to. " Isn't it strange, master ?" 
 said the latter a moment afterwards, " isn't it 
 strange that they should have hurt the poor 
 baby in that manner ? for it must hurt to do 
 that, I should think — does it not, sir? what 
 could they have done it for ?" 
 
 " Aye,^^ replied Mr. Stanhope, " what could 
 they have done it for ? unless, indeed, the 
 parents had a dread of not always being able 
 to watch over her infancy, and so marked her 
 thus singularly, that when claimed from whose- 
 ever care she was entrusted to, they could not 
 be deceived in having their real offspring ren- 
 dered back to them." 
 
 " But, sir," said Bridget, ^' they never could 
 have given her to the beggar woman to nurse, 
 could they V 
 
 ''■ No," rejoined Mr. Stanhope ; " it appears 
 most likely after all, that she stole the child. 
 But there,'' he continued, after a short fit of
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 21 
 
 musiDg, " we are supposing, perhaps, what is 
 not the truth ; here, Bridget, take your charge 
 away ; watch over her, and tend her well ; have 
 the same care of her as you have of Herbert, 
 until I give you further instructions. I must 
 now set about the means requisite for finding 
 out her real parents or relations, whoever they 
 may be.^^ And Bridget Walters returned with 
 the little stranger to the nursery. 
 
 Mr. Stanhope did everything in his power to 
 trace out the parents of the foundling 5 adver- 
 tisements were put in all the journals round 
 about, and ia one or two of the London news- 
 papers ; inquiries were made in every direction ; 
 still all his endeavours proved useless, and the 
 vicar, after many fruitless trials of patience and 
 perseverance, at length gave up the pursuit as 
 a hopeless one. Yet the humane resolution 
 he first formed in a moment of generous pity, 
 respecting the adoption of the beggar child, 
 was to him a binding one, and the little Amy, 
 (for such was the name Mr. Stanhope chose
 
 22 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 she should bear, in consequence of the marks 
 upon her clothing,) became thenceforth num- 
 bered araongsi the permanent residents of 
 Bloomfield Lodge.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 CHxVPTER IL 
 
 Yes, she is beautiful — gentle wiilial, 
 If the soft depths of that dark eye speak true, 
 But yet, at times, across her brow will flush 
 A crimson cloud, as if, in waking ire, 
 Her spirit strove within her — what of that ? 
 All have their failhigs ; hers, at least, are tamed. 
 Look at her now — how beautiful she is I — 
 There is a gentleness, humility 
 vin all her words and actions most bewitching ! 
 Smiles dimple round her rosy mouth, her eyes 
 Are downcast now, ev'n as in pensive thought, 
 While rises on her cheek a deep'ning blush — 
 The blush of meek, retiring modesty. 
 Ha ! what has mov'd her ? how her frail form strives 
 As if in fearful passion ! — and her eyes 
 Have lost their sweetness — rage and grief are there — 
 Her lips are white and quivering ! — MANUSCRirx, 
 
 The same care and tenderness were bestowed.
 
 24 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 by Bridget Walters and Mr. Stanhope, upon 
 the early education of the little Amy, as on 
 that of Herbert; and gradually her good pro- 
 tector's kindly feelings towards her ripened into 
 a tenderness of affection, nearly as strong as 
 that which he felt for his own child. Next to 
 Herbert there was no one on earth whom the 
 vicar loved more than the young stranger, 
 whose helpless infancy he so benevolently 
 sheltered beneath his roof, from the combined 
 evils of privation and misery. Yet Mr. Stan- 
 hope, and the old servant, had a hard task of 
 it ; Amy's, as well as Herbert's disposition, was 
 not of the easiest kind to manage ; both were 
 passionate, both high-spirited, and although 
 both were gifted with excellent sense, and good 
 parts, there was but one method by which they 
 could maintain any power over them, and that 
 consisted in a due mixture of kindness and 
 severity, a kindness that always appealed to the 
 better feelings of each before harsher measures 
 were used, and a severity which was never felt
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 25 
 
 but when it ought justly to have been so. 
 Both were affectionate, and both had strong 
 feehngs ; there, however, all further similitude 
 between their two characters ended : Amy's 
 high spirit, which not the most earnest endea- 
 vours of Mr. Stanhope could ever thoroughly 
 curb, was hidden beneath an outward appear- 
 ance of gentleness and reserve, resulting from 
 a timidity natural to her years and to her sex, 
 that led the careless observer far astray as to 
 her real temper, and warmth of heart; while 
 Herbert, expressing by word or action all that 
 he felt, was fearless, rough, and generous. 
 
 Such were their characters, till Amy attained 
 her fifteenth, and Herbert his seventeenth 
 year, when that of the young girl underwent 
 a decided change ; as she grew older, she be- 
 came more sensible of the great obligation she 
 owed Mr. Stanhope, and a deep humility was 
 expressed in her whole deportment, which 
 seemed strangely at variance with the haughty 
 glance that sometimes flashed in her dark eye, 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 when any incident happened to arouse her in- 
 dignation. Her pride and hasty temper were 
 still unsubdued, for though, after reason taught 
 her how much she was indebted to Mr. Stan- 
 hope's charity, to him, and even towards 
 Bridget and Herbert, she was all mildness and 
 devotedness, yet to others, when she felt herself 
 injured, there appeared a biting sarcasm in her 
 words and manner, that few could reply to, and 
 a vehement and passionate eloquence flowed to 
 her lips which none could withstand. All this 
 Mr. Stanhope noticed, and strove to correct ; 
 she listened to his rebukes in silence, bore the 
 punishments he awarded her patiently, and 
 awaited her pardon humbly ; while never even 
 a hasty word or thought presented themselves 
 to her mind, to arraign the justice of his deci- 
 sions ; yet the same faults remained with her. 
 
 Herbert was continually her firmest friend 
 when in disgrace, and always interceded for 
 her with his father, as she would also do for 
 him upon the like occasions, when the case was
 
 Sia ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 27 
 
 reversed. They were brought up together as 
 brother and sister, and liked each other as 
 such ; there was no constraint, no quarrelling 
 between them, and what some people, thought 
 still more strange, not a trace of a warmer sen- 
 timent than that of fraternal and sisterly affec- 
 tion, although they were now verging to the very 
 spring-time of youth, and neither were devoid of 
 personal attractions. 
 
 Herbert was handsome, tall, and had a good 
 figure, dark hair, dark sparkling eyes, a good 
 complexion, and frank and careless manners. 
 
 But Amy, Amy Arnolde as she was called, 
 was surpassingly lovely, and the character of 
 her beauty was so striking as to create general 
 surprise. She was of the middle size, fault- 
 lessly formed, with an ease and grace in all her 
 movements, that never forsook her, though she 
 often felt awkward beneath the shame of a con- 
 scious shyness in the presence of strangers. 
 Her hair was of that pale golden hue seen so 
 rarely, but when seen regarded as so strangely 
 
 c 2
 
 28 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 beautiful, there being not the slightest trace of 
 any other colour near it, save that of the purest 
 yellow ; the contour of her face was oval ; its 
 complexion exquisitely clear, with a fresh tinge 
 of rose upon the cheeks ; while her eyes, large^ 
 black, and brilliant, seemed singularly con- 
 trasted with the rest of her features, which 
 were those of the fairest bloiide. Yet none 
 could wish them otherwise than what they saw 
 them ; for, if by some they were thought loo 
 bright and dark to suit the fair and feminine 
 cast of her countenance, the critics had but to 
 watch for a few moments, and they would have 
 seen within their glances, as some gentle feeling, 
 perhaps, rose within her bosom, a softness and 
 sweetness of expression, rivalling that of the 
 most melting blue eye. Her mouth was small 
 and delicately formed ; her teeth white, and 
 finely cut; and her hand, arm and foot beau- 
 tifully shaped. As to her accomplishments, 
 she knew music well, but though fond of it, 
 was indolent in practising ; painting and draw-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 29 
 
 ing she cared little about ; her natural grace 
 carried her easily through a quadrille, although 
 she was never taught dancing ; reading she 
 loved ; and she was a perfect horsewoman. 
 Such was Amy Arnolde, the child of charitys 
 when entering her sixteenth year. 
 
 Many people wondered at Mr. Stanhope's 
 apparent blindness with regard to the exceeding 
 beauty of Amy, and his very foolish conduct in 
 keeping her at Bloomfield Lodge, just as if it 
 were his real wish that his handsome and 
 spirited son should fall in love with the name- 
 less and portionless girl ; and in the neigh- 
 bourhood not a few were the arguments the 
 above subject created. Some averred that Mr. 
 Stanhope was expressly educating her as a wife 
 for his child ; others, that he, goodman, was 
 rather shortsighted with respect to unpleasant 
 views of the future, and so did not trouble his 
 mind with any disagreeable misgivings as to that 
 matter, while some again, in the extravao;ance
 
 30 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 of their fear, affirmed that he intended to marry 
 her himself. 
 
 Mr. Stanhope, meanwhile, was in no ways 
 anxious about the iasu^e of his charitable action, 
 and cared not to check the affection he noticed 
 between Herbert and Amy ; the very idea that 
 distressed his worthy friends, often came 
 athwart him, yet it did not make him in the 
 least degree uncomfortable. The truth was, he 
 loved Amy much, and in his son he saw one, 
 who could appreciate her worth as he did ; 
 therefore, strange as it may seem to those 
 fathers who wish only for their children's ag- 
 grandisement, he would rather have seen him 
 united to her than to any other woman. He 
 saw that Amy towards Herbert, was nearly as 
 gentle as tovvards himself ; her high spirit, to 
 others so unbending, was ever quelled by a 
 word or look of his ; she was always ready to 
 be of service to him ; and thus seeing on her 
 side the virtue of obedience, a virtue so requi- 
 site for a wife, in both an affection which he
 
 SIR ARTHUU BOUVERIE. 31 
 
 deemed would soon ripen into love, he willingly, 
 within his own mind, gave his consent to the 
 match, which, in all probability, he thought 
 would prove a happy one. 
 
 Much then were the neighbours disappointed, 
 when they heard from the lips of one ©f his 
 friends, who sounded him upon the subject, 
 that he had intimated he should not care if 
 such a thing did happen. This was but an- 
 other incentive to a few more ill-natured re- 
 marks being made upon Amy, because, as the 
 neighbourhood round knew young Stanhope 
 would inherit a handsome independence from 
 his father, none liked a penniless beggar girl to 
 carry off the prize, that many a youthful and 
 well-born maiden in the environs of Wilverton 
 would have stretched a point to gain. Let her 
 marry his son, indeed ! that was preaching up 
 humility with a vengeance, they said ; giving 
 them an example, too, of the same. Yet they 
 did not think it right, they must say, because 
 it was just the way to teach young men a great
 
 32 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERTE. 
 
 many romantic notions, which were better left 
 alone, to encourage them in making low con- 
 nections. No, they could not approve of it at 
 all ; and they only wondered that a clergyman 
 could think of such a thing. But there, they 
 afterwards thought, it was just of a piece with 
 his bringing up a beggar's brat like a fine lady ; 
 and, to be sure, when they came to reflect 
 upon it, to whom could he marry her, but his 
 son ? Nobody else would take her — the proud 
 
 mmx 
 
 Poor xiray ! — and yet she was proud, that 
 could not be denied; and that pride in the up- 
 start, as people called her, could not be ever 
 thoroughly forgiven ; particularly as some, 
 when rude and pointed in their observations, 
 had often, young as she was, felt the keen edge 
 of her sarcastic wit. Yes, Amy Arnolde was 
 liked but by few around her ; the haughty 
 spirit she displayed on many occasions, her 
 faultless beauty, and her sharp raillery, all con- 
 spired to make both the young and old disHke
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 3S 
 
 her, till they knew her well. Still she never 
 answered save when provoked ; and until 
 aroused from her usual shyness and reserve she 
 seemed the very personification of every gentle 
 virtue ; for her large black eyes, in general, 
 wore a soft earnest look of melancholy ; and 
 the expression of her countenance was so mild 
 and pensive, yet withal so childish, that none 
 could guess from her outward appearance how 
 strong were the feelings of her heart. 
 
 But if Amy Arnolde wa» partially disUked 
 by the rich and well to do in the world, she 
 was the idol of the poor of Wilverton ; feeling 
 herself, as it were, one of their class, with them 
 she appeared all aflfability and kindness, humi- 
 lity and gentleness, good humour and gaiety 
 Never did she laugh so merrily as in the 
 numerous cottages it was her wont to visit, 
 there her mirth was unrestrained, and her 
 usual sadness vanished ; she seemed the 
 most lighthearted of the happy ones. But 
 in higher company there was a visible con- 
 
 c 3
 
 34 . SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 straint, a pride about her, arising from the 
 thought that she was admitted into their cir- 
 cles but upon sufferance. She saw this well 
 enough, and would have forborne to visit those 
 who thus despised her, had not Mr. Stanhope 
 expressly desired her to continue to do so, for, 
 with a feeling, which was perhaps natural, he 
 wished his son's future wife to be received 
 wherever he was, before her marriage as well 
 as after. 
 
 Meanwhile Amy had not the shghtest idea of 
 Mr. Stanhope's intentions, or of the neigh- 
 bours' suspicions, and behaved towards Her- 
 bert meekly and affectionately. She was in a 
 happy state of ignorance ; had she known what 
 was whispered abroad relative to Herbert and 
 herself, the Lodge would not have been to her 
 the comfortable home it was, for, scrupulous 
 and proud upon every point of delicacy, al- 
 though so young, she could not have easily 
 borne the suspicion of engaging the affections 
 of her benefactor's son. Neither had a syllable
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 35 
 
 of the matter been heard, or guessed at, by 
 Herbert, though the probable match was the 
 talk of the whole village and its environs, — not 
 amongst the poor, indeed, but amidst the wealthier 
 sort of people. And thus matters stood with 
 the inmates of Bloomfield Lodge, when an in- 
 cident happened, which, though not seemingly 
 of very great importance in itself, soon set all 
 the gossips' conjectures at rest upon the much 
 disputed point, and decided as quickly Amy's 
 lot in life.
 
 36 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A brow broad, white and open ; and an eye 
 Dark, quick, and lustrous ; hair of silver grey ; 
 Cold, stern, and proud in character ; but yet 
 "With a strange trace of softness in his smile 
 That sometimes dwelt there like a sunbeam ^s play 
 Upon a winter landscape, where is seen 
 Nought save a chill and deathlike darkness 
 Such is my man, sir. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Wayward from infancy, his was a youth 
 
 Of ripe extravagance ; foolishly, 
 
 Fortune he squandered, time he threw away ; 
 
 But still amidst this wreck of wastefulness 
 
 At times a touch of deep remorse would come 
 
 And rouse his heart to better thoughts and feelings. 
 
 Then came an hour when Wisdom's calls were heard, 
 
 He strove to settle down to soberness ; 
 
 Yet did old starts of passion often burst 
 
 From his but half schooled heart, and startle those 
 
 Who dwelt around him. — Manuscript. 
 
 One day Amy, who was in the habit of stroll
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 37 
 
 ing out by herself for a morning's walk, wan- 
 dered farther than it was her wont to do upon 
 such occasions, to see some old ruins, that stood 
 at a little distance from Wilverton. They were 
 the remains of an ancient castle, and though 
 utterly uninhabitable, there still remained one 
 or two pieces of the building that afforded suffi- 
 cient security for the curious tourist to ascend 
 them for a considerable height, if he wished to 
 gain a view of the surrounding country. A 
 round tower in particular, of which the eastern 
 side was broken down, and so discovered a 
 winding staircase that reached as far as the 
 ruin remained unimpaired, had once been most 
 easy of access ; and often used Amy and Her- 
 bert, in their childhood's days, to clamber to 
 the very top, and then gaze with wonder and 
 delight upon the landscape beneath. But year 
 by year the ascent became more difficult ; part 
 of the tower fell ; the stone staircase gave way 
 in several places, and at present not many per- 
 sons ventured up its worn and perilous side.
 
 38 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 With Amy the ruins were a favourite spot ; 
 and whenever she wished for a longer walk than 
 usual, they were, in general, the point to which 
 she directed her steps. Here then she was on 
 a fine sunny morning, after an idle summer 
 stroll through lane and village, quietly sitting 
 upon part of the fallen masonry around, when 
 the thought suddenly struck her of ascending 
 the tower above mentioned. There is no ac- 
 counting for thousands of ideas that enter our 
 minds ; nor could the wish which now seized on 
 Amy's be otherwise explained than that it was 
 the effect of a bright sunshiny day upon her 
 buoyant spirits. The more she thought of 
 compassing it, the more probability there seem- 
 ed of its ultimate execution, and one great mo- 
 tive which induced her to make the attempt 
 was, that Herbert some time before had warned 
 her of the danger in so doing. Now a natural 
 perversity of disposition is inherent in all of 
 us ; we love to strive after those things which 
 we are forbidden to aim at ; and thus it was
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 39 
 
 that Amy resolved to dare the risk which a 
 few days before had been kindly pointed out 
 to her. 
 
 Disencumbering herself of her bonnet and 
 shawl, she proceeded leisurely to effect her pur- 
 pose, stepping lightly over the broken stones, 
 that lay here and there, and springing across 
 the chasms that every now and then occurred 
 between the stone steps on which she trod. 
 " What will Herbert say ?" she said, — " will he 
 not be surprised ? — he has not done this him- 
 self !" And on and on climbed Amy, till at 
 length she arrived at the top of the ruin, and 
 then, looking downward upon the greensward 
 below, she stood some time in the pleasing con- 
 sciousness of having achieved a rather difficult 
 feat. 
 
 She had not remained long in this position be- 
 fore she became aroused from a reverie into which 
 she was falling, by the sound of wheels upon 
 the highroad, and turning to where the noise 
 came from, she perceived a carriage approaching
 
 40 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 at a rapid rate. Suddenly it stopped ; and two 
 gentlemen descending from it walked slowly 
 towards the spot where Amy stood, as if to ex- 
 amine the ruins ; yet though they came under- 
 neath the very walls of the tower, they did not 
 perceive her, as the branches of a large tree 
 that grew near were thrown across its upper 
 part, and thus screened her from their sight. 
 
 Amy, when she first saw them approaching, 
 wished to descend, but knowing she could not 
 do this without their seeing her, and that she 
 should feel rather awkwardly, conscious of being 
 within mark of their observation, she re- 
 mained where she was. Meanwhile the gentle- 
 men were engaged in making remarks upon 
 the scenery and situation of the place, until 
 suddenly she heard one of them say : " Cecil, 
 we have visitors here besides ourselves — see, 
 what I have found !" 
 
 Amy very well knew this turn in the con- 
 versation must have arisen from a sudden 
 notice of her shawl and bonnet, which she had
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 41 
 
 left upon the stones beneath ; and she strove to 
 conceal herself the more behind the spreading 
 boughs of the oaktree that stretched themselves 
 in front of the tower, as she did not wish to be 
 perceived in what to the strangers might appear 
 an eavesdropping situation. Yet, from her 
 hiding place, she could not avoid satisfying the 
 curiosity she felt, to take a more leisurely survey 
 than she had yet done of the forms of those 
 whose words she so plainly heard, and stooping 
 forwards, she looked through a little space 
 visible amidst the clustering branches before 
 her, and saw what in her own mind amply re- 
 paid her for her trouble. 
 
 One of the strangers was an elderly man of 
 fifty or sixty years ; tall, with large, black, 
 piercing eyes, hair as white as snow, and a 
 severe, although at times a pleasing counte- 
 nance ; for when he spoke, the usually stern ex- 
 pression of his features gave way to a quiet 
 smile of benevolence, which rendered it in those 
 moments as peculiarly attractive, as in others
 
 42 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 it was cold and repulsive : the other was young 
 — and oh ! much handsomer than Herbert, Amy 
 thought, as she gazed downwards upon the 
 unconscious object of her admiration. To say 
 the truth, he was, indeed, well worth looking 
 at, as a finer form and face could be but rarely 
 seen ; tall, and of a commanding aspect, every 
 limb was well made, and in proportion with the 
 rest of his figure, while over his whole frame 
 there seemed thrown a careless grace visible in 
 every movement he made. His complexion 
 appeared to have been originally fair ; but it 
 was now of that pale and sunburnt hue, which 
 tells of distant travel and fatigue — though his 
 age could not have numbered more than five 
 and twenty years ; his eyes were of a dark, 
 clear hazel colour, with a quick and penetrating 
 expression in them, bespeaking a passionate 
 and eager spirit, yet at times they seemed 
 clouded by a look of languor and ennui ; the 
 rest of his features were well formed — faultlessly
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 4^ 
 
 SO ; and his hair curled in thick short curls 
 around his neck. 
 
 At the moment when Amy bent down to 
 look at the strangers, the younger one took up 
 the shawl that the other pointed out to him, and 
 answering his remark, he said — " A fair visitor, 
 uncle ; I wonder where she can be ?" 
 
 " Perhaps, looking at us through some of the 
 crevices of these old walls,^' rejoined the former 
 speaker, " and wondering at our rudeness in 
 handhng these pretty tokens of her presence." 
 
 This was so exactly like the real case that 
 Amy could not forbear smiling, although she 
 felt in momentary fear of discovery. ' 
 
 "Well," replied the other gentleman, " I 
 will replace it on the very spot where it was 
 left — there, no harm is done ; and I further- 
 more pray the fair owner to excuse us, if she is 
 within sight and hearing. And now, uncle, I 
 think I will ascend this tower — do you deem it 
 practicable ?" 
 
 *' No, I should say not," answered the uncle.
 
 44 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 '^ look, how the masonry is loosened here and 
 there — it would be dangerous to attempt it, 
 Cecil." 
 
 *' Yet, I will try," returned the nephew, " I 
 will try— come round to the other side, and let 
 us see whether I can.'^ 
 
 Amy actually turned pale ; for she knew, that, 
 if they moved from their present position, they 
 W'Ould be sure to perceive her. 
 
 *' Take care, Cecil," suddenly cried the old 
 man, " you are treading upon as pretty a knot 
 of flowers, as I would wish to see in this wild 
 spot.'' 
 
 "Aye, indeed," rejoined he, picking up a 
 bunch of wood flowers, that Amy had deposited 
 there ; " I did not see them — I would not crush 
 a living flower for much. I suppose this be- 
 longs to the invisible wearer of the shawl and 
 bonnet." 
 
 '* No doubt," replied the uncle, " and, per- 
 haps, in our ramble round the ruins we may 
 have an opportunity of returning them to her."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 45 
 
 '^ If we find her, if we find her," rejoined 
 Cecil, in a tone which betrayed he was not 
 thinking of what he was saying, till, as if sud- 
 denly recollecting himself, he added, " else I 
 shall keep them for myself. See how tastefully 
 the colours are blended together — and yet they 
 are but wild flowers. Pshaw !" continued he, 
 as looking at the little bouquet, he stumbled 
 over a large stone that happened to be in his 
 way, " how troublesome these ruins are ! this 
 is just the sort of place Kate would like." 
 
 " Kate ?" echoed the other, " true, she is a 
 madcap of a girl ; this scrambling adventure 
 would suit her exactly. But, Cecil, if you 
 wish to ascend that tower, pray walk on a little 
 quicker, as I want to be at home by two 
 o'clock/' 
 
 " Very well ; yet, if I think it will prove a 
 tiresome piece of business, I shall not under- 
 take it ; still, I will go and examine whether it 
 is so or not." 
 
 There was no hope, no escape for Amy now,
 
 46 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 in another minute perhaps, they would be 
 climbing up the staircase of the tower, and in the 
 desperation of her feehngs at being seen where 
 fehe felt they must know she had listened to 
 their discourse, she sprang from her place of 
 concealment, and, her face crimsoned with 
 blushes, began hastily to descend. The rastle 
 of her dress instantly attracted the attention 
 of the gentlemen beneath ; they looked up, and 
 at once discerned her ; while she, upon noticing 
 she WRS perceived, stood still in evident con- 
 fusion. 
 
 " If, if you will allow to me to descend before 
 you mount the stairs," stammered Amy, un- 
 consciously betraying that she had distinctly 
 heard and understood their purpose; "if you 
 will allow me, I shall be obliged. The stairs 
 are too narrow for you to pass me ; 1 will not 
 be long — in two or three minutes I shall be 
 below." 
 
 Both gentlemen bowed assentingly ; assured 
 her that they were in no hurry ; and then with
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 47 
 
 a silent look of adaiiration, and with visible 
 amusement, quietly watched her progress down- 
 wards. This particular observance from the 
 strangers distressed Amy ; but as she could 
 not tell them so, she was obliged to bear it, and 
 hastily she began to descend. Yet, if the sted- 
 fast gaze of the gentlemen below rendered her 
 movements hesitating and careless, none could 
 blame them much for so attentively watching 
 the lovely girl before them ; unpolite, they per- 
 haps were ; but then, who could have thought 
 of politeness when looking upon Amy's ex- 
 quisite countenance, her large and singularly 
 expressive eyes, and the golden hair, that 
 shining in the sunbeams like threads of the 
 purest ore, flowed in long curls far beyond her 
 waist — that delicate waist, which would have 
 been far too small for any other figure, save 
 the slight and graceful one to which it belonged. 
 Who would have thought of politeness in gaz- 
 ing upon such charms as these ? Who would 
 not have looked upon them as long as ever
 
 48 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 they could ? So the strangers were right after 
 all. 
 
 x\my's confusion, meanwhile increased at 
 every step she took, until at last she scarcely 
 knew where she trod, and all at once, the elder 
 gentleman called out, " Young lady, take care ! 
 the first stone you will place your foot upon is 
 loose ; see, it totters already— take care ! Spring 
 over it if you can ; — it is an ugly leap^ though," 
 he added, in a lower tone. 
 
 Amy looked around ; there was a wide chasm 
 already between the step on which she stood 
 and the one next to it ; yet, she saw that if she 
 wished to avoid falling from a height of twenty 
 feet, she must place herself at least a yard or 
 two below the stone which the old gentleman 
 pointed out as insecure, and which loosened by 
 her previous ascent, she readily perceived was 
 not in a condition to hold her weight. Amy, 
 however, soon made up her mind to spring 
 downwards, and in another moment alighted 
 about five or six feet beneath it ; but
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 49 
 
 scarcely had she done so, ere a loud crash 
 startled her, the stairs gave way beneath her, 
 and she felt herself precipitated upon the 
 greensward below. She fell on a soft mound 
 of grass and dead leaves, and, as it happened, 
 none of the stone work touched her in its de- 
 scent, so that, although she partly fainted with 
 fright, she was not materially injured. 
 
 " She is insensible/' said the younger of the 
 two gentlemen, as they both hastily and anx- 
 iously approached the spot where she lay. 
 
 ** But not hurt/' said his uncle, "surely not 
 hurt ; no part of the ruin has fallen near her.^' 
 
 And bending down by the side of Amy, the 
 elder stranger threw away a light scarf which 
 partially dropped over her face in her fall, and 
 allowed the fresh air to blow upon it. As he 
 did so, his nephew observed him turn extremely 
 pale, and noticed that he staggered back from 
 the young girl, as if under the influence of 
 some sudden pain or violent emotion. 
 
 " Are you ill ?" exclaimed Cecil in surprise, 
 
 VOL. I, D
 
 50 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 and he caught him by the arm, for he feared 
 that he would fall; '^what is the matter?" 
 
 ^^ Nothing, nothing," said the old man with 
 some difficult}^, '^ I shall be better soon. It 
 was a sudden faintness — I know not what 
 seized me." 
 
 And with evident effort he strove to appear 
 composed, as his nephew's glance rested upon 
 him. 
 
 *' You are not subject to fainting fits ?'' re- 
 joined Cecil, " nothing has occurred to cause 
 this attack — what could it be ?" 
 
 *' Aye, what could it be ?" repeated the 
 other, speaking more distinctly, and becoming 
 more and more calm ; " a dizziness, I suppose ; 
 but I am better now.'^ 
 
 " Better ?" asked Cecil, " are you indeed 
 so?" 
 
 " Yes, yes,^' answered his uncle, somewhat 
 impatiently ; " come, let us not neglect our 
 fair charge any longer ; here, Cecil, run to the 
 spring that we saw at a little distance from the
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 51 
 
 other side of the tower, and bring some water 
 to dash over her ; she has now been a long 
 time insensible.'' 
 
 " Yes," answered Cecil ; " but will you feel 
 any return of this faintness, think you, in the 
 mean time ?" 
 
 '*' No, you silly boy ; do you not see that I 
 am quite well ? go, go ! Bring it in your hat, 
 that will do." 
 
 ''Very well," rejoined he, "I shall not be 
 long away, I will be back in a few minutes." 
 
 '^Aye, aye, be quick — the sooner returned 
 the better, for this child is still unconscious." 
 
 And Cecil, obeying his uncle's directions, 
 was soon out of sight. Anxiously the old man 
 seemed to watch him recede from his view, 
 and when he was no longer within the reach of 
 his observation, hastily he stooped over the 
 fainting girl, and unclasping a hair chain that 
 encircled her throat, he fixed an earnest look 
 upon a small morocco case appended to it, the 
 cover of which had been partially torn off in 
 
 D 2
 
 52 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 the descent from the tower. It was the same 
 that was found fastened round the neck of Amy 
 on the day the wayfarer died, and from the 
 portrait within it, the eye of the old gentleman 
 strayed to the death-like countenance of Amy, 
 as if comparing her features with those of the 
 lady pictured there. Then again he bent down 
 by her side, and parting from off her face the 
 long golden curls which partially shaded it, he 
 gazed upon her with a yet more earnest look, 
 while he muttered half aloud — " They told me 
 she was dead — is it not so ? can this be ? or is 
 it but a mockery, a delusion ? It is misery, 
 misery for me even one way or the other — and 
 yet I would she were alive." 
 
 Then quickly stepping away from Amy, as 
 he heard his nephew approaching, he advanced 
 to meet him, and taking the hat from his hands, 
 threw the water it contained over her face. 
 This remedy in most'cases is a sure one ; and 
 on the present occasion it had its usual effect 
 upon the patient ; for Amy soon gave signs of
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 53 
 
 recovery, and in a few minutes more was en- 
 abled to rise from her recumbent position, and 
 thank them for their trouble. But the first 
 sounds of her voice seemed strangely to agitate 
 the eldest gentleman, and the reply, which he 
 found himself obliged to make, after she had 
 finished addressing them, was incoherently and 
 falteringly spoken. Yet his emotion remained 
 unnoticed by his nephew, who was engaged in 
 questioning Amy as to whether she had re~ 
 ceived any injury in her fall. 
 
 '^ Oh no !" she replied, " excepting I think 
 my arm is slightly hurt ; that large mound of 
 soft earth and grass saved me from any very 
 severe bruising. But how silly I was to ascend 
 those stairs at all — and only to astonish Her- 
 bert, too." 
 
 " And who is Herbert, whom you risk life 
 and limb to astonish?" asked the uncle, join- 
 ing in the conversation. ''Your brother?" 
 
 "No," answered Amy, with some hesitation, 
 and blushing deeply, " not my brother."
 
 54 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " A cousin, a relation, then ?*' 
 
 " No/^ Amy again replied, colouring still 
 more. 
 
 "Oh!" muttered Cecil to himself, with a 
 smile at what he thought her utter simplicity 
 of manner, which could not disguise the real 
 truth even from a stranger, " some one that 
 will be nearer and dearer, perhaps ?" 
 
 " Not your cousin !" repeated the old man, 
 *' not your cousin ! who then is he ? Yet, 
 pardon m e, T should not inquire, I see ; fyoung 
 ladies love not to be questioned, when their 
 brows betray the subject, an embarrassing 
 one." 
 
 And he glanced at Amy, whose cheek was 
 crimsoned. 
 
 " What mean you ?" asked she, looking up 
 with a look of the most thorough surprise ; for 
 feeling that he did not allude to her birth, and 
 net a thought of love towards Herbert having 
 as yet entered her mind, she could not under- 
 stand the significance with which he spoke.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 55 
 
 " Mean ?" answered he, " mean ? nay, if you 
 cannot guess what I mean, it is surely no busi- 
 ness of mine to tell you. Yet you will allow 
 me to observe that when a lady mentions the 
 name of a gentleman with blushes and hesita- 
 tion, she must not be surprised if those who 
 see and hear her, form their own conclusions on 
 the matter." 
 
 Still Amy continued to look at him in perfect 
 wonder, for some minutes, then gradually the 
 sense of what he meant seemed to dawn upon 
 her mind, and caused a yet deeper colour to tinge 
 her cheeks than that which was already there. 
 The thought sprang suddenly to her mind, and 
 as suddenly she uttered it before time or reflec- 
 tion bade her check it. 
 
 " You mean/' she exclaimed, " you mean 
 that I love him — oh no ! I assure you, I do 
 not." 
 
 The old man smiled at the naivete of her an- 
 swer ; and the nephew's look of ennui, as he 
 listened to it, gave way for a moment to a down-
 
 56 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 right laugh, till addressing his uncle, he said, 
 while his countenance resumed its former ex- 
 pression of lassitude, " I will go and meet the car- 
 riage — there is no use in staying here any longer. 
 I think indeed, it would be better for all of us 
 to walk towards Wilverton — do not you?'' 
 
 And without waiting for an answer, he turned 
 down the slope, that led to the high-road, and 
 was soon out of view. 
 
 " I think we had better follow my nephew's 
 example," said the old gentleman, looking after 
 Cecil, and addressing Amy, who was hastily 
 putting on her bonnet and shawl, will it not be 
 best to advance towards the village, instead of 
 waiting here for the carriage ?" 
 
 " Oh yes," answered Amy, quickly, as if 
 glad that the former subject was changed. ^' I 
 shall soon be home now ; this is but a morn- 
 ing's walk from where I live. But oh ! where 
 is my miniature ?" she exclaimed, as she sud- 
 denly missed the chain and case from around 
 her neck. '* I will not leave the spot without 
 it— what shall I do ?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. • 57 
 
 "Is this it?" said the stranger, giving her 
 the chain and portrait, which he had held un- 
 noticed until then, adding, '^it became un- 
 fastened when you fainted." 
 
 *' Thank you," repUed Amy, " yes, this is 
 the same, and the picture itself is not injured," 
 she continued, as she eagerly examined it. 
 
 "Did not you say you lived hereabouts?" 
 asked the old man, offering her his arm to help 
 her over the broken stones that lay scattered 
 all around. 
 
 " Yes, at the parsonage, Bloomfield Lodge," 
 replied Amy. 
 
 " The residence of Mr. Stanhope ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I am speaking to his daughter, 1 
 presume ?" 
 
 " No — my name is Arnolde," answered Amy, 
 again becoming confused. 
 
 " Well, well, his niece then, young lady," 
 continued the stranger, with a quick glance 
 over her face ; " are you not his niece ? or, or, 
 some sort of relation ?" D 3
 
 58 • SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 Surprised at the rudeness of the inquiry. 
 Amy hastily withdrew her hand from his arm, 
 and stepping from him, she walked on a few 
 paces by herself, the childish simplicity of her 
 mien, changing meanwhile to an attitude of 
 haughtiness, as she answered, " No, I am in 
 noways related to Mr. Stanhope." 
 
 " Noways related to him," eagerly repeated 
 the stranger, " who then are you ?" 
 
 *' Who am I ?" rejoined Amy, and her heart 
 sweUing with passion at the unceremonious 
 manner of his address, she turned round and 
 faced him, with a look of pride, " who am I ? 
 I am the child of charity — the child of Mr. 
 Stanhope's bounty; one, who would have 
 perished through want in the utter helpless- 
 ness of an unprotected infancy, had he not 
 sheltered me, clothed me, fed me — treated me 
 even as his own daughter. Such, sir, is the 
 tie that exists between Mr. Stanhope and me — 
 no other ; yet is it as strong upon my mind as 
 that of filial affection."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 59 
 
 ^ " It should be so," quietly answered the 
 stranger, although he at first seemed surprised 
 at the sudden vehemence of Amy ; and then 
 he added — " And your parents, your parents, 
 died they while you were in your infancy V 
 
 "I know not — I never knew them. One, 
 who was supposed my mother died on the day 
 on which Mr. Stanhope gave me his protec- 
 tion ; the other, my father, I cannot tell whe- 
 ther he is living or dead — I do not know who 
 he is. But why do you, who are a stranger, 
 ask me, who, and what I am ? You know no- 
 thing of me, or I of you. Your present inquiries, 
 dictated as they seem to be merely by a spirit 
 of careless inquisitiveness, are cruel and em- 
 barrassing to me, and I only answer them, be- 
 cause I do not wish to appear that which I 
 am not — better than I am. Now, sir, you 
 know me for a beggar, a foundling, a nameless, 
 and, but for my present protector, a homeless 
 girl ; and knowing me to be such, you may 
 scorn me as others do, point at, and ridicule
 
 60 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 me ; your present behaviour seems to infer that 
 you will — you would not have addreaaed me in 
 this manner, had you not some guess of what 
 I was — sir, would you question me more?" 
 
 And as she concluded the last sentence, 
 Amy's eyes lost their brilliant look of indigna- 
 tion, though her cheek retained the crimson 
 glow which coloured it, while she gave vent to 
 her passion ; her whole attitude was one of 
 humility, and pausing for the old man's reply, 
 she fixed a tearful glance upon his face. There 
 was a silence; the stranger looked upon the 
 young girl, and wondered, ere he answered, at 
 the vehemence of the anger that transformed 
 the child as it were into the thinking and 
 feeling woman, and yet which betrayed, in the 
 artlessness of its sudden disclosures, the ex- 
 treme youth and inexperience of the speaker. 
 The bashfulness and simphcity of childhood, 
 which characterized her deportment, had van- 
 ished ; timidity and indecision were no longer 
 there, and only a firm yet chastened pride was 
 visible in her manner.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. ' 61 
 
 The old man approached her ; his counte- 
 nance, which until then, seemed severe and 
 unpleasing, now wore a kind and gentle ex- 
 pression, and the usually harsh tones of his 
 voice were fraught with compassion. 
 
 " Question you ?" he said, " no, no ; pardon 
 me, if I have awakened feelings that I see have 
 agitated you. Scorn you ? ridicule you ? and 
 why ? Have wq the power of disposing cir- 
 cumstances according to our will? are we 
 born what we choose ? or can we, even in after 
 life, arrive at what we wish to be ? No ! then 
 they are fools ^vho despise their fellow crea- 
 tures, because they are beneath them in rank 
 or in birth ; and fools are they who have taught 
 you to feel humbled at your destiny. Name- 
 less and portionless as you may be, in beauty 
 and in merit you must be far above many of 
 those who have thus early made you prize the 
 frivolous distinctions of society — know you not 
 that ? Young lady, the gifts of nature are 
 greater blessings than the gifts of fortune, for
 
 62 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 the former may gain the latter, if opportunity 
 and perseverance be not wanting; but never 
 can the case be reversed. Question you more ? 
 I have questioned you already too rudely, and 
 again I ask your forgiveness for my blunt, 
 straight-forward inquiries. I wished but to 
 know your residence and friends, to continue 
 your acquaintance, if you will permit me to 
 do so.'' 
 
 Amy seemed ashamed of the emotion she had 
 betrayed, and bowing in acquiescence, said, 
 " My father will be glad to see you." 
 
 " Father ?" involuntarily^ repeated the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Mr. Stanhope, I mean," she replied, with 
 some embarrassment; then added — "yet I 
 call him father, he wills me to do so ; I know 
 no other parent.'' 
 
 The old man was silent, and they continued 
 their walk towards Wilverton for some time, 
 without either of them speaking, until the 
 sight of a carriage startled Amy into a slight 
 exclamation of terror, as it turned sharply
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 63 
 
 round the corner of a lane, and drew up close 
 to where they stood. 
 
 '' Tomkins/^ said the old gentleman, accost- 
 ing the coachman; *^you met Mr. Bouverie 
 just now — did you not?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir Arthur, I did,'^ answered he, 
 touching his hat, " and he said that he did not 
 intend to return to the castle for an hour or 
 two, so I came on hither to meet you." 
 
 "Right," was his master's reply. "And 
 now,^' added he, turning to Amy, ** will you 
 permit me, Miss Arnolde, to drive you to the 
 Lodge ?" 
 
 " It would be scarcely worth while," answered 
 she, smiling ; " we are but a hundred yards 
 from it — do not you see it behind those trees 
 yonder V 
 
 " Well then," rejoined the old man, " 1 will 
 accompany you to the gate." 
 
 And walking on, five minutes more brought 
 them to the Lodge. Here Sir Arthur bade her 
 good morning, telling her, as he turned from
 
 64 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 her and entered the carriage which followed 
 them thither, that she must not be surprised if 
 he or his nephew called on her the following 
 day. Amy watched the receding vehicle until 
 it was out of sight, and the- last cloud of dust 
 it occasioned on the high road faded away ; 
 then hastening to Mr. Stanhope, related to 
 him all that had passed between the strangers 
 and herself. 
 
 The vicar blamed her rashness and passion, 
 and directed her not to avow so readily to every 
 stranger her birth and condition, though when 
 actually questioned upon the subject he told 
 her never to give way to shame or falsehood. 
 But in his heart, he could not help pitying and 
 excusing one who felt so strongly on the very 
 point where her every feeling of self-respect 
 and pride was continually tortured by the un- 
 kindness, haughtiness, or curiosity of those 
 around her.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVLRIE. G5 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 \ La jeunesse est une ivresse continuelle : c'est la fievre de la 
 raison. 
 Lesvieux fous sont plus fous que lesjeunes. 
 
 Rochefoucauld. 
 
 The next day, true to his promise, the elderly 
 stranger called at Bloomfield Lodge, and, an- 
 nouncing himself as Sir Arthur Bouverie, was 
 soon on a friendly footing with Mr. Stanhope. 
 To Amy there was something pecuUarly win- 
 ning in his manner ; he seemed to wish to con- 
 ciliate the good opinion of both herself and the 
 vicar ; and yet, at times, the severe frown she 
 had noticed so often pass over his countenance
 
 66 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 on the day before, again darkened it whenever 
 the conversation slackened, and he became 
 silent. But this was seldom ; for as well pleased 
 with Mr. Stanhope, as was the latter with him, 
 he conformed with singular facility to the gentle 
 and contemplative character of the vicar, glid- 
 ing quietly from topic to topic, with all the 
 ease and eloquence of a practised conversation- 
 ist. Mr. Stanhope, who never spoke much 
 himself, yet whom nothing delighted so greatly 
 as an entertaining and sensible companion, 
 listened with pleasure to his new guest, and 
 when asked by him to continue the acquaint- 
 ance, readily consented to do so, although during 
 late years it had been his habit to restrict him- 
 self to a limited circle of friends. And day 
 after day did Sir Arthur Bouverie visit the 
 Lodge, and sit many a long summer evening 
 chatting quietly and comfortably with Mr. 
 Stanhope, Amy, and Herbert ; for he seemed 
 as fond of the young people's society, as of that 
 of the vicar. Sometimes he was accompanied
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 67 
 
 by his nephew, who now and then, aroused from 
 his usual carelessness, paid Amy that attention 
 which youth and beauty naturally exacts. On 
 these occasions, Mr. Stanhope perceived that 
 his uncle watched him narrowly, and unpleasant 
 misgivings often arose within his mind about 
 the intimacy being one which it would be better 
 to discontinue, as he thought from the smiles 
 and blushes, with which he saw Amy usually 
 answer Cecil's unmeaning compliments, that at 
 some future period his attentions might become 
 dangerous to her peace of mind. He was the 
 more troubled about this, because he knew that 
 love once awakened in Amy^s breast would 
 not easily be extinguished ; and he judged from 
 Cecil's general behaviour, that he had no serious 
 intentions towards her, but was only amusing 
 himself with raising a passion he never meant 
 to requite, and which after serving for a few 
 weeks' excitement,would then by him be slighted 
 and forgotten. He could not think highly of 
 Cecil ', proud he saw he was ; and there were
 
 68 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 traces of stormy passions upon his face, that 
 he liked not to gaze upon or criticise. Besides 
 he did not dream Sir Arthur would con- 
 sent to match his nephew, the sole heir of a 
 princely fortune, to one so far beneath him in 
 rank and birth, even if Cecil himself were wish- 
 ful to wed Amy ; and therefore, scarcely had the 
 acquaintance ripened into a friendly intimacy 
 ere he sought to discourage it. But this he 
 found not so easy to effect ; Sir Arthur would 
 not be checked in his advances towards a friend- 
 ship with the family, and although he seemed 
 to watch his nephew's conduct with some sus- 
 picion, it did not create any coldness on his 
 part towards Amy or the vicar. 
 
 Another cause of discontent to Mr. Stan- 
 hope upon the same subject, arose in the evi- 
 dent jealousy of Herbert, whenever Cecil Bou- 
 verie approached or spoke to Amy ; for he saw 
 that his son's happiness in after life was endan- 
 gered by one whom he could not deem worthy 
 to st^nd in competition with him. He also
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE, 69 
 
 perceived that Amy, affectionate as she still 
 continued to be to Herbert, became every day 
 more and more sensible to the attentions of 
 Cecil ; his very step in the distance she seemed 
 to know, and her cheek would whiten with 
 emotion as she listened to it, till upon his near 
 approach, neck, cheek, and brow, crimsoned 
 with delight, while he, with a mixture of indif- 
 ference and admiration in his manner, gazed 
 upon her in silence, perhaps, or turned away to 
 conceal the half smile, half sneer, that curved 
 his lip, as he noticed her agitation. And Mr. 
 Stanhope's heart ached for Amy and for Her- 
 bert, as he saw the widening breach between 
 them, and thought of the hopeless future await- 
 ing both. Young as they were, he knew their 
 feelings were strong, and therefore felt that 
 their passage through life would be but the 
 more painful. And all his efforts, though con- 
 tinually defeated, still tended to break off the 
 intimacy with the Bouveries. 
 
 Meanwhile — now that his suspicions were
 
 70 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 aroused respecting Cecil Bouverie's conduct 
 towards Amy, the vicar inquired more particu- 
 larly than he had yet done, into the characters 
 of Sir Arthur and his nephew, and from their 
 mutual neighbours, whom he always found more 
 ready to talk of other people's affairs than of 
 their own, he gained the following informa- 
 tion : 
 
 Sir Arthur Bouverie was a gentleman of 
 large property in the neighbourhood of Wilver- 
 ton, of ancient descent and haughty disposition. 
 Proud, severe, and, at times, impatient, there 
 w^ere still, however, some good points which 
 even the most uncharitable gossips allowed his 
 character to possess ; for he was generous, true 
 to his word, and strict in the performance of 
 the higher as well as the lesser duties of life. 
 But serious as he was well known to be in his 
 habits, unforbearing and scrupulous in his con- 
 duct, there was one spot in the blameless tenor 
 of his life, strangely at variance with its general 
 course, and this was his unlimited indulgence
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. ?! 
 
 towards his nephew Cecil, the son of his younger 
 brother, now deceased, whose every whim was 
 gratified with as much celerity, as if his uncle's 
 chief happiness lay in satisfying his many and 
 idle wishes. Countless sums, so the more talk- 
 ative servants of Bouverie Castle averred, had 
 been lavished upon his extravagancies, and 
 would be lavished still, for there seemed no 
 bounds to Sir Arthur's generosity in this parti- 
 cular, and much did they own themselves asto- 
 nished thiat so good a man as their master, 
 should thus foolishly be the promoter of his 
 nephew's expensive follies. It was but encou- 
 raging him in a thoughtless and mad career, 
 they said ; and, however strong his affection 
 might be for Cecil, this was certainly a most 
 injudicious method of showing it. Still at times 
 the natural haughtiness of Sir Arthur's temper 
 would manifest itself even towards him, and on 
 these occasions, whatever were his commands, 
 he obliged Cecil to obey him. 
 
 Young Bouverie felt deeply the ill effects of
 
 72 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIF. 
 
 this injudicious system of alternate unlimited 
 indulgence and sudden severity, and as he 
 grew up, his feelings were at once vehement, 
 unrestrained, and enduring, although they some- 
 times paid a dogged obedience to necessity, 
 and became comparatively calm. This, how- 
 ever, was seldom the case ; for Cecil in his 
 earlier years never sought to acquire the habit 
 of self command, and was, until the cautious 
 maxims of the world taught him prudence, the 
 very creature of impulse. Experience, how- 
 ever, shewed him that to give way to passion 
 was folly, as it in general was treated with con- 
 tempt ; and pride coming to his aid told him to 
 regulate and restrain it, when he saw it lessened 
 him in the sight of others. He did so ; from 
 one extreme he passed to the other ; a callous- 
 ness and coldness of heart seemed to possess 
 him, which nothing could shake ; every ebul- 
 lition of feeUng was quickly and carefully mas- 
 tered, and not an outward trace of it appeared. 
 Such is often the fate of a passionate spirit that
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVSRIE. 7^ 
 
 enters the world ungulded by the dictates of 
 reason, and led on by the wayward fancies of 
 youth, unless some happy incident safely turns 
 it to the road of virtue ; its purest and most 
 generous aspirations sink back from whence 
 they came, while its evil tendencies, fostered 
 by the laxity of principle met with abroad, rise 
 as they fall, and wholly crushing them, fix its 
 inclinations to pursue the idle paths of pleasure, 
 sometimes the darker ones of vice. And such 
 was the fate of Cecil Bouverie, — so said his 
 neighbours ; noble in spirit, generous, and right 
 principled in the main, thus was he spoilt by 
 the foolish system of education pursued by his 
 uncle, and his early and unrestrained inter- 
 course with the world. 
 
 These were the opinions of the good people 
 of Wilverton, upon the characters of Sir Arthur 
 and his nephew ; and with them Mr, Stanhope 
 was obliged to be content, althoiigli they did 
 not, as it may be imagined, at all increase his 
 regard for the latter. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 74 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 In many of his visits to the Lodge, Sir Arthur 
 Bouverie often spoke of Amy to Mr. Stanhope, 
 in terms of evident admiration, and listened 
 with attention to the details of her history, 
 vi^hich the vicar, now that he saw the likelihood, 
 if not the commencement, of an attachment be- 
 tween her and Cecil, purposely disclosed to him, 
 with the view of awakening his fears upon the 
 subject. But though Sir Arthur was penetrat- 
 ing enough on most points, he was blind upon 
 this one ; and still the intimacy at the Lodge 
 seemed to increase. For full a month, however, 
 it received a check, as Sir Arthur left the coun- 
 try for town upon urgent business, and Cecil 
 rarely then gave himself the trouble to call 
 there. But that period expired, Sir Arthur 
 returned to Bouverie Castle, and his visits, and 
 those of his nephew, recommenced, much to the 
 dissatisfaction of Mr. Stanhope. 
 
 It was about six or seven months after the 
 beginning of the acquaintance, upon one even- 
 ing when Sir Arthur and his nephew were riding
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 'J5 
 
 together on their way home from Bloorafield 
 Lodge, the former gentleman suddenly address- 
 ing his companion, said : 
 
 " Cecil, I wish you to marry." 
 
 *' To marry, sir?" repeated Cecil in astonish- 
 ment, " and why ?" 
 
 ^* Because I think it fit you should ; you are 
 full six-and-twenty ; and that I imagine is just 
 the time of age to marry." 
 
 " But I would rather wait awhile, sir ;" re- 
 joined Cecil, " surely there can be no hurry 
 about the business." 
 
 *^ Yes, there is," answered Sir Arthur, 
 abruptly ; then he continued more calmly, " I 
 thought you told me, when you first came down 
 here in the spring, that you intended to become 
 more circumspect in your behaviour than you 
 had hitherto been, and so wished to spend the 
 most part of the present year at the Castle, to 
 enable you to break off your not very reputable 
 connections in town with greater ease." 
 
 "And have I not kept my promise, sir?" 
 
 E 2
 
 76 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 '* As to your choice of residence, yes ; as to 
 your amusements, no. You have still, when- 
 ever the opportunity presented itself, fallen in 
 with your round of town pleasures ; you have 
 not devoted yourself to the improvement of 
 your mind, which I fear, if thus encouraged in 
 its present sloth, will at length prove good for 
 nothing. I begin to suspect it was no sincere 
 desire of reformation that made you settle 
 awhile in the country, but a passing disgust 
 with some of your London friends — with Ellen 
 Ormond for instance." 
 
 " Lady Haviland ? Well, sir, and if it were ?" 
 
 " Then I should say you were more feeling 
 than wise. Is there any use in being offended 
 with a woman ? What if she jilted you, and 
 preferred the Earl of Haviland to a handsome 
 young fellow like yourself? Why, you ought 
 only to laugh at her, despise her — she deserves 
 nothing else." 
 
 '* Sir, I never cared for Ellen — Lady Havi- 
 land, as much you seem to think I did. When
 
 ' SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 77 
 
 I knew she hesitated between the earl and my- 
 self, I at once gave her up, and told her so. I 
 did not feel inclined, I assure you, to marry a 
 woman who could demur for an instant upon 
 such a subject ; and my love was pretty well 
 cooled down to a proper degree of frigidity in 
 about a month or two after her marriage. As for 
 my coming here, it was partly to estrange myself 
 more eflPectually from her, I acknowledge ; but 
 yet I also thought you might wish for my com- 
 pany ; and again, I really wanted to break off 
 some old connections in town, as I thought it 
 was full time to give over the reckless course of 
 life I have until now pursued." 
 
 *' I am glad to hear it, as you will the more 
 readily enter into my matrimonial scheme." 
 
 '^No, no, sir, not just yet. I will not marry 
 yet." 
 
 *' But I say that you must, Cecil. And as you 
 have such rational ideas upon the subject of re- 
 forming, perhaps, you will not think it strange 
 if I desire you to wed one with whom you have
 
 78 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERTE. 
 
 been much of late, and whose heart, whether 
 undesignedly or purposely, I cannot tell, you 
 have gained." 
 
 " Who do you mean ?*' 
 
 *' Who can I mean but Amy Arnolde ?" 
 
 " Amy Arnolde !'' cried Cecih reining in his 
 horse, and confronting his uncle, with a stare 
 of thorough astonishment, although the light 
 was so indistinct that he could not distinguish 
 the expression of his features, " surely you must 
 be jesting — you cannot mean it !" 
 
 *' Why not ?" replied Sir Arthur quietly. " I 
 tell you, that I intend you to marry Amy Ar- 
 nolde ; and when I tell you so, I only inform you 
 what strict justice requires you to do. Have 
 you not been paying her the most decided at- 
 tention for the last six months ? have you not 
 won her heart?" 
 
 '' Pshaw ! her heart; my dear uncle ! the heart 
 of a girl of sixteen, who cannot know her 
 own mind as yet ! — who would dream she 
 was in love with the first man who spoke the
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVliRIR. 7^ 
 
 slightest nonsense to herl-- Ridiculous, ridicul- 
 ous ! — but you are only jesting." 
 
 " Not so, 1 speak in perfect truth ; where 
 will you find a girl of her exquisite beauty and 
 excellent sense?" 
 
 '* Pooh, pooh, uncle, anywhere, any\\here. 
 And her birth, sir, her birth? — you do not 
 think of that ; you who prize birth and rank so 
 highly, must feel it to be an inseparable bar to 
 our union." 
 
 *' I own it is a great objection ; but in some 
 cases it is to be overlooked ; in the present one 
 it must be, Cecil ; I know you are accustomed 
 to the blunted and fashionable feelings of town, 
 and therefore do not think much of winning a 
 girl's love, merely for a few weeks* amusementj 
 then afterwards slighting her when tired of your 
 sport; yet recollect, that although with the 
 thoughtless it is deemed nothing, all those who 
 are not misled by vanity or pleasure pronounce 
 it to be dishonourable and cruel. You raise one 
 of the strongest passions in the human breast,
 
 80 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 but to blight it ; you fascinate, by the erring 
 eflforts of a puerile and selfish vanity, the af- 
 fections of a being endued with the most exqui- 
 site sensibility ; you centre all her hopes and 
 fears upon yourself — for what? To sneer at 
 her because her heart was not as cold and sus- 
 picious as your own ; because she could not 
 dream that one, who, with all the artlessness of 
 seeming truth, won it for himself, was yet so base 
 as to be acting the part of a deceiver. This, 
 Cecil, is the line of conduct you have held to- 
 wards Amy Amolde, and this is what I wish 
 you to retrieve by offering her your hand." 
 
 " Never," exclaimed Cecil, angrily. '* What ! 
 to a child, a mere child,^^ continued he, with a 
 derisive laugh, " I can scarcely believe you in 
 earnest, sir ; you cannot surely wish me to wed 
 the nameless offspring of a beggar-woman — 
 you cannot mean it. Besides, you lecture me 
 uncle, as if the girl felt all that you so 
 eloquently describe ; but rest satisfied upon 
 mv assurance that she does not. She has do
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 81 
 
 deep feelings — none ; she is only pleased, the 
 little fool, at the attentions I sometimes, from 
 mere ennui, pay her, and blushes now and then 
 from rustic bashfulness; nothing more. Yet, 
 if you think I have gone too far in expressing 
 an open admiration of her waxlike beauty, sir, 
 I will immediately endeavour to rectify that mis- 
 fortune by at once breaking off all intercourse 
 with her to satisfy your scruples." 
 
 "The mischief is done, and cannot be un- 
 done — Amy Arnolde loves you ; and she is ca- 
 pable of strong feehngs — give me leave to judge 
 upon that point as well as yourself; I tell you 
 she loves you," 
 
 *' Well, sir, and if she does, when I see her 
 no more she will soon forget me." 
 
 '' She will not : Cecil, once for all, I will have 
 you marry that girl. I have watched you well ! 
 you have paid her more attention than you ever 
 ought to have done ; having done so, you must 
 fulfil the hopes you have awakened within her 
 heart, else you are no nephew of mine. You 
 
 E S
 
 82 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 say you would wish to reform ; begin then by 
 performing an act of justice towards one whom 
 you have seriously injured." 
 
 "Injured! nonsense, uncle; a few tears 
 would be all that an instant knowledge of my 
 cruelty, as you call it, would cost her. Marry 
 her, indeed ! 1 never heard of such an improba- 
 ble scheme in all my life !" 
 
 " Not so improbable, Cecil, if executed.^' 
 
 '* It will never be executed; I will not con- 
 sent to become a principal in it. Why, my 
 dear uncle, can anything be more absurd ? You 
 would marry m,e to a child, a pretty little country 
 simpleton, and withal a foundling ; — pshaw I 
 there is no need of a second thought about the 
 matter ; your plan will never do, sir." 
 
 " I have set my heart upon it,^' answered Sir 
 Arthur, " and it must do. But turn it over in 
 your mind, Cecil, for three days, and then give 
 me your answer , I shall not require one before 
 then. Still let me caution you to make the 
 answer according to my wishes, else, perhaps,"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE, 83 
 
 added he with a pecuUar significance in his 
 manner, that his nephew could not comprehend, 
 " I may have to use more disagreeable reasons 
 than 1 have yet done for showing you the ne- 
 cessity of complying with my request." 
 
 And entering the gate of Bouverie Castle, be- 
 fore which they now arrived, the uncle and 
 nephew parted in no very satisfied moods with 
 each other. 
 
 Three days elapsed, and Cecil Bouverie's as- 
 tonishment at his uncle's singular proposal, had 
 not at all subsided, when he found himself, upon 
 the evening of the fourth day, alone with him in 
 the drawing room ; the latter immediately asked 
 his determination upon the matter. 
 
 *' My determination/' repeated Cecil, "you 
 must readily guess, sir; it is never to wed Amy 
 Arnolde." 
 
 "Then hear mine upon the same subject," 
 answered Sir Arthur, speaking in a low, con- 
 strained voice, as if under the influence of sup- 
 pressed anger, '' and bear in mind that I never
 
 84 SIR ARTHUR BOtVERIE. 
 
 swerve from the performance of any resolution 
 which I make deliberately as I do now. Listen 
 then, I here solemnly swear that unless you do 
 marry Amy Arnolde, I declare you no longer my 
 heir, I cast you off for ever, giving but a slender 
 marriage portion to your sister, so that you may 
 seek no succour from her, not a shilling to 
 yourself. You shall marry Amy Arnolde," 
 continued Sir Arthur still more vehemently 
 than before, and looking fixedly at Cecil, " or 
 else you must abide the consequences that you 
 know will follow the publication of my above 
 determination. I can tell you what they will 
 be — do not think to deceive me ; I know your 
 present seclusion is no more than an evasion of 
 your creditors ; you are in debt, deeply in debt, 
 — do not attempt to deny it." 
 
 *'I do not," Cecil replied, colouring deeply, 
 ** I know that it is so," 
 
 "You know that it is so!" rejoined Sir Arthur, 
 " and you dare tell me this with such unshaken 
 confidence of manner, as would almost now 
 tempt me to disown you."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 85 
 
 " I can only say I am sorry it is a truth," an- 
 swered Cecil, proudly, yet bending his eyes upon 
 the ground, " and now that I have reflected 
 upon my folly, I would not act the same part 
 over again. As it is 1 cannot undo what I have 
 done, and must therefore suffer your anger, and 
 its most probable consequences." 
 
 '' No, not if you obey my present com- 
 mands," said Sir Arthur eagerly ; " but listen 
 to me and then take your measures accordingly. 
 On the one hand, then, I offer to pay your 
 debts, and allow you a larger income than usual 
 if you consent to marry Amy Arnolde ; on the 
 other, if you refuse, I abandon you entirely, and 
 leave you to your creditors, and to the two poor 
 hundreds a year, settled on you by your father. 
 Now take your choice — for that is the decision 
 I have arrived at respecting you." 
 
 " Sir, you cannot in conscience desire me to 
 acquiesce in it. What ! marry a beggar raised 
 by a fortuitous circumstance from the low con- 
 dition in which she was born, still, however,
 
 86 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 with the stigma of her birth known to all ! no, 
 no, uncle, I cannot, I will not." 
 
 *' Reflect ere you thoroughly decide. The 
 girl is beautiful, well educated, and young ; 
 moreover, she loves you." 
 
 " She does not.'' 
 
 ''She does, and therefore if you vi^ll you may 
 render her and yourself happy." 
 
 " Happy !" 
 
 " Aye, happy, for she has a warm heart, and 
 good sense.'' 
 
 " But, my dear uncle, you will not listen to 
 reason — have 1 not told you she does not love 
 me? Her affection is a mere farce — such as 
 every school-girl thinks she feels when just en- 
 tering the world, and will if she sees me no 
 more, dwindle away to thorough indifference in 
 a very short time." 
 
 " I will not argue any longer with you upon 
 the subject," said Sir Arthur, harshly ; " 1 tell 
 you plainly that I will have you marry Amy 
 Arnolde ; you have acted wrongly towards the
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 87 
 
 girl, and therefore it is just that you should offer 
 the only atonement in your power. The trap 
 in which you are caught is of your own making 
 and marry her you shall, or else you are no 
 longer my heir/' 
 
 There was a long pause, unbroken by one 
 word from Cecil, who was walking hastily up 
 and down the room, as if struggling with some 
 stormy thoughts which he could scarcely mas- 
 ter, until Sir Arthur finished it, by saying, — 
 
 " Will you give your consent? have you 
 decided ?" 
 
 " No," answered he, in a low tone, " I have 
 not. I cannot do so to-night; give me more 
 time — two or three days." 
 
 " Be it so," said Sir Arthur, rising, *•' you 
 have them ; but, remember, that ray determi- 
 nation will not be shaken by delay." 
 
 •' No," muttered Cecil, as he watched his 
 uncle to the door, " I know that ; the very 
 devil could not triumph over your obstinacy." 
 Then he added aloud, as Sir Arthur turned
 
 88 SIR ARTHUR BOUVEEIE. 
 
 back for a second, and intimated that he should 
 expect his answer on the following Thursday. 
 '* Yes, sir, I will be ready ; I shall have made 
 up my mind, no doubt, by that time." 
 
 Proud in the extreme, there was nothing 
 could have tortured Cecil Bouverie's haughty 
 spirit more than the match which his uncle 
 now forced upon him. He saw no way to 
 escape ; he knew Sir Arthur well — his word 
 once given, was never revoked ; and, with a 
 consciousness that he deserved the punishment 
 he met with — for he felt he had selfishly trifled 
 with Amy's feelings — he saw that at last he 
 must submit to his will. One excuse alone 
 could be offered for the conduct of Cecil to- 
 wards Amy, and that was, he did not know, or 
 even guess, the actual strength of her charac- 
 ter. Timid and reserved, her excessive bash- 
 fulness concealed its real depth, and though he 
 perceived she was not insensible to his atten- 
 tions, he did not think her capable of any deep 
 feeling upon the subject
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVF.RIE. 89 
 
 It was not so ; Amy loved Cecil Bouverie, 
 with that intense devotion of heart which al- 
 ways characterises the affection of an inferior 
 for a superior. She felt, that in mind as well 
 as in station he was far above her ; she liked 
 him as one who was kind to a nameless orphan, 
 and too young to reason upon the consequences, 
 abandoned herself to the strong feeling of gra- 
 titude that possessed her, and loved him with 
 all the fervour and sincerity of early youth. 
 Yet, strange as it may seem even in her most 
 romantic musings, no thought of a requital of 
 her love ever struck her ; for she did not in- 
 terpret Cecil's compliments and attentions, as 
 the signs of a reciprocal affection on his part ; 
 but deeply humbled within herself, on account 
 of her birth, and dependent situation, she only 
 listened to, and noticed them as marks of his 
 kindness and condescension, wondering, mean- 
 while, how the neighbours could call him proud, 
 when he so often spoke to her thus gently and 
 deferentially. She knew not, as yet, the power
 
 90 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 of her marvellous beauty, which sometimes 
 excited even the indifferent Cecil Bouverie's 
 truthful admiration ; for, although she saw 
 she was not plain, she had no idea of the real 
 extent of her attractions, and little thought 
 that there were few so lovely as herself, in face 
 and form. 
 
 These were Amy's sentiments, with regard 
 to Cecil ; his towards her were far different. 
 Contempt, admiration, and pity, alternately 
 predominated in his mind when he thought of 
 her ; he admired her for her beauty, despised 
 her for her origin, and pitied her, because she 
 seemed towards him, and he thought towards 
 all the world, so naive, confiding and submis- 
 sive. There he was wrong ; Amy Arnolde 
 appeared gentle to him, because, though he 
 scorned her, she knew not that he did, as he 
 never permitted his true sentiments upon the 
 subject to be expressed by word or look in her 
 presence, and always paid her that deference, 
 which, in general, is considered naturally due
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 91 
 
 to the unfortunate. Proud, as Cecil Bouverie 
 was, he never made his haughty spirit felt save 
 when provoked, and with the seemingly meek 
 and timid Amy, there was nothing to arouse it 
 into action. 
 
 But the proposal of Sir Arthur awakened 
 within his breast a feeling of dishke towards 
 her, notwithstanding his conviction of her per- 
 fect ignorance of the whole affair. Disgusted 
 too, with himself for having been inadvertently 
 drawn into a match so disagreeable to all his 
 long and carefully cheribhed prejudices in favour 
 of birth and rank, he sought in some way to 
 escape from it; but when he considered his 
 present circumstances, he found that every 
 effort he might make for the purpose, would 
 only hurry him into measures of irremediable 
 rashness, or else be entirely useless. x\t times, 
 he thought of renouncing all his claims of re- 
 lationship upon Sir Arthur, of refusing the 
 hand of Amy Arnolde, and, unshackled by the 
 bonds which he dreaded, seek a livelihood in
 
 92 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 the world before him. When, however, he 
 came to reflect upon the matter, he saw that 
 the chances were small of his attaining even the 
 means of subsistence ; for his debts would sink 
 his own income, and he was far too old to bind 
 himself to any profession. Besides, he knew 
 there would be a great difference between the 
 comforts of a life of struggUng poverty, even 
 were he free of the altar vows, and those which 
 would attend that of his uncle's heir, saddled 
 as he might be with an unpleasant encumbrance. 
 So, after many a hard combat between the 
 yearnings of his angry passions, and the colder 
 dictates of worldly reason, Cecil at last resolved 
 to marry Amy Arnolde. 
 
 When the uncle and nephew met on the 
 evening appointed, Httle was said on either side. 
 
 "What is your answer?" said Sir Arthur, 
 coldly. 
 
 " What you wish it to be," answered Cecil. 
 
 ^' Then, I am to understand that you consent 
 to marry Amy Arnolde ?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUV ERIE. 93 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 " Cecil," said Sir Arthur, more kindly, as if 
 softened by his nephew's reply, " I scarcely 
 need ask you to give me your word, that you 
 will treat Amy, when your wife, with considera- 
 tion and kindness, and not visit upon her head 
 the discontent which the marriage at present 
 excites in your mind — for I believe that you 
 will not." 
 
 " You judge rightly," answered Cecil. 
 
 And the young man rose to leave the room. 
 
 " Stay one moment," said his uncle, " you 
 have engaged yourself to perform your part in 
 the business before us ; as an earnest that I 
 intend to fulfil mine, here, take this draft on 
 my bankers for the full amount of your debts." 
 And he gave into the hands of his nephew 
 some papers which he had hitherto held in his 
 own ; then added, " And as we may as well 
 finish the affair at once, tell me, when will you 
 declare yourself the suitor of Amy Arnolde?" 
 
 " Not at all," replied Cecil, in a decided tone
 
 94 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 of vcice, " 3^ou must do that for me, sir ; carry 
 the proposals when you will to the vicarage, in 
 that part of the business I will have no direct 
 hand. But, since the marriage must come off 
 at last, why let it be as soon as you like ; such 
 a farce as it is, I should wish its most ridiculous 
 scene to be over as quickly as possible." 
 
 Sir Arthur looked long and earnestly at his 
 nephew, whose fine countenance wore an ex- 
 pression of bitter contempt, and a dark crimson 
 flush of anger came over his face ; but with a 
 powerful effort he seemed to repress his im- 
 patience, and answered, ''then to-morrow I 
 will inform the vicar of your intentions." 
 
 And once more the uncle and nephew parted. 
 
 " So !" said Cecil Bouverie, as he paced up 
 and down his own room, and gave vent to the 
 angry feelings of his heart, when no longer 
 within the presence of Sir Arthur, " this is my 
 destiny — this ! And yet I can scarcely believe 
 it; he, who was always so particular about the 
 distinctions of society, to force me, from a ro-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 95 
 
 mantic notion of justice, to wed the child of a 
 vagrant — perhaps worse ! True, he is always 
 strictly just, and mindful of the claims of 
 others, even upon himself; but, although he 
 does not hurt the pride of those beneath him 
 by premeditated insults or heedlessness, he is 
 careful never to form any connections with 
 them, to keep them down to their proper level 
 — how can I reconcile this conduct with the 
 present preposterous match ? Honour ! that 
 is the word he dwells upon— as if there were 
 dishonour in exciting a few tender feehngs in 
 the heart of a girl, who most likely would as 
 soon forget me, were she to see me no more, as 
 I should forget her ; for she is far too young, 
 and passively gentle to feel deeply. What 
 said he ? — a trap ! Aye, fool that I am, I have 
 stepped into one of my own making, and the 
 door has closed upon me. Confounded vanity ! 
 selfish idleness ! this is your doing ! and I, who 
 from a mere distaste of matrimony, have neg- 
 lected the highboru and uealthy, must at last
 
 96 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 marry a penniless beggar girl! Love me ! — 
 yes, I suppose she does — as much as I loved 
 the widow Kennedy at eighteen. Pshaw ! to 
 be tied for life to a wax doll, a pretty child, 
 unaccomplished and silly as she seems to be — 
 what evil genius sent me down here, and led 
 me to pay those unwary attentions of mine to 
 the little fool ? The very devil himself, must 
 have been at work with me, because, he saw? 
 perhaps, that his earlier power over me was 
 slackening, because, forsooth, I intended to 
 reform ! And then, those debts, those cursed 
 debts ! how could he find them out, how trace 
 the exact amount? Hemmed in on every side, 
 what could I do but consent ? what will Ellen 
 Haviland say ? she will have cause for sneering 
 now ; her quick wit will soon discover the 
 whole of the business. And Kate ! aye, the 
 old fellow threatened to leave her portionless, 
 too — perhaps, because he thought she would 
 help me, had anything been at her own dis- 
 posal ; on every point surrounded, there was 
 no help for it— tied for life ! tied for life !'* '
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 97 
 
 And, at length, exhausted by the vehemence 
 of his feehngs, Cecil Bouverie threw himself 
 upon a chair, and tried to think more quietly. 
 But he could not ; impatient and stormy 
 thoughts again possessed him whenever his 
 mind dwelt upon the late concession his uncle 
 had extorted from him ; and with them rose the 
 remembrance of a disappointed affection, which, 
 once deep and sincere, still lingered within his 
 heart, and made him regret, although he could 
 not but despise the woman, who, for the glittering 
 splendour of a coronet, sacrificed her own 
 peace of mind, and slighted him she really loved. 
 And the night was far spent before the current 
 of his thoughts flowed more calmly, and per- 
 mitted him to seek that rest from all earthly 
 troubles, placid sleep. 
 
 VOL.
 
 98 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE* 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Bring flowers, flowers, lovely and rare, 
 
 A bridal wreath to twine ; 
 To bind the brows of a maiden fair 
 
 Led unto Hymen's shrine. 
 
 The myrtle, the rose, and orange flower 
 
 A lovely wreath will make; 
 Cull ye the youngest in every bow'r 
 
 The fair and fresh ones take ! 
 
 But bring of the cypress sad a leaf 
 
 One of the willow, too ; 
 For ye cannot tell when cank'ring grief 
 
 Shall dim that eye of blue. 
 
 It may be that years will o'er it pass 
 And smiles of joy be there — 
 
 It may be a month, alas ! alas ! 
 When tears shall speak of care*
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 93 
 
 All, all is change in this world of ours, 
 
 And hopes pass into fears ; 
 Our lov'd jojs wither, the future low'rs, 
 
 Life's cup is full of tears. 
 
 Then place ye amidst a bride's array 
 
 Leaves of the cypre.-s tree ; 
 Tress ye together the sad and the gay 
 
 A fitting wreath 'twill be ! 
 
 Nothing could equal the astonishment of Mr. 
 Stanhope when Sir Arthur opened his proposal 
 of marriage to him ; that his protegee should 
 have won the heart of Cecil Bouverie seemed to 
 him incredible ; for he always thought he had 
 no serious intentions towards Amy, and was 
 only drawn into the expression of his admira- 
 tion for her by a selfish vanity, which knew it 
 could lend itself to the idealities of a passing 
 fancy of the moment, and yet remain un- 
 scathed by such an indulgence. Strange, in- 
 deed, it seemed to him, that one, proud and 
 indifferent like young Bouverie, could love 
 deeply enough to make that passion overbalance 
 all the considerations, which might have ren- 
 dered an union with Amy disagreeable to him ; 
 
 F 2
 
 TOO SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 and still stranger he thought it was that Sir 
 Arthur should so readily concur in his choice 
 of a vvite, and even be the first to mention the 
 intended marriage to him. 
 
 He thought he had mistaken the characters 
 of both gentlemen greatly ; he could no longer 
 arraign the pride of the uncle, or the heartless- 
 ness of the nephew ; and hastily recollecting 
 that the many reports he heard about the lat- 
 ter's reckless course of life, had no better 
 foundation than that of hearsay, he sincerely 
 repented having judged him so harshly and pre- 
 maturely. Yet, splendid as were the offers of 
 Sir Arthur, the surprise which they created in 
 the mind of Mr. Stanhope was coupled with a 
 regret that they should ever have been brought 
 beneath his notice, as he did not like so easily 
 to resign his long-cherialied project of a match 
 between his son and Amy, although he knew 
 her worldly vielfare would certainly be more 
 improved by the pn sent one. And confused 
 by his many anxious thoughts and wishes upon
 
 sill ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 101 
 
 the subject, when asked for his reply, he begged 
 leave to delay it for a while. But this was not 
 acquiesced in by Sir Arthur, who exclaimed, in 
 a tone which could not fail to impress upon the 
 mind of Mr. Stanhope the very advantageous 
 nature of the offer he held forth, " Delay it for 
 a while, my dear sir? — I should think there 
 could be no possible objection to the proposals." 
 
 " Nay," answered Mr. Stanhope, who saw- 
 indeed there were no objections to the marriage, 
 excepting some feelings of his own, that, if ex- 
 amined, would prove selfish, and which it was 
 not his duty to listen to, when the real interests 
 of Amy were at stake, " I only meant I could 
 not give a definite answer at the present mo- 
 ment ; I must know whether Mr. Bouverie's 
 proposals are agreeable to Amy, for I would 
 never control her on that point.'' 
 
 " Call her hither," rejoined Sir Arthur, " let 
 the young lady speak for herself. I should 
 wish to carry a satisfactory reply back to Cec i 
 to night."
 
 102 SIR ARTHUR BOliVLRIE. 
 
 " Had I not better go to her, and bring you 
 her answer ?" said the vicar, wishing to spare 
 Amy the confusion attendant upon such a 
 meeting. 
 
 And he moved towards the door, but Sir 
 Arthur stopped him. 
 
 '* Noj no," he answered, " pray call her hither^ 
 I wish for a personal interview." 
 
 And Mr. Stanhope had nothing else to do, 
 but to ring the bell and order Amy to be called. 
 
 Some moments after, perfectly unconscious of 
 what she was to hear, Amy entered the room, 
 and, after timidly bowing to Sir Arthur, walked 
 up to the vicar, and awaited his commands. 
 But before Mr. Stanhope had time to address 
 her, Sir Arthur advanced to where they stood, 
 and leading her away from him, said, *Mt is I, 
 Miss Arnolde, who wish to speak with you ; 
 give me then, 1 pray, your attention for a few 
 minutes, whilst I explain the errand on which 
 I came hither.'^ 
 
 And Amy looked up at him quietly, yet
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 103 
 
 bashfully. A few words unravelled his mean- 
 ing, and his listener, for some moments be- 
 wildered by the intelligence, stood leaning 
 against the wall near her, pale as death and as 
 silent, till suddenly recovering herself, she 
 murmured, " It is not true, it is not true, he 
 cannot love me knowing me for what I am — 
 this must be some cruel jest — he cannot love me." 
 
 *' Not love you?" rejoined Sir Arthur, look- 
 ing down upon the young girl with a deep yet 
 sad expression of tenderness, '* who can help 
 loving you ? Mr. Stanhope," he continued, 
 *' I believe you need no farther proof that Miss 
 Arnolde loves my nephew ; a blushing cheek 
 may belie a maiden's heart, but a pale one, 
 never ! I suppose then 1 may take back her 
 acceptance of the offer?" 
 
 The vicar bowed assent in silence, and Sir 
 Arthur, without another word, wished him good 
 day, and departed. 
 
 " Amy I" said Mr, Stanhope when they 
 were alone, " then you love Cecil Bouverie ?" 
 
 ^* Love him ?" she repeated, as she drew near
 
 104 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 to the vicar, and bowing her blushing face upon 
 his hand, kissed it, *' oh yes, father.'^ 
 
 '' Yet I should think. Amy," continued he, 
 '^ that you were too young to feel the passion of 
 love. Speak," he added bending his eyes 
 searchingly upon her, ^* tell me truly, do not 
 some aspirings after grandeur tempt you to 
 accept him V* 
 
 "No, no, father," answered Amy, her cheeks 
 crimsoning with emotion, and her eyes filling 
 with tears, " do not think that — I feel that I 
 would live for him, could die for him — is not 
 that love, father?" 
 
 " Aye,'' said the vicar sadly, and he with- 
 drew his gaze from the face of the young girl, 
 and, passing his hand across his brow, dwelt 
 upon past years of happiness and youthful feel- 
 ing, " that is love !" then added, as he thought 
 of his son, 
 
 " Poor, poor Herbert !" 
 
 " Herbert ?" repeated Amy, looking up ; 
 " what of him, father ?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 105 
 
 " I was thinking," said Mr. Stanhope, " that 
 he would soon lose his friend and sister, child. 
 He, doubtless, will feel the separation deeply. 
 My society. Amy, can in no way compensate 
 for yours ; both he and I then must feel a sad 
 void when you are gone.^^ 
 
 Amy's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Dear Herbert,^' she murmured, ** to part 
 from him and you, father, pains me — but oh ! 
 I will come and see you very, very often." 
 
 " Perhaps not so," replied the vicar, *'you 
 know not your future lot. We may be sepa- 
 rated for years, Amy ; you may be left to your- 
 self — comparatively, at least — in the new sphere 
 of life to which you are about to remove. There 
 all will be turmoil and distraction, and often in 
 your gayest moments you may long for the 
 home you must soon quit. How will you stand 
 the brunt of all this, Amy ?" 
 
 " Mr. Bouverie will love me," she answered, 
 her dark eyes sparkling with earnest faith; "I 
 will trust in his affection, father, as I have 
 trusted in yours." f 3
 
 106 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 So much for woman's wisdom, she leans upon 
 a brittle stick, then wonders when it breaks 
 beneath her ! 
 
 The vicar gazed upon Amy's expressive coun- 
 tenance with a mournful and yet benevolent 
 smile ; but he said not another word upon the 
 subject. He thought it was useless to warn 
 her then ; love's bright dreams were too strong 
 and brilliant at that time, to be restrained by 
 the lessons of sober realit}^, and quitting the 
 room he left her to herself. 
 
 The next day Cecil Bouverie called at the 
 Lodge, and though Mr. Stanhope perceived the 
 same pride and indifference he had always no- 
 ticed in his behaviour, inclined as he now felt to 
 judge more favourably than before, the coldness 
 of his address to Amy was not so much ob- 
 served by him, as it otherwise would have been. 
 Amy herself did not remark it at all ; she had 
 constantly s'een him the same, and the very fact 
 of his having offered her his hand, proved to 
 her the depth of his love more strongly than
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 107 
 
 either words or looks could have done. Humble, 
 gentle, and devoted, she never remarked the 
 ennui Cecil sometimes expressed in her pre- 
 sence I it was enough that he declared his love, 
 and wished to wed her, as yet she asked no 
 more, for the child had not yet ripened into the 
 woman, and there was no distrust or fear within 
 her heart. True, the passions spoke their 
 presence, and she loved ; but that love was the 
 love of the child, bhnd to all the imperfections 
 of the object its affection is fixed upon — con- 
 tent with the superficial kindness of the moment, 
 — not that of the woman, who instantly perceives 
 the minutest shade of dislike or indifference in 
 the words or manner of the beloved one. Yes, 
 Amy loved as a child loves, blindly, fearlessly, 
 trustingly ; childhood, with its sunny smiles, 
 held her yet in its embrace — well, womanhood 
 with its tears was not far off". Thus the court- 
 ship sped. 
 
 And Herbert ? Vainly he tried to struggle 
 against the blow which levelled all his hopes
 
 108 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 to the ground ; painfully he watched her in- 
 creasing love for Cecil, painfully marked the 
 quiet affectionate difference of her manner to- 
 wards himself, and as much as he could he 
 shunned her society. Amy, however, did not 
 notice this ; preoccupied with the coming change 
 in her own condition, she had not even the 
 slightest suspicion that Herbert Stanhope loved 
 her. 
 
 Three months after the formal demand of Amy 
 Arnolde's hand in marriage by Cecil Bouverie, 
 their marriage took place inWilverton church, to 
 the very great astonishment of the good people 
 of the village and its environs, w^ho could not 
 imagine how the well-known little foundling of 
 Bloom field Lodge became the wife of the rich, 
 handsome, and fashionable Cecil, with the full 
 consent and perfect approbation of his haughty 
 old uncle. 
 
 Much envied was the bride, as may be sup- 
 posed, yet, had those who then wished them- 
 selves in her place, known how matters really
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 109 
 
 stood behind the scenes, or caught a ghmpse of 
 the dark future about to open upon her, they 
 would have shrunk from the fulfilment of their 
 wish in the very first moment of its creation. 
 Thus much for an insight into the bridegroom's 
 sentiments upon the occasion : on the night 
 before his marriage, he wrote the following 
 letter to a sister in town : 
 
 '' Dear Kate, 
 
 " This i^s to inform you that I am mar- 
 ried to-morrow morning, by the express desire 
 of our uncle, to a girl of sixteen, whom I 
 have foohshly flirted with for the last six or 
 seven months. She is well educated, and cer- 
 tainly pretty, but of low birth, being, in fact, 
 a foundhng, whom the charity of the vicar of 
 this place preserved from utter destitution. Sir 
 Arthur wished you to be at the wedding ; this, 
 however, I would not allow, as it is quite enough 
 to be made a fool of, without having all the 
 world to see it. I have purposely let you re-
 
 110 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 main in ignorance of this transaction, because 
 the match being extremely repugnant to my 
 feehngs, I wished it to come off as quietly as 
 possible. When we meet in town, which, 1 
 believe, will be in about two months, I will tell 
 you all particulars. I have been most unfortu- 
 nate — and yet in this case I feel I partly de- 
 serve the punishment I meet with ; pity me, 
 however, dearest Kate, since yours is the only 
 sympathy I can have, or, if I had, would care 
 for. I know not why, Kate, but at this present 
 moment, the exquisite face of Ellen Ormond 
 rises before me, perfidious as she is, and makes 
 my heart sicken as I think of the work of to- 
 morrow — the irrevocable vows that will soon 
 bind me to a life— shall I say of misery ? No, 
 my heart is too callous for that ; indifference 
 now supplies the place of passion — the springs 
 of feehng are frozen up : and yet, what is misery 
 but a void of hope, a never ceasing restlessness 
 of mind that cannot weary itself out, and dwells 
 upon no good thing ? Such, Kate, is what I
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE- 111 
 
 feel — shall feel throughout my future life, and 
 again I say, perhaps, I deserve to do so. 
 
 "One feeling of mine, ho^A ever, was true and 
 fervent, and had it not been disappointed, might 
 have led me on to better things ; it was my love 
 for Ellen — Ellen Haviland. But 1 will not 
 think of her, cold hearted and mercenary as 
 she proved herself to be — I will forget her. 
 
 " I look back to the beginning of this letter, 
 and see that 1 have told you more than I thought 
 I had — more than I intended to do. The tumult 
 of my mind at the present time has hurried me 
 into a confidence I never wished to make ; but 
 I will not withdraw it now ; you are my sister, 
 and a kind one, therefore whatever you may 
 think of me, Kate, while perusing it, it shall 
 remain as it is — not one word will I alter. You 
 will see how deeply I have felt Ellen Haviland's 
 worthlessness — well, let it be so. 
 
 " There is one request I make, which 1 hope 
 you will not refuse ; it is that you will be kind 
 enough to superintend the arrangements for
 
 112 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 the return of Amy and myself, at my uncle's 
 residence in Upper Belgrave-street. He gives 
 it up to us ; pray, therefore, be there on our 
 return, to stop some time with us, as you will 
 be of infinite use to Amy, who is but a mere 
 child, and full of gaucherie. But I will write 
 to you again, before then ; and so, no doubt, 
 will my uncle. Give my respects to Mrs. 
 Beresford, and wishing you good bye and good 
 night— for it is long past midnight — believe me, 
 dearest, ever 
 
 " Your affectionate brother, 
 
 " Cecil Bouverie." 
 
 The above letter, written as it was, upon the 
 eve of the wedding by the bridegroom, had it 
 been read by the envious spectators of the 
 ceremony, would not, perhaps, have been ap- 
 preciated as a very satisfactory earnest of the 
 lady's future happiness. 
 
 Nor would the dread that involuntarily seized 
 the timid young bride, as she bade farewell to
 
 SIE ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 1 13 
 
 her adopted father and brother, have been 
 deemed other than a strange presentiment of 
 coming grief. It was not sorrow alone made 
 her tremble and weep as she left them, but an 
 inexplicable feeling of fear, which possessed her, 
 as she turned from their sad and kind counte- 
 nances to the cold impassible one of Cecil, who 
 stood beside her quietly awaiting the comple- 
 tion of her adieux. And for the first time she 
 felt her heart sink within her, although sh 
 doubted not his love ; and again she turned 
 towards the pale and silent Herbert, and pressed 
 his hand within her own ; again she kissed the 
 good old Bridget, who was crying most heartily 
 in parting from her young mistress, and once 
 more lingered to receive the last embrace of the 
 protector of her infancy. In another moment 
 she left them, and soon was far on her way from 
 the Lodge and from the village. 
 
 And these were the realities of the supposed 
 love match, that so greatly astonished the good 
 people of Wilverton.
 
 114 SIR ARTHUR DOUVERiE. 
 
 CHAPTER VT. 
 
 " How can I paint ihee, as thou wert 
 So fair in face, so warm in heart ? 
 Yes, she was fair : — Matilda, thou 
 Hast a soft sadness on thy brow. 
 But hers was like the sunny glow. 
 That laughs on earth and all below." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 Within an elegantly furnished drawing-room, 
 of a spacious house in Upper Belgrave Street, 
 two ladies sat quietly in conversation. One of 
 them, whose silver hair, braided neatly over a 
 white, though wrinkled brow, betokened she 
 was far advanced in years, had the serene and 
 pleasing aspect age always wears when it steals
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 115 
 
 upon US, unaccompanied by sorrow or by pain. 
 There was a calm simplicity, too, about the old 
 lady's face, that engaged the beholder to gaze 
 attentively upon the fine, though faded features 
 in which it \Yas expressed, and a good-hu- 
 moured smile upon the lips, spoke favourably 
 enough for the temper of its possessor. She 
 was dressed as became her years ; a dark velvet 
 dress flowed in ample folds around her, and a 
 large black lace shawl thrown over her 
 shoulders, entirely concealed the figure, whiph 
 seemed slightly bent, while her smooth gray 
 hair was confined beneath a close cap of point- 
 d'Alen§on. The other lady was young and 
 handsome ; her age could scarcely have ex- 
 ceeded eighteen years, for there was a fresh 
 bloom upon her cheek, which is never seen but 
 in early youth, and a laughing spirit in her 
 eye, that told of a heart unacquainted with 
 care or grief. Her countenance was beautiful 
 — expressive of health, happiness, and con- 
 tentment; the large hazel eyes glanced brightly
 
 116 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 beneath the dark lashes of their bhae veined 
 lids, the pouting lips were formed into a merry 
 smile, and on the cheek a deep-rose colour 
 tinged the brown, but beautifully clear com- 
 plexion, while the chestnut hair curling in 
 glossy ringlets, was draw n back altogether from 
 her face in a sort of loose braid, and twisted 
 over a comb behind the head, hung down from 
 thence upon the neck. This kind of head- 
 dress, resembling the Grecian style so often 
 seen in ancient statues, would not have suited 
 every one, but the regular features, and oval 
 contour of this young girl's face became it ex- 
 ceedingly well. 
 
 The names of these two ladies were Mrs. 
 Beresford and Kate Bouverie ; the latter was 
 Cecil's sister. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford was in no way related to the 
 Bouveriesj but Kate had lived with her from 
 her childhood, by the following arrangement of 
 circumstances — Her mother, who was now 
 dead, in past years was the most intimate friend
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 1 I 7 
 
 of Mrs. Bere^forcl ; the acquaintance began at 
 school, where the two girls formed a friend- 
 ship, which, contrary to the usual bent of 
 school-day intimacies, continued during life. 
 Even marriage did not alter it, and when, as it 
 soon afterwards happened, they were both de- 
 prived of their husbands, nearly about the 
 same time, and while they were yet young, the 
 two Widows, left to themselves, agreed to have 
 but one establishment between them, and to 
 bring up their children together, their united 
 famiHes consisting of two boys, Cecil Bouverie 
 and Frank Beresford ; and one girl, the little 
 Kate Bouverie. This arrangement, proposed 
 by Mrs. Beresford, was not at first acquiesced in 
 by Mrs. Bouverie, whose income did not allow 
 her to afford the same style of living as her 
 friend, for her husband, though holding a very 
 lucrative and influential situation under govern- 
 ment, died comparatively poor, as his salary 
 ceased at his death, and his private property did 
 not amount to much ; i)ut afterwards, vii-ldir.fr to
 
 118 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford's solicitations she consented to 
 reside with her, hoping that upon the return 
 of Sir Arthur Bouverie, the elder brother of 
 her husband, who was then upon the continent, 
 she might be enabled, in some measure, to re- 
 pay her kindness. And she was not disap- 
 pointed in her expectations, for as soon as Sir 
 Arthur heard of his brother's death, he settled 
 a handsome income for life upon his widow, and 
 with this money Mrs. Bouverie thought she 
 would be enabled to give her children, if not a 
 brilHant at least a solid education, as well as to 
 settle them unostentatiously in life. She had 
 no further expectations from Sir Arthur ; for 
 though he was still unmarried, she did not con- 
 clude he would remain so, as he was not much 
 past forty, and seemingly not at all likely to 
 settle down into an old bachelor ; therefore, 
 circumscribing her wishes to her actual means, 
 she contented herself with what she had, and 
 lived peaceably and happily upon it. But her 
 life was not a long one, and her children were
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 119 
 
 soon deprived of their only surviving parent ; 
 she died two years after her husband's death, 
 of an attack of pleurisy. Upon the mother's 
 death, Mrs. Beresford wrote to Sir Arthur, en- 
 treating that the income he had allowed Mrs. 
 Bouverie might be continued to her children, 
 and also asked him to permit them to remain 
 under her care, as, from her attachment to her 
 late friend, she wished to have the superintend- 
 ance of their education. To this request Sir 
 Arthur replied that he intended to adopt his 
 nephew Cecil as his heir, and therefore would 
 feel himself obliged to remove him to his own 
 home ; but as to his niece, he said, if Mrs. 
 Beresford did not think she could cause her too 
 much trouble, she might continue where she 
 was, and that the income which he settled on 
 her mother he would consider due to her. And 
 Mrs. Beresford felt well pleased with this ar- 
 rangement ; for as much as she liked Cecil 
 Bouverie, who was then about thirteen, she 
 knew he was of too turbulent a disposition to
 
 120 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 be restrained much longer by her authority, 
 and she infinitely preferred taking charge of 
 the girl, the more so, perhaps, because she had 
 no daughter of her own, and as hitherto con- 
 sidered Kate as such. Matters being thus sa- 
 tisfactorily arranged, Kate Bouverie remained 
 with Mrs.Beresfordj and Cecil thenceforth lived 
 with his uncle. 
 
 Meanwhile, Kate Bouverie grew from the 
 pretty and intelligent child into a beautiful and 
 accomplished girl; and kind-hearted Mrs. 
 Beresford took nearly as much pride in her, as 
 in her handsome son Frank. As to Kate's 
 character, she had an excellent temper, a high 
 spirit, a deal of humour, and a kind heart ; 
 only these qualities being not sufficiently tamed 
 down by Mrs. Beresford, they sometimes car- 
 ried her to the verge of eccentricity, although 
 her common sense, of which she had a good 
 share, kept her from becoming a perfect ori- 
 ginal. Mrs. Beresford was not, in fact, the 
 person best fitted to have the care of Kate's
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 121 
 
 youth ; she was not clever enough to keep pace 
 with the superiority of her pupil's mind, as it 
 grew towards maturity ; she had some sense, 
 it is true, and in general she knew what was 
 right, and taught Kate the same ; but there 
 were a thousand points in which she could not 
 guide her ; and a credulity and simplicity 
 about her, according ill with the latter's quick 
 and just apprehension, who, perceiving this, 
 would have her own way in many things, where 
 it was necessary she should have been con- 
 trolled, and so became in the end, with all her 
 good nature, rather petulant and self-willed. 
 
 And now for a word about Frank Beresford. 
 
 At the commencement of this tale he was 
 in Italy, and continued to be there still ; he had 
 been, nobody knew where for the last six years, 
 travelling from place to place, until poor Mj-s. 
 Beresford thought she should never see him 
 again. Egypt, Palestine, Syria, Turkey, 
 Austria, Italy, and many other countries he 
 passed through, writing from whatever station 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 he could write, that he should certainly turn 
 homewards in less than a month, yet still tra- 
 velling further and further from old England. 
 At length, a letter came to say that he certainly 
 would be in London in about three or four 
 weeks, and upon this promise Mrs. Beresford 
 ested her hopes and expectations. 
 
 And now that the arrival of Frank Beresford 
 was looked for as certain, Kate Bouverie began 
 to inquire wdthin herself what sort of person 
 he would be. And considering all things, it 
 was a very necessary inquiry, as she knew, until 
 she married, she would have to see a good deal 
 of him, because he resided with his mother. 
 By all accounts, and by her own opinion, she 
 felt he was handsome, even tempered, and, as 
 far as she could judge from memory, a pleasing 
 companion. But, nevertheless, there was a 
 fault amidst this assemblage of good qualities 
 that she did not think lightly of, and this was 
 his excessive vanity. Often when a child had 
 she caught him taking a survey of his finely
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE, 123 
 
 formed features in the pier glasses of the draw- 
 ing-room, and as often, to his utter confusion, in 
 mischievous dcHght, was Mrs. Beresford informed 
 of it ; which latter lady always blamed him, of 
 course, for such a piece of vanity, but with a 
 mother's smile, that seemed to excuse him, and 
 say — " Well, but he is so handsome !" And even 
 now Kate felt amused at the recollection of the 
 indignant look he was wont to assume upon 
 such occasions, as he marched out of the room, 
 muttering angrily to himself, the exclamation 
 of—'' Foolish little girl !" She thought, too, of 
 the grievous quarrels there used to be at times 
 between them, when she, then a thoroughly 
 noisy child full of glee and miiichief, and six 
 years younger than he was, made it her chief 
 pleasure to teaze her tall brother, as she called 
 him, who, though generally good-tempered, 
 often became angry at last, when tried beyond 
 his patience, and gave her the epithets of 
 ' spoiled child,' ' tiresome little thing,' and va- 
 rious others equally expressive of his annoy- 
 
 G 2
 
 124 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 ance at her childish malice. These recollec- 
 tions, Kate now laughed over, and meanwhile 
 wondered if they should be better friends when 
 they again met, or whether he would provoke 
 her to dislike him by exhibiting in his every 
 day conduct, the same traces of elaborate 
 vanity and formality that appeared in the dry 
 and uninteresting letters now forwarded by 
 him to Mrs. Beresford and herself. Altogether 
 indeed, she did not expect to admire Frank 
 Beresford much, and sometimes felt really 
 thankful that his continued absence rendered 
 her present abode as pleasant as it was; for 
 although she remembered he was handsome 
 and agreeable before he commenced his travels, 
 she would not even hope he was so at present. 
 Six years, she reasoned, must have made a 
 great change in his personal appearance, spent 
 as they had been in hard travel and study, and 
 as for his character, that was clearly shown by 
 his letters, to be sadly overshadowed by an ex- 
 cessive vanity, and a stiff morality plainly dis-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 125 
 
 coverable in every word he wrote. " Poor 
 Frank/' was often Kate's inward ejaculation, 
 when she chanced to talk or think of him, 
 *' you are much changed for the worse, I fear ! 
 that horrible old Mr. Ramsay, it is all his 
 doing, I am sure — self-conceited, obstinate as 
 he is." 
 
 Mr. Ramsay, be it known, was Frank's tutor, 
 and had accompanied him on his travels, by his 
 mother's wish, but being suspected of encou- 
 raging the latter's roving habits more than was 
 necessary or right, at present incurred, upon 
 that account, Mrs. Beresford's as well as Kate's 
 displeasure. 
 
 Thus matters stood when Kate Bouverie re- 
 ceived her brother's letter, containing the intelli- 
 gence of his marriage. This effectually put an end 
 to all her wonderings about Frank, and thence- 
 forth her mind only dwelt upon the strangeness 
 of Cecirs wedding, and his sudden confidence. 
 She knew something of the engagement between 
 him and Ellen Ormonde now Lady Haviland ;
 
 126 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 but that he cared as much for her, as he now 
 expressed himself to have done, she did not 
 know, and judging hastily rather than wisely, 
 she thought that her uncle acted harshly in 
 making him give his hand where he could not 
 give his heart, and was ready to believe poor 
 Amy a mere flirt, who had entangled her brother 
 and Sir Arthur, by a feigned simplicity, in the 
 snare of her toils. " If a man were in love, as 
 Cecil here expresses himself to be," said Kate, as 
 she re-perused his letter, " how could he pay 
 continued and seemingly determinate attentions 
 to another girl ? Cecil could not do so I am 
 sure ; he may no doubt have allowed himself to 
 admire this Amy's beauty for a moment or two, 
 a day or two ; but not for long. She must wil- 
 fully have mistaken him, and worked upon his 
 and my uncle's feelings to effect the match, that 
 is the only way I can settle the question ; he 
 cannot be to blame." Simple Kate ! does love 
 rule the heart alone ? No, vanity reigns there 
 conjointly with the passion you would acknow-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 127 
 
 ledge its sole sovereign, and will seize, nay angle 
 for its prey as coolly as if no other feeling ex- 
 isted, when the first is not actually in action — 
 sometimes when it is. 
 
 Nevertheless, in pursuance of her brother's 
 and afterwards Sir Arthur's instructions, Kate 
 Bouverie, with the assistance of Mrs. Beres- 
 ford, looked with much taste to the furniture 
 and decorations of the latter's residence in 
 Upper Belgrave Street, which was henceforth 
 to be Cecil's, and, by her arrangements, threw over 
 the whole an indescribable air of elegance which 
 a woman alone can bestow. Her uncle told 
 her that he wished the house to be as sumptu- 
 ously furnished as possible, and Kate who was 
 rather extravagant, pleased with the commis- 
 sion, which implied great deference to her 
 judgment, fulfilled his orders to their utmost 
 limits. Numberless rechercht and ornamental 
 articles were strewed about the rooms ; every 
 thing was on the most expensive scale ; yet not- 
 withstanding how heavily Sir Arthur's purse
 
 128 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 felt the burthen of all this expense, he did not 
 say a word upon the subject, but confessed him- 
 self pleased with the arrangements, and thanked 
 his niece for her attention to his wishes. 
 
 Kate Bouverie's task done, on the day 
 appointed for the arrival of her brother and 
 his bride, she was quite ready to receive them. 
 She and Mrs. Beresford went early in the morn- 
 ing to Belgrave Street to see whether everything 
 was in perfect order, and finding all as they 
 wished it to be, they at length sat down to rest 
 themselves awhile in the drawing-room, and it 
 is there they are first introduced to the reader. 
 
 "Well Kate,'^ said Mrs. Beresford, break- 
 ing a short silence that had ensued between 
 them, '^ I think I shall go and put on my 
 bonnet ; you say you expect Cecil at five, and 
 it is now four, so it is full time, you see." 
 
 " But why not stay till he arrives, mamma?" 
 answered Kate ; " I am sure he will be very 
 happy to see you." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say, at any other time, dear, 
 but not now. He would have said as much if
 
 SIR ARTHUE BOUVERIE. 129 
 
 he had wished it — I know your brother well 
 enough for that — so I will not trouble Cecil 
 with my company to-night ; yours will be suf- 
 ficient/^ 
 
 " Well, just as you like/' answered Kate, 
 who felt indeed, that Mrs. Beresford's presence 
 was not wished for by her brother, " but pray 
 stop a little while longer, I shall be so dull by 
 myself !" 
 
 " Dull ! you silly child !" rejoined Mrs. 
 Beresford, " dull with all these books around 
 you, besides the harp and piano, the guitar? — 
 why that is mere nonsense." 
 
 '' No, it is not," said Kate, poutingly, " no 
 — I am not in the humour to do anything. I 
 want to talk about Cecil and his — his wife; and 
 I cannot do that by myself. Do not you wish 
 to see this Amy, mamma?" she added, by way 
 of resuming the conversation. 
 
 " I do," replied Mrs. Beresford ; " the match 
 
 seems to have been so hastily and mysteriously 
 
 formed, that it certainly excites my curiosity to 
 
 G 3
 
 130 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE, 
 
 see the bride. Cecil says she is pretty, does he 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes. I suppose she is some pale-faced, 
 blue-eyed, yellow-haired girl ; an insipid sort 
 of beauty." 
 
 " Why do you think so ? She might have 
 dark eyes and dark hair, for aught you know." 
 
 " Oh no ! mamma, 1 am' sure she has not. 
 I have formed an exact picture of her in my 
 mind by studying Cecil's letters — you know I 
 have received two from him since the marriage ; 
 pretty, and young, and simple he says, a mere 
 £hild ; — ah ! I can imagine what she is very 
 well." 
 
 " Pray give me her portrait then ; come, de- 
 scribe her." 
 
 " Well, I should say she is little, thin, and 
 bony, with pale blue staring eyes, and long light 
 curls, white cheeks, and a sort of Magdelenish 
 expression of countenance." 
 
 " Oh ! what a picture !" laughed Mrs. Beres- 
 ford, " why judge her so harshly V
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 131 
 
 *' Harshly !" answered Kate, " does not Cecil 
 say she is pretty and simple ? words which of 
 course mean passably good looking, and rather 
 silly ; for every one, now-a-days, with little or no 
 pretensions to beauty, is called pretty, and those 
 who have no sense are said to be possessed of 
 the most perfect simplicity, — as no doubt they 
 are, being decidedly thorough simpletons, 
 mamma. Harshly ! why does not Cecil allow 
 she is full of gaucherie ? that was his very word 
 you know. How she must distress him by her 
 awkwardness and mauvaise honte — he who is 
 always so fastidious on such points." 
 
 " That is nothing," rejoined Mrs. Beresford, 
 " that will soon wear off; it is about her birth 
 I am most concerned, for it will surely be 
 known sooner or later, Kate." 
 
 " Yes, her birth, her birth," exclaimed Kate, 
 rising hastily from her chair, and colouring 
 deeply, " to think of uncle marrying Cecil to a 
 beggar girl, a foundling — good Heavens ! he 
 ijiust have been mad."
 
 132 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 ** Yet your brother partly deserved it, dear ; 
 you told me he acknowledged in his first letter 
 that he had flirted with her." 
 
 " So he did, so he did ; but I do not think 
 it can be true ; he might have been overscru- 
 pulous on that point when he wrote the letter ; 
 he seemed to be in a self-accusing humour just 
 then ; he has not mentioned it since. 
 
 '* Did you ever speak of your surprise at the 
 marriage to your uncle, darling?" said Mrs. 
 Bouverie. 
 
 '* Yes," answered Kate, with a slight laugh, 
 ^* I did ; I could not help doing so, because I 
 wanted him to feel a little pang upon the sub- 
 ject as well as Cecil, only in a different way. 
 One day I said to him, as if I were ignorant of 
 my brother's dislike to the match, * How good 
 it was of you, uncle, to consent so readily to 
 Cecil's marriage with this young friendless, 
 penniless girl, this foundling, (and I laid an em- 
 phasis on the last word, mamma,) it was so 
 silly of him to fall in love with such a peu
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 133 
 
 distinguee sort of person ! I hope her appear- 
 ance will be passably genteel, although her man- 
 ners, I fear, must be hopelessly vulgar — do you 
 ike her, my dear sir, as much as he does ?' 
 * More,' he answered colouring with anger, and 
 looking me so fixedly in the face, that I was 
 obliged to turn my eyes another way, ' more — 
 your brother does not love her. He trifled with 
 her aflfections, gained her heart, and would then 
 have thrown it away ; he did not wish to marry 
 her — I made him do so.' Here was a stop to 
 all further teazing and inquiry ! — and so I ex- 
 pressed a great deal of astonishment at the in- 
 telligence, and there the matter dropped." 
 
 '' And you have not spoken to him about it 
 since ?" 
 
 '* No, I have not dared to do so — he was so 
 excessively angry with me then, that I have not 
 found courage to begin the subject again, al- 
 though I very much wished to hear his descrip- 
 tion of the bride's appearance, and have been 
 wondering all this while what sort of a person 
 she really is."
 
 134 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 ** I thought you had settled that long ago ; 
 you gave me her portrait just now. But 
 come," she added, " give me my shawl and 
 honnet — they are on yonder sofa — I must say 
 good bye." 
 
 *' Come here to-morrow then, mamma," said 
 Kate, handing them to her. 
 
 ^* Well, well, yes ; or on the next day." 
 
 ** No, no, not the next day, I will have you 
 come to-morrow. Remember I have to stop 
 here a full mor\i\i~quel ennui ! Fancy living 
 with a person you know nothing of ; a dull 
 quiet hornee woman — it is quite dreadful to think 
 of it." 
 
 " Then do not think of it, dear," said Mrs. 
 Beresford, " but console yourself by supposing 
 she may prove more agreeable than you expect 
 her to be." 
 
 " No, I will not suppose any such thing, be- 
 cause I have settled it in my mind that she is 
 very disagreeable." 
 
 '* Your old obstinacy, my love P' replied Mrs.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 135 
 
 Beresford, as she rang the bell to know whether 
 her carriage had arrived, and, hearing that it had, 
 she kissed Kate upon the cheek, bade her adieu, 
 and was soon on her way homewards. 
 
 Kate Bouverie had some hours to wait ere 
 her impatient curiosity to see Amy was gratified. 
 Five o'clock struck — six, seven, — yet the bride 
 and bridegroom did not arrive. The evening 
 closed in, and she ordered lights, that she might 
 sit down to the piano ; for she could not suf- 
 ficiently compose herself to be able to read. 
 But her mind was too unsettled even for that ; 
 after a few minutes she rose, and began walking 
 from one drawing-room into the other, loitering 
 every now and then to arrange some little ar- 
 ticle cf furniture, or an ornament which did not 
 seem to be exactly in its proper place, with a 
 most laudable endeavour to wile the time easily 
 away. 
 
 Another hour passed, and Kate, from actual 
 idleness, was beginning to feel rather sleepy, 
 when a sudden ringing of the street bell, and a
 
 136 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 noise of the servants hurrying to and fro in the 
 hall, made her start from her seat with some 
 impatience, and run to the top of the staircase. 
 In another moment she heard Cecil inquiring 
 for her, and hastening down the stairs she met 
 him with Amy on his arm just arrived. 
 
 After the first welcome to Cecil, and intro- 
 duction to the bride, Kate led the way into the 
 drawing room, where, glancing quickly and 
 curiously at Amy, she perceived, to her utter 
 astonishment, that she was one of the lovelies^ 
 women she had yet seen. Her surprise was 
 great, and her first look one of absolute admira- 
 tion ; then hastily turning to Cecil, she asked 
 him why they arrived so late ? 
 
 '* Because we did not leave Dover as soon as 
 we intended,'' he answered ; " I suppose you 
 gave over expecting us ?'* 
 
 " Yes ; I thought your promise was some- 
 thing like Frank Beresford's — always made to be 
 broken." 
 
 '* Now Kate, at your mischief again !"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 137 
 
 '* Because I give people their deserts, my 
 dear brother ? But know, I in some measure 
 excused you to-night, as you had not yourself 
 alone to please/' 
 
 " Oh ! Amy, if you allude to her, had nothing 
 to do in preventing our quicker journey hither," 
 replied Cecil, sharply. 
 
 " What ! then you deserve my full indigna- 
 tion, do you?" said Kate, — "Does he not?" 
 she continued, turning to Amy, vfho was stand- 
 ing quietly by. *' I will abide by your judg- 
 ment, my dear Mrs. Bouverie !" The last words 
 she could hardly pronounce ; they seemed too 
 familiar, too loving, for her as yet to apply to 
 the stranger, the intruder, as she thought Amy 
 in her own mind ; and as for calling her by her 
 christian name, that was a mark of condescen- 
 sion and amity she would not give, disliking her 
 at present as she did. The very words she 
 addressed to her were but dictated by a sense 
 of civility, which would not suffer her to en- 
 gross the whole conversation, while there was
 
 138 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 another person present ; she would have done 
 the same to the poorest and meanest object she 
 might have met with under existing circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Amy noticed the constrained tone in which 
 Kate Bouverie spoke to her, guessed its cause, 
 raised her eyes to her countenance with a search- 
 ing look, then fixed them on the ground again, 
 and timidly answered, " No." The liking she 
 instantaneously felt for Kate on her first appear- 
 ance, and which originated in her happy and 
 careless expression of countenance, was shaken, 
 for she now knew that she was proud, and, 
 knowing this, thought she must despise her. 
 
 '*No?'' repeated Kate, "what did he not 
 drag you down to the pier, or up to the castle, 
 or some where else, just when every thing was 
 ready to start, and make you loiter an hour or 
 two away, while you ought to have been step- 
 ping into the carriage ? Now was it not so ? pray 
 tell me ; because that is exactly his manner of
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 139 
 
 irritating people when he is travelling with 
 them. " Was it not so ?" 
 
 ** No/' said Amy, still more bashfully, *' the 
 delay was occasioned by the coachman, who 
 misunderstood his orders, and so caused us to 
 start about two hours after our intended time." 
 
 '* Ah !" answered Kate, fixing her eyes stead- 
 fastly upon her sister-in-law's face, and listen- 
 ing attentively to her words, " then I forgive 
 him." And she ejaculated to herself, " what a 
 musical voice she has !" 
 
 Every minute Kate Bouverie's admiration for 
 her brother's wife increased ; and during dinner, 
 when the brilliant light of the chandeliers seemed 
 to enhance her natural loveliness, she could 
 scarcely forbear expressing it in words, for per- 
 fectly genuine in all her feehngs, the utter dissi- 
 milarity of Amy's appearance from what she had 
 previously conjectured it to be, immediate!}'' 
 shook her former sentiments respecting her, 
 and notwithstanding her innate pride, she now 
 felt disposed to like her, and therefore made
 
 140 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 some efforts to bring her into conversation. 
 But the extreme timidity of Amy prevented her 
 reciprocating her sister-in-law's advances to- 
 wards an intimacy ; during the whole evening 
 she replied but by monosyllables to all her 
 endeavours to entertain her, and the discourse 
 was chiefly kept up by the brother and sister. 
 
 " Well Kate," said Cecil, after various sub- 
 jects had been discussed, " where is Sir Arthur ? 
 I thought he would be here." 
 
 *' He left two days ago for Wiltshire," an- 
 swered Kate. 
 
 " Did he not know we were to arrive to- 
 day ?" rejoined Cecil in some surprise. 
 
 ^* Yes ; but he said he had some matters to 
 arrange there directly, and would be up in town 
 again in less than a week. I told him it was 
 very unpolite of him not to welcome his new 
 niece home, yet he would not stop. You know 
 when uncle determines to do any thing, he 
 always accomplishes it whether wrong or right, 
 he is so obstinate !'' Then as Kate met Amy's
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 141 
 
 eyes fixed with some curiosity upon her, she 
 added: **Iti3 not proper, Mrs. Bouverie, to 
 blame an uncle — especially so kind a one as we 
 have — it is very wrong, no doubt ; sometimes, 
 however, you do get in a passion with people, 
 and the truth will out. Nevertheless, as I said 
 before, my uncle is very good, although he is ob- 
 stinate and eccentric, and wise, and grave, Cecil 
 and myself are entirely dependant upon him. 
 Yes,'^ she continued, as she caught a look 
 of surprise from her brother ; " where is the 
 use of keeping the truth from her? she is 
 one of us, now, Cecil." 
 
 ^' I did not wish to deceive her in that re- 
 spect," answered Cecil, who had, indeed, merely 
 looked up from astonishment, '' I was only 
 startled at your sudden confidence, as no doubt 
 Amy is herself." 
 
 *' Oh ! very well — that intelligence was but 
 an expiation of my former otFence. I said uncle 
 was obstinate, and I thought it my duty after- 
 wards to acknowledge how much both you and
 
 142 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 I owe him ; which was fair, you know, as it 
 placed his character in its true light. He is a 
 dear old man after aW" 
 
 *' Now I think of it. Kate/' said her brother, 
 wishing to change the subject, " what of Frank 
 Beresford ? Is he* in England ? where is he V 
 
 " At Genoa ; he will be in London, he says, 
 in less than three weeks." 
 
 " At last ! I suppose we shall see a great 
 difference in him — he has been full six years 
 away, has he not?" 
 
 " Yes, quite that. I consider he has been 
 far too long from home ; 1 hope he has paid 
 well for his unparalleled indifference towards 
 mamma — his unheard of length of absence — 
 by being well sunburnt — I hope he is as black 
 as an African." 
 
 " My dear Kate ! you are rather uncharit- 
 able in your temper to-day — I suppose your 
 expectations respecting him are not of the most 
 pleasing kind V 
 
 '' They are not." Kate answered with a smile,
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 143 
 
 *' I only guess, however, what he is, from the 
 general tenour of his letters. " Fancy," conti- 
 nued she, addressing Amy, " fancy, Mrs. Bou- 
 verie, receiving letters filled with nothing but 
 descriptions of pictures, galleries, churches, 
 curiosities — not interesting ones, recollect — 
 ruins, relics, animals, fishes, mummies, and a 
 host of other tiresome subjects, with a few 
 moral remarks placed here and there — fancy it, 
 my dear Mrs. Bouverie, and then wonder not 
 why I rail at him as I do !'^ 
 
 " But are Mr. Beresford's letters always so 
 tiresome ?" said Amy. 
 
 " Always. Once I wrote to him, and told 
 him not to entertain us with such dry matters, 
 that if he himself were as disagreeable as his 
 much disHked communications, poor mamma 
 and myself were much to be pitied, when he 
 came home, and I prayed him to write upon 
 more amusing subjects for the future." 
 
 '* And how did he relish that, Kate ?" in- 
 quired Cecil, laughing.
 
 144 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Not at all. He wrote back to say, that he 
 had certainly forgotten the tastes of ladies dif- 
 fered from those of gentlemen ; but as he had 
 not of late, famiUarised himself with the trivial 
 topics discussed by them, pretty little Kate 
 must excuse him if he did not always bring 
 down his mind to a level with hers — he could 
 not do it." 
 
 "The conceited fellow !" ejaculated Cecil. 
 
 " I agree with you," continued Kate ; "yes, 
 he is detestibly conceited, and so I told him, 
 when I at length condescended to answer his 
 impertinence. I begged him also to familiarise 
 his mind with the trivial topics generally dis- 
 cussed by ladies, unless he meant to be an old 
 bachelor. Is it not a pity that Frank is so 
 ruined ?" 
 
 " Indeed it is ; he was a very good sort of 
 fellow when he left England. It is unfor- 
 tunate that his taste for study should have so 
 altered him." 
 
 " But a taste for study does not always render
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 145 
 
 a man disagreeable, Cecil/' replied Kate, and 
 the conversation, notwithstanding all her endea- 
 vours to effect the contrary, soon after slack- 
 ened. 
 
 The rest of the evening passed wearily away ; 
 there was a feeling of dulness over the whole 
 party, which nothing could banish. Cecil was 
 tired and indifferent, Amy silent through timi- 
 dity, and Kate, who, at first, was in high spirits, 
 disappointed by seeing all her efforts at gaiety 
 of no use, at length became as quiet as the 
 other two. 
 
 That night Kate Bouverie tried to form the 
 various observations she had made regarding 
 Amy into a sketch of her character, but could 
 not succeed. She felt she knew nothing of her 
 as yet, and at length she lay down to sleep 
 without any very decided opinion about her. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 146 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII, 
 
 Nature is often hidden, sometimes overcome, seldom ex- 
 tinguished. — Bacon. 
 
 Beware of too sublime alsense 
 
 Of your own worth and consequence I — Cowfeh. 
 
 A MONTH had passed since the first night of 
 Amy's arrival in town, and still Kate, though 
 continually with her, could not define her real 
 character satisfactorily to herself. At times she 
 thought her deficient in sense, as she never 
 spoke much ; and even when she did speak, it 
 was generally in so confused a way, that ^no 
 one could fail to observe every effort at conver- 
 sation was painful to her. But then, the
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 147 
 
 thoughtful expression of her large dark eyes 
 often belied the poor opinion the few and in- 
 significant words she uttered gave of her, and 
 doubts frequently arose within her sister-in- 
 law's mind, as to whether she had not a more 
 feeling heart, a more extensive capacity, than 
 was indicated by her childish and timid 
 manners. 
 
 The truth was, Amy felt in a new world ; 
 and, knowing how much beneath it she must 
 appear in the eyes of her husband and of his 
 relations, the thought of her inferiority para- 
 lyzed her mental powers, which were of the 
 highest order, and when forced from her usual 
 reserve, she acted and spoke on all occasions, 
 as if she had not a grain of sense. In fact, 
 she did not seem the mistress of her own house ; 
 Kate was obliged to take the direction of every 
 thing upon herself, although unwillingly ; — for 
 delicate to excess in all such matters, she would 
 not have usurped the slightest shade of autho- 
 rity over Amy in the household arrangements, 
 
 u 2
 
 148 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 had she not been obHged to do so by the latter's 
 entreaties. Whenever she referred any thing 
 to her taste or wishes, she invariably received 
 the same reply, which consisted in telling her 
 that she knew best what to do, and begging 
 her to follow her own judgment upon the 
 subject. 
 
 Cecil Bouverie noticed, and was annoyed at 
 this indolence, as he termed it, on the part of 
 Amy ; for as much as he secretly despised her 
 for her birth, as much as he had striven to avoid 
 an union with her, now that she was his wife, 
 he wished to see her acquit herself well and 
 gracefully of the duties of her station, and to 
 receive, as her due, those marks of respect 
 which were shown to her as such. But, in- 
 stead of this, he saw that Amy made his sister 
 take the direction of all domestic affairs, while 
 she, by her ignorance and indifference about 
 them, her quick and bashful manners, appeared 
 a veritable child — and not an over sensible one 
 either in the eyes of ail his friends.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 149 
 
 Meanwhile, his sentiments for her verged 
 still more towards a feeling of dislike than ever 
 they had done before. Her beauty, although 
 great, he never prized much, and now that it 
 w^as familiar to him he scarcely gave it a 
 thought ; the intrinsic worth of her mind, he 
 knew not, or even guessed at, for, engaged as 
 he had been with her before their marriage in 
 a foolish flirtation, childish and simple as she 
 then, and still seemed to be, he did not try to 
 fathom its real depth ; and Amy was far too 
 timid, until roused by anger, or won into fami- 
 liarity by excessive kindness, to allow the 
 slightest glimpse of her actual abilities to 
 appear. 
 
 But Cecil, though he obhged himself, from 
 a sense of duty, not to betray his indiflference 
 for Amy, was not kind; and there appeared a 
 carelessness, a haughtiness, about him when in 
 her society, which, though it did not reveal the 
 truth to her, still made her soon unconsciously 
 fear, nearly as much as she loved him, and she
 
 150 SIR ARTHUR BOUVBRIE. 
 
 shrank from giving vent to the slightest trace of 
 feeling when in his presence. 
 
 Ah ! that fear ! the fear of a wife towards 
 her husband, the preventive of all confidence 
 between them, the source of all discord ! Let 
 no man imagine that it is well for a wife to fear 
 her husband ; if she does, remember, there can 
 be no confidence between them ; her thoughts, 
 whether good or evil, sad or gay, are shut up 
 withinher own bosom, and there live and die a so- 
 litary death, unless she seeks in strangers that 
 support and friendship she finds not in him. 
 With the young especially, this is the case ; fancy 
 a girl of eighteen or twenty, leaving friends, 
 home, all, to follow and love through life and 
 death one to whom she has plighted her faith ; 
 naturally, she expects to meet in him the same 
 supporting love with which her parents loved 
 her ; — she expects it — does she in all cases 
 find it ? No ; in some husbands, carelessness 
 precludes them from sympathizing with the 
 wife's joys and sorrows, as those whom she has
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 151 
 
 left has done ; in others, a sense of her intel- 
 lectual inferiority, (if there be an inferiority in 
 the case) begets a contempt for her mind or 
 person, often too plainly expressed in looks, if 
 not in words, and a fear of giving offence in 
 all her actions grows upon her, throws back the 
 natural current of her feelings upon herself, 
 and a constraint arises between those, where 
 there should only be perfect confidence, perfect 
 love. The outpourings of the heart are hushed, 
 the playful imaginings of fancy are silent, and 
 in the sadder hours, too, her lips will utter no 
 sound of complaint before him, or dare to 
 soothe even his sorrows. Is it hkely, those 
 upon whom our sneers or coldly careless smiles 
 fall in their hours of mirth, will seek us as con- 
 fidants in their distress, or offer us their con- 
 solations when our griefs overtake us ? — if they 
 do — they must tremble ere they did so. 
 
 And yet some men think it well to awe their 
 wives into proper respect, as they call it ; they 
 wish them to feel their own inferiority, that
 
 152 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 they might have a higher opinion of their hus- 
 bands ; but those men give up the guidance of 
 their wives' minds" (which, every man ought 
 to have under his own care,) into other hands, 
 and tacitly bid them seek a friend, a con- 
 fidant elsewhere. Woe to their husbands, if 
 they do ! be it a female friend or not, whom 
 they choose, that step breaks their close union, 
 and lessens the love and esteem on either side. 
 None should stand as arbiter between a man 
 and his wife ; affection should seek affection, 
 trust in affection, and not fear — for where fear 
 is, there must be pain and distress, if not the 
 extinction of love on the part of the wife. 
 Do the men wish to be loved with a slave's 
 love, and feared with a slavish fear ? 
 
 None then should ever endeavour to keep 
 their wives in order in that manner, for a wo- 
 man will not bear contempt. Husbands may 
 be hasty, cruel, indifferent, and their wives will 
 still love them, still seek to tell them all their 
 griefs, perplexities, and hopes, and they may
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 153 
 
 lead them whither they will ; but, if they throw 
 back their confidence, are ironical in their 
 words or look towards them, cold or cautious, 
 as though they presumed too much, they will 
 soon learn never so to presume again I A bar- 
 rier of ice will arise between them, tongue, 
 eyes, and heart, will be silent before them, and 
 the young, loving creatures, whom they might 
 have moulded to their will, by kindly smiles, 
 indulgent bearing, shrinking within themselves, 
 will become quiet, cold, indifferent and disap- 
 pointed women, or else gay and giddy ones, 
 who, fearing their husbands, will naturally find 
 other society far pleasanter than theirs, and 
 seek in the world for that courtesy and kindness, 
 which is denied them at home. 
 f: But Amy did not as yet experience this feel- 
 ing, for she only felt happy when in Cecil's 
 presence, although her happiness was mixed 
 with a dread that she could not well define ; 
 she never dreamed she was unloved ; the fact 
 of their marriage was to her a convincing proof 
 
 H 3
 
 154 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 of the contrary, and she would have deemed 
 herself ungrateful, had such a thought, even 
 for a moment, intruded upon her mind. Besides, 
 Amy had no opinion of her own merits ; she 
 had never heard words of admiration addressed 
 to her, ere she listened to Cecil Bouverie's, 
 and by reason of this, his coldness and pride, 
 visible as they were to Kate, remained by her 
 comparatively unnoticed. 
 
 Yet she often remarked the difference of his 
 manner towards Kate and herself; how kind 
 and affectionate he was to the former, how 
 quiet and constrained to her. She wondered 
 over it for a while, but soon she solved the 
 question, by saying, " She is his sister ; he is 
 used to her and not to me ; perhaps, when we 
 have lived longer together it will be otherwise.'' 
 Amy said this to herself ; she did not think it ; 
 a vague feeling of jealousy possessed her, when- 
 ever Cecil was with Kate, a feeling of discom- 
 fort that she could not understand ; for, she 
 reasoned, what had she to pain her? had he
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 155 
 
 not confessed his love by a preference, marked 
 as it was honourable? had he not made her 
 his wife ? was it not natural that he should 
 like Kate, that he should be gayer and more 
 at his ease with her, than with a stranger ? 
 And yet her heart whispered, that she ought 
 not to be a stranger to him ; that was not the 
 name of the wife, the loved one ! Alas ! there 
 was no confidence, no pouring out of the heart 
 between them, for the coldnessof Cecil's manner 
 made Amy fear expressing by word or look, the 
 full affection she felt for him ; and her love, 
 pent up within her own bosom, lived there un- 
 dying, but untold. 
 
 Two months again elapsed, and Kate 
 Bouverie still remained in Belgrave Street, al- 
 though she had made many endeavours to return 
 to Mrs. Beresford. But Amy would not hear of 
 it ; she was her support, her companion, and 
 she felt the utmost dread of a separation. In 
 the sphere of life to which she had been in- 
 troduced, she saw that her sister in law was the
 
 156 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 only one who did not seem absolutely careless 
 about her, and notwithstanding her sUght 
 jealousy of Cecil's strong affection for her, she 
 clung to her friendship, as if no other person 
 could supply her place. Kate, meanwhile, began 
 to feel interested in the beautiful, taciturn bride, 
 flattered by the liking she evidently betrayed 
 for her. 
 
 The homage which the extreme beauty of 
 Amy won on all sides, Kate, with some sur- 
 prise, remarked appeared decidedly disagreeable 
 to her ; sometime she would look astonished, at 
 others angry, when a compliment reached her 
 ears ; but not a word she uttered to repel or 
 accept it. All this amused her companion, 
 who, ever lively and self-possessed, was never 
 at a loss for a retort ; and at last she set her 
 down as being totally ignorant of her own sur- 
 passing loveliness, or one of the most skilful 
 deceivers she had ever witnessed. The former 
 opinion was the truth ; Amy, as it has been 
 said before, did not know her own attractions,
 
 feIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 15/ 
 
 and now beheld with astonishment and dis- 
 pleasure the gaze of admiration she was every- 
 where greeted with, ascribing it to the know- 
 ledge of Cecil's strange and hasty marriage, 
 the history of whose bride, her fears suggested, 
 had, perhaps, reached all his friends. 
 
 One afternoon, Amy and Kate were quietly 
 sitting together in the drawing room, when the 
 latter, who was near the window, happening to 
 look into the street, flung down the crotchet 
 purse she was forming, and exclaimed, ^* Sey- 
 mour and Eveline ! here they come !" 
 
 *' Who ?" said Amy, looking up, " who are 
 coming here, Miss Bouverie." 
 
 " A cousin of mine, and Lady EveUne Hunt- 
 ley. You have not seen them, I believe ; they 
 are engaged to each other. They have not 
 been in town for these four months, else they 
 would have been here before this." 
 
 And scarcely had Kate given this hasty ex- 
 planation, when the door opened, and Lady 
 Eveline Iluntly, and Mr. Glenallau were an- 
 nounced.
 
 158 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 The Lady Eveline was a beautiful little blonde 
 whose years could not have numbered more 
 than sixteen. She was extremely fair, with a 
 quantity of light brown hair that curled in 
 large glossy ringlets over the shoulders and 
 back ; and .her delicate and piquante features, 
 of which a jietit nez retrousse was the most 
 striking, were enlivened by a pair of pale, yet 
 bright blue eyes, peculiarly attractive from an 
 inimitable expression of drollery observable in 
 their merry glances. Her shape vvas light, 
 and hien prise ; her hands and arms, plump, and 
 white ; her foot and ancle the tiniest, prettiest 
 possible. 
 
 Mr. Glenallan was about the average height, 
 neither tall nor short; his countenance could 
 not be called handsome, but his features seemed 
 flexible, and capable of a good deal of expres- 
 sion ; the brow was wide, high, and white ; the 
 eyebrows well marked and well formed, yet 
 slightly contracted over the clear, bold and 
 piercing black eye, which, ever restless, glanced
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 159 
 
 good humouredly, although at times sarcasti- 
 cally from beneath the thick dark lashes ; he 
 seemed to be about thirty years of age, and was, 
 if one might judge from his appearance, a man 
 of worth, talents and firmness. 
 
 Such were the persons who now entered 
 Mrs. Bouverie's drawing-room. 
 
 The moment the footman opened the door, 
 Lady Eveline, in a quick, playful manner, sprang 
 forward and embraced Kate with great apparent 
 affection; then bowing to Amy, whom her 
 friend introduced to her, she sat down and 
 began to converse with them both, easily yet 
 more volubly than sensibly. There was no 
 shyness near her ; with the familiarity and 
 childishness of a school girl she soon made 
 friends with the silent mistress of the house, 
 whom she actually forced into conversation by 
 continual appeals to her judgment about the 
 trifles on which she eagerly discoursed. Now 
 and then, too, she turned with a musical laugh 
 towards Mr. Glenallan, and asked his opinion
 
 160 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 upon whatever subject they were discussing 
 whether it was the shade of a dress, or the fit 
 of a shoe, with an air of interest, which did 
 not fail to entertain Amy, who wondered how 
 that seemingly sensible and gentlemanly per- 
 sonage could answer her with the goodnatured 
 and imperturbable gravity he did. Sometimes, 
 indeed, she thought he made an effort to stem 
 the tide of nonsense she was uttering, but for 
 the most part he seemed more amused than 
 annoyed at it. 
 
 " Well !" said Lady Eveline, after a slight 
 pause in an animated discussion about the 
 beauty of a new colour which had lately been 
 brought into fashion, " Well, but you do not 
 know what T came here for, Kate ?" 
 
 *' Why, I suppose it was to see Mrs. Bouverie 
 and myself — was it not ?" replied Kate. 
 
 *' Yes," rejoined her ladyship, " you are right ; 
 most particularly I wished to see Mrs. Bouverie, 
 whom I have heard was so very, very lovely. 
 And oh ! I am so glad that I have seen you,"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUYERIE. 161 
 
 continued she, turning to Amy, "for yoti are far 
 more beautiful than I ever thought you could 
 be." Then as she saw an expression of dis- 
 pleasure pass over her face, she added, " But 
 why are'you looking so grave, Mrs. Bouverie ? 
 and Seymour, too ! What have I been saying ? 
 anything wrong ?" And she looked from one 
 to the other. 
 
 " Nothing wrong, Lady Eveline," answered 
 Amy, gently, but with a flush of pride upon 
 her brow, for she thought she was the object 
 of her ridicule, '* I 'can bear a jest as well as 
 any other person/' 
 
 " A jest! what does she mean ?" said Lady 
 Eveline addressing Kate. " Does she not know 
 that she is beautiful ? What an extraordinary 
 thing ! Do you not know you are beautiful ?" 
 said she, again speaking to Amy, whose colour 
 was now deeper than before. 
 
 " Evehne, Eveline " said Mr. Glenallan im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " Seymour, Seymour,'' rejoined she, mock-
 
 162 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 ing him, 'Met me alone, I want Mrs. Bouverie 
 to answer me — do you mean to say you thought 
 you were plain ? — my dear Mrs. Bouverie, do 
 just say !" 
 
 " No," said Amy with an effort at a smile, 
 •" not plain, but not beautiful ; yet whether I 
 am or not, your ladyship would oblige me by 
 waiving the subject." 
 
 " Oh! but I will not!" replied Lady Eve- 
 line, with a playful toss of her head, and draw- 
 ing her chair nearer to Amy's ; " they tell me 1 
 am very pretty a hundred times a day, why 
 then, should you not be told the same ? Is it 
 not pleasant? I like it very much— do not 
 you?" 
 
 " No,'* said Amy, " because I do not believe 
 it." 
 
 " But you should," rejoined her ladyship, ra- 
 ther gravely. " Why do you not believe it ? 
 Has no one ever told you how beautiful you are 
 before to-day ? How very strange ! surely you 
 must know every body is talking about you
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 163 
 
 every body is wishing to know who you are, 
 and where Mr. Bouverie saw you first ? Do 
 not look so surprised — it is quite true — is it not, 
 Kate ? Is it not, Seymour ?" 
 
 And she looked appealingly towards them. 
 
 " Even so," said Seymour, " it cannot be de- 
 nied that Mrs. Bouverie's beauty has created a 
 great sensation in her circle ; but, my dear 
 Evehne, pray be silent now ; you see, this lady, 
 unaccustomed to your attacks of praise and ad- 
 miration, dislikes them. Tell the real business 
 on which you came hither." 
 
 " Ah, yes I so I will — I declare, Mrs. Bou- 
 verie nearly made me forget it,'^ cried Lady 
 Eveline, whose attention was now, happily for 
 Amy, turned to another subject, which seemed, 
 by the bright glancing of her eyes, to interest 
 her more than any thing had yet done, as with 
 a half significant, half demure look at Kate, she 
 said, 
 
 " Who do you think we left in Eaton Square?" 
 
 '* Who ?" replied Kate.
 
 164 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Cannot you guess ?" 
 
 " Well, I will try—the Earl ?" 
 
 " Papa? oh no I how dull you are!" 
 
 « Lady Haviland ?" 
 
 " No — how I do dislike that Lady Haviland !" 
 
 ^* Well then, let me see — I give it up. Who 
 is it?'' 
 
 '* Mr. Beresford." 
 
 "Frank!" 
 
 " Yes, Frank, as you call him, he is there." 
 
 " My dear Eveline, are you in earnest ? Can 
 he really be at home?'' 
 
 " Of course — he arrived about three or four 
 hours ago, as far as I can understand — Sey- 
 mour and I came from thence just now. He 
 wants to see you — I mean to say, Mrs. Beres- 
 ford wants him to see you. They were going to 
 send for you when he dropped in ; but I, who 
 intended beforehand to call here, declared I 
 would be the first to tell the news, and so rattled 
 off directly, before they could do so, et me 
 voila r
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. ' 1G5 
 
 " Then he is in England at last," ejaculated 
 Kate. 
 
 " Exactly so," replied Lady Eveline, " and 
 now if Mrs. Bouverie will excuse us making so 
 short a visit, we will at once drive you to Eaton 
 square, where Mrs. Beresford is impatiently await- 
 ing your arrival, therefore run, Kate, and put on 
 your bonnet ; papa will be here. directly — he only 
 drove on to leave his card at Lord Belville's, he 
 came with us to the door. Dehcious ! here is 
 the carriage, make haste, Kate, make haste." 
 And Kate left the room. 
 *' You know, Mrs. Bouverie, who this Mr. 
 Beresford is?" continued Lady Eveline, ad- 
 dressing Amy, "just as much a brother to Kate 
 as Mr. Bouverie." 
 
 *' Yes," Amy answered, " I have often heard 
 Miss Bouverie speak of him — he has been 
 abroad for some years, has he not?" 
 
 " Oh ! as long as ever I can remember Kate 
 talking of him. He has travelled every where ; 
 I hope he is tired of it, by this time. I recollect
 
 166 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 Kate mentioning him as fair ; he is copper 
 colour now — quite ! Still, however, he is not 
 plain ; no, he is handsome, though as brown as 
 a chesnut ; tall, and with a military air — and I 
 do so love a military air ! Seymour, I wish you 
 would be a soldier," 
 
 " Do you ?" said he, " it is rather too late in 
 the day for that." 
 
 " So you say ; but I do not think so — do you 
 Mrs. Bouverie?" 
 
 '' I cannot judge,'' Amy replied, " I have no 
 idea of the gentleman's age." 
 
 *' Why, he is nine- and-t wen ty, and eleven 
 months." 
 
 " Say thirty at once, Eveline." 
 
 " No, I will not ; I hate to think that you 
 are thirty, and I only sixteen !" 
 
 '* Pshaw I" said the gentleman with a rather 
 discontented air. 
 
 " Well, but do not you think he might still 
 go into the army, Mrs. Bouverie ?" 
 
 " I should say not," repUed Amy.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 16/ 
 
 *' Ah !" said her ladyship, pouting, " every 
 body says so ; nobody will take my side of the 
 question." 
 
 *' Because it is a foolish one," rejoined Mr. 
 Glenallan. 
 
 " How disagreeable you are !" answered Lady 
 Eveline, pretending to look offended, "you are 
 always schooling and scolding me." 
 
 '^ And much you care for my schoolings and 
 scoldings, Eveline !" 
 
 " Well !" she exclaimed, bursting into a merry 
 laugh, " I do not much heed them, it is true ; 
 you never frighten me, good Seymour. But 
 oh !" she cried a moment after, " here is Kate. 
 Goodbye, good morning, adieu, Mrs. Bouverie, 
 I will be here again very, very soon — come, 
 Seymour, come Kate." 
 
 And taking Mr. Glenallan's arm, and chatter- 
 ing all the way down stairs. Lady Eveline en- 
 tered the carriage. But Kate lingered behind, 
 for she saw Amy's eyes fixed upon her with a 
 wistful expression, and fancying she had some-
 
 1G8 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 thing to say, which she could not find courage 
 to express before her ladyship and Mr. Gle- 
 nallan, she contrived to bid her adieu the last of 
 the party. It was so ; Amy, as she said good 
 morning, looked up eagerly at Kate, and ex- 
 claimed, '' You will not be able, perhaps, to re- 
 turn to-night or to-morrow; but pray come 
 back as soon as ever you can. Do not be a 
 very long time away from me ; I shall feel your 
 loss so much ! — and Cecil will too — for how can 
 I amuse him ?— do come back soon !" 
 
 Kate bent her eyes full upon Amy's counte- 
 nance, and scrutinized it earnestly. It was the 
 first time she heard her express a single hope or 
 fear with regard to pleasing her brother ; until 
 that moment she had imagined her unconscious 
 of her inability to entertain him, insensible 
 even to the wish of doing so ; yet now she sud- 
 denly thought it might be diffidence alone that 
 precluded her from the attempt, as the tone in 
 which she spoke seemed to express the know- 
 ledge of her deficiency in this respect, and in a
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. I fi9 
 
 good-natured voice, while these ideas floated 
 through her mind, she answered, — 
 
 ^' Amuse Cecil ; my dear Mrs. Bouverie ? 
 very easily ! Talk, laugh, dress, that is the way 
 to please him.'* 
 
 Amy fixed her eyes upon the gound, and re- 
 plied in a low, sad voice, " But I cannot 
 sing as well as you, I cannot talk so wittily ; I 
 have no accomplishments." Then with a sud- 
 den effort checking herself, as she saw she was 
 betraying her jealousy of Kate, she said, " Do 
 come back soon. Miss Eouverie." 
 
 " Kate, Eate," cried Seymour Glenallan, 
 again entering the apartment, ^' are you coming ? 
 Eveline and the earl are waiting ; I thought you 
 were following us.^' 
 
 *' Yes, Seymour," answered she, and with a 
 kindly pressure of Amy's hand she left her. 
 
 But as she walked down stairs under her 
 cousin's arm, Kate inwardly resolved not to re- 
 turn soon to Belgrave Street. With a woman's 
 tact, she now saw that her presence had in some 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 I/O SIR ARTHUR BOTJVERIE. 
 
 degree forced Amy into a greater reserve than she 
 could have maintained, had she been absent. 
 Quiet, silent, timid as her sister-in-law was, she 
 felt that she was not precisely the person to 
 divest her of her extreme bashfulness, and that 
 her own brilliant accomplishments overshadowed 
 perhaps the more solid, though less observable, 
 ones of Amy. Kate knew a man's domestic 
 happiness must depend upon his wife, not 
 upon his sister, or any other relatives, however 
 much he might like them, and therefore, though 
 her society at present pleased her brother, 
 she determined that she would not strive 
 to amuse him so much as she had done, or be 
 with him so continually, but would leave the 
 field open for Amy. She thought that when 
 she was no longer with him, he might seek his 
 happiness from the wife whom he now disliked ; 
 Amy, perhaps, was in reality more interesting 
 than she seemed, more intelligent, and warmer 
 hearted; she would not stand between them, 
 she would begone for awhile, and see what effect
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. l7l 
 
 that would have upon her. And this measure 
 of Kate's was wise and good, and seemingly 
 practicable ; but whether it succeeded or not, 
 is yet to be seen. It was thought of while she 
 stepped down to the carriage, where the Earl of 
 Mandeville and his daughter Lady Eveline were 
 seated, hastily enough then, more thoroughly 
 afterwards. 
 
 The Earl of Mandeville was a pleasant look- 
 ing old gentleman, of about sixty years old, 
 with a bald head, good complexion, and quick 
 blue eyes. There was a great resemblance too, 
 between him and his daughter, who was his 
 only'child, and whom, he had doated on, after 
 the death of her mother, with an over indul- 
 gent affection, 
 
 " Well, Miss Bouverie, my charming rose !'* 
 said he to Kate, as she entered the carriage, for 
 she was a great favourite with him ; " how do 
 you do ? You are looking as blooming as 
 ever !" 
 
 " That is not at all unlikely, my lord,'' an- 
 
 I 2
 
 172 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 swered Kate, " roses, you know, bloom in the 
 summer, and it is now the very middle of 
 June.'^ 
 
 " Ah ! witty one/' cried the ec^rl,. '^ you are 
 never at fault for a retort ; but that was not a 
 cutting one, however ; was it, Seymoui- ?" 
 
 " Remarkably mild, I should say," answered 
 he, with a smile, " I suppose Kate is reserv- 
 ing the sharpness of her wit for a certain per- 
 son, who I sincerely hope, will very soon 
 feel it." 
 
 " So do I, so do I,'' exclaimed Lady Eveline, 
 clapping her hands joyously together ; " I hope 
 Mr. Beresford will !" 
 
 *' And why ? why do you hope so ?" said 
 Kate and the earl, at the same time. 
 
 '• Oh ! you shall see," cried her ladyship, 
 with a rather mysterious shake of the head. 
 
 " Is he disagreeable then — is he — what is 
 he?" aG^ced Kate. 
 
 '^Is he disagreeable then — is he — what is 
 he?" repeated Seymour, mimicking her.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 173 
 
 " Eveline, my lord, marked you what trepida- 
 tion there was in those questions. Come, the 
 match which good old Mrs. Bsresford wishes 
 to make up between you and her son, may 
 take place even yet. How should you like it, 
 Kate V' 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 *'What! not like Mrs. Bercsford as a 
 mother-in-law ? Well, I will tell her so," 
 
 *^Who said that? I like mamma exces- 
 sively ; but I am not obliged to like her son, 
 ami?" 
 
 " Very good ; but mamma Beresford is de- 
 termined Frank shall have ycu ; she has told 
 him so already ; I was there when she in- 
 formed him of her intentions." 
 
 "What!" cried Kate, as she flung herse'f 
 back in the carriage, her cheek criinsom'n^, 
 and her eyes flashing fire, " now is not mamma 
 provoking I" 
 
 Seymour Glenallan laughed. 
 
 ^*You think yourself so charming Kate,"
 
 174 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 said he, '^ that you do not imagine there is the 
 slightest probability of a refusal on his part> 
 do you?'* 
 
 " I think it is excessively annoying to be 
 offered in that manner to Frank/' 
 
 " So it is," answered he, " particularly upon 
 considering the gentleman's reply/^ 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 The earl and Lady Eveline smiled. 
 
 « Oh ! do tell," said the latter, " did it not 
 make me laugh !" 
 
 "What was it?'^ asked Kate again, ** but 
 first inform me what mamma said about me." 
 
 " Nothing particular ; she was mentioning 
 her son's prospects in life, and finished by say- 
 ing — ' And there is Kate, my dear, grown up 
 into a beautiful girl, just the wife I should like 
 for you, Frank 5 ah ! 1 dare say it will not be 
 long before you think so too. It must be a 
 match, it must be a match !" 
 
 " How foolish of mamma ! and what did he 
 say?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. l75 
 
 "Aye, what did he say? AVhy, he flung 
 himself back in his chair, with a rather super- 
 cilious air, and in a doctoral tone, answered, 
 * Women are, in general, shallow creatures ; 
 a wife is not always a blessing ; I am afraid 
 pretty little Kate will not suit me, mother/ " 
 
 "Too bad ! too bad !" ejaculated the earl. 
 
 " Ah !" said Kate, drawing her breath hardly 
 through her teeth ; ** he will call me pretty 
 little Kate — how 1 shall dislike him !" 
 
 " Like him, I suppose you mean," rejoined 
 Seymour, " I dare say we shall yet see you 
 Mrs. Frank Beresford, pretty cousin." 
 
 " Do not put me in a passion, Seymour, by 
 saying so — do not." 
 
 '* Yes, yes,*' cried Lady Eveline, giddily and 
 merrily, " Mrs. Frank Beresford, we shall see 
 you Mrs. Frank Beresford! shall we not, 
 papa?" 
 
 " How do I know, Evy ? Miss Bouverie, 
 perhaps, will make a better choice." 
 
 " I hope so, I hope so, my lord," said Kate,
 
 1/6 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 half vexed, and yet amused at what Seymour 
 related, " but here we are !" 
 
 And they stopped before the door of Mrs* 
 Beresford's residence ia Eaton Square. 
 
 *'I will come in ; may I come in with you, 
 Kate?" whispered Lady Eveline, as Kate 
 stepped fi'om the carnage, " only for a few 
 minutes, just to see the meeting between you 
 and Mr. Beresford — do now !" 
 
 *' No, Eveline, no," said Seymour, who over- 
 heard her, " must she, my lord ?" continued 
 he, addressing the earl, " you know Sir James 
 and Lady Montague dine with us to-day, and 
 we shall be late." 
 
 *^ True, true," answered his lordship, though 
 feeling half inclined to humour his daughter, 
 " come, come, Evy, let Miss Eouverie go." 
 
 And raising their hats, as the street door 
 closed behind Kate Eouverie. the two gentle- 
 men re-entered the carriage, from which they 
 had assisted her to descend, and in another 
 moment drove aff.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. l77 
 
 " Do you think, Seymour," said Lady Eve- 
 line, as they turned from the square, " do you 
 think that Kate will ever marry Mr. Eeresford ? 
 just say ['* 
 
 "When oil and water mix easily," replied 
 Glenallan drily ; and the conversation dropped. 
 
 Meanwhile Kate followed the servant into 
 the dining-room, and hastily scanning the group 
 within, saw that it consisted of old Mr. Ramsay 
 Frank's tutor, whom she instantly recognized 
 from his sharp little grey eyes, thick nose, and 
 high cheek-bones, Mrs. Beresford, and a tall 
 elegant looking personage, whom she supposed 
 to be Frank. She had no time, however 
 thoroughly to survey them ; for the instant her 
 name was announced, Mrs. Beresford rose from 
 her chair, and after making her slightly notice 
 Mr. Ramsay, led her towards the younger gen- 
 tleman, who was advancing towards them, and 
 said, '' This is Frank, my dear, this." 
 
 *' Is it?" was all Kate found herself able to 
 say upon the moment, and as a necessary com- 
 
 I 3
 
 178 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 pliment, she took his hand m hers, and offered 
 him her cheek to salute. But whether or no he 
 was shocked at her forwardness in so doing, or 
 startled by her sudden appearance, instead of 
 concluding the ceremony in the proper way, 
 certain it is, he drew back for a minute 
 or two in perfect amazement, and when he 
 recovered himself, only shook hands with 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford was astonished, and not hav- 
 ing seen Kate's gesture, took them both to 
 task. 
 
 " You silly children !" said she, " is that the 
 way you meet after so long an absence ? Why 
 Frank, I am ashamed of you ! why, Kate, you 
 are not going to act the bashful young lady, 
 are you ? brought up together as you have 
 been from infants.^^ 
 
 "Why, mamma," answered Kate, with a 
 little hesitation, " it is not my fault ; I cannot 
 do exactly what you wish me, because Frank
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. l79 
 
 does not, because he does not like it, you see. 
 I did offer to do so," continued she, with more 
 nonchalance, " for I knew it was a necessary 
 though disagreeable piece of business, which 
 one must perform when one meets a friend after 
 an absence of some years ; but there, Frank 
 does not wish to return my salute, thank Hea- 
 ven ! so, perhaps, you will excuse us finishing 
 the ceremony." 
 
 "Excuse you! that I will not," said Mrs^ 
 Beresford ; '^ are these your foreign manners, 
 Frank? is my beautiful Kate to be shghted in 
 this way ? is she so plain a girl that you have 
 not found courage to salute her yet ?" 
 
 " Far from it ; she is more attractive in ap- 
 pearance than I could have imagined her to 
 be," Frank answered, earnestly enough, as he 
 fixed a steady gaze upon Kate, which she re- 
 turned with one equally so ; and in obedience 
 to his mother's wishes, he bent down and 
 touched her cheek with his lips, " but, I knew 
 not thai the antipathy she had conceived for
 
 ISO SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 me^ and which she was kind enough to tell me 
 of in her letters, while I was abroad, would 
 authorize me to meet her with a friend's em- 
 brace." 
 
 " Pooh ! antipathy, indeed I ridiculous, 
 Frank !" rejoined Mrs. Beresford, who had 
 often read and laughed over her protegee's in- 
 vectives against her son, "all Kate's non- 
 sense." 
 
 " Nonsense ? she writes then what she does 
 not mean ?" said he. 
 
 " Often," said Mrs. Beresford, " as every 
 woman does, no doubt.'* 
 
 ^^ Exactly so,'* rejoined Frank, sinking back 
 upon the chair, from which he had risen, " the 
 true character of the sex— not a bit better than 
 the rest of them !" 
 
 " Well, at all events," thought Kate, as she 
 turned away from him, "if I did exaggerate 
 the dislike I conceived for Frank Beresford, 
 I am not likely to do so now ; he is quite as 
 disagreeable as I imagined he would be."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 181 
 
 There was a smile upon Kate's Bouverie's 
 face, as she thought this, and Mrs. Beresford 
 noticed it — " Ah ! Kate," said she, ^' I see 
 that you are laughing at Frank ; well, I forgive 
 you — he is to be laughed at, my dear, for his 
 backwardness." 
 
 '' I am sure, mamma, I was not laughing at 
 that ; I was only thinking that Frank and I 
 seem likely to renew our old quarrels ; ask him, 
 and he will tell you he is thinking so, too.'* 
 " Were you, Frank?" said Mrs. Beresford, 
 '^ Not I !" he replied ; " unless it had been 
 for her letters, I should have nearly forgotten, 
 Kate, as well as the quarrels she at present 
 refers to, and which I really do not remember 
 to have occurred between us." 
 
 " My dear ?" said Mrs. Beresford, bending 
 her head towards him, as if she had not heard 
 rightly, while Kate's cheek was suffused for a 
 moment or two with a brighter colour than 
 usual. 
 
 " Well, mother?" said Frank.
 
 182 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 '^Forgotten Kate I your little playmate !" 
 
 " My little plague, rather." 
 
 "Menteur!" exclaimed Kate, with a merry 
 smile, " menteur ! see how truth will out ! so 
 you remember me after all then as your little 
 plague sir ! But how uncivil you are grown, 
 Frank ! is he not, mamma?" 
 
 " My love," whispered Mrs. Beresford, in her 
 very gentlest tones, '' pray excuse him 1 I sup- 
 pose he is tired." 
 
 " And ill-tempered," suggested Kate. 
 
 ^' And ill-tempered," continued the mother ; 
 " he has had such a long journey, you know, 
 darling!" 
 
 ^^ But do long journeys render you as un- 
 polite as Frank is at present," said Kate, 
 glancing with a dissatisfied air at the gentleman 
 in question, who was now leaning over the 
 mantel-piece talking to his old tutor ; ''just ask 
 him, mamma, whether they do, or I will." 
 
 " To-morrow, to-morrow," said Mrs. Beres- 
 ford, persuasively, " not now."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 183 
 
 '* Very well," answered she ; *^ I will defer 
 my interrogatories until to-morrow, then ; but 
 no longer! Recollect, mamma, you must not 
 spoil him now he is at home ; he has had his 
 own way long enough.'' All this was said half 
 aloud, and Frank distinctly heard it, and in a 
 smile of infinite contempt, expressed his opinion 
 thereupon, apparently not thinking it worth his 
 while to deliver it in words. Kate met this 
 smile, and returned it with a look of wondering 
 curiosity, eying him from head to foot, as she 
 would have done some strange animal in a 
 menagerie. " At least,'' thought she, " here is 
 a fund of amusement for me, he is a decided 
 oddity !" 
 
 " Well, mamma," said she, when she had 
 'finished her survey, " now I think I will go and 
 take off my bonnet and shawl, and dress for 
 dinner — it will soon be ready, will it not ?" And 
 she walked towards the door, but before she 
 left the room she stopped at the tutor's chair, 
 and said :
 
 184 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Mr. Ramsay, I have scarcely spoken to you, 
 scarcely noticed you, but the presence of your 
 amiable protege will, perhaps, account for my 
 rudeness ; you, who have known him for so 
 many years, may understand the charms with 
 which he has rendered himself so fascinating 
 during the few minutes I have spent in his 
 company, that have made me forget every one 
 in the room excepting himself, and so you will 
 excuse my tardiness in thus coldly welcoming 
 you to England.'*' Then dropping Frank and 
 Mr. Ramsay a reverend curtsey, she hastened 
 from the apartment. 
 
 Frank Beresford followed her for a mo- 
 ment with a thoughtful look, then, turning to 
 his friend said, "The frivolity of woman is 
 great." 
 
 " Most distressing !" ejaculated he in return, 
 with a deep drawn sigh, and casting his eyes 
 up to heaven, while Mrs. Eeresford looked at 
 them both in some surprise, but said nothing, 
 as on the first day of her son's arrival" home,
 
 SIR ARTHUR BQUVERIE. 185 
 
 she did not wish to notice his strange behavi- 
 our, however disagreeable it might appear to 
 her. 
 
 Kate Bouverie saw no more of Frank till 
 dinner time^, v/hen, with a true woman's curi- 
 osity, she took care to examine his personal 
 appearance. He was very tall, full six feet high, 
 broad chested^ and finely formed, his hair jet 
 black, and his complexion, which she recollected 
 had been extremely fair, so deeply, embrowned, 
 that nothing of its original colour remained. 
 His eyes were of a pure grey hue, bright, clear, 
 and well opened, and the lashes long and black, 
 regularly set, and beautifully turned up, gave 
 a certain sweet expression to them, which large 
 and serious as they were, they would not other- 
 wise have had. But the mouth was the most 
 attractive feature of his face, there was so much 
 expression in it when he spoke ; the finely cut 
 lips changed their beautiful curves so often, 
 and so distinctly, that the words seemed to 
 breath from them before they were uttered.
 
 186 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 His hand was small and delicately white, and 
 this he evidently knew, for during the whole of 
 the dinner, he took especial care to show its 
 elegant proportions to advantage, which piece 
 of vanity angered Kate excessively — particu- 
 larly after he caught her (as he once did) glanc- 
 ing towards it. In short, the sum of Kate's 
 observations was this : " He is handsome," she 
 said within herself, '^ but certainly more plea- 
 sant looking than agreeable?" 
 
 Evening came ; and they drew their chairs 
 round the open windows, for it was a sultry 
 summer's day, and Kate worked until the twi- 
 light gradually grew upon them, while Mrs. 
 Beresford sat with her hand clasped in her 
 son's, listening to the recital of his travels and 
 adventures, with a mother's interest and pride. 
 And truly she had need to be proud of him, for 
 the part he bore in the evening's entertainment 
 evidenced a superior mind, reflective, penetrat- 
 ing, and constant in the pursuit of knowledge. 
 His remarks were well chosen and just; his learn-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 187 
 
 ing extensive ; his couversation instructive, at 
 times even amusing ; and yet Kate could not liste n 
 with patience to him : there was something that 
 told disagreeably upon her feelings, which the 
 mother perceived not, and this was the betrayal 
 of the same inordinate vanity she had ever 
 given him credit for. She could not bear the 
 descriptions he sometimes gave of his courage, 
 presence of mind, or any other quality of which 
 he thought himself possessed ; nor could she 
 forgive the quieter innuendoes he also let fall 
 upon the same subject. All this was annoy- 
 ing to Kate, though she was also, with a rather 
 excusable vanity, secretly astonished and half 
 pleased with herself, for having so wisely judged 
 him, so accurately determined before hand, his 
 real character in her own mind. 
 
 Frank Beresford never vouchsafed to address 
 a single word to Kate, during the whole of the 
 evening ; alternately turning to his mother and 
 Mr. Ramsay, which latter gentleman seemed to 
 be in rapt admiration of his pupil's talents, he di-
 
 188 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIB. 
 
 vided his discourse between them ; perhaps, he 
 had taken as great a dislike against Kate from 
 the perusal of her letters, as she had done 
 against him from his. Not, however, that Kate 
 cared for this pointed inattention on his part ; 
 she was one who could quietly enjoy herself at 
 the expense of other's trivial follies and faults ; 
 and there she sat, half concealed by the thick- 
 ening darkness around her, listening^nd smiling, 
 within herself, at the continually increasing ex- 
 posures of Frank Beresford's vanity. Could he 
 have discerned through the gloom of the twi- 
 light, the ironical expression of her countenance, 
 he would not, perhaps, have been so profuse in 
 his self praise, so cuttingly severe as he some- 
 times was in his remarks upon the foibles of 
 the fairer sex, against whom, indeed he seemed 
 to have conceived a most particular pique. As 
 it was, however, he did not, and the while Kate 
 was inwardly laughing at him, it may be, he 
 was pleasantly solacing himself with the idea of
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 189 
 
 having struck his mother and her protege with 
 a deep astonishment at his abilities. 
 
 When the hour came for the night's rest, 
 Kate, after wishing Mrs. Beresford and Mr. 
 Ramsay good nigh^, drew back, as Frank came 
 forward, after receiving a hint from his mother, 
 to salute her. '^ No," said she, with a smile, 
 " I would not have you perform such a heavy 
 penance ; besides, it is not at all necessary now, 
 — we did our duty a short while ago. I never 
 intended that to be, nor did mamma, I should 
 think ; the most aSTcctionate friends do not 
 permit it, and we, I believe, are not such. This 
 will be sufficient for occasions like the present." 
 And placing her little hand in his, she shook it, 
 and with a half demure, half mischievous smile, 
 retired, leaving Frank rather surprised, and not • 
 a httle discomforted by the singularity of her 
 manner. Eut a few minutes afterwards, as he 
 walked up stairs to his room, her image van- 
 ished from his mind, and thoughts of home, of 
 his mother, his different friends, with some
 
 190 SIR ARTHUR BOtJVERIE. 
 
 intrusive scraps of learning, and half remem- 
 bered adventures crowded upon it till his eyes 
 were closed in sleep — the long, dreamless sleep 
 of the tired traveller.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 191 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 Studies serve for delight, for ornament and for ability. 
 
 * * ♦ ♦ * * * 
 
 To spend too much time in studies, is sloth ; to use too much 
 for ornament is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by 
 their rules, is the humour of a scholar. — Bacon. 
 
 Several days passed, a week, a month, and 
 still there was no better understanding be- 
 tween Kate and Frank Beresford ; scarcely did 
 he deign to speak to her but when he felt 
 obliged, and then it was in such a manner, that 
 she plainly saw he would rather have remained 
 silent. The pique, too, which he manifested 
 towards her on the first night of his return, 
 became still more apparent, as his intimacy 
 with her increased, and the cold, yet polite tone
 
 192 SIR AP.THUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 in which he addressed her, soon changed into 
 a slightly contemptuous one. 
 
 Kate Bouverie bore this with perfect good 
 humour ; it did not hurt her ; sometimes, in- 
 deed, she wished he had remained abroad, and 
 thought Eaton Square much more comfortable 
 without him ; but not liking him, she cared 
 very little for his good opinion, and never tried 
 in any way to diminish the contempt she knew 
 he had conceived for her. Of a mischievous 
 disposition, however, she soon made him the 
 object of her mirth and raillery ; his vanity, 
 his sententious gravity, his apparent dislike of 
 female society, and the fits of abstraction he 
 occasionally gave way to, all afforded her ex- 
 cellent ground for retaiiation, whenever she felt 
 disposed to resent his inattentions towards 
 herself. Not that Kate, be it understood, felt 
 actually angry with him ; it was merely a 
 species of wordy warfare she followed up for 
 the sake of amusement, her greatest delight 
 being to engage him in conversation upon some
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 193 
 
 frivolous subject, and then watch the uneasiness 
 of mind with which he listened and spoke, 
 meanwhile, evidently within himself, counting 
 and lamenting over the minutes and seconds he 
 was wasting in such unprofitable discourse. 
 Trust to a woman's wit for teazing — does she not 
 set about it viith a good-will, when she once 
 begins I" 
 
 ^' Kate, my dear," said Mrs. Beresford, one 
 morning as the ladies were sitting by themselves 
 in a cool and pretty looking little boudoir — 
 Kate sketching some coloured flowers, and 
 Mrs. Beresford working, '* Kate, my dear, 
 where is Frank ?" 
 
 " I do not know, mamma; I have not seen 
 him since breakfast ;" answered Kate, " I sup- 
 pose he is in the library." 
 
 *' I wish, then, you would just see if he is 
 there," continued Mrs. Beresford, '' I want 
 him to accompany us to Mrs. Bouverie's this 
 afternoon. Will you go and tell him so, my 
 dear?" 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIB. 
 
 '* As you like, mamma ; but, perhaps, he will 
 not be best pleased, if T disturb him in what he 
 calls his morning studies ; he is so very ill- 
 tempered when any one interrupts him, you 
 know." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense, darling," answered 
 Mrs. Beresford, *' we must not humour him 
 so much then : he will be quite spoiled between 
 us, I am afraid." 
 
 '* Not by me !" said Kate, with a pecuUar 
 smile. 
 
 " Well, I do not know, I think you do spoil 
 him a little, Kate ; however silent he may be, 
 you always speak to him and laugh with him. 
 And it is very good of you, Kate," said Mrs. 
 Beresford, taking the young girl's hand in her 
 own, and looking inquiringly up into her face, 
 *' I Hke you very much for it — Frank is a little 
 cross now and then, is he not ? yet you do not 
 mind that, do you ?" 
 
 '' Oh no, mamma," answered Kate, who was 
 at a loss to conceive what Mrs. Beresford meant.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 195 
 
 and why this half apology for Frank was ad- 
 dressed to her. Then, recollecting he was her 
 son, she added^ " Cross, did you say ? it is 
 only his manner ; I do not think he is cross.'* 
 
 " No, my dear I" said Mrs. Beresford, with 
 a look of astonishment, and then a smile. 
 " Well, I am glad of that." And she shook 
 her head still more kindly, and again bade her 
 go and give him her message. 
 
 Kate rose and left the room, wondering how 
 Mrs. Beresford ever supposed Frank's be- 
 haviour towards herself could trouble her, and 
 thanking her for her kindness in noticing a 
 matter, which, trivial as it appeared to her 
 feelings, had never as yet, given her one mo- 
 ment's uneasiness. But the old lady's thoughts 
 were far different from what Kate Bouverie 
 imagined them to be, and as there is no neces- 
 sity for concealment, they may be just as well 
 explained here as elsewhere. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford wished for a match between 
 Kate and Frank ; it was the cherished project 
 
 K 2
 
 196 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 of years, and still continued to be the one on 
 which many of her fondest hopes were bent. 
 She, never within her own mind, had met with 
 Kate's equal for gaiety, kindness of heart, and 
 generosity ; and her affection blinding her to 
 her faults, liking her as she did above all 
 other girls of her age, she thought her son 
 must like her too. Much astonished, and rather 
 displeased was she then, at the decided dislike 
 Frank conceived for her lively and beautiful 
 wardj who, in her eyes, seemed the very 
 perfection of good humour and kindness, when 
 through a love of teasing, she persisted in 
 calling his attention to herself, by making him 
 talk to her, notwithstanding his sullenness, or 
 absence of mind. And after two months 
 passed, and still Frank appeared rude and 
 indifferent towards Kate, while she remained 
 good-tempered and gay, Mrs, Beresford, simple 
 and straightforward as she was, could account 
 for it in no other way, than by conceiving her 
 to be partly in love with her son, which at-
 
 Sia ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 197 
 
 tachment, she thought made her bear his fits 
 of ill-temper more patiently than she otherwise 
 would have done. She did not see, she could 
 not understand the hidden thrusts, the quiet 
 raillery with which she assailed him ; she never 
 thought, that for the mere love of mischief, 
 Kate would endure his frowns and sarcasms — 
 even purposely provoke them; and pleased 
 with the idea of having one of the couple she 
 intended to unite by marriage, already falling 
 into the snare, she set about contriving to 
 entrap her son in the same. Thenceforth, she 
 began to bring them together as much as she 
 could, and to praise Kate's merits with all pos- 
 sible earnestness before Frank, in order to pave 
 the way for the completion of her wishes ; but 
 he, who knew her intentions upon the subject, 
 easily saw through her unskilful manoeuvres, 
 and by the rule of contradiction, regarded Kate 
 Bouverie with still greater dislike than before. 
 He thought her a giddy, thoughtless girl, with- 
 out much education or feeling, and tried to
 
 198 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 estrange himself as much as he possibly could 
 from her society, scarcely ever spending two 
 successive evenings with her, or consequently 
 with his mother. His usual resort was the 
 library, where he used to pass the earlier part 
 of the day, and sometimes the afternoon, shut 
 up with old Mr. Rimsay, who still continued 
 to be with his pupil. It was here, Kate found 
 him on the morning she was sent by Mrs. 
 Beresford, to know whether he would accom- 
 pany them to Mrs. Bouverie's. 
 
 ** Frank," said she, as she entered and looked 
 round the table, which was covered with huge 
 volumes, blotted inkstands and dusty maps, 
 Mr. Ramsay being seated at one end, the 
 gentleman to whom she spoke at the other. 
 "Frank," she said, "mamma wishes to know 
 whether you will go with us to ray brother's 
 this afternoon V 
 
 " What for ?*' he asked, without looking up 
 from the book he was reading. 
 
 " What for 1" answered Kate, *' to see Mrs.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 199 
 
 Bouverie, to be sure. You know I am going to 
 stay here another month or so, and that it is 
 necessary I should disengage myself from the 
 promise I made to return to Belgrave Street, 
 very soon. Mamma is kind enough to accom- 
 pany me there to-day, to help me through the 
 business." 
 
 " Am I then wanted to help you, too ?" 
 
 " I should think not ! a pretty piece of work 
 it would be if you meddled with it ! No, 
 mamma only wished you to go with us, be- 
 cause she thought a drive would do you good 
 after your morning studies." 
 
 " Do me good? My mother talks to me as 
 if I were a child ; but there, I will go — I do 
 not much care about seeing Mrs. Bouverie — 
 I rather like her." 
 
 "You rather like her?" exclaimed Kate, in 
 some surprise. 
 
 *' Yes ; she is a sensible woman," rejoined 
 he, drily. 
 
 *' Which many others are not, I presume?"
 
 200 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Exactly so !" 
 
 *• And what do you particularly like in Mrs. 
 Bouverie, I beg leave to inquire V* 
 
 *' Simplicity, quietness, an utter absence of 
 the love of admiration." 
 
 " An utter absence of the love of admiration ! 
 you like that, you who love it so much your- 
 self!" cried she. 
 
 " i love admiration 1" exclaimed Frank, rather 
 angrily. 
 
 "Yes, of course you do; you are vain 
 enough. Heaven knows." 
 
 " I vain ! Ramsay, do you he^r that ?" 
 
 "Eh! what, my dear Frank?" said Mr. 
 Ramsay, looking up at the speaker through a 
 pair of green spectacles, which made his 
 greenish grey eyes appear still greener than 
 they really were. 
 
 "This young lady accuses me of being vain," 
 said Frank. 
 
 " Miss Kate Bouverie, I humbly presume, 
 does not know what she is talking about," an-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 201 
 
 swered Mr. Ramsay, giving Kate a side look of 
 indignation, and then resuming his reading, 
 " vain? — don't believe her." 
 
 "You see!" cried Frank, turning towards 
 her with a quietly triumphant look. 
 
 " Pooh !" said Kate, " Mr. Ramsay misun- 
 derstands me ; he thinks I am talking of your 
 personal appearance, of which I acknowledge 
 you are not vain, although you are tolerably 
 good looking ; but I am speaking of that vanity 
 of spirit, which makes you think yourself so 
 much better than other people, though whether 
 you are so in reality, or only in your own 
 opinion, remains to be seen ; perhaps it is upon 
 the solidity of your mental acquirements that 
 you pride yourself.'^ 
 
 " Ramsay ! your verdict again," cried Frank, 
 " am I vaiii upon the strength of my learn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " No," repHed the tutor, glancing upwards 
 at his pupil with a look of affection, "no ; al- 
 though, my dear boy, many men might be 
 
 K 3
 
 202 SIR ARTHUR BOtJVERIE. 
 
 proud of such a well cultivated mind as 
 yours/' 
 
 '* There .'*' said Frank, again turning towards 
 Kate. 
 
 "Mr. Ramsay is a partial judge," rejoined 
 she, with a toss of her pretty head ; ^' you 
 should not listen to him ; of course, he must 
 be prejudiced in your favour, as you are his 
 very counterpart in every thing relating to the 
 mind ; he is a partial judge, I tell you.'' 
 
 "So you say," he replied, "because sentence 
 is given against you, Kate ; but it is always 
 the same with women, they are never open 
 to conviction — they will have their own 
 way." 
 
 " Excepting when they cannot," said Kate, 
 "when they are married, for instance, when 
 they have promised to obey." 
 
 ** Obey !" ejaculated Frank, in reply, '* did 
 you ever know a woman obey ? Obstinate as 
 mules, they strive as hard as those animals do 
 against the word of command, and if they do
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 203 
 
 chance to do what they are told, it is merely 
 through accident or self-interest, not through 
 any principle of duty. They swear then to a 
 falsehood, I tell you, when they swear to obey 
 at the altar — what egregious fools some men 
 must be to beHeve them \'' 
 
 And here he glanced indignantly at Kate, as 
 if to warn her that his mother's plan for 
 coupling her and himself in the holy bonds of 
 matrimony would never meet with his appro- 
 bation. " What egregious fools," said he again, 
 *' some men must be to believe them !" 
 
 " Aye, indeed," muttered Mr. Ramsay, who 
 just caught the substance of his pupil's in- 
 vectives, " poor deluded victims ! self sacrific- 
 ing wretches !" 
 
 "Ah! gentlemen, sweet, innocent, injured 
 beings !" murmured Kate, in a voice which 
 seemed like the softest sighs of the zephyrs 
 floating by, *' what a world of misery we have 
 brought upon you ! Deeply, indeed, must the 
 more sensible individuals of our sex deplore
 
 204 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 their follies and their faults, especially when 
 contrasted with your swper-eminent virtues. I 
 hope, Frank, you and Mr. Ramsay have never 
 experienced any very great ingratitude from 
 us? — by your continual railing, 1 should fancy 
 you had." 
 
 " Thank Heaven, no !'' replied Frank, " ob- 
 servation and early wisdom have kept me clear 
 of your snares.'^ 
 
 '^ I should say your disagreeable manners 
 rather, made us keep clear of you I" cried 
 Kate. " But," she continued with a wicked smile, 
 notwithstanding a look of sublime indignation 
 bestowed on her by Frank, though he took no 
 further notice of her words, " I will tell you 
 what has made you dislike us, Frank. You 
 have loved, and perhaps now suffer a disappoint- 
 ment, and as for Mr. Ramsay, who says nothing 
 all this while, I am sure he has been in love — 
 quite sure ! have you not, my dear sir V* 
 
 The tutor looked hurriedly up at Kate and
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 205 
 
 Frank, *' Miss Bouverie," he replied, *Uhat is 
 not a question you need ask an old man like 
 me, nor is it one I feel ^myself obliged to 
 answer." 
 
 " Ah," said Kate, struck by the peculiar tone 
 in which he spoke, yet trying to laugh the 
 matter off, " I only thought you could tell me 
 a pretty love story of your youth, Mr. Ramsay, 
 how you loved a fair and lovely lady, how she 
 gave you hopes of being beloved in return, 
 until one day a handsome cavalier came unex- 
 pectedly and won her heart for himself, and 
 thus induced the inconstant one to forsake 
 you. 
 
 " It is well, it is well, young lady," begun 
 the old man, hastily interrupting her, " that you 
 have never known — '' then suddenly checking 
 himself, he again commenced perusing the vol- 
 ume before him. 
 
 Kate looked at him in wonder, and seeing that 
 she had touched some chord of feeUng which 
 jarred upon his mind, said no more, but
 
 206 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIB. 
 
 bidding Frank make haste and dress as the 
 carriage was ordered at two o'clock, ran back to 
 Mrs. Beresford. 
 
 " Ramsay," said Frank, as Kate shut the 
 library-door, '^ I am sorry past feelings of sor- 
 row should have been awakened by Kate's 
 thoughtlessness and impertinence ; but hers 
 was a random hit; you know I never would 
 betray your confidence." 
 
 " I am certain of that,'' answered Mr. Ram- 
 say in his usual quiet tones, " quite certain, 
 Frank ; let us forget all about it. I was silly 
 to have been so much moved by a foolish girl's 
 words. I am quite right now — come, let us go 
 on with our reading." 
 
 " That I cannot do," rejoined Frank with a 
 sigh, *' I must join my mother, who is waiting 
 for me, I believe, — but yet one, two, three 
 hours, perhaps, lost — in such frivolous society, 
 too !" 
 
 '' A parcel of women," muttered Mr. Ramsav. 
 
 *'.Kate, Mrs. Bouverie, my mother," ejacu- 
 lated Frank.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 207 
 
 " Pity that you are obliged to respect one of 
 the sex in the person of your mother/' ob- 
 served the ci-devant tutor, with a sort of in- 
 dignant and regretful growl. 
 
 " Ah indeed !" said Frank with a slight groan. 
 ** But come," he added after a moment's thought, 
 '' my mother is a good little creature, too ; 
 better than most women I am sure/' 
 
 " I dare say, I dare say," repHed Mr. Ram- 
 say, " so most likely I should think my mother 
 was were she alive now — it's a natural weak- 
 ness, my dear boy, that we cannot get over. 
 No, exasperated as you may be against women 
 in general, you cannot help liking your mother. 
 But it only shows the immeasureable power the 
 women have over us ; for deceive ourselves as we 
 may, if we have any female relations or friends, 
 we are sure to be guided and controlled by 
 them ; by our mothers in our infancy, our 
 wives in our manhood, our daughters or nieces 
 in our old age. Yet we are fools enough to 
 like them after all, Frank. I have seen men
 
 208 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 who have been cajoled out of every shadow of 
 authority in their own homes by the caresses 
 of those subtle enchantresses, and still they felt 
 undiminished affection for them. Can you 
 conceive that V* 
 
 " They must be great fools who suffer them- 
 selves to be so cheated of their rights. I would 
 take pretty good care, if ever I had anything 
 to do with a woman, never to let the reins of 
 government fall from my hands into such as 
 hers/' answered Frank. 
 
 " You cannot help it, you cannot help it, 
 when once they get a hold on your affections,"^ 
 continued Mr. Ramsay, ''you, my dear Frank 
 — although, thank Heaven ! I have in some 
 degree enlightened your mind upon the subject 
 — you, I say, can form no competent idea of 
 the many and successful artifices they practise 
 to attain their ends ; their minds are as difficult 
 to unravel as a skein of entangled silk. They 
 watch your disposition ; take advantage of your 
 "weaknesses 5 lull your passions; waive your
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 209 
 
 firmness, until little by little they completely 
 master you by their insidious devices, and some- 
 times under the mask of the most perfect 
 obedience, and childlike simplicity, wheedle 
 every shadow of power into their own hands 
 You know them not as I know them, I say — 
 the gipsies ! the witches ! the jades !" 
 
 **But with such extraordinary talents, my 
 dear Ramsay, what glorious creatures they 
 might be !'^ said Frank, " how they might soften 
 our pains, enhance our pleasures, smooth our 
 disappointments through life — I have often 
 thought of that." 
 
 " You have often thought of that ?" exclaimed 
 Mr. Ramsay in a tone of alarm, " I hope to 
 Heaven you never wished it to be so '•" 
 
 " I have," answered his pupil steadily, *' al- 
 lured by their beauty and fascinations, I have 
 often wished for such a helpmate as one of them 
 might be — mind I say, mujlit be — through 
 life." 
 
 " You have ?" cried Ramsay] with an ex- 
 pression of the utmost terror on his countenance.
 
 210 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 "Yes,'' answered Frank; *'jet do not be 
 alarmed, pray ; I soon overcame the wish. A 
 follower of truth, I soon bade adieu to such 
 wild dreams of the imagination ; convinced by 
 my own and your observations and experience 
 of their deceitful and dangerous character, I 
 never for one moment believed they were what 
 I wished them to be." 
 
 ** But you were very near it," muttered the 
 old tutor, with a cautious side look at Frank. 
 " Ah !" he continued after a moment's pause, 
 " it is those liars the poets who put such non- 
 sense into young people's heads — the Wind 
 madmen !" 
 
 " The poets?'* rejoined Frank, " well I do not 
 know that ; sometimes they abuse them pretty 
 heartily. But come, Ramsay, I must wish you 
 good morning for the present, and with a sigh 
 leave you in better company than I am going 
 to associate with." 
 
 And Frank left the library to prepare for the 
 afternoon call.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 211 
 
 " Why are we stopping here ?" asked Frank, 
 as, instead of going straight to Belgrave Street, 
 Mrs. Bercsford's carriage drove on to Grosvenor 
 Square, and there stopped before the door of a 
 large mansion. 
 
 *'5Lady Eveline Huntley, my dear, promised 
 Kate yesterday evening that she would accom- 
 pany us to Mrs. Bouverie's to day," answered 
 Mrs. Beresford, " so we are obliged to come 
 hither first.'* ^ 
 
 "Lady Eveline Huntley!" echoed Frank 
 angrily, "mother you have done this on pur- 
 pose ; you know well enough what a horror I 
 have of that eternal little chatter-box — a pretty 
 specimen of a woman she is !" 
 
 " Pretty ?" repeated Kate, as she prepared to 
 step from the carriage into the house, " I should 
 never have thought you would have paid her 
 that compliment, although she is generally reck- 
 oned so ; I thought you liked regular features.'* 
 
 "I did not praise her beauty," he replied, 
 " but allow me to hand you out?"
 
 212 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Oh I pray do not trouble yourself/' said 
 Kate springing lightly from the carriage, " do 
 not disturb yourself for me." 
 
 Two or three minutes elapsed, and she re- 
 turned with Lady Eveline, who after shaking 
 hands with Mrs. Beresford, accosted Frank. 
 
 " Mr. Beresford," she exclaimed, ** you here ! 
 I thought you always passed the morning in 
 learning your lessons with that extraordinary 
 old gentleman Mr. Ramrod — at least Kate told 
 me so. I wonder you have the patience, now 
 after your school days are over to be at it still ; 
 I cannot understand such application." 
 
 " Life," answered Frank, " is too short for 
 gaining all the knowledge we ought to acquire ; 
 the mind will progress always towards perfecr 
 tion, will become more and more expanded 
 every day, so that we take the necessary pains 
 to train it to its duty ; but if left to rest in in- 
 dolence, its faculties will weaken and decay ; 
 every day then ought we to nourish it with food 
 and stimulate it to still greater exertions than
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 213 
 
 it has yet made, for no one knows where the 
 strength of his powers stops short, or how far 
 the grasp of his genius may extend when en- 
 larged by study and reflection.'^ 
 
 '' How droll !" rejoined Lady Eveline by way 
 of reply, *' you speak exactly like the celebrated 
 preacher we heard the other day, does he not, 
 Kate ? But what a very dreadful, disagreeable 
 life yours must be, Mr. Beresford ; to be in 
 school as it were all day, and every day — how 
 decidedly disagreeable ! Is Mr. Ramling very 
 strict with you ?" 
 
 " Strict !" said Frank in amazement, while 
 Kate could not refrain from laughing, '' what 
 does your ladyship mean ?'' 
 
 " Why does he keep you to your studies con- 
 tinually, or allow you a little leisure now and 
 then to amuse yourself as at present ?" 
 
 *' I believe your ladyship misunderstands the 
 connexion which exists between Mr. Ramsay 
 and myself. He was my tutor, true ; now he 
 is only my friend, yet he assists me, nevcrthe-
 
 214 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 less, in my studies, for he is a man of vast eru- 
 dition, and would be a valuable acquisition as a 
 companion to any one — even to the most 
 learned !'' 
 
 ** Oh ! then it is not so bad as I thought ; he 
 is not your tutor at present, you are not obliged 
 to do as he likes ? Well, that is pleasant, cer- 
 tainly ; I imagined you were still under his sur 
 veillance, and I really did pity you ! I wondered, 
 indeed, how you could submit to it, considering 
 your age, which is, I suppose, about five-and- 
 twenty, is it not ?" 
 
 Frank did not think her worth an answer, 
 and the carriage stopped at Mrs. Bouverie's, 
 before her ladyship had time to make another 
 observation. 
 
 Amy was at home, and the party walked up 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 ** My dear Mrs. Bouverie," began Lady Eve- 
 line the moment she entered the apartment, " I 
 am so sorry I could not call before, so very 
 sorry ! only really papa would not let me come
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 215 
 
 here by myself, because he says I talk so gid- 
 dily, and am so young — and Seymour says so 
 too. But I wished very much to see you, in- 
 deed I did ; and often went to Kate to ask he^ 
 to take me to you, although she had always some 
 engagement which prevented her doing so ; 
 here, however, I am at last." 
 
 "And very glad I am to see you," answered 
 Amy, timidly, yet with an expression of plea- 
 sure upon the countenance, called there by the 
 frank and kindly tones in which Lady Eveline 
 spoke, so different from those to which she had 
 of late become accustomed, **you flatter me 
 much by calling — and Mrs. Bouverie and Mrs. 
 Beresford too," she added, with a slight blush, 
 bowing at the same time to Frank, whom she 
 had seen once or twice before. 
 
 Amy was very glad in truth to see them, par- 
 ticularly Kate whom she hoped to induce to 
 spend some months with her. Acting upon this 
 intention, she soon engaged her in conversation 
 entered upon the subject, and was so urgent in
 
 216 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 her entreaties, that at last Kate could not refuse 
 her request, and promised she would be her 
 guest in less than a fortnight ; thus cutting 
 short the proposed length of her stay at Mrs. 
 Beresford's, much to that lady's regret, and her 
 son's visible satisfaction. 
 
 "And where is Cecil ?" asked Kate, judici- 
 ously choosing a time for the question when Mrs 
 Beresford, Lady EveUne, and Frank, walked to 
 the window to see whether it was probable it 
 would rain or not, '' Is he not at home ?'^ 
 
 " No," Amy answered, colouring very deeply, 
 and turning her head away, " I do not see him 
 very often now. Pray come back, Miss Bou- 
 verie, he wishes it so much ; he is always asking 
 for you — you are so lively, so amusing, and I 
 am not ; and the house is so large and quiet, 
 and," here Amy was silent, fearing she should 
 say too much, till Kate seeing that the others 
 had settled their discussion upon the weather, 
 and resumed their chairs, asked, " Do you go to 
 the fete next Saturday ?'^
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 2l7 
 
 ''Fete?*' repeated Amy. 
 
 " Yes the Chiswick fete. You have not 
 thought of it, perhaps ? will you go with us ?'' 
 
 "Oh! pray go!" exclaimed Lady Eveline, 
 " pray go, Mrs. Bouverie, I shall be there, and 
 Seymour, and papa, and everybody." 
 
 *' I will go with pleasure," said Amy. 
 
 "Then," replied Mrs. Beresford, "I hope 
 that you consider your engagement with us as 
 definitively settled." 
 
 " Oh, certainly yes," answered Amy, " did you 
 not say next Saturday ?" 
 
 " Exactly so," returned Mrs. Beresford, " and 
 now I must wish you good afternoon — shall we 
 see you in the Park this evening ?" 
 
 " 1 think I shall be there," Amy replied ; 
 and shaking hands with Lady Eveline and Kate, 
 she half whispered to the latter, " Do not de- 
 ceive me again ; do not stay the month at Mrs. 
 Beresford's, pray !" 
 
 And Kate, who knew from her words and 
 manner that Cecil had more and more estranged 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 himself from her, and that her absence had not 
 effected what she hoped it would have done, 
 promised to be at Belgrave Street within the 
 time proposed.
 
 SIR ARTHUR iBOUVERIE. 219 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 She was pretty, she was fair, 
 Had blue eyes and jet black hair ; 
 But in those same eyes a tear 
 Lay in crystal beauty clear. 
 
 Yet the lashes of the lid, 
 That her gentle glances hid, 
 On her pale soft cheek of woe^' 
 Still it did not overflow. 
 
 No, like moonshine on a rill, 
 When the night is calm and chill. 
 And when gently breathes the air, 
 It but shone and trembled there. 
 
 Ever on her fair sweet face, 
 A strange sadness you might trace, 
 Now and then a broken sigh, 
 Was by her hush'd hurriedly. 
 
 She was lovely, she was young, 
 Life for her had scarce begun ; 
 But she must have seen much sorrow, 
 Ere her face that look could borrow. 
 
 Are you going with us to the Park, Frank ?' 
 
 L 3
 
 220 SIR ARTHUR BOUVeRIE* 
 
 said Mrs. Beresford to her son in a persuasive 
 tone of voice as they drove off from Belgrave 
 Street, or must we set you down ? I think you 
 had better come on with us now, it is such a 
 beautiful afternoon ?" So it was ; the sun was 
 shining brightly upon the serried ranks of car- 
 riages and equestrians that were pressing on- 
 wards by the side of the Serpentine ; the grass 
 looked fresh and green, for a shower had just 
 fallen, and the water sparkled pleasantly enough. 
 Frank glanced around, and not being quite in- 
 sensible to the exhilarating scene before him, 
 answered, " Well, it is as well to be victimised 
 once in a way for the sake of variety ; — yes, I 
 will go on with you, mother." 
 
 And Mrs. Beresford looked pleased, and Kate 
 astonished, and Lady Eveline opened her eyes ; 
 such a piece of politeness they had never before 
 experienced from him, and they all felt it deeply, 
 as may be imagined. 
 
 " There is Seymour, and there is your brother, 
 Kate," cried Lady Eveline, as they closed into
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 221 
 
 one of the slowly filing ranks of vehicles ; *' but 
 they do not see us. Who is that pretty looking 
 woman they are talking to? can you tell me, 
 Kate ?" 
 
 ^' It is Edith L'Estrange !" she answered in a 
 tone of surprise, after she had looked in the 
 direction pointed out to her. 
 
 *' And who is Edith L'Estrange ?" 
 
 " A young widow, very pretty, very talented, 
 very poor, a portrait painter, and a friend of 
 mine, Eveline." 
 
 *' Oh ! I know her now !" exclaimed her lady- 
 ship, " I have heard you often mention her. 
 She married an old man for his riches, did she 
 Dot ? although she was an heiress herself. And 
 the old horror spent her money and his own, and 
 died very soon after their marriage without 
 leaving her a farthing, did he not?" 
 
 " You know something of the truth, Eveline," 
 answered Kate, ''but not much. She did not 
 marry Mr. L'Estrange for his money, — Edith 
 Beaufort would never have done that ; it was her
 
 222 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 father who wished for the match, and actually 
 forced her to it/' 
 
 '^ How very shameful. I am sure papa should 
 never make me marry a person I did not like. 
 And he was an old fright, was he not ? and now 
 she paints for her living !" 
 
 " Just so ; stay, look, Eveline, I think there 
 is an accident, Edith has stepped from the 
 brougham. Ah ! I see it is all broken in at the 
 back ; one of the poles of the other carriage has 
 been pushed through it, I suppose. But is she 
 by herself, then ? she has no sort of vehicle — 
 oh no ! I perceive Mrs. Loudon is with her ; it- 
 is Mrs. Loudon's carriage, no doubt.'' 
 
 " I thought Edith was at Brighton," observed 
 Mrs. Beresford. 
 
 " So did I, mamma ; when I last saw her, she 
 said that she was obliged to leave town on ac- 
 count of her health ; however, I suppose, busi- 
 ness calls her hither again. Frank, you were 
 talking about the beautiful shapes of the Ethio- 
 pian women the other day, now just look at this
 
 SIR, ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 223 
 
 same friend of mine — is not her figure perfect ; 
 I do not think you could have seen a finer 
 one." 
 
 '^ Well,'^ answered Frank, as his eyes followed 
 Kate Bouverie's smile and bow, directed towards 
 a tall and elegant looking woman near them, 
 " Well, I allow her figure to be good, and her 
 countenance is certainly beautiful — there is a 
 soft sadness in her air peculiarly prepossess- 
 ing, and that I presume she retains at 
 all times because it seems the usual expression 
 of her countenance, which her colourless 
 brow and cheek render almost divine. She 
 reminds one of the exquisite chisellings of an- 
 cient Greece ; a tinge of colour would destroy 
 the charm of that expressive face, where the 
 very light of the dark blue eye shines like 
 the cold pale radiance of the moon — so un- 
 earthly looking, and yet so beautiful ! so dif- 
 ferent from the haughty and yet brilliant glance 
 of beauty, so strangely fascinating in its singu- 
 larity."
 
 224 SIR ARTHUR BUUVERIE. 
 
 " Frank \" ejaculated Kate, struck with as- 
 tonishment, at the sight of his visible enthu- 
 siasm, excited by the beauty of Edith, 
 "Frank!" And fixing her eyes upon him 
 with another wondering look of curiosity, she 
 . awaited the continuation of his rhapsody. 
 
 But Frank, recalled to himself by the tones 
 of surprise in which she spoke, and the puzzled 
 stares of Lady Eveline and his mother, looked 
 rather ashamed of the piece of eloquence he 
 had just delivered, and throwing himself back 
 in the carriage, whence he had leaned to have 
 a near view of Mrs. L'Estrange, he muttered 
 "I am a lover of the beautiful, whether its 
 presence be found in a woman, or a flower, 
 or— '^ 
 
 " A tea-cup,'' suggested Kate, who had now 
 recovered from her surprise, " but I thought, my 
 dear Frank, your prejudices w^ere so strong 
 against our sex, that you could not see much 
 beauty either in our persons or our minds — at 
 least, not so much as to call for so warm an 
 acknowledgment of admiration from you.''
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 225 
 
 " I am not blind," rejoined Frank, gravely, 
 " the apples of the Lake Asphaltites are fair 
 outside, ashes within ; so it is with woman, her 
 outward graces but conceal her inward de- 
 formities." 
 
 ^^ Oh !" said Kate, softly, as if fearful of in- 
 terrupting him ; then seeing he did not speak, 
 she added, "A pleasant simile !" 
 
 " An appropriate, though hacknied one," 
 said he. 
 
 " Far from it," she replied, " not but that 
 it is as courteous a one as I expected from you. 
 Oh, Frank, Frank, say what you will, you have 
 been in love, and have had a disappointment, 
 else you would never be so bitter against us." 
 
 " In love ! a disappointment," said Frank 
 with a laugh of contempt. *^ I in love ! that 
 would be an amusing spectacle !" 
 
 " Yes, indeed it would I" cried Lady Eve- 
 line, who after having looked about her for 
 some time, now turned her attention towards 
 Kate and Frank, just in time to overhear the 
 
 L 3
 
 226 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 latter's last reply, *' yes, indeed it would, only 
 fancy such a disagree 1 mean, strange per- 
 son, as Mr. Beresford in love ! But oh !" she 
 continued, as a gentleman on horseback ap- 
 proached their barouche, *^ here is Seymour — 
 I thought he would soon join us when he once 
 saw me. Where have you been all the morn- 
 ing ?" said she, addressing him. 
 
 "As far as Richmond, I went there to call 
 upon a friend," Glenallan repHed, returning at 
 the same time the greetings of Mrs. Beresford 
 and Kate. 
 
 " How did that accident happen just now, 
 Mr. Glenallan ?" asked Mrs. Beresford. 
 
 " A carriage drove up against the brougham, 
 and knocked the pole through it.'^ 
 
 " And do you know Mrs. Loudon and Edith 
 L'Estrange ?" said Lady Eveline. 
 
 '^ Edith who?" repeated Seymour. 
 
 *' L'Estrange," rejoined her ladyship, ^' I 
 mean that pretty pale lady, whom you handed 
 from the brougham a little while ago."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVBRIE. 227 
 
 " Oh ! that is her name, is it ? No, I never 
 saw her before ; Cecil and I were on the spot 
 when the accident happened, and so gave our 
 assistance, that is all.'* 
 
 '^ You never saw Edith before !" exclaimed 
 Kate, who had been talking to Mrs. Beresford, 
 and now only heard Seymour's last reply, 
 " how can you say so ! not Edith L'Estrange, 
 not Edith Beaufort!" 
 
 « Edith, Edith Beaufort !" he [cried, in sur- 
 prise, '* do you mean to say that dark, thin, 
 sad looking woman, is the Edith Beaufort I used 
 to see with you, Kate, two or three years ago V 
 
 " Yes — did you not recollect her ?" 
 
 " Recollect her ! she, the lively, pretty, wild 
 little fairy of Brackington House ? never tell 
 me so, Kate, you are joking, surely!" 
 
 '* I am not, indeed ; when I saw you speak- 
 ing to her, I thought you recognized her, and 
 had renewed the acquaintance." 
 
 " Not I ! what a change ! where has she 
 been then all this while ?"
 
 228 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE, 
 
 *' Oh! after her marriage with Mr. 
 L'Estrange, she lived in the country until 
 about two years since, when he died, and then 
 she came to town, and gave herself up entirely 
 to portrait painting.'* 
 
 " Oh yes ! I recollect the story now ; the old 
 rascal failed, did he not? and had not a shilling 
 to leave her after his death ?'^ 
 
 " You are right — and now, Seymour, can you 
 tell me if Cecil is here V 
 
 " I do not know ; I do not see him at pre- 
 sent ; he was my companion a short time ago, 
 but he rode away just as I told him I intended 
 joining you.'' 
 
 " Polite ! and I wished to speak with him 
 to inquire, like a dutiful niece, after my uncle P' 
 
 ** Mrs. Bouverie is just behind us," observed 
 Seymour, drily. 
 
 " Indeed ! we are quite a family party then," 
 returned Kate. 
 
 " Not for long shall we be so," rejoined he, 
 ** Mrs. Bouverie's carriage is stopping at pre-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 229 
 
 sent by the side of the water, exactly behind 
 that of Lady Haviland.'* 
 
 *' Is Lady Haviland here to-day ?" said Mrs. 
 Beresford. 
 
 **Yes," answered Seymour, "all the world 
 is here ; it is such a fine afternoon." 
 
 " I cannot bear that Lady Haviland/' ob- 
 served Lady Eveline, " she jilted your brother, 
 did she not, Kate?" 
 
 " Hush ! my dear Eveline, not so loud, if 
 you please." 
 
 " But it is of no consequence — everybody 
 knows that — every body talks of it. Oh ! I beg 
 your pardon, I forgot that we were close to 
 Mrs. Bouverie, it would not be pleasant for 
 her to hear it.'' 
 
 ^' I should say not/' muttered Seymour ra- 
 ther angrily, as Mrs. Beresford's equipage re- 
 passed that of Amy's ; " Eveline, you should 
 take more care of what you say." 
 
 " But I only said what all the world knows, 
 Seymour ; I must talk a little sometimes."
 
 230 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Better be silent than speak foolishly." 
 
 ** Oh ! you are so cross !" 
 
 " Not so, Eveline ; I only wish you would 
 not be so thoughtless." 
 
 '' Well, I will try to think about it next 
 time." 
 
 " That's right, now you are my good little 
 Eveline again.'* 
 
 "Rival beauties!" laughed Mrs. Beresford, 
 as she cast a passing glance on Lady Haviland 
 and Amy, whose carriages were closely wedged 
 in side by side, beneath a large tree near the 
 Serpentine. " Rival beauties !" 
 
 So they were ; and as they ought to have 
 been, singularly different in dress and ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 The Countess of Haviland had a bold and 
 haughty mien, a fair and open brow, black eyes, 
 quick and brilliant in the extreme, a little 
 mouth, the upper lip of which was always 
 curved as it were in scorn, and a rich damask 
 colour on the cheek that well became her
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 231 
 
 mellow complexion, and the profusion of long 
 jetty curls, arranged in well shown luxuriance 
 beneath the rather open bonnet of pale straw 
 silk which she wore. A bright purple cash- 
 mere shawl was wrapped negligently round 
 her, and her dress consisted of a pink barege, the 
 flounces and boddiceof which were trimmed with 
 black guimp and black fringe. The dress was a 
 gaudy one ; but Lady Haviland's style of beauty 
 became it well ; besides she had the good taste 
 to diffuse the various colours she wore through 
 the different parts of her dress, so that the 
 contrasts were not too vividly noticed : for in- 
 stance, the straw-coloured bonnet matched her 
 straw-coloured gloves ; the purple shawl, the 
 small bands of purple velvet, confining the 
 white lace sleeves buttoned round her wrists ; 
 the pink dress, the roses beneath her bonnet ; 
 and the black trimmings, her jetty tresses. 
 
 Amy's kind of loveliness, as we have seen, 
 was of an opposite character ; it appeared pen- 
 sive and mild, and when the full black eye was
 
 232 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 cast down, almost angelically soft in its ex- 
 pression. But that eye once raised, her coun- 
 tenance bespoke pride and a haughty spirit, 
 too ; in its quiet mournfulness, a fitful shade 
 of hauteur was perceived by those who watched 
 it well, which ever and anon flashed forth with 
 a rapid sparkle from its dark depths, until it 
 was again clouded by the influence of softer 
 feelings. She was dressed simply, a white 
 muslin dress, a white tulle bonnet, and blue silk 
 visite formed the ensemble of her toilette. 
 
 ^^Lady Haviland is looking extremely well 
 to-day," remarked Mrs. Beresford. 
 
 " Do you think so ?" said Kate, " she al- 
 ways looks so proud. 
 
 " But she is a splendid woman, neverthe- 
 less, my pretty cousin," observed Seymour. 
 
 " A very disagreeable one," said Lady 
 Eveline. 
 
 " Disagreeable !" exclaimed Seymour, '' her 
 manners are most fascinating." 
 
 ^' Well," rejoined Kate, " they may be so
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 233 
 
 to you, Seymour, but I cannot say that I ad- 
 mire them ; she always gives me the idea of an 
 actress. She has a beautiful arm, she shows 
 it to the best advantage ; brilliant eyes, but 
 then she makes so much use of them that 
 you never see them quiet for one moment, and 
 their continual restlessness is quite painful to 
 look at ; a musical voice, yet its tones are 
 actually disagreeable in my opinion from their 
 affectation ; in short, she is a piece of af- 
 fectation altogether. I cannot help thinking 
 she is acting whenever I hear her speak, and 
 that her feeUngs and fascinations are all arti- 
 ficial." 
 
 '^ A capital woman's portrait of another 
 woman, that!" cried Seymour, *« deliciously 
 touched up, Kate." 
 
 " I have no reason to like her, you know," 
 said she, quietly. 
 
 " No, but you cut hard, pretty cousin." 
 
 ** Does she not deserve all I can possibly 
 say about her — think of Cecil, Seymour."
 
 234 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 "Well, 1 have thought of him ; yet there 
 possibly might be an excuse for her." 
 
 " So you are her advocate then ? but I do 
 not care; I will quarrel with you — I will 
 quarrel with every body before I admit the 
 slightest shadow of an excuse on that score.*' 
 
 ^* Like enough, you do not stand much upon 
 a quarrel, for you soon make up your dif- 
 ferences, Kate, except in this one case." 
 
 ^' Woman again !" ejaculated Frank, '^ never 
 knows her own mind for two minutes to- 
 gether." 
 
 " Adieu, adieu, Mrs. Beresford, adieu, Kate 
 Eveline ; I shall see you at dinner," cried Sey- 
 mour ; " yonder is a friend of mine, whom there 
 is a necessity that I should speak to — adieu." 
 And touching his hat, Seymour rode off. 
 
 " My dear Kate !" suddenly exclaimed Mrs. 
 Beresford, in a marked tone of surprise, two or 
 three minutes afterwards, " there is Cecil actu- 
 ally speaking to Lady Haviland — would you 
 believe it?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOTJVERIE. 235 
 
 "With Ellen Ormond, mamma ?'^ cried Kate, 
 " impossible !" 
 
 "Look then, my love." 
 
 " Incredible ! he who said he would never 
 speak to her again — yes, there he is ! ah ! he 
 has bowed, and ridden away now." 
 
 " How strange !" said Lady Evehne — and 
 then quickly added, " but my dear Kate, who 
 is that gentleman speaking to Mrs. Bouverie ? 
 do you know him?" 
 
 " No," 'answered she, ''I never saw him 
 before.*' 
 
 " Do you know him ?" asked her ladyship, 
 turning to Frank. 
 
 " I .'" he replied, in a tone of astonishment ; 
 '* No, Lady Eveline." 
 
 " Is he not handsome, Kate ?" said her little 
 ladyship, fixing her eyes stedfastly upon the 
 stranger, who was looking another way. 
 
 "Very!" answered Kate, glancing at Amy 
 and her friend — " they are talking eagerly to- 
 gether,''
 
 236 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 "They seem old acquaintances," observed 
 Mrs. Beresford. 
 
 "Yes," said Kate, "they do." 
 
 " Who can he be?" cried Lady Eveline, "he 
 is so elegant ! so tall ! What beautiful black 
 eyes and dark hair !" 
 
 They were now again close to Amy's carri- 
 age, but she did not see them ; nor did the 
 stranger move his eyes from her face, on which 
 he was gazing with a look at once of admira- 
 tion and affection. Just then Mrs. Bouverie 
 spoke : 
 
 "And you are in town?' she said; *^and 
 you will remain for some time ? I am very glad 
 of that ; you must come and see me often — 
 oh ! so often ! It will be so dehghtful to be 
 with you again ! what pleasant hours I shall 
 have .'" 
 
 A look of intense delight, a deep blush ac- 
 companied the answer, that the stranger made 
 to Amy ; but the carriage passing on quickly, 
 Kate Bouverie could not overhear his words.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE* 23? 
 
 ^* Who can he be ?" thought she, as the even- 
 ing wearing late, they drove homewards, " how 
 pleased and agitated he seemed— and soj indeed, 
 did she. He must come and see her often — > 
 strange ! he cannot be a mere acquaintance, and 
 she has no brother. Surely, he is not that Her- 
 bert Stanhope she sometimes talks of — no, no, — 
 he is a country clergyman's son — without doubt, 
 a country simpleton ; besides, this young man 
 is in the army, and that adopted brother of hers 
 is not — who can he be ?' 
 
 Who could he be ? nobody solved the ques- 
 tion, neither Mrs. Beresford, Lady Eveline, nor 
 Frank ; and Kate, upon whom the handsome 
 stranger had made a slight impression — the 
 more so, as she alone noticed the blush and 
 look with which he replied to Amy's invitations, 
 was obliged to wait and hope, as patiently as 
 she could, for the solution of the mystery. 
 
 There is an inconvenience as well as a plea- 
 sure attending beauty ; had Amy and her friend 
 been a couple of plain people, no one would
 
 238 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. ' 
 
 have noticed his or her tete a tete. Mean* 
 while, Lady Eveline was lamenting that they 
 could not drive back again to the side of the 
 water. 
 
 " Oh I Mrs. Beresford/' she said, ^^ pray let 
 us return but once — only once again, to the 
 Serpentine, just to see that beautiful young 
 officer, do ! He is so handsome — how can you 
 refuse ? our drive, too, has been so short." 
 
 "And what would Mr. Glenallan think of 
 me, if I consented to your wishes, Lady Eve- 
 line?" answered Mrs. Beresford, laughing. 
 
 '* Oh ! Seymour would not care, not he ! he 
 looks at every pretty lady he thinks worth 
 while staring at, I assure you ; and why should 
 not I do the same, with respect to the gentle- 
 men T 
 
 " For shame, Lady Eveline 1" said Mrs. 
 Beresford, " I am ashamed of you !'^ 
 
 " No, you are not, my dear Mrs. Beresford," 
 cried her ladyship starting up in the carriage, 
 and giving her a kiss, much to Frank's horror.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 239 
 
 for they were passing down Piccadilly, which 
 was crowded with vehicles and pedestrians re- 
 turning from the park. '^ No, you are not ; 
 you know it is all my nonsense — but see, I have 
 actually shocked Mr. Bereaford — absolutely so ; 
 only suppose he had me for^his wife ! I should 
 drive him mad in a twelvemonth, I dare say." 
 
 '* And many a better man than myself, too/' 
 said Frank, in reply. 
 
 ** Oh ! you uncivil creature !^' exclaimed Lady 
 Eveline, ^ you should have answered that it 
 would have been a pleasure to have had me." 
 
 '' But it would not,'' Frank answered. 
 
 " There, again, do you hear him, Kate ? is 
 he not a Hottentot, a Goth ? How do you know 
 Mr. Beresford," continued her ladyship, ad- 
 dressing Frank, " but what I should make a 
 very demure sort of wife ?" 
 
 "Wife!" echoed he, with a shudder ; "you 
 a wife ! heaven preserve me,'' he muttered in 
 a lower tone ; '' from such a one — from any one, 
 indeed.^'
 
 240 SIR ARTHUR BOUVEniE. 
 
 And when he bade her adieu in Qrosvenor 
 Square, and was once more with Mrs. Beres- 
 ford and Kate, he felt even the saucv and 
 piquante remarks of the latter, a relief from the 
 overflowing volubility of the giddy Lady Eveline.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 241 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A woman's seen in private life alone. — Pope. 
 
 Can gold calm passion, or make reason shine ? 
 
 Can we draw peace or wisdom from the mine^? — Young. 
 
 It is a point of cunning to wait upon him with whom you 
 speak with your eye, as the Jesuits give it in precept ; for 
 there be many wise men that have secret hearts and trans 
 parent countenance. — Bacon, 
 
 It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun 
 was shining dimly through the partially drawn 
 blinds of a gorgeous drawing-room, in one of 
 the mansions of Hyde Park Terrace ; wealth 
 and exquisite taste were displayed throughout 
 the apartment, which opened by folding dqors 
 VOL. r. u
 
 242 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE^ 
 
 into another, and seemed to form one of a long 
 suite on the same floor. The mistress of the 
 mansion, the beauty of the parks, the fascinating 
 Countess of Haviland, was sitting before a 
 superb enamelled escritoire, with a pen in her 
 hand, and paper near her ; yet she was not 
 then employed in writing, — her deeply flushed 
 cheek rested upon a delicately white hand, 
 gemmed with rings of rare value, and her large 
 black eyes were fixed in thought upon the rich 
 carpet at her feet. A pale pink morning dress, 
 the open sleeves of which, falling back, showed 
 the exquisitely formed arms they pretended to 
 cover, formed her present costume; but negligent 
 as it appeared — for it was merely confined by 
 a white silk cord and tassel round the waist — it 
 had yet been chosen with some care, and no 
 less coquetry and taste were displayed in the 
 arrangement of the small lace cap, trimmed 
 with plain blue ribbon, that partly concealed 
 the glossy knot of dark tresses at the back of 
 her head.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 243 
 
 What were the thoughts of that beautiful 
 creature ? where they faultless as her beauty ? 
 fair and open as her white and placid brow ? 
 Alas, no ! — there was a smile about the full 
 and parted lips that told another tale ; a 
 gleam within the half closed eye, that spoke of 
 many passions. No line upon the high clear 
 forehead, no contraction of the dark and pen- 
 cilled eyebrow revealed them ; each feature of 
 that face was quiet and serene, saving where 
 that strange smile lurked round the lips, and 
 spoke of malice, pride, and satire ? Why sat it 
 there in scornful curve upon features so lovely' 
 and without it so calmly beautiful ? 
 
 Reader, that dark smile was the shadowing 
 forth of the troubled thoughts of the Lady 
 Haviland ; the expression of the real language 
 of her heart. Thus mused she in her sump- 
 tuous solitude, amidst the fair and beautiful 
 things around her — beautiful herself too — that 
 smile alone being a single trace of darkness 
 within her rich and brilliant abode. 
 
 M 2 i
 
 244 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " He shunned me, but he has loved me, and 
 he will come. Ye3, he will come to be again 
 the slave of her whom he too easily gave up, 
 too deeply insulted, ever to be indiflferent to 
 her. Had he no struggles then of jealousy and 
 love, when he told me to wed the Earl, if, for a 
 moment, I hesitated between his affection and 
 the false splendours offered me ? He had, even 
 as I had, I doubt not. But him they did not 
 master — nor did they me ; albeit, at that mo- 
 ment I could have sacrificed station, wealth, all, 
 all for him. Wiser thoughts came afterwards ; 
 such a home as this was not to be rejected for 
 his, although his would have been no poor one 
 to inhabit ; such liberty of thought, word, and 
 action, as I now have, was not to be weighed 
 too lightly in the balance, even against the yoke 
 of love — even of Bouverie's love. I must have 
 bowed to him ; I knew it, I felt it ; his spirit was 
 the master one of the two, and in constant com- 
 munion with it, mine must have been moulded 
 to his will, and I should have obeyed. — Obeyed!
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 245 
 
 and was it for me to obey ? No ! my spirit 
 would have waxed restive at times, and dis- 
 covered its weakness, its impetuosity, its vile- 
 ness — for, it is weak, else I should not love him 
 now ; impetuous, because I cannot restrain its 
 violence, but before him ; and I know that it is 
 vile and grovelling, or I should not have chosen 
 the part I have chosen! — wealth before aflfection, 
 an idiot before the true and noble love I en- 
 chained. But he would have known me soon 
 for what I am ; and seeing me wanting in those 
 high principles which in him redeem the way- 
 wardness of his character, he must have seen 
 and despised my faults as the wife, blind as he 
 has been to them until now. Cecil, I love you, 
 and loving, will never let you scorn me while I 
 live ; I love you — but could not stoop even to 
 you, unless I knew myself your equal — which 
 I am not ! No, no, it was better to part, better 
 to wed the Earl — far better ; I am now no 
 slave, but free, and as such I shall remain ; as 
 such the darker windings of my heart will
 
 246 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 be veiled from Cecil's eyes. He shall think 
 me, and in his own mind find me free from 
 stain ; he shall pass over the sordid selfishness 
 he has seen in me, and shall respect, even 
 if he does not love me. He shall watch me 
 through life, and see no fault, no deviation from 
 the path of rectitude in my conduct, and not 
 known too well, I will reign over his heart, as 
 I have reigned the mistress of it — for ever I 
 He shall bow to me — the falsehood of my spirit 
 shall master the truth of his !" 
 
 The Lady Haviland paused in her musings ; 
 a sudden thought seemed to strike her ; her 
 large black eyes became dilated, her cheek 
 more flushed, and rising unconsciously from 
 her chair, with her arms folded tightly before 
 her, she stepped forwards into the room. 
 " Shall I act this lie ?" she said, in a low, hol- 
 low voice, and she stopped as if some lingering 
 feeling of shame were struggling against the 
 darker schemings of her heart. '^Yes," she 
 continued, a moment afterwards, " 1 will ;
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE, 24/ 
 
 for alone by its enactment can Cecil Bouverie 
 continue to love me." 
 
 And her eye glanced slowly downwards upon 
 a large mirror that hung before her, where her 
 fine form and face were reflected in full dimen- 
 sions; and then a softer smile played round 
 her mouth, a sparkling hght beamed in the 
 full dark eyes, as passing her white and slender 
 fingers through the long curls which were parted 
 over her brow. "He called me beautiful," 
 she said, " I am so still ; he said the musical 
 accents of my voice cast a spell upon him that 
 he never could resist — is that spell broken? 
 Yes — but it can be renewed ; and renewed it 
 shall be ! Yet stay, and she whom I had for- 
 gotten — the wife — what of her attractions ? 
 are they such that they can compete with 
 mine ? She is fair, she is beautiful — surpass- 
 ingly so ; but then, where beams the soul in 
 that gentle face, as I can make it beam in 
 mine ? Rumour says she is simple, quiet, 
 uneducated — I have not much to fear ! Not
 
 248 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 much? — not much, if the tale be true that 
 Cecil married her merely for her beauty, com- 
 bined with the disappointment he felt for me ; 
 not much, if her face be all the dower nature 
 has given her. He cares not for symmetry of 
 shape, white skin, fine features, so that there 
 be expression and life upon the countenance — 
 so ! can she create such a soul sparkling look 
 as this ?" 
 
 And with her beautifully formed head thrown 
 a little back, her glossy curls, with the action 
 carelessly yet gracefully falling from the face, 
 her brilliant eyes glancing upwards through 
 the long silken fringes of their lids, her ruby 
 lips, parted as if about to speak, and showing 
 the pearly teeth within them, she stood before 
 the glass with an exquisite expression of soul- 
 stirring earnestness upon her features. A 
 moment thus : then, with her usual haughtv 
 step, she walked across the room to a splendid 
 time-piece, where, after uttering the hour it 
 indicated half aloud to herself, she sat down
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 249 
 
 once again by the open escritoire, and ex- 
 claimed, " He must come, he will come — he is 
 here !" 
 
 And as she spoke the last words, the foot- 
 steps of a gentleman her quick ear had dis- 
 tinguished from without, stopped before the 
 drawing-room door — in another second, Cecil 
 Bouverie was announced. 
 
 He looked pale — very pale; but there was 
 no decided expression of anger or of any other 
 feeling upon his countenance, save in his eyes, 
 which, from the first moment of his entrance, 
 were fixed with an expression of calm scrutiny 
 on Lady Haviland, who, with her hands half 
 covering her face, was leaning upon the chair 
 from whence she had risen, when she heard 
 him named. A minute elapsed, another, and 
 yet another; — then Cecil walked slowly up to 
 the countess, and said, in a quiet, firm tone of 
 voice — " Your ladyship wished to see me ; I 
 am here at your commands." 
 
 Lady Haviland withdrew her hands from her 
 
 M 3
 
 250 SIK ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 countenance, and glanced up at Cecil ; her 
 cheeks were pale, and tears stained them, her 
 eyes were dinij her lips trembled ; better feel- 
 ings struggled even yet in her heart, and caused 
 this emotion ; but she conquered them. 
 
 '' I scarcely expected you." she murmured, 
 in a low and hardly audible voice, " how could 
 I ? — so falsely, so heartlessly, as I must seem to 
 have acted towards you." 
 
 *' As you have acted towards me, you should 
 say," rejoined Cecil, coldly, " that would be 
 nearer the truth." 
 
 The countess raised her eyes for a moment 
 to his face, then cast them down again. 
 
 " Appearances !" she said ; ** appearances 
 have wrought this ill-will against me." 
 
 "Appearances!" repeated Cecil, scornfully, 
 " facts, I suppose you mean ?" 
 
 "No/' she replied, "appearances. Too 
 easily I credited the reports I heard of your 
 inconstancy, and as easily you have credited 
 those about me : it is a just retribution — I 
 cannot murmur at it."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 251 
 
 ** My inconstancy?" said Cecil, with an ex- 
 pression of astonishment ; then added shortly, 
 ** It would be as well if your ladyship would 
 explain yourself." 
 
 '' How can I? — you will not credit the tissue 
 of falsehoods I was induced to believe, and 
 which received such a seeming confirmation of 
 them in your coolness at our last parting," 
 rejoined Lady Haviland ; " I told you of the 
 Earl of Haviland 's offer, only to test your feel- 
 ings ; yet your pride took the alarm, and urged 
 by a feigned irresolution and coquetry on my 
 part — feigned but to awaken your jealousy and 
 love ! you hesitated not to bid me choose at once 
 between you and my lord. I did ; I chose my 
 present husband — chose him rather than one, 
 who, I then thought both cold and heartless, 
 to give up without a thought or enquiry, her 
 whom he once said he loved madly, devotedly, 
 even as I loved him !" 
 
 The countess paused, her words were partly 
 true, so she spoke them feehngly. Cecil was
 
 252 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 a little moved — not much ; for at that moment, 
 he despised Lady Haviland, though he even 
 y^t loved her. WiUing also to conceal the re- 
 maining affection he still felt for her, whom he 
 deemed so unworthy of it, and who was now 
 gazing upon him earnestly, intently as if to 
 fathom his very innermost thoughts, he answered 
 calmly — 
 
 "Your ladyship's tale, though well told, is 
 not a very plausible one — but, I will not point 
 out its absurdities, for, what matters it if it be 
 false or not ? Whether you were fickle or true, 
 it is nothing to me now ; we have long since 
 ceased to be of any consequence to each other. 
 What are your commands ? I came hither in 
 compliance with them ; you said, when you 
 spoke to me in the park, that they were urgent, 
 pressing — that you had something to unravel, 
 reveal — is it, or is it not so? or am I only, 
 doomed to hear tales of bygone days, which 
 for both our sakes, had better be buried in 
 oblivion ?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 253 
 
 Lady Haviland replied not for awhile ; she 
 seemed pausing in a bewildering lethargy, with 
 her eyes fixed intently upon Cecil, while a pang 
 at her heart's core brought back her more 
 youthful hours to her remembrance, and half 
 in falsehood, half in earnest, she slowly uttered 
 these words — 
 
 " Bygone days ! obHvion ! alas ! that those 
 ideas must be for ever united— at least, at least 
 they should be so ! They will not, they cannot ! 
 not in my mind, Cecil, though they may in 
 yours. I cannot forget, I cannot unteach my 
 heart all that it has been taught by you, I may 
 not bid it love no more, because it will love on, 
 love on even until death. You ask me what I 
 summoned you hither for ? To hear one truth, 
 and then to part from me for ever; never 
 more to speak to, gaze upon each other if it 
 be possible. Listen to me this once, and with 
 patience bear with me for awhile, if I put your 
 temper or your feelings to a severe trial, by 
 detaining you in the presence of one whom
 
 254 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 you would detest with justice, if all were true 
 that you believed respecting her. But it is not, 
 it is not ; I am true — I do love — love you — 
 have always loved you, will always love you. 
 Do not turn away, do not scorn me, for it was 
 in the pride of a high spirit, deceived and 
 angered, that I broke the vows you won from 
 me, and sacrificed myself in the blindness of 
 wrath to misery, to one who — Cecil,; Cecil, 
 pardon, pity, forgive me !" 
 
 And Lady Haviland threw herself on one of 
 the chairs near her; and bowing her head upon 
 her hands, wept ; she did hate her husband, 
 love Cecil, and pity herself most cordially just 
 then. Cecil approached her. 
 
 " What were those accusations against me, 
 which in past time you listened to ?" he said, 
 in a tone that betrayed some slight degree of 
 emotion. 
 
 The countess looked up, her face was stream- 
 ing with tears, her eyes were dim and swollen, 
 and she laid her hand upon her temples, as if
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 255 
 
 a smiting pain were there ; then, in a quick, 
 hurried voice, hurried because she feared she 
 would falter in her falsehood, if she spoke more 
 slowly, she answered him — 
 
 " What were they r" she said, " I will tell 
 you. You remember Fanny Temple, the pre- 
 sent Lady Saalfield ? she was my rival, you well 
 know in your affections ; but, I triumphed at 
 last, and you loved me. She never forgave 
 me nor you, the mutual passion — never ! From 
 that moment, she strove to separate us, for- 
 warded the attentions of the earl, and made one 
 of her intimate friends insinuate various doubts 
 into my mind, regarding your coldness and in- 
 constancy, which 1 now find to be false, most 
 false 1 But then, then I know not how I listened 
 to them, believed them. I cannot tell the num- 
 berless arts they practised on me, of what avail 
 would it be now ? that which is done cannot be 
 undone. They ushered into the world the report 
 of my engagement with my present husband, 
 when I was not yet engaged ; you heard it.
 
 256 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 credited it, and reproached me with it so cut- 
 tingly, so coldly, that I, exasperated as 1 then 
 was, could not endure it, for I thought it proved 
 the reality of my fears — even that you loved 
 me not ; and retaliating on you in the same 
 style of calm indifference, for ever parted — 
 parted in anger — parted to meet no more, as 
 we then were, lover and beloved." 
 
 Hands clasped, frame trembling, tears stream- 
 ing over her cheeks, the countess cast one look 
 of sorrow stricken tenderness upon him, and 
 awaited his reply. And Cecil was touched; 
 the low sad tones of her voice, the impassioned 
 eloquence of her words, the bewitching tender- 
 ness of her manner, threw their spells of magic 
 around him, and the sternness of his purpose, 
 the coldness of his resolves, vanished beneath 
 them. His cheek flushed, his eyelids trembled, 
 and pushing the dark brown locks that curled 
 over his brow from its vvhite and blue veined 
 temples, he folded his arras across his breast, 
 quickly, piercingly, steadily fixed his eyes upon
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 257 
 
 her, and said, " Ellen, Ellen Ormond, look 
 up I" 
 
 But she did not ; silent and with a crimsoned 
 cheek she stood before him, her look bent upon 
 the ground. 
 
 '*Look up!'' he repeated more earnestly, 
 " raise your eyes to mine — I vTould see whether 
 your tongue speaks truly — ^look up.'' 
 
 A slight shudder passed over Lady Haviland, 
 a moment's hesitation kept her eyes still down- 
 cast, and then they were slowly uplifted to his 
 face, — slowly as if they moved beneath the 
 pressure of a heavy weight upon their waxlike 
 lids. They met his — with the clear glance of 
 truth, of innocence ? — no ! a calm, unshaken 
 look, indeed, was hers; but in the depths of 
 those dark and brilliant eyes there seemed a 
 something not fully seen, a something as it 
 were kept back from expression which Cecil 
 noticed and could not explain, long and 
 fixedly as his glance rested upon hers. 
 Gradually, at length a look of enquiry grew 
 within them, their light increased, their glance
 
 258 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 became more peiitrating, and they sought Cecil's 
 glance of scrutiny with one of the same cha- 
 racter. Expressed fully but for a few minutes, 
 that look however soon faded away into a soft 
 sad one, till at last, dropping the fair lids once 
 more over the brilliant orbs they protected, 
 Lady Haviland, as slowly as she had lifted them 
 to his face, withdrew them from it, and mur- 
 mured, " Do you believe me now, Cecil ?" 
 
 His hand was upon hers, returning love 
 beamed in his countenance, yet he checked the 
 full tide of affection which flowed back to his 
 heart, and said, 
 
 ** Believe you ? — yes ; but wherefore that 
 glance of enquiry which you fixed upon me 
 just now?" 
 
 " To read your thoughts as you would have 
 read mine," she answered, " to know if truth 
 or falsehood lies there — think you I have no 
 interest in that Cecil ? Yet alas ! I have no 
 right, though I may feel an irresistible interest, 
 to do so. You have a fair wife, she is all in all
 
 SIB, ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 259 
 
 to you now, and I am richly repaid, however 
 strong my affection may be for you, when you 
 grant me your pity." 
 
 Cecil started ; he had scarcely thought of his 
 wife, since his entrance into the home of the 
 countess. Bound by her fascinations, viewing 
 her for the moment, as he had done before his 
 marriage with Amy, as severed from him only 
 by her union with the earl he forgot his present 
 ties, and thought but of hers. Lady Haviland 
 discerned this, and purposely forbore to touch 
 upon the subject until now, when having gained 
 belief, she would also have won back in its full 
 ascendancy her past power over his affections. 
 She had heard many rumours respecting Cecil's 
 marriage, — the most prevalent one being that 
 he had wedded a portionless girl for her ex- 
 ceeding beauty ; and when his bride was pointed 
 out to her, she gave credence to this report ; for 
 in her own matters, as well as in those of other 
 people, never self deceived by vanity or envy, 
 she at once acknowledged, though with many
 
 260 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 pangs of jealousy, Amy's exquisite loveliness, 
 and felt she was a rival worthy of herself. Care- 
 fully then had she in the present interview 
 avoided leading the conversation towards Cecil's 
 young and beautiful wife, unknowing what 
 depth of aflfection he entertained for her, until 
 she saw that her own power over his heart, 
 though weakened, was not lost, then venturing 
 at once upon the subject she mentioned her. 
 
 A paleness overspread the features of Cecil 
 Bouverie as his wife's name issued from Lady 
 Haviland's lips, and he drew some paces back 
 from the beautiful and impassioned creature 
 before him. 
 
 " Wife !'* he exclaimed half unconsciously in 
 a broken, hollow voice, " yes, both tied, both 
 lost, through one hour of false passion, bitter 
 anger ! *' 
 
 It was enough — those broken words re- 
 vealed all ; unseen by Cecil, whose hand was 
 covering his eyes to hide the painful thoughts 
 expressed within them, a smile, a soft yet sin-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERTE. 261 
 
 gular smile, dawned over the features of the 
 countess ; slightly she raised her head, as she 
 glanced for one moment upon him, pride came 
 to her brow, triumph to her heart ; he did not 
 love the one whom she had supposed her rival 
 — he was miserable and for her, and hope 
 whispered she might yet be the mistress, he 
 the slave. 
 
 " Cecil I" exclaimed the countess, and she 
 suddenly raised her head ; " said you that yoa 
 loved her not ? Both lost ! is your heart not 
 hers ? are we both then unhappy for . life, 
 through that moment of folly ? so beautiful, so 
 young, do you not love her ?" 
 
 " I love you !" answered Cecil, " you ! none 
 but you — you whom I thought deceived me, 
 and whom I find so true, although you have 
 been so credulous, so weak. Blind, blind from 
 wrath, what misery that one hour's anger and 
 self-deceit has done I Love her ?" he ex- 
 claimed, as passion spoke more uncontrollably 
 within him, " love my wife ? She has no soul,
 
 262 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 Ellen, she has no heart; she feels not, she 
 loves not as you and I have loved. Know you 
 who and what she is ? the quiet of her coun- 
 tenance speaks her character ; insignificant in 
 mind, in acquired accomplishments, in feeling, 
 in every thing except her beauty, she is a 
 very corpse of loveliness, for the calm of death 
 reigns over her temper and her feelings, un- 
 ruffled in their insipidity by every thing around 
 her. Love her, how can 1 love her, once 
 having loved you, so brilliant in your soul in- 
 spiring beauty, your talents, so impassioned in 
 your love ! Ellen, I love you, and I tell you so 
 now, because I know you feel like me, that 
 although we are separated for ever, to pretend 
 to deny that passion which unites our souls, 
 at least in one, would be mere folly. We love 
 each other then without the slightest abate- 
 ment of past passion —do we not, Ellen? we 
 love, but vi'ith no life delighting hopes, in sor- 
 row and regret our hearts must wither beneath 
 the curse of separation, living but upon the
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 263 
 
 the past, and bearing with the future as best 
 we may." 
 
 He was silent, for the tide of eloquence was 
 spent, and thoughts alone continued busy. 
 And the countess sighed, her beautiful head 
 drooped again in speaking grief; tears flowed, 
 the dark eyes lost their radiance, seemingly 
 unable to utter more, she stood in silence be- 
 fore him. He turned towards her, he pressed 
 her hand to his lips, and gazed upon the lovely 
 features that spoke the sorrow of her heart so 
 touchingly, when suddenly a sharp clear bell 
 was heard, and Lady Haviland started. 
 
 "It is my lord !" she exclaimed, with a 
 flushing cheek, " go from hence ! oh ! quickly, 
 quickly — it is his bell — he is returned sooner 
 than I expected." 
 
 " Go from hence !" repeated Cecil haughtily, 
 as the countess retreated some steps from him, 
 " and why ? I will meet your husband here, 
 Ellen ; I never wished this visit to be a clan- 
 destine one, nor shall it be so. I came hither
 
 264 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 but to meet and to part ; my presence cannot 
 arouse his lordship's jealousy, for I have ties as 
 well as you, which I may not break, farewell is 
 as easily said before him, as when alone." 
 
 " Nay," answered her ladyship, " I meant 
 not that, he will know of your visit now, there 
 is no help for it. I only wished you to depart 
 before he seeks me here ; the meeting will not 
 be a pleasant one on either side, and he is so 
 irritable ! If you have anything further to t^ll 
 me, let me know it when we meet in company, 
 abroad, anywhere, but here, and pray, pray, 
 leave me ! you must, indeed you must, Cecil — 
 dearest Cecil, for my sake you will !" 
 
 And Cecil, after a moment's thought, knew 
 that it was best to obey her, and in a few 
 minutes afterwards she was alone. 
 
 She laid her down upon a couch near her ' 
 she closed her eyes, careless of the fallen tears 
 that stained the soft and deeply flushed cheek, 
 she never wiped them off, — there she lay, an 
 expression of deep exhaustion spreading over
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 265 
 
 the fine and regular features, and the crimson 
 blush diffused over her face gradually fading 
 beneath the increasing paleness of fatigue. 
 " It is done," at length she murmured, " done ! 
 he is mine, — and yet I hate myself even in the 
 midst of my triumph, but I was not wholly 
 false — I love him, I love him !" 
 
 Again she mused in silence, yet her thoughts 
 seemed not the less troubled, for ever and anon 
 there flitted across her brow, a shadowing 
 forth of inward pain, inward strife ; the arched 
 eyebrows at times contracted, the whole coun- 
 tenance became dark and gloomy, and pre-oc- 
 cupied within herself, rejoicing in the success 
 of her schemes, though her eyes were wide 
 and open, she saw not the approach of one 
 who now softly entered the room, and stepped 
 up to where she lay. 
 
 The intruder was a boy of nine years of age, 
 thin, pale, and not even passably good looking. 
 His complexion was fair, but sallow, betoken- 
 ing habitual ill-health ; his features were ir- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 regular and harsh, and his eyes of a dark blue 
 colour, quick, clear, and penetrating, appeared 
 to be the only redeeming point in his physiog- 
 nomy. Yet ugly as the child decidedly was, 
 there seemed something so peculiar about the 
 expression of his face, that those who gazed 
 upon it once, were involuntarily prompted to 
 do so again, for a quantity of the fairest flaxen 
 hair hung in disordered, but remarkable pro- 
 fusion around his neck, while his light eye- 
 brows and eye-lashes, which, indeed, were 
 nearly white, rendered his appearance sin- 
 gularly striking, and presented as strange a 
 cast of countenance, as could well have been 
 looked upon. 
 
 Lady Haviland's back was towards the door, 
 through which the boy entered, and she did not 
 see him, till, when close to her, he laid a spare 
 and delicate little hand upon her shoulder, and 
 said in a shrill, and, for a child, a singularly 
 ironical tone, " Papa wants her ladyship in the 
 library directly." — Then in a lower tone he
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 267 
 
 added to himself, as he caught sight of the 
 tears upon her cheek, " 1 wonder what she is 
 crying for?" 
 
 The countess sprang up from her reclining 
 posture, and hurriedly arranged her hair, and 
 dried her eyes, then, addressing the child, whQ 
 stood quietly watching her, she said in a hasty 
 voice, " Did I not tell you, Edwin, never to 
 enter this room ? have I not expressly forbidden 
 you to do so ? why will you disobey me con- 
 tinually ?" 
 
 *' Papa told me to call you to him," answered 
 the boy resolutely ; " 1 could not make her 
 ladyship hear through the key hole, could I ?" 
 
 *' You should have delivered your papa's mes- 
 sage to one of the servants, sir, and they would 
 lave given it to me. Another time, I beg you 
 will do so — do you hear me?" 
 
 "Yes,'' answered Edwin, just as firmly as be- 
 fore, and fixing his large blue eyes obstinately 
 upon her countenance, *' yes ; but whether I do 
 what you tell me is a different thing. I obey 
 
 N 2
 
 268 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 papa because I like him, but I am not going 
 to be your servant, Lady Haviland ; I am not 
 so very fond of you 1" 
 
 The countess turned quickly round, looked 
 at the boy for a minute, then bit her lip, and 
 moving away said, ^' The dislike is mutual then 
 my dear; but come, quit the room before I 
 leave, sir, if you please." 
 
 " And what if I do not choose to?*' asked 
 the child, " supposing I will stay ?" 
 
 " Why then I shall order John to carry you 
 out, that is all ; and I will inform your papa of 
 your behaviour ; he will not allow you to dis- 
 obey me in this manner, you know that/' 
 
 " Yes, yes,^' cried Edwin passionately, " I 
 know that, when you ask anything of papa, 
 he always does w-hat you tell him to do, but he 
 never gives me now a single thing I ask him to 
 — and it is you, you will not let him — and I, I 
 hate you !" 
 
 "Very well, sir !" said the countess," I will 
 remember this — do you mean to keep me here 
 all day?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 269 
 
 "No,'' answered he, " I am going now, be- 
 cause I want to go to uncle Melville's, and not 
 because her ladyship likes it. When I am in 
 here again I will not move, I tell you ; you shall 
 not turn me out. I used to be here always, al- 
 ways, when mamma lived in these pretty rooms 
 — and you will not let me in now, you are so 
 cross !" 
 
 "Amiable child!" said Lady Haviland, as 
 she moved towards the door, " come sir, come 
 with me — what a blessing you must have been 
 to your mother ! beautiful too as well as amiable 
 — a very cherub of loveliness !" 
 
 The boy understood her, and with his little 
 face pale from rage, he walked up close to her, 
 and shutting his teeth fast together, seized her 
 dress in both his hands to detain her, and cried, 
 " I know what you mean ; you mean that I 
 am ugly and cross, you have told me so before 
 often and often, — but mamma never told me so, 
 although I know that I am, because old nurse 
 and the servants say so too. But though I am
 
 270 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 cross and ugly, some people like me better than 
 they do her ladyship ; papa likes you best, I 
 know, but uncle Melville likes aie.'^ 
 
 " Because he is just such another as your- 
 self," said Lady Haviland, and taking the boy's 
 hand within her own, she now led him unre- 
 sistingly from the room. 
 
 The countess directed by her step-son (for 
 the child stood in that relation to her) found her 
 lord in the library. He was a plain, irascible- 
 looking little man verging upon thirty years, 
 and for the first few minutes she stood before 
 him in some trepidation, for she imagined he 
 had summoned her into his presence with the 
 intention of reproaching her with Cecil Bou- 
 verie's visit. But this was not the case; he 
 seemed to have no knowledge of it, and only 
 wished to request her company during his even- 
 ing drive round the parks, and in a few minutes 
 after she left him with a lighter hearty to prepare 
 to do so.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIB. 271 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I saw— what did I see ? 
 Misery ! misery ! 
 I felt— what did I feel ? 
 Pang of fire, stab of steel ! 
 
 It was on thee I gazed, 
 
 Thy eyes, they were upraised ; 
 
 Upon a lady bright, 
 
 In sweet and deep delight. 
 
 And hers met thine, and smiled, 
 My woe was sharp and wild ; 
 Pangs sudden through me thrill'd, 
 Spirit and heart were chill'd. 
 
 I read that glance aright — 
 All, all is known to-night ; 
 Thine is her heart, and thine 
 Is hers — thou art not mine !
 
 272 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE, 
 
 Not mine — thou art not mine — 
 Though once beside God's shrine ; 
 Thj fallen lips swore thou wert. 
 But where, where was thine heart ? 
 
 Not there, but with the bright 
 Gay beauty of to-night ! 
 In that sad sacred spot, 
 I tell thee it was not. 
 
 I know thee now, I know 
 The secret of thy brow. 
 That glooming darkly there. 
 Spoke of a strange despair. 
 
 Oh ! bitter is the strife '> 
 
 That wastes my heart and life ; 
 Alas I my vows I rue, 
 Thou grievest o'er thera too ! 
 
 De mandez a Dieu de n'etre point jalouse. — 
 
 M''* DE Maintenon. 
 
 ^' Who is that beautiful woman continually 
 looking at us, Miss Bouverie?" said Amy, to 
 her sister in law, as they were walking under 
 Frank Beresford's escort in the Chiswick Gar- 
 dens, on the Saturday of the fete, upon which 
 she had promised to join their party. 
 
 '^ Which do you mean ?" asked Kate, al- 
 though she partly guessed the person alluded
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 273 
 
 to by Amy ; ^' a great number of beautiful 
 women are here to-day, and as every body 
 takes the liberty of staring at each other, there 
 will be some small difficulty in finding out the 
 lady you speak of, unless you give a more par- 
 ticular description of her dress and appear- 
 ance." 
 
 " I mean the one with that richly embroid- 
 ered scarf, and very, very long black curls, just 
 before us now." 
 
 " She is the Countess of Haviland." 
 
 « Who ?" 
 
 '^ Lady Haviland, the Countess of Haviland," 
 repeated Kate. 
 
 " Ah !" Amy observed, " I have often no- 
 ticed her in the parks V^ 
 
 " Most likely, she ia a very remarkable per- 
 son,'* Kate rejoined. 
 
 " Is she ?" said Amy, and she looked at the 
 countess again. 
 
 '' Is she not?" quietly answered Kate ; '' do 
 not you think the style of her beauty peculiar, 
 
 n3
 
 274 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 she is reckoned a first rate beauty, I assure 
 you." 
 
 '* Do you think her so beautiful then ?" 
 " I ? oh, no I I am not one of her admirers." 
 "Yet she is very beautiful/' said Amy ; *'but 
 what a piercing look she has ! I do not like to 
 meet those dark brilliant eyes of hers, they 
 seem to look through your soul — shall we move 
 on a little quicker? and yet it is a silly fancy of 
 mine after all — but why does she look at us so 
 earnestly V 
 
 This was a question that Kate could have 
 answered, only she did not choose to, and pro- 
 fessing her total ignorance of the cause, and 
 supposing it was only Lady Haviland's usual 
 manner of staring at people, she told Frank to 
 turn down a side walk, under pretence of having 
 a nearer view of some beautiful cactuses. 
 Frank, however, was gazing with ecstatic plea- 
 sure at a rare exotic, and did not hear her. 
 
 " Mr. Beresford, shall we move on ?" asked 
 Amy, again.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 275 
 
 " Eh ! I beg your pardon," said he, starting 
 at the sound of her voice — Kate's was familiar 
 to him ; " pray, what did you say ?" 
 
 " We only wished to see that exquisite cactus 
 somewhat nearer/^ answered Kate, pointing to 
 the walk where the said flower was placed. 
 
 " I believe it was you who dropped this, 
 madam," said a singularly sweet and gentle 
 voice close to them, and a small and delicately 
 gloved hand, holding a gold enamelled bracelet, 
 that had clasped Amy's wrist a little while 
 before, was advanced towards her from behind. 
 She turned to look at the person who addressed 
 her, and beheld Lady Haviland ; but the bold- 
 ness of the eyes was now chastened, and a 
 gentle expression sat on every feature. " I 
 had the good fortune to see it fall from your 
 arm ;" the countess continued, '' and I am 
 happy in having the pleasure of returning it to 
 its fair owner." 
 
 Amy was never very skilful in thanking any 
 one, and now, as was usual with her, when the
 
 276 SIR ARTHUR BOUVEBIE. 
 
 shadow of a compliment seemed directed to- 
 wards her, she became confused. Bowing and 
 blushing at the same time, for she feared Lady 
 Haviland must have overheard some part of 
 their conversation, she thanked her, and was 
 turning away, when she heard her address Kate 
 in the same musical and quiet tones. 
 
 *'Miss Bouverie," she said, " cannot surely 
 pass an old friend without speaking, so long as 
 we have been acquainted, so many pleasant 
 hours as we have spent in each other's society, 
 surely she will not, for the sake of appearances, 
 refuse to recognise me ?" 
 
 Kate Bouverie, who had never spoken to the 
 countess since the termination of her engage- 
 ment with Cecil, coloured deeply ere she an- 
 swered, and it was after a moment's pause, that 
 she said : *' For the sake of appearances, no ; 
 for the sake of truth, yes ; neither of us now, I 
 should say, would feel pleasure in renewing the 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " 1 fear," said Lady Haviland, mildly, and
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 277 
 
 with her large bright ey.es bent down upon the 
 ground ; " I fear you judge me harshly, Miss 
 Bouverie ; we should not condemn each other 
 too hastily. Miss Bouverie, I had almost said, 
 Kate — we cannot read each others hearts." 
 
 "• Our actions speak what our hearts are, — I 
 judge you from those," Kate answered, and she 
 drew a pace or two backwards, for she felt the 
 distressing turn the conversation might take, 
 should Amy overhear them. " Lady Haviland," 
 she continued, " this is not the place for expla- 
 nations such as these, and you must excuse me if 
 I bid you adieu — Mrs. Bouverie you see is 
 waiting for me." And wrapping her shawl 
 around her, with a haughty smile she bowed to 
 the countess, and rejecting her proffered hand, 
 rejoined Frank and Amy. 
 
 " But one woman in the world could have 
 done it," thought Kate, bitterly enough, as she 
 rejoined her companions, " but one, and that 
 woman is herself. How could she speak to me 
 after what has happened?"
 
 2/8 SIR ARTHUR BOI VERIE. 
 
 " You are acquainted with Lady Haviland," 
 said Amy, as Kate took Frank Beresford's arm, 
 and walked on ; "I am sorry. Miss Bouverie, 
 I made so many remarks upon her." 
 
 " She is no friend of mine," answered Kate, 
 with a touch of indignation in her voice, " yet 
 at one time I Hked Ellen Ormond— that is, 
 Lady Haviland, very well.'' 
 
 Amy was silent, and they walked on for some 
 time without speaking, until Kate, thinking that 
 her sister-in-law was tired of the gardens, asked 
 her whether they should leave them ? 
 
 But she received no answer, for the latter was 
 stedfastly looking at some object directly before 
 her, and did not hear her. Kate's eyes followed 
 the bent of Amy's, and soon became fixed, as 
 earnestly as hers were, upon a lady, and a gentle- 
 man, who stood beneath a group of trees at a short 
 distance from them — these were no other than 
 her brother>^and Lady Haviland. Nor could 
 she easily turn her glance from that direction, 
 after her attention had been thus attracted 
 towards them, for the expression of their coun-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 279 
 
 tenances seemed to denote they were discussing 
 some subject of intense interest, and involunta- 
 rily her eyes remained rivetted upon the spot 
 where they were. A moment's reflection, per- 
 haps, would have made her endeavour to move 
 from their neighbourhood, and thus spare Amy 
 further food for suspicion and conjecture, re- 
 specting the connection between Cecil and her 
 ladyship : but she had not the power to think 
 just then ; her wonder was so strongly excited 
 by what she saw, that she thought not imme- 
 diately of this, and so continued almost involun- 
 tarily to look at them. 
 
 Advancing, as they did, from one of the side 
 walks, they passed behind the countess and 
 Cecil, whose profiles were partly turned towards 
 them, and thus they perceived their every look 
 and gesture. Cecil leaned against the trunk 
 of a large tree, beneath which sat Lady Havi- 
 land, her veil thrown back over her bonnet, and 
 her face bent in his direction, while her parasol 
 was open, and held before her, as a shield from 
 the curious glances of the promenaders, passing
 
 280 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 to and fro before them — she did not think of 
 those behind. She was speaking, and a mild 
 and anxious look of feeling dwelt upon her fea- 
 tures, when Kate's attention was first attracted 
 towards her ; but as she watched, she saw her 
 countenance alter often, and suddenly, beneath 
 the influence of changeful emotion. At times, 
 it was lighted up with a heated and impassioned 
 look, as if she spoke of some maddening grief, 
 then again it became pale, and tender, and sad, 
 through the sway of love's gentler sorrows. And 
 Cecil Bouverie leaned over the chair, listened 
 eagerly to her words, and gazing upon her 
 mournfully, earnestly ; never had his counte- 
 nance seemed more beautiful than then — the 
 sneer was gone from thence, the proud lip was 
 uncurled, and an expression of deep tenderness 
 alone rested there. 
 
 Five or six minutes elapsed before Kate 
 aroused herself to a sense of what she ought to 
 do ; but at length she did so, and was prepar- 
 ing to ask Frank to turn down another walk, 
 when as she withdrew her eyes from the group
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 281 
 
 before her, she met those of Amy, who was in 
 the act of doing the same thing. Both crim- 
 soned instantaneously, and deeply ; so deeply 
 indeed, and consciously, that neither could mis- 
 take the cause of the other's confusion, and both 
 hastily looked down the moment after they ex- 
 changed that sudden glance. It was enough ; 
 Kate saw that Amy would soon be thoroughly 
 convinced of her husband's indifference ; could 
 any one have seen the countenances of Cecil 
 and Lady Haviland, and, for an instant, doubted 
 the tme feelings of their bosoms? No, they 
 were all too visibly written upon their features, 
 and to Kate their full measure was revealed. 
 She knew that the countess had regained her 
 past influence over him, and disHked her for 
 that reason, twice as much as she did before. 
 Yet it was still a mystery to her how she 
 regained it, how she soothed the pride of 
 wounded love, the pride of such a man as Cecil, 
 whose haughty spirit brooked no slight, and 
 long remembered one. Kate Bouverie, young
 
 282 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 and sincere, knew not the many wiles that some 
 people will employ to effect their purposes, and 
 not knowing them, would never have given Lady 
 Haviland credit for half the superior and ad- 
 mirable train of Machiavellian operations she 
 put in practise to win back Cecil's heart. And 
 Kate was all the better for her ignorance ; 
 happy and light hearted, her mind was yet free 
 from suspicion or deceit ; for if at times a doubt 
 as to the truth or worth of those around her 
 was actually forced upon it by the quickness of 
 her perceptive powers, it did not rankle there 
 with an envenomed wound, but only added a 
 slight barrier of caution to the natural ingenu- 
 ousness of her nature. 
 
 And now she turned again to Frank, but this 
 time more hurriedly, and begged him to pass 
 on quickly to another walk. Amy had not yet 
 looked up from the ground since the moment 
 she intercepted Kate Bouverie's glance, in its 
 withdrawal from the group she had herself been 
 so eagerly observing.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 283 
 
 " Pass on to another walk ?" cried Frank, as 
 he heard the request of his fair petitioner, " pass 
 on quickly to another walk, did you say ? Why 
 we have been doing nothing but travelling post 
 haste ever since we entered the gardens. We 
 have had no time to examine any of the flowers, 
 and yet there was a specimen of the bee orchis, 
 which I very much wished to look at for a 
 minute or two ; only you hurried us on, Kate, 
 at such a tremendous pace, that 1 could not 
 even give it a glance. It would be well," he 
 continued, rather more gravely, " not to be so 
 very restless in your ideas, Kate ; the love of 
 change, if too much gratified, increases conti- 
 nually, and at length you can never thoroughly 
 satisfy it.*' 
 
 " Example— your long travels on the conti- 
 nent,'^ returned Kate, with a smile, and still 
 hurrying him forwards. 
 
 ** They," answered Frank, after a slight pause, 
 " they were undertaken and completed for in- 
 struction's sake. But do not walk so very fast,
 
 284 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 pray — Mrs. Bouverie cannot keep up with us : 
 she has stumbled once or twice already, since 
 you accelerated your pace — have you not ?" 
 said he, addressing Amy. 
 
 *^Yes — no — perhaps so," she replied faintly, 
 " but let us go on, Mr. Beresford." 
 
 '* Go on !" repeated Frank, suddenly stop- 
 ping and looking at her, " why you are tired 
 already — you are pale too— surely you are ill !" 
 
 '' 111 ?" answered Amy, with a slight laugh, 
 that sounded in Kate's ears very much like an 
 hysterical one; "ill? oh no! it is only the 
 heat — no, no, I am not ill." 
 
 ** But you are," returned Frank pertina- 
 ciously ; " Kate, look at Mrs. Bouverie, is she 
 not faint ? her very hand upon my arm is trem- 
 bling ; she is unwell." 
 
 "Is she?'' asked Kate, in embarrassment, 
 yet with a tone of feeling in her voice, and not 
 daring to look at Amy. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Bouverie, have I walked too 
 quickly ?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 285 
 
 " No, no," eagerly responded she, " no ; did 
 I not say I was not ill ?" continued she angrily ; 
 ** I often look pale from the effect of heat ; let 
 us walk faster to the carriage — it must be time 
 to go home now." 
 
 "Not ill !'^ ejaculated Frank, in some sur- 
 prise, at the sharpness with which she spoke, 
 *^ not ill ! and her cheeks and lips white, her 
 brow damp, her steps and voice faltering ! well, 
 if this is not a proof of perverseness in woman, 
 what is ? Here is one, who denies that she is 
 ill and obstinately too, merely for the sake of 
 saying no to the evidence of a plain truth. But 
 come," he added, more kindly, ^' take my arm 
 more firmly, Mrs. Bouverie, that will aid you 
 perhaps, and we shall get on in better time to 
 the carriage." 
 
 '* Thank you," Amy answered, and once 
 more they walked onwards. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Bouverie, dear Mrs. Bouverie," 
 cried a voice near them, and in another minute 
 Lady Eveline sprang forward and took her 
 hand, " here you are at last ! well, I am so glad
 
 286 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 to see youj I have been looking for you a long 
 time. Kate, ah ! there you are with Mr. Beres- 
 ford ; Mr, Beresford, how do you do ? My dear 
 Kate, how can you support his company — is he 
 not a great bore ? I mean/' she continued, see- 
 ing that Frank looked rather offended, *' I mean 
 a great bore to silly girls like us, Mr, Beresford, 
 not to any one else," 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself with further expla- 
 nations, Lady Eveline," said Frank supercili- 
 ously, '' that will do." 
 
 " Will it 1" she replied, with the greatest sim- 
 plicity, " oh ! very well — you are very kind ; I 
 thought you would be offended." 
 
 This naive answer upset even Frank's gravity, 
 and he laughed. 
 
 *' What a strange man," said Lady Eveline, 
 as noticing his smile she looked at him with 
 some wonder " I thought him so cross I" 
 
 " You thought me cross ?" repeated Frank, 
 rather more amused with her ladyship than he 
 would have acknowledged himself to be.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 287 
 
 ** Of course I did," was her rejoinder, " and 
 who thinks you otherwise ? When did you ever 
 speak a civil word to me, to Kate, or any one 
 else, I should like to know ? — and is not that 
 cross, very cross of you ?" 
 
 "Well," replied Frank, relapsing into his 
 usual manner, '* I did not know I stood so low 
 in your good opinion ; in Kate's I knew I did." 
 
 '* Yes, that is dehcious, that I after all the en- 
 deavours of your mamma to make her like you," 
 cried her ladyship in absolute glee. " Oh ! how 
 Seymour and I have talked over that scheme of 
 Mrs. Beresford's — I cannot help laughing at it 
 even now ; you and Kate to like each other — 
 what a droll idea !" 
 
 " Oh ! Eveline, how can you,'' said Kate, 
 with a deep blush of vexation, *' how can you 
 be so silly !" 
 
 While Frank answered more quietly, but in a 
 not less vexed tone of voice, *' It would indeed 
 be a remarkable circumstance if that were ever 
 to happen — which it will not. But," he con-
 
 288 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 tinued, more good-humouredly, for he saw that 
 it would be perfectly useless to be angry with 
 her ladyship, although at the time he felt 
 much incUned to be so — " But you should 
 not make such singular observations, Lady 
 Eveline ; were we not by ourselves, they would 
 cause no slight degree of embarrassment on mj^ 
 side, as well as on Kate's, without there being 
 the least occasion for it." 
 
 " There, there, do not look cross again, 
 pray !" she replied, as she saw a serious ex- 
 pression again dawn over his countenance, " I 
 will be quiet for the future, indeed. Do not 
 begin to be ill-tempered now ; you have been so 
 strangely good-natured all day — you have." 
 
 And with a look of curiosity she fixed her 
 full blue eyes upon his face for a moment or 
 two, then in another moment, addressing Amy, 
 as if she had forgotten all her previous discourse, 
 said, " Do you know, Mrs. Bouverie, I have 
 been most anxious to see you, ever since Tues- 
 day— yes, indeed ; for I thought you would
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 289 
 
 bring that handsome young man here, whom I 
 saw talking to you by the water ; I did so much 
 wish to see him again I" 
 
 " Who do you mean }" asked Amy, trying to 
 smile, " give me a more particular description." 
 
 " A particular description ? why he was tall, 
 with a good colour, dark hair, and such spark- 
 ling eyes — such black, black ones, and he was 
 an officer." 
 
 *' Oh! you mean Herbert, my brother — no, 
 not my brother ; but one \^ hom I consider as 
 such — Herbert Stanhope." 
 
 *' Herbert Stanhope — what a pretty name !'' 
 cried Lady EveHne ; while even Kate could not 
 keep from saying, '* Herbert Stanhope — is he 
 the Mr. Stanhope whom you sometimes speak 
 of, as the playmate of your childhood ?" 
 
 *' Even so," answered Amy, " he is in town 
 now ; he has a commission in the guards, which 
 Sir Arthur procured him." 
 
 '* My uncle?" half murmured Kate in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 '^ Yes/' again Amy replied, " Herbert told 
 me that^ by chance, he expressed a wish for 
 something of the sort before Sir Arthur, and he 
 at once procured it for him/' 
 
 " Strange !" Kate again said in a low and as- 
 tonished tone, ** and do you know where my 
 uncle is now, Mrs. Bouverie?'' 
 
 " At the castle, so I understand from Her- 
 bert ; he has been there ever since last autumn," 
 rejoined Amy, 
 
 *' Well, uncle is eccentric enough. Heaven 
 knows I" answered Kate, '' what can he have 
 been doing there all this time? not once to come 
 and see us I" Then abruptly turning to Lady 
 Eveline, she asked, '' Where have you left Sey- 
 mour and his lordship. Evehne ?" 
 
 " I am sure I do not know, they were be- 
 hind us when I first joined you — ah! there 
 they are about thirty yards off," she rejoined 
 giddily, then added, " oh ! there is Mr. Stan- 
 hope actually, and he is coming to speak to 
 Mrs. Bouverie!"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 291 
 
 " My dear Eveline, how thoughtless you are ! 
 what is Mr. Stanhope to you?" 
 
 " Oh ! nobody of course ; but I may look at 
 a handsome man, may I not ?" 
 
 " With all my heart, so that you do not fall 
 in love with him ; recollect you are engaged to 
 Seymour, and that I am his cousin." 
 
 " Nonsense ! you are not going to tell tales, 
 Kate ? and about what ? Do I not love Sey- 
 mour ? and he knows it ; and would not be at 
 all jealous of my admiration of Mr. Stanhope." 
 
 " Quite right, Eveline, I am not/' said the 
 voice of Seymour Glenallan, close at her side. 
 " A-dmire Mr. Stanhope as much as you please, 
 but reserve your love for me. Yet do not for 
 the future make your confessions quite so loud ; 
 I and your father overheard all you said just 
 now. Kate, good morning — Mrs. Bouverie, I 
 fear the heat has proved too much for you." 
 
 ** Where is papa?*' said Lady Eveline inter- 
 rupting him. 
 
 ''With Sir Charles Brougliton." 
 
 o 2
 
 292 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 ^' Then you are alone come to conduct me to 
 the carnage?" 
 
 '^ Just so.'* 
 
 "Alors, good-bye, Mrs. Bouverie, good-bye, 
 Kate, and good-bye to you too, Mr. Beresford, 
 and do not be cross again, please. Kate, Kate, 
 there is Mr. Stanhope speaking to Mrs. Bou- 
 verie, and I must go — ah ! but he has bowed 
 and walked on now ; well, that is a relief to my 
 disappointment." 
 
 " Pray, pretty cousin," said Seymour, his 
 broad eye flashing rather sarcastically, " pray 
 contrive an introduction between Mr. Stanhope 
 and Eveline ; the silly child will think of nothing 
 else until her curiosity respecting that gentle- 
 man is satisfied." 
 
 " Shall I not ?" said she, poutingly as they 
 walked away, " and you, too, Seymour, you 
 think a great deal of your pretty cousin ; your 
 admiration of her is at least equal to mine for 
 Mr. Stanhope." 
 
 " Perhaps so !'' answered Seymour drily, and 
 he handed her into the carriage.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 293 
 
 " Ah ! mother," said Frank, as he helped 
 Amy and Kate into their barouche, and saw 
 Mrs. Beresford quietly seated within it, " you 
 here ! I thought I should have to seek you — 
 have your friends then left?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " and I really could not 
 take the trouble to find you out, for the crowd 
 was so great, and heat so excessive, that I 
 thought it best to come hither with Mrs. Pierre- 
 point, and await your arrival. I parted with 
 her but a moment ago." 
 
 " Good, good," answered Frank, as with 
 something like a sigh of delight, he vaulted 
 into the carriage, and gave the order to drive on 
 — the wearisome day, he thought, is at last 
 brought to a close.
 
 294 SIR ARTHUR B0UVER1E< 
 
 CHAPTER XIT. 
 
 Gently, unquiet one, 
 
 Gently beat ! 
 Do not the trial shun, 
 
 Thou must meet. 
 
 Heart, the unloving still 
 Dwells near thee, 
 
 Quiet and calmly chill, 
 Thou must be ! 
 
 Does he, despising thee, 
 
 His vows rue ? 
 Falsely, disguisedly, 
 
 Hates thee too ? 
 
 May be he wishes thee. 
 Cold and chill ;— 
 
 Heart, heart, unquietly 
 Throbb'st thou still ?
 
 SIB ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 295 
 
 Even so, restless one ? 
 
 Beat, then, beat. 
 Quicker thy race to run — 
 
 Death to meet ! 
 
 Hasten, oh ! quickly haste 
 
 Thy last throb,— 
 Wasting with that will waste 
 
 Pain's last sob ! 
 
 Very different in their nature, as may be ima- 
 gined, were the thoughts which filled the minds 
 of the several persons forming Mrs. Beresford's 
 party, as that lady's carriage bore them rapidly 
 from Chiswick to town. Yet, dissimilar as 
 they were, the spell of their own musings, ren- 
 dered one and all of them silent, and with not 
 much conversation was the drive homewards 
 enlivened. The elder lady of the party was 
 tired, and leaning back in the barouche, gladly 
 under that plea excused herself from speaking, 
 while her son, who had been condemned, much 
 against his will, to escort them thither, having, 
 in his own opinion, creditably performed his 
 part, enjoyed the relief afforded him by the pre- 
 sent taciturnity of his companions, and allowed
 
 296 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 his thoughts to wander into a real student's re- 
 verie, remaining totally inattentive meanwhile to 
 the slight observations which every now and then 
 fell from the lips of the ladies. Even Kate, the 
 espiegle Kate, was silent ; for she was highly 
 annoyed with Eveline's allusions to Frank and 
 herself, and distressed at the meeting of Lady 
 Haviland and her brother. 
 
 But there was yet another, whom that same 
 sight had struck deeply, and who, with the 
 bitter pangs of jealousy for the first time 
 awakened in her bosom, wondered over it, and 
 this was Amy — the loving girl, the gentle and 
 childUke wife. Yes, jealousy was in her heart ; 
 those looks of intense tenderness, with which 
 she saw Cecil gaze on Lady Haviland, sent a 
 sudden thought to her mind, a sudden chill to 
 her heart — '' He loves her," was the wild mur- 
 mur that rang through her brain, ** and not 
 me ! did 1 ever meet so earnest a glance of his, 
 or one so deeply loving ?'' And her eyes fixed 
 upon the pair, she withdrew them not again,
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 297 
 
 till Cecil's last exquisite look of tenderness 
 •dwelt upon the countess, and then, then with 
 a sense of pain oppressing her strained and 
 eager eyes, a narrowing of the heart, as if 
 every drop of blood were slowly escaping from 
 it, she turned away, and in doing so met the 
 surprised and conscious look of Kate. That look 
 told her more ; for in the pity and regret, it so 
 clearly expressed, Amy read a confirmation of 
 the startling doubts, which at that moment 
 entered her mind. 
 
 A tempest ^yas awakening in her heart, a 
 dark threatening tempest ; again and again she 
 asked herself what was Lady Haviland to Cecil, 
 why was that look of love bent upon the 
 stranger — a look that she would have given so 
 much to win ; for, never had such a one light- 
 ened from his dark eyes upon her. Wherefore 
 was it so? — she knew not, she knew not! 
 Could it be that he did not love her? No, she 
 would not believe that; had he not, in the 
 strength of his love, raised her, the nameless 
 
 o 3
 
 298 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 outcast, to her present envied station in 
 society, and should she doubt that love ? N05 
 again her heart answered, as it suddenly rose 
 in hope and faith, not even now ! 
 
 Not even now ? then the trial had come at 
 last, and the young and trusting wife was 
 striving against the doubts of jealousy, yet 
 wishing to believe all was well, that the hus- 
 band she loved was not deceiving her. It had 
 come at last in strength and bitterness ; she had 
 not Hstened to the doubter, or the slanderer, 
 but she, herself, saw that which made her 
 tremble in fear and weakness, even the glance 
 of the loved one dwelling in passionate ten- 
 derness upon another ! Not even now ? still, 
 still she strove not to listen to the painful sug- 
 gestions of suspicion, " I will believe, trust him 
 even yet/' she murmured, as she stepped once 
 more into her home, and prepared to meet 
 
 him. 
 
 » 
 
 What can equal the faith of woman ? Rising 
 above all consideration of herself, she will hope
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 299 
 
 against hope, and trust even a shadow, so that 
 love prompts her to do so, and sometimes, even 
 where that shadow is not. This is the reason 
 why women are so often deceived, they take all 
 upon trust, even to a man's good quahties. They 
 gaze upon their idols with dazzled eyes, and 
 see them decked with jewels and with gold ; 
 but the jewels are jewels of their own fancies, 
 not their real wealth. They deck them, and 
 worship them, bind themselves to them for 
 ever, and too late find out, alas ! that all is 
 not as they expected it to be ; the light becomes 
 dim around them, and they see clearly — what 
 do they see ? — tinsel which was thought gold, 
 pebbles that were deemed true glowing gems. 
 Pretty creatures, fond believers of sixteen and 
 seventeen, they do wrong I A rough diamond 
 taken fresh from the mine, will often prove 
 more precious than the brilliant that glitters in 
 a ring or in ar brooch ; we should not always 
 look for the handsome exterior or aarreeable 
 
 o 
 
 manner, they are the tinsels that falsely sparkle
 
 300 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 like gold, they are the seemingly precious stones 
 which in truth are nothing but poor pebbles. 
 It is for the kind heart and the cultivated mind, 
 those are the true riches we should seek. 
 Most Ukely we shall not find them where we 
 most expect they will be, within the graceful 
 j)erson, or shining in their own bright light 
 upon the splendid countenance. No, not there, 
 not always there ; in the quiet friend, the rough, 
 good-natured man, the plain, insignificant look- 
 ing little man, there they dwell mostly ; a 
 handsome person, a fair face, should not blind 
 us to the characters of those we associate with, 
 or we may bitterly repent if they do. 
 
 Had Amy not been so blinded, she would 
 have known Cecil Bouverie as he was, proud, 
 passionate, self-willed, and selfish — selfish, 
 from over indulgence to his caprices and pas- 
 sions, not being naturally so. But love deceived 
 her, and thus, until now, she thought him kind 
 and generous, although, as it may be recollected, 
 she felt a fear of him coupled with her love,
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 301 
 
 and at times fancied him somewhat cold. At 
 present, however, she had seen that which 
 made her turn a sharper look of inquiry upon 
 herself, and anxiously and hastily she arrayed 
 herself for dinner, and descended to meet him 
 with a beating heart and unquiet brow. She 
 strove, indeed, to banish from her countenance 
 any expression of distrust or discontent ; but 
 simple and unaffected in her feelings and man- 
 ner, the self-possession of the actress was as 
 yet unfamiliar to her, and still there flitted 
 across it an expression of jealousy and pain. 
 Yet Cecil did not perceive this ; too much 
 occupied with his own thoughts, he scarcely 
 glanced at his wife as she entered the dining- 
 room, and they both sat down in silence. 
 
 The repast was nearly finished, duriug which, 
 as usual, not much conversation passed, when, 
 as she, upon the point of leaving him, to retire, 
 as was her wont, to the drawing-room, witii a 
 strong effort to acquire the courage necessary 
 for the question, she said in a rather hasty 
 voice, "Were you at Chiswick to-day ?''
 
 302 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 '' Yes," he answered, " that was the reason I 
 returned so late to dinner." 
 
 " I imagined," Amy rejoined, endeavouring 
 to smile, '' that you would have had to wait for 
 me. I went there too ; I thought it was late 
 when we came away ; but the Beresfords could 
 not leave sooner." 
 
 " You there ?" said Cecil, looking up, '* I 
 did not understand that you were going." 
 
 " It was a rather unexpected pleasure," she 
 replied faintly, " a hastily arrnnged thing." 
 
 " Did you see me there ?'' asked Cecil. 
 
 " Oh yes !" she answered, falteringly, and 
 she shrank from the keen glance he bent upon 
 her; "yes, we were near you several times; 
 but you did not see us." 
 
 " No," he said, « I did not." 
 
 " We passed you once," continued Amy, 
 breaking a pause, which ensued between them, 
 and speaking still more confusedly, '^ we passed 
 you once, when you were talking to a very 
 beautiful woman, whom T have often remarked
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 303 
 
 in the parks— your sister told me she was the 
 Countess of Haviland." 
 
 " Indeed !" answered Cecil, with a heightened 
 colour. 
 
 " Yes," rejoined Amy, as fearfully, yet with 
 a desperate effort at composure, she raised her 
 eyes to her husband's face, to see what effect 
 her words had on him, " I have often wished to 
 know her name, she is so beautiful — do not you 
 think so ?" 
 
 But the last pointed question, and the little 
 address with which she concealed the new un- 
 easiness that possessed her, raised a sudden sus- 
 picion in Cecil Bouverie's mind. He had been 
 wondering much during the last five minutes, 
 at his wife's unusually communicative mood, 
 and now startled by her direct inquiry for his 
 opinion respecting Lady Haviland, the very 
 person on whom his own thoughts were dwell- 
 ing, he fancied she must have heard some ru- 
 mours of their past engagement. This coupkd 
 with their meeting of to-day, he imagined
 
 304 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 might be sufficient grounds for a momentary 
 jealousy on her part, and looking up with a 
 quick and troubled glance, he tried to read the 
 bent of her purpose in the expression of her 
 face. At other times gentle and serene, her 
 countenance now wore a look of fearful anxiety, 
 and though her eyes drooped in an instant be- 
 neath his, he knew that she had been gazing 
 on him with a glance of earnest inquiry. It 
 was some time before he moved his glance 
 away ; and her confusion visibly increasing as 
 he looked at her, fully confirmed him in his 
 suspicions ; but at length answering her ques- 
 tion in no very indifferent tone, for his voice 
 betrayed a mixture of embarrassment and 
 vexation, he said, " Beautiful ? yes — and you 
 think her so ? you have noticed her much 
 then?" 
 
 And again he turned his dark eyes search- 
 ingly upon her. The displeased tones in which 
 he spoke, frightened Amy ; half repenting that 
 she had dared to speak upon the subject, she
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 305 
 
 rose from her chair, and moved towards the 
 door, saying at the same time rather hurriedly, 
 *' Oh, no ! now and then, not often,'' then 
 without waiting for a rejoinder from Cecil, 
 hastily left the room. But the angry voice of 
 her husband, his keen and anxious look were 
 still before her, and her heart, with a deeper 
 pang of doubt than any she had yet ex- 
 perienced, whispered that there must be some 
 cause for her sudden jealousy, else never would 
 he have appeared so conscious before one, 
 whom he had hitherto treated as a child. 
 
 Meanwhile, Cecil left alone thought much 
 upon the few words that had passed be- 
 tween him and Amy. She felt that she must 
 have noticed some look or gesture of his or 
 Lady Haviland, expressive of their mutual 
 passion, else the mere knowledge of their past 
 eugagement would never have aroused her 
 from her usual state of utter indifference, and 
 urged her to speak upon a subject so delicate. 
 And so, he thought, the shy and quiet girl at
 
 306 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 last is jealous ! she, whom love could not 
 waken into life, is not impervious to this latter 
 feeling. Yet the fact of her being so, annoyed 
 him ; indifferent as he was towards Amy, in- 
 sensible as he thought her, still he knew that 
 all women, however cold-hearted, can feel 
 jealousy, and suffer from it, although there 
 might be no love in the case, and so, partly 
 from a good motive, partly from a selfish one, 
 he did not wish her to harbour it, as it might 
 become uncomfortable for her, and troublesome 
 to himself. 
 
 For a long time Cecil Bouverie sat thinking 
 by himself at the dinner-table, while his wife 
 was employed in the same manner upstairs. 
 But Cecil's thoughts soon travelled from Amy, 
 and her lately expressed jealousy, to the object 
 of her notice. He met Lady Haviland pur- 
 posely at this fete, and urged by her questions, 
 disclosed some of the real facts attending his 
 marriage ; his love was not weakened for her, 
 although his pride hitherto bade him think that 
 it was, and finding it strengthening ^very day,
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 30? 
 
 with some degree of consistency, he even then 
 resolved, within his own mind, to break off 
 their intimacy again— but not yet. Not yet ? 
 there is the point where sometimes the wisest 
 and best will err, much more the passionate 
 and self-willed ; who can say to himself, when 
 he has once given way to his passions — Thus 
 far shall they go, and no further ? none ! And 
 thus it was with Cecil ; strong as was his love 
 for the countess, he knew he ought to fore- 
 go her friendship, and he intended to do so ; 
 but day after day passed, he met her in society, 
 he spoke often and much with her, and their 
 acquaintance strengthened instead of waxing 
 colder and colder, as it ought to have done. 
 He argued with himself, that he wished but to 
 hear from her own Hps the various circum- 
 stances which separated them ; he had not 
 heard all her explanations, nor she his ; the op- 
 portunities which offered themselves were not 
 sufficient for the purpose, he would seek her 
 then, he determined two or three times more,
 
 308 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 to listen to her regrets over the happiness they 
 had both lost, to feel he was loved at least by 
 one passionately, devotedly, and then part, all 
 differences cleared up, each being to the other' 
 the idol of thought, the worshipped one of the 
 heart ! 
 
 He never thought of overcoming his love for 
 the countess — he cherished it ; this was bad, 
 this was guilt ; but it bore its own sting with 
 it, as guilt will ever do. Taste of the Circean 
 cup, drink half its contents, and then forbear 
 to drink the rest, if you can ; amongst the 
 many trials of life, this is the most diiSScult to 
 sustain ; pain is easier repelled than pleasure, 
 easier to endure in the end.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 309 
 
 CHAPTER XIIT. 
 
 He loves me not — oh ! bitter truth, 
 That o'er my anguish'd heart is stealing — 
 
 He loves me not ! the hopes of youth 
 Are blighted by that single feeling. 
 
 He was my first, my only love — 
 
 Heart, soul and mind together bending, 
 
 Their idol worshipp'd far above 
 
 All thoughts of fear, nor dreamt love's ending ! 
 
 Then, then my heart with joy would beat — 
 And was he but that heart deceiving ? 
 
 To make it this wild misery greet, 
 To wither on through years of grieving ! 
 
 But now I speak in bitter woe. 
 
 And seem all gentler feelings spuming, 
 
 And all my love he cannot know, 
 
 Within my heart in anguish burning.
 
 310 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 And' am I then the desolate, 
 
 The never lov'd, the lost, the slighted ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! and doth he hate 
 
 The vows my heart so gladly plighted ? 
 
 Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit. 
 
 Midsummer's Night Dream. 
 
 It was several days after this short conversa- 
 tion between Cecil and his wife, that the 
 latter sat alone one afternoon in her own room, 
 thinking over her newly awakened jealousy of 
 Lady Haviland. Her doubts had not left her, 
 notwithstanding all her efforts ; morning and 
 evening they pained her heart, with slow, but 
 deep and burning pangs. On the present oc- 
 casion, she seemed to have been dressing with 
 greater care than usual, for her attire was not 
 so simple as that which she generally wore, 
 and her golden ringlets, though they ever shone 
 with a brightness peculiar to themselves, were 
 now more tastefully and coquettishly arranged, 
 and looped back with pale blue ribbons. Yet 
 whatever motive induced her to pay this atten- 
 tion to her toilette, it was evident that she de-
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 311 
 
 rived no satisfaction from her task, for her 
 countenance was pale, and her eyelids swollen 
 from want of sleep, although her eyes were 
 wide open, and fixed with the unconscious gaze 
 of the muser upon the glass before her. 
 
 Amidst the many ideas the present cause of 
 her uneasiness started within her mind, one 
 now unceasingly possessed her. Unluckily for 
 her peace, the thought that Lady Haviland was 
 most beautiful, suddenly presented itself there, 
 and soon forced her to institute a comparison 
 between herself and her rival. This did not 
 do ; Amy had too poor an opinion of her own 
 beauty to find any satisfaction in it, and with 
 a deep sigh, in a few minutes she admitted the 
 countess was so extremely lovely, accompHshed 
 and fascinating, that there could be no com- 
 petition between them, no hope if Cecil loved 
 her. But did he love her ? — there was the 
 question she would fain have satisfactorily an- 
 swered, yet to which she could give no definite 
 reply. Jealousy and love struggling in her
 
 312 SIR ARTHUR BOU\^ERIE. 
 
 heart, with a wistful look of woe, she gazed into 
 the glass, and sighed over her supposed want 
 of personal attractions, till unable to bear the 
 torture of her own thoughts any longer, she 
 hastily completed the last few touches of her 
 toilette, and left the room. 
 
 Seeking the hbrary where she had been 
 writing to Mr. Stanhope all the morning, she 
 proceeded to lock her desk, which she had left 
 open ; but in doing so, the sleeve of her dress 
 caught in the key, and it being a light and 
 fancy article, the sudden shock overturned it. 
 Not. being securely locked it burst open, and 
 some of the papers flew on the ground, which, 
 after a momentary exclamation of impatience, 
 Amy proceeded to pick up, — a task she soon 
 accomplished. Placing them again in her desk 
 she proceeded to re-arrange them, and from 
 looking at each to know where they should be 
 bestowed, she began reading a few old letters 
 from her correspondents in the country that 
 she found amongst them. Perusing old friends'
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 313 
 
 letters is a pleasant employment, one, too, 
 which insensibly whiles away time and thought, 
 and thus Amy still continued to read on, dwell- 
 ing upon the memor'es of the past with child- 
 ish pleasure, while a soft, sweet smile came to 
 her features, and gave them a more serene and 
 happy expression than for many, many days 
 they had worn. 
 
 But gradually that fair countenance changed ; 
 a perplexed look dawned upon it, soon after it 
 became troubled, then pale with fear and 
 anguish. Amy held the fly leaf of a letter in 
 her hand, and her eyes were fixed upon it 
 with an expression of painful curiosity ; in two 
 or three minutes she laid it down upon the table 
 — " It is so, it is 80," she murmured, " it must be 
 true !" — and then she stretched forth her hand 
 again to take the letter up ; but again suddenly 
 stopped. The leaf was part of a letter, which 
 she knew from its contents mu^t be addressed 
 from Lady Haviland to Cecil ; unconsciously 
 she had perused the commencement,^ thinking 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 314 SIB ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 it one of her own papers, and afterwards, scarcely 
 aware of what she did, read more than half m 
 her eagerness to know all. Yet now she paused ; 
 the letter was none of hers, and though its 
 contents were of vital interest to herself, she 
 felt that it was wrong to finish its perusal. 
 Unwittingly, indeed, she had offended, should 
 she offend yet more ? And Amy, who was 
 ever taught to act rightly, shrunk for the mo- 
 ment from doing so, but shrunk not long ; the 
 knowledge she craved for that letter contained, 
 she knew much, she thought, and soon per- 
 suading herself the evil done would not be 
 much increased by knowing more, she took the 
 paper up and read on. 
 
 That letter explained everything. Cecil, it 
 seemed had written to the countess a true relation 
 of all the circumstances attending his marriage 
 with Amy, while she, in the answer which Amy 
 held in her hand, expatiated on the contents of 
 his epistle, and dwelt upon their mutual love, 
 in the singularly pathetic style, which she could
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 315 
 
 SO capitally get up upoa occasion. The follow- 
 ing passages were anything but pleasing, as 
 may be imagined, to the feelings of their 
 present reader. 
 
 **Alas!'' wrote the countess, "that you 
 should be wedded to a woman who cannot 
 appreciate your merits, Cecil I — who soulless, 
 heartless, unintellectual, will be through life a 
 tie upon the nobler energies of your nature. 
 Yes, for companionship with one like her must 
 needs blunt the feelings, and dull the faculties 
 — where, where can be that union of heart 
 and soul, which we, beloved one, once fondJy 
 pictured to ourselves? Cecil, I mourn over 
 your fate, more than I mourn over my own 
 — far more; for I am but a woman and can 
 bear in silence the anguished repinings we both 
 feel — while you — ah you ! morosely, angrily, 
 bitterly, will regret them ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 *' You say, you think I love you, Cecil ? 
 Oh ! yes, yes, beheve me, I do ! Seek me then 
 
 p 2
 
 316 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 at times, idol of my life, though few and far 
 between our meetings be ; assure me of your 
 affection, let me speak mine for you else my 
 heart will burst with the secret sorrow that 
 oppresses it — bright spots in the dull course of 
 my existence, they shall be hallowed in my 
 memory with all the fondness a first, a lasting 
 
 love can feel ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Cecil, my heart aches sometimes with 
 jealousy — perhaps, you will smile when I tell 
 you who creates it — 'tis your wife. Her beauty 
 is so surpassing, so unapproachable in its 
 peculiar style, that were it not for what you 
 ftave told me, the pangs of that jealousy would 
 be permanent and cruel. But you say you cannot 
 overcome your contempt for her birth and un- 
 derstanding, and that, that reassures me ; where 
 there is no soul, no feeling, there can indeed be 
 no love. Cecil, dearest, do not be angry with 
 me for this weakness — it is a loving one — all, 
 all who love must feel it at times — forgive me
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 317 
 
 then, forgive me — still I have faith in your love 
 as you have in mine. And oh ! if ever love 
 such as mine can gain more strength, more 
 fervency at times, it is when 1 reflect whom you 
 have married — you, the descendant of an 
 ancient family, noble in thought and deed your- 
 self — a nameless outcast, a foundling. I pity 
 you from my soul. I love you more and more, 
 for I can imagine what you feel in living with 
 a woman with whom you cannot interchange a 
 thought, a feeling — who is as cold, insensible, 
 and uneducated as she is baseborn." 
 
 Poor Amy I she read the letter through, but 
 she did not weep, — nor did another exclamation 
 of astonishment burst from her lips ; pale and 
 tearless she sat, her blood flowing chilly, her 
 heart beating slowly, for a stupor had seized 
 her ; in her brain as yet but one dim and pain- 
 ful idea moved, and that was, " It is true, he 
 does not love me !" Ten or twelve minutes 
 passed, yet she did not stir, and the letter was 
 still in her hand, and her eyes fixed upon it,
 
 318 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 when the door of the library opened, and Cecil 
 walked in. There was a troubled expression on 
 his face , and it grew even more so, as his eye 
 lighted upon Amy, who still motionless did not 
 perceive his entrance, or at least did not remark it. 
 Hastily he advanced into the room, and seemed 
 searching for something, for his eye travelled 
 rapidly over the apartment, at last he stepped 
 towards the spot where Amy sat. 
 
 '* Is it late ?" he asked, while he leaned across 
 the table, and turned over some papers and 
 books that lay at the furthest end, " Is it near 
 the dinner hour ? Know you the time ?'' 
 
 His words were uttered, as though he attached 
 no interest to them^ and he did not even look at 
 Amy when he addressed her, but hurriedly 
 continued to displace the books. 
 
 Amy looked up, and her eyes once fixed upon 
 his face, she did not again withdraw them ; still 
 she spoke not a word, and her utter silence 
 causing Cecil to turn round, then it was that he 
 first perceived her emotion. Pale as death.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 319 
 
 with no expression whatever upon her count- 
 enance, she gazed at him with a cold, quiet, vacant 
 8tare, and held Lady Haviland's letter yet open 
 in the same attitude, as when she began to read 
 it. Startled at the sight, Cecil hastily uttered 
 her name ; but she did not notice him. 
 
 "You are ill," he exclaimed, and he took her 
 hand to feel whether a sudden faintness had 
 come over her. As he did so, he chanced to 
 look upon the paper, which she passively allow- 
 ed him to withdraw from her grasp, and in- 
 stantly he recognized the handwriting of the 
 countess. There was now no further need of 
 inquiry, as to the cause of her agitation, for he 
 knew it at once to be a missing sheet of her 
 ladyship's communication, which he had been a 
 moment before searching for, and with features 
 as colourless even as those of his wife, Cecil 
 Bouverie for an instant stood beside her, and 
 let the damp and icy hand he held drop from 
 his hold. But soon recovering from his surprise 
 a gloomy flush of crimson came to his brow.
 
 320 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 an angry light to his eye, and bending towards 
 her as if to watch every expression of her face, 
 he said in a strange, hollow voice, " You have 
 read that letter ?'' 
 
 Still were Amy's large dark eyes fastened on 
 him with the same glassy look ; now, however, 
 her lips moved, and mechanically she uttered 
 «Yes/' 
 
 "All of it ?" he asked, his countenance darken- 
 ing still more and more, and his lip whitening. 
 
 ^' All," she repeated in the same tones as 
 before. 
 
 There was a pause, during which neither 
 moved ; Cecil was looking sternly at her ; she 
 was still in that half stupor which had crept 
 upon her. 
 
 " You know all then," at length he said in a 
 thick and troubled voice, '^all that I would 
 have wished to have kept from you ; dearly 
 enough have you paid for a woman's curiosity. 
 How came you to read it ?" 
 
 She did not reply : she could not again arouse
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 321 
 
 herself to speak, every feeling seemed as it 
 were deadened within her ; her mind was in- 
 capable of making the effort requisite to do bo. 
 "Do you hear me?" he continued im- 
 patiently, for he did not perceive her actual in- 
 abiUty to speak, '' are you speechless or deaf, 
 or both ?" And he touched her arm. 
 
 She shrank from his touch, and for the first 
 time an expression of consciousness grew upon 
 her features, while she answered slowly in a 
 faint ^though quiet voice, /^ I hear you— but 
 rather would I have been deaf, speechless, blind, 
 than have heard or read the words that I have 
 done to-day ! I hear you," she continued, and 
 a sudden flush mounted to her cheek, and a 
 bright light sparkled in her eye, while her whole 
 frame trembled violently, for resentment was 
 urging its sway over her heart, and struggling 
 into speech. "You said I paid dearly for 
 gratifying a woman's curiosity— you said truly, 
 I have ; you asked how I came to read that 
 letter— -I know not ! it was amongst my own 
 
 p 3
 
 322 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIB. 
 
 papers, and unwittingly I read most part of it 
 ere I became conscious of what I was doing. 
 Did you place it there that I should see it, and 
 know the full extent of my own misery, tired 
 even of the farce of keeping up appearances 
 with me ?" 
 
 " Place it there !'^ repeated Cecil, the dark 
 flash of his brow deepening, and the pure hazel 
 of his eye becoming almost black, " do you jest ? 
 rather tell me where you found it — place it 
 amongst your papers I" 
 
 " Yes, did you not V' she answered with a 
 piercing look, and a bitter laugh ; *' or no, you 
 would not do that — you would not expose her 
 feelings to my scorn, although you might not 
 care to wound mine. No, I see it all now," 
 and she passed her hand with a hurried gesture 
 across her forehead, as though a sudden thought 
 struck her, '* you must have dropped it here 
 this morning, and I, no doubt, gathered it up 
 with my letters, when I overturned them a short 
 while ago — that was it. Thus I discovered
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 323 
 
 your secret love for another, your bitter scorn 
 for me. And is it in this light you hold me ? 
 am I indeed to you, that which I am to others, 
 the vile and despised one, the poor and name- 
 less outcast, and as such to be treated with no 
 consideration, to be trampled on, deceived? 
 Did she not say it? have you not said it ? you, 
 who I thought loved me, you whom I love ? 
 Oh God ! if I feel this grief too deeply, forgive, 
 forgive me — it racks my heart, distracts my 
 brain — I cannot bear this patiently — not this — 
 not this !" 
 
 And rising from her seat in half despair, she 
 clasped her hands together in anguish, but did 
 not weep. 
 
 Cecil looked at her in astonishment ; scarcely 
 could he believe that the strongly agitated girl 
 before hiin, was the timid Amy, whom he be- 
 lieved so indifferent and rfold, or that the sudden 
 and vehement declaration of her deep love for 
 him, was really true. Yet the violence of her 
 emotion caused the assurances of her affection.
 
 324 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 which his uncle had so'often given him, to recur 
 to his mind, and angry and hurt as he was, at 
 the perusal of the letter, still something of regret 
 struggled within him against the harsher feelings 
 of his breast, when he now addressed her, and 
 this was expressed in his voice. No man is 
 for the instant, utterly insensible to an unex- 
 pected proof of affection on the part of a 
 woman, however indifferent he may have felt 
 towards her before, however soon that moment- 
 ary interest may die away. 
 
 " The truth is known," he said, *' I would 
 have given worlds for it to have remained un- 
 known/' 
 
 Hastily when she heard him speak. Amy 
 looked up. 
 
 ' ^ You would have given worlds for the truth 
 to have remained unknown?'^ she answered, 
 and her dark eyes became again brilliant with 
 wrath. "You speak graciously, compassionately, 
 sir — there is a touch, too, of pity in your voice 
 — banish it henceforth and for ever — I want it
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 325 
 
 not ! I am not so weak as some — as you think 
 me ; I will bear up even against this most bitter 
 grief- And yet to feel that you were forced to 
 wed me, that had it not been for Sir Arthur, 
 I should soon have been forgotten, forsaken, 
 that is muchj much to support ; I need be as 
 insensible as you think I am. But, have I no 
 heart ? can I not feel ? am I so dull of under- 
 standing ? — know you, now that your falsehood 
 is revealed, I am no longer blind to the full 
 duplicity of your past conduct towards me. 
 Yes,*' she continued, more cuttingly, more 
 coldly, and she fixed her eyes unshrinkingly 
 upon his, which were bent on her with an angry 
 and startled glance, " yes, I see clearly, I see 
 all at present ; — in the beginning of our ac- 
 quaintance at Wilverton, you took more pains 
 to awaken a hopeless passion within my heart, 
 for the gratification of a selfish vanity, than 
 ever you have done, to fulfil your duty towards 
 me since. Your smiles and words were kind, 
 most kind at that time, your voice tender in
 
 326 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 its tones ; a despicable part you played, sir, 
 under the insiduous mask of friendship ! — for 
 do not suppose, I ever dreamed you loved me, 
 ere I was told so. Oh ! no, no, no, I felt too 
 deeply my own unworthiness, the baseness of 
 my birth, and even deluded myself with the 
 idea that you knew not of my silent passion, and 
 thought your attentions to me but dictated by 
 kindness, mere kindness on your part. Smile, 
 smile in scorn at my simplicity ; no doubt you 
 do ! — no doubt, in your eyes, it is foolish to feel 
 the result of your amusements so deeply ; ah. 
 Heaven ! to rend the heart strings, insult the 
 feelings, consign the heart to vain repinings, 
 call you that amusement in this world of 
 yours ?'' 
 
 And her beautiful face expressing a bitter 
 anguish, and a bitter wrath, her large black eyes 
 dilated, and flashing with a fever light, her 
 golden tresses thrown back over her shoulders, 
 she stood before her husband, pale, but proudly 
 erect, in unshrinking anger.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 327 
 
 And he ? — stung by her reproaches, and 
 feeling the truth of them, a sharp pang of 
 shame kept him silent, as he listened to her 
 words, and even his eyes were for one moment 
 averted from Amy's, when her silence seemed 
 to admit of a reply. Many feelings struggled 
 within his bosom; regret, anger, admiration, 
 alternately swayed him, as he looked at the 
 slight young creature before him, whose attitude 
 and countenance so forcibly depicted her resent- 
 ment and grief, whose beauty was rendered so 
 exquisite, by the sudden and powerful expres- 
 sion of the soul shining through its hneaments ; 
 and for the instant, he felt and acknowledged 
 its strength and eloquence. But in the next, 
 that feehng passed away ; the image of Lady 
 Haviland rose to his mind, and with it the 
 remembrance of her sweet and gentle voice, 
 the fascination of her manners, the sad, self- 
 sacrificing spirit of her love, and the slight 
 interest which Amy excited there subsided. 
 In the bitter language of the latter, he thought
 
 328 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 there was more wrath than love expressed, 
 and he concluded that the vehemence of her 
 emotion proceeded from disappointed vanity, 
 rather than wronged affection. He made no 
 allowance for the working of a proud and im- 
 petuous spirit, deceived and slighted as it was 
 by one it trusted, and he turned towards her 
 with a sterner look and harsher voice, than he 
 had hitherto used : 
 
 " Your words are bitter, madam," he coldly 
 said, and the habitual sneer around his hps in- 
 creased in its strength of expression ; " but I 
 must acknowledge you know too much for me 
 to attempt to deceive you farther." 
 
 " I do," she answered, ^' I do. I know that 
 you consider yourself sold to me, I to you. 
 Father, father, when you asked me if I truly 
 loved him, you strove not to ascertain whether 
 he loved me or no ; would that you had ! 
 would that 1 had known this — never would I 
 have wedded him !" And she paused in silent 
 grief, till her eye glancing upon the jewels
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 329 
 
 with which on that day she had more profusely- 
 decorated herself, she exclaimed more hurriedly, 
 and with a sudden smile of derision, " Here is 
 ground for your ridicule, sir, here is an incon- 
 gruity ! look at these bracelets and brilliants — 
 surely this is wrong ! they are misplaced upon 
 a beggar girl, a foundling, are they not ?" And 
 she laughed half wildly, as she tore them from 
 her arms, and flung them at his feet. '' There, 
 there, take them away, give them to her, the 
 highborn and beautiful, and laugh meanwhile 
 at me, blind and vain as I was to believe in 
 your love, and trust in you, as I would have 
 trusted in my God ! Pleasant sport that will 
 be for you both — pleasant sport ? — ah ! Cecil, 
 I shall go mad !" 
 
 She, indeed, seemed so ; her eyes were bright 
 and restless, her cheeks burning with a fever- 
 flush, and her manner distracted, Cecil saw this, 
 and with a kinder feeling than he had yet ex- 
 perienced for her, he approached, and would 
 have tried to soothe her ; but she seemed to 
 divine his intention, and stepped aside.
 
 330 SIR ARTHUR BOrVERIE. 
 
 "Back! back!" she exclaimed, "come not 
 near me ; the farce is over — there is no need 
 of keeping up appearances now. Why look 
 you as if you pitied me ? I tell you, I will not 
 be pitied where I am not loved. Smile rather, 
 as you did just now in bitter scorn, and let me 
 feel myself the object of your contempt, a base- 
 born and penniless intruder in your home — I 
 can bear all slights — I must bear them ; I 
 brought you no riches, and I am dependant on 
 you for my daily bread — is it not so ?'* 
 
 " No," answered Cecil, with a look of bitter 
 resentment, and he turned from her, " you are 
 not. Would you tempt me to hate you ? re- 
 collect since you force me to remind you of it, 
 that to me you owe nothing, the scores are 
 clear between us there. The wealth we both 
 enjoy, is from Sir Arthur, who settled it on me 
 with the sole condition that I should make you 
 my wife — it would not else have been mine — as 
 yet." 
 
 "^True," Amy replied, her whole fram,e
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 331 
 
 quivering with passion, "and for that wealth 
 you sold yourself to perjury, you branded 
 your soul with a falsehood, you — " 
 
 '^ Silence, madam," exclaimed Cecil, becom- 
 ing livid with passion, as the last taunt met his 
 ear ; " I have borne much from you, but this 
 is beyond endurance !" 
 
 " You have borne much !" repeated Amy, with 
 a smile of contempt, " and what have I borne ? 
 less ?" 
 
 " Silence !" said Cecil, still more exasperated, 
 while his brow and eye darkened fearfully. 
 
 " Silence," again returned Amy, '' and why ? 
 Is it because you have found the worm you 
 would have trodden upon can sting ? I will not 
 be silent." 
 
 His bosom heaving with passion, his eyes 
 flashing fire, his hps compressed together, Cecil 
 Bouverie turned towards her, and as if forgetting 
 himself, seized her childlike form in his arms, 
 drew her close to him, until his breath waved 
 the golden curls upon her brow, then with a
 
 3S2 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 bitter, searching look of wrath, scanned her 
 countenance. What was there ? fearlessness, 
 resolution, pride. Yes, she shrunk not from 
 his embrace of hatred rather than of love ; she 
 met his glance firmly, her dark eyes never 
 drooped, her spirit quailed not within her, nor 
 did the small and almost infantine features alter 
 from their proud expression of defiance, and 
 her self-possession rendering him back his 
 own, slowly at length he relinquished his hold, 
 his countenance became stern and determined, 
 his eye shone with a steady freezing light, and 
 every pang of pity and of interest banished 
 from his heart. 
 
 "To whom are you speaking?" he said, 
 harshly and coldly, " to your husband ? I 
 command you to be silent — will you obey me 
 now?" 
 
 His words rang hke a knell through the 
 mind of Amy — to whom are you speaking, to 
 your husband ? he said, and conscience an- 
 swered, to the one whom you promised to love
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 333 
 
 and to obey — and you have angered him, cast 
 defiance at him in the vehemence of your pas- 
 sion. What if he breaks his vows, are you to 
 break yours ? God sees it not in that light — 
 though he may not perform his duty, that does 
 not absolve you from yours. And the flush 
 faded from her brow, the light from her eyes, 
 and clasping her hands over them to hide the 
 deep pain expressed there, all tearless though 
 they were, in a tone that betrayed a stronger 
 feeling of grief than she had yet given way to, 
 she murmured almost inaudibly, " I will, I 
 will, God help me ! but it was not for you to 
 remind me of this." 
 
 And leaning upon a chair near her, she re- 
 mained silent and motionless, the passion 
 spent, wrapt up in the cold keen sorrow of 
 despair. 
 
 Cecil without another look, another word, 
 left the room. Irritated and shamed by the 
 truth of her taunts, it was with no feeling of 
 compassion that he now regarded her. In the
 
 334 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 first instance, indeed, a momentary pity took 
 posseBsion of his mind, as he looked upon the 
 exquisite grief depicted on her countenance ; 
 but after grief gave way to sarcasm, nothing 
 save a consciousness of his fault kept him 
 silent, and at length even that check was re- 
 moved, when in plain words she placed its 
 full extent before her eyes. Compassion, re- 
 gret, his sense of the justness of her strictures, 
 intemperate as they were, all then merged into 
 a feeling of resentment, which in his bosom 
 ever assumed its severest character, when once 
 aroused, and it was with this feeling that he 
 left her. 
 
 He left her — yes— alone, with her own 
 thoughts, bitter companions enough. Heaven 
 knows ! her heart beating irregularly and hur- 
 riedly, and her mind dulled from the tempest of 
 passion, which swept over it ; alone, alone ! no 
 one near to strengthen or console her, there 
 was the young and passionate girl, tearless yet ! 
 Her grief was too bitter to spend itself in
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 335 
 
 tears ; her heart might burst, but she could 
 not weep. 
 
 That day Cecil Bouverie dined out — Amy 
 felt it a relief, and spent the remainder of the 
 evening by herself, wandering through the 
 spacious rooms of her wealthy home, like a 
 troubled spirit, her veins burning with a strange 
 fever, her head throbbing with pain, till tired 
 by her own restlessness, she entered the 
 library, and sat down once more to re-arrange 
 her desk, which was still open on the table. 
 As she did so, she trod upon something on the 
 floor, which causing her to look down, by the 
 blaze of the fire on the hearth, she perceived 
 part of a jewel cast from her in her altercation 
 with Cecil, and with an impatient gesture of 
 her foot she moved it from her passage. It 
 sprang from her touch nearer to the light, and 
 again her eye glanced upon it, but this time 
 did not so easily turn away, for she now saw 
 it was the miniature of her husband, which 
 formed the snap of a bracelet Sir Arthur had
 
 336 SIR ARTHUR BOUVBRIE. 
 
 given her on her marriage day. With a look 
 of inexpressible tenderness she gazed upon it ^ 
 crushed and broken as it was, affection became 
 too powerful in her bosom, to suffer the image 
 of the loved one to be passed by in scorn, even 
 though she knew he loved her not, and with a 
 sigh she knelt down, and raised it in her hands. 
 She looked upon the fine countenance of the 
 picture, and the dark eyes seemed to smile 
 upon her, the lips were parted, as if with 
 loving words, the brow was calmly beautiful, 
 such as she had seen it, months and months 
 back, in some of Cecil's happiest moments ; — 
 she looked upon it long and earnestly, at length 
 sadly and lovingly, then with a dizzy glance 
 pressed it to her bosom, raised it to her lips, 
 and wept. They were the first tears she had 
 shed that day.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 33' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Le premier des plaisirs, et la plus belle gloire, 
 
 C'est de prodiguer les bien faits, 
 Si V0U9 en repandez, perdez en la memoire ; 
 Si V0U8 en recevez, publiez le a jamais. 
 
 Voltaire. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Kate Bouverie, one even- 
 ing as she entered the library where Frank 
 Beresford and Mr. Ramsay were sitting, " Ma- 
 dame votre mere desires your presence in the 
 salon — will you be so kind as to follow me 
 thither in two or three minutes ?" 
 
 And dropping him a demure curtsey, she 
 stood awaiting his reply. 
 
 VOL. f. o
 
 338 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 "Now what does my mother want me for?" 
 answered Frank, impatiently, " what does she 
 want me for, Kate V 
 
 *' Come and see," said she. 
 
 " I shall not, I assure you." was his re- 
 joinder, ''because if it is only to sit with her 
 for an hour or two, tell her that I cannot do so 
 this evening." 
 
 " Nay, it is not precisely that, there is com- 
 pany in the drawing-room, and mamma wishes 
 you to spend the evening with us.'' 
 
 " I cannot. Company, always company ! 
 tell her that Ramsay and myself are quite com- 
 fortable here.'* 
 
 ** No, I shall not; I was not to go back 
 to the drawing - room, without you, mamma 
 said." 
 
 " Then you will have to stay here for three 
 or four hours more." 
 
 " I am sure I will not ; you shall follow me 
 to mamma.'' 
 
 ** Wait and see ; but I would advise you to
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 339 
 
 take a chair, as in the meantime you may be 
 tired of standing/' 
 
 " Oh no ! before ten minutes are passed, I 
 shall leave the library arm-in-arm with you." 
 Frank did not answer, but went on reading. 
 " Seymour is in the drawing-room," said 
 Kate again, " and he wishes to see you." 
 No answer. 
 
 ** Do you hear me, Frank ?" continued she' 
 *^* you might just as well answer." 
 
 " Mr. Glenallan is no great favourite of 
 mine, nor does he wish for my company." 
 " Eveline is there too." 
 
 '^'An excellent reason that I should remain 
 here then, she invariably gives me the head- 
 ache." 
 
 *' Are you quite certain it is not the heart- 
 ache ? you seemed quite amused with her at 
 Chiswick the other day." 
 *' Amused ! with a magpie." 
 " Magpies are amusing creatures, Frank — are 
 they not, Mr. Ramsay?" 
 
 Q 2
 
 340 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Perhaps so/' answered that gentleman, 
 looking up at her for a moment ; " but pray do 
 not interrupt me, Miss Bouverie, you make me 
 lose my time — and time is precious to us all — 
 at least it ought to be/' he added, with a 
 glance of reproof at Kate. 
 
 Kate turned again to Frank. 
 
 " What are you reading?" she said. 
 
 " Nothing that will interest you," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 ** How do you know that?" she rejoined, 
 "let me see !" 
 
 " Come then and look at the book, if you 
 like," said he. 
 
 And in accordance with this gracious per- 
 mission, Kate leaned over his shoulder for a 
 moment or two to read the title-page, then as 
 quick as lightning cleverly snatched the volume 
 from him, and held it aloft in triumph. 
 
 ** Give me the book back, Kate," said 
 Frank. 
 
 " Not I ! — or yes, perhaps I may, if you
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 341 
 
 will come and fetch it from me in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 And she walked towards the door : Frank 
 quietly sat down and took up another volume 
 and began reading it. Seeing this, she came 
 back again to the table, and opening her prize, 
 " Oh !" said she, " the Koran ! are you going 
 to turn mussulman, Frank ? But how could 
 you put up with the houris ? 1 should think 
 all women were excluded from the Heaven ^of 
 your imagination." 
 
 Not a word from the gentleman she ad- 
 dressed. 
 
 "Come!" she said, " do not be cross; that 
 I shall not allow. And you will not come 
 with me ? you might as well — come ! mamma 
 wishes for you so much." 
 
 Not a word. 
 
 " What, are you really angry ? surely you 
 are not so foolish as to be so ! And Kate ap- 
 proached nearer to him to see if he were dis- 
 pleased in good earnest. He looked it ; and
 
 342 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 instantly putting down the book she had taken 
 from him, on the table, " Well, Frank,'' she 
 said, " you are angry, I know ; but, neverthe- 
 less, you must shake hands with me before I 
 carry your uncivil message to mamma ; I do 
 not like to part downright angrily at all events. 
 Come, will yoii not ?" 
 
 And she held out her hand to him — but he 
 did not notice her, and again she moved to- 
 wards the door, seeing, as she did so, Mr. 
 Ramsay glance with an approving nod at his 
 pupil. But before she had time to make her 
 exit, Frank Beresford rose from his chair, and 
 was at her side. 
 
 " Well, Kate," he said, " 1 am cross some- 
 times, 1 know — here is my hand ; let us make 
 it up by all means." 
 
 "Ah!" rejoined Kate, with a merry smile, 
 ** you are come to yourself, are you? Why," 
 she continued, looking at him with some de- 
 gree of pleasure, for Frank's stitfness and 
 formality had vanished, and nothing but a
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 343 
 
 good-natured smile was visible on his coun- 
 tenance, " Why, you look exactly like the 
 pleasant old Frank of past years, and not the 
 learned and precise Mr. Beresford of present 
 times — pray, pray do not take to the latter 
 character again, I beseech you ! Continue as 
 you are — be at least for to-night, the dear, 
 darhng old Frank of my childhood, whom I 
 liked so very much, though I used to quarrel 
 with him, and come and spend the evening 
 with us — with mamma and Eveline, and Sey- 
 mour, just as you used to do in old days, 
 come !" 
 
 And placing her arm within his, she made 
 him take several steps towards the door, before 
 he had time to make any objections. But at 
 last, he said, though with some little embarrass- 
 ment, for her last appeal sorely shook his reso- 
 lution of staying where he was, " My dear Kate, 
 I really cannot, no, really — pray excuse me to 
 my mother, pray — " 
 
 " Oh I no, no, no, I will not, indeed," cried
 
 344 SIR ARTHUR BOUVBRIE. 
 
 Kate, laughingly ; " no, you must come with 
 me now." 
 
 Here Frank caught Mr. Ramsay's eye fixed 
 upon him with a most undisguised expression 
 of alarm, and again endeavouring to return 
 towards the table, he said : *' Now pray, Kate, 
 return to the drawing-room without me, there's 
 a good girl." 
 
 '' If being a good girl consists in going back 
 to the drawing-room without you, I shall 
 be a very naughty one, because I do not in- 
 tend to do so, and I have still an unanswerable 
 argument left, which you cannot refuse or do 
 away with." 
 
 **And what is that?" 
 
 " Why to-day is my birthday, and if I make 
 it my request that you will come and spend the 
 evening with us, I do not see, supposing you to 
 be a gentleman, or even a good natured person, 
 how you can refuse to do so." 
 
 " But do you make it your request ?" 
 
 " I do."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVKRIE. 345 
 
 "Then, there is no help for it, I must go. — 
 Ramsay, good evening ?" 
 
 " Ah ! my dear fellow !'^ exclaimed that gen- 
 tleman, in a tone of commiseration. 
 
 " Oh 1 you need not say good evening to Mr. 
 Ramsay," continued Kate, " he will accompany 
 you, of course,'^ 
 
 *^ I, Miss Bouverie, I ?" 
 
 '* Yes, you, Mr. Ramsay, you. Do not you 
 see that I am a wilful young lady, and like to 
 have my own way in every thing ? Surely you 
 will not refuse me to-day ! it really is my birth- 
 day — you may ask mamma, if it is not." 
 
 " But why, Miss Bouverie, do you wish me 
 to join your circle ? an old man's company can- 
 not be pleasant to you." 
 
 '* How do you know that ? I declare I will ap- 
 pear as amiable as I can to you all the evening, 
 and render myself unquestionably agreeable. 
 Frank,'' said she, turning to him, *' make him 
 come with us.'' 
 
 Q 3
 
 346 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " Ramsay," said Frank, '' you must come — 
 that is to say, I think you had better." 
 
 •« Must 1 V replied Mr. Ramsay, ruefully ; 
 then with a sudden change of countenance as 
 he looked towards Frank, he added, with some 
 alacrity, " yes, yes, of course 1 will' — very right, 
 thank you, 1 will come " And rising from his 
 seat he joined them. 
 
 " Pray then, my dear sir, walk on before me, 
 else I really shall not believe you," answered 
 Kate, as with a wicked smile she took Frank's 
 arm, and escorted him from the hbrary ; ** ah T' 
 she said, "how sovereign is woman's will!" 
 
 *' How sovereign is woman s pernicious in- 
 fluence!" groaned Mr. Ramsay. 
 
 When they entered the drawing-room, Sey- 
 mour Glenallan was at the piano, executing a 
 bnUiant piece of music, to which Evehne was 
 listening in perfect delight, as she leaned over 
 his chair, and Mrs. Beresford and Edith L'Es- 
 trange Mere quietly talking together. 
 
 " Ah ! Frank ! I am so glad ^'ou are come,"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 347 
 
 said his mother, as he made his appearance ; 
 ** I scarcely thought my message would bring 
 you hither." 
 
 " It was only Kate's obstinacy that prevailed 
 upon me to give you my company/' answered 
 he. 
 
 ** Well, I am glad she has so much influence 
 over you," replied Mrs. Beresford, with a signi- 
 ficant smile ; then turning to Mrs. L'Estrange, 
 she added, " Edith, allow me to introduce my 
 son and Mr. Ramsay." 
 
 Edith L'Estrange slightly and coldly bent 
 her head towards the gentlemen, and then ad- 
 dressing some words to Kate, the latter dropped 
 Frank's arm, and sat down by her side — he, at 
 the same time comfortably settling himself on 
 the sofa near his mother, while Mr. Ramsay, 
 turning towards the table, took a chair, and 
 began looking over a few of the books placed 
 upon it. 
 
 '* Do not leave the piano, Mr. Glenallan,'" 
 said Mrs. Beresford, as she saw that gentleman
 
 348 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 in the act of doing so ; " pray oblige us with 
 another song/^ 
 
 " Perhaps some one else will," replied he ; 
 "Mrs. L'Estrange or Kate, or—'' 
 
 '^ Oh ! no, no, no, Seymour,^' cried the latter, 
 *' Mrs. L'Estrange and Kate are too much en- 
 gaged to reheve guard as yet ; so if mamma 
 wishes for more music, pray be a good boy, and 
 comply with her request — any petit rien will do." 
 
 " As you like then," said Seymour, and again 
 he sat down to the piano. 
 
 " Oh ! do not sing Italian/' said Lady Eve- 
 line, just as he commenced ' Vi ravviso,' *' not 
 Italian — you know I do not understand it." 
 
 '• That is no fault of mine, Eveline,'' answered 
 Seymour, composedly, " other people do, and 
 1 am not just now singing to please you." 
 
 ^^ Oh ! but do not sing Italian," said she 
 again. 
 
 " Well, then, what shall I sing?" 
 
 ** Nothing ; I will ask Mrs. L'Estrange to 
 sing an English ballad — yes, an English one, 
 Seymour."
 
 SIB ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 349 
 
 " Ah ! yes," replied he, rising from his chair, 
 *^ ask Mrs. L'Estrange to sing — so will I.'' 
 
 And following Eveline to where Edith sat, 
 Seymour seconded her request, which Edith at 
 once complied with. 
 
 " Oh ! thank you/' cried Lady EveHne, when 
 she had finished her song, ''now is not that 
 pretty, Seymour ?" 
 
 '' Very," he answered, " but I do not wonder 
 at your admiring it, Eveline, because it advo- 
 cates a theme that every woman is fond of — 
 girls especially — secret love. Does it not, Mrs. 
 L'Estrange ?" 
 
 Whether his words awakened some feeling in 
 accordance with those she had just expressed in 
 song, or whether she was merely surprised at the 
 suddenness of his address, Seymour could not 
 say, but, with curiosity he remarked the thin 
 cheek of Edith deeply redden, as she answered 
 in some embarrassment, " I suppose so — yes — 
 1 dare say — I presume you mean that ladies 
 always think of love, Mr. Glenallan ?" 
 
 " Yes, answered Seymour," they think of it,
 
 350 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 and talk of it, and imagine they feel it, although 
 I do not say," he added, with a half satirical 
 smile, " they ever truly experience that passion. 
 Every woman has some quiet little love dream 
 of her own, which she secretly treasures up for 
 a year, — no, rather for a month or two, and then 
 gently lets fall to the ground ; woman's love is 
 never very enduring." 
 
 " Not enduring !" cried Lady Eveline ; "how 
 can you say so, Seymour ?" 
 
 *' Not enduring !" said Kate ; " my dear 
 cousin, what a libel upon our sex !" 
 
 " Not enduring!" replied Edith, slowly, her 
 dark blue eyes gazing earnestly before her, 
 and her voice faltering as she spoke, " Mr. 
 Glenalian, have you ever proved it?" 
 
 " Proved it?" he answered, " yes, score:^ and 
 scores of times, and I never found a woman as 
 yet, who could love me longer than a twelve- 
 month." 
 
 , '* Perhaps they found out that you were not 
 worth being loved," said Kate, «' so then they 
 were surely wise to leave off loving you."
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 351 
 
 " Not more than a twelvemonth !^' cried Lady 
 Eveline ; *' why Seymour, we have been engaged 
 six months, and I am sure I shall love you to 
 the end of the twelvemonth, and longer." 
 
 " A month longer, perhaps V 
 
 " Oh ! you uncivil unbeliever ! do not you 
 believe I love you as much as I can love you?" 
 
 " As much as you can, Eveline, certainly." 
 
 " Do you hear him, Mrs. L'Estrange ?" 
 
 *• Yes," replied Edith, with a smile ; " but 
 your ladyship must remember there are some 
 people who will dispute the clearest truths." 
 
 '* I do not deny that a woman loves," an- 
 swered Seymour, " here is Eveline, I suppose, 
 as she has been so kind as to avow it before 
 you all, loves me ; I only affirm that a woman's 
 love is not lasting — that is to say, she is as 
 fickle with her lover as with her dresses, those 
 which please to-day, may not do so to-morrow. 
 I have had a first love^ a second love, a third, 
 fourth, fifih, and sixth love, yet I never found a 
 woman who loved me as I should wish to be 
 loved."
 
 352 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " And how would you wish to be loved ?" 
 asked Kate. 
 
 " Quietly," he answered, '* devotedly, en- 
 duringly." 
 
 '* Do I love you that way?" said Lady Eve- 
 line. 
 
 '' No '/' he replied smiling, and patting her 
 on the head more like a father than a lover, "no 
 woman ever does ; but your love Eveline is as 
 good as most women's — better in some respects, 
 for there is more than usual sincerity about it." 
 
 ** And do you love me better than I love 
 you ?" asked Lady Eveline, with a look of curi- 
 osity. 
 
 Seymour laughed. 
 
 " I must not pass sentence on myself, Eve- 
 line," said he, " I resign myself to your mercy." 
 
 "Then let me see your face, Seymour," cried 
 her ladyship, pushing back her flaxen ringlets, 
 and standing on tiptoe to reach the level of his 
 countenance, " I shall say," she continued, look- 
 ing at him for a moment or two with a pretty
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 353 
 
 little air of coquetry, ** I shall say, you love me 
 just as much as I love you!" 
 
 « Good,*^ answered he, with a broader smile, 
 '* that will do delightfully/' 
 
 " A comfortable pair of lovers you both are !" 
 said Kate with a gentle sneer. 
 
 "Yes." replied Seymour, complacently, '' we 
 are neither of us jealous.'^ 
 
 " So it seems," Kate rejoined, " you are as 
 careless in that as in other things." 
 
 " To what do you allude ?" said Seymour. 
 
 **To your ring,'' she answered, holding up a 
 signet ring for him to see; "where do you 
 think I found this?" 
 
 " On the piano," he answered, " I took it off 
 to play ; it is such a heavy concern." 
 
 " Under the piano," said Kate. 
 
 " Ah ! I suppose it must have dropped from 
 thence ; well, 1 will not take it off ray finger again 
 — 1 would not lose it for a thousand pounds. 
 A thousand ! five or six thousand I should 
 say."
 
 354 SIR ARTHUR BOUVKRIE. 
 
 " That is the mysterious ring you are talking 
 of, are you not, Seymour V said Lady Eveline. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. 
 
 " Ah !" she continued, turning to Edith, " did 
 you ever hear that story, Mrs. L'Estrange ? — it 
 is quite a romantic one, I assure you !" 
 
 " What story ?" answered Edith, glancing 
 up at her with a look of curiosity, " but I beg 
 your pardon,'' she added in another moment, 
 turning towards Seymour, *' her ladyship al- 
 ludes to your ring, Mr. Glenallan, and perhaps 
 my question is a rude one." 
 
 ** Not at all," replied he, " Eveline has my 
 permission to tell the whole tale. I only wish 
 she would do so as often as she can — I really 
 wish it made as public as possible, for then I 
 might gain some clue to the mystery which is at 
 the bottom of the affair.'' 
 
 " Alors, let me begin at once," cried Lady 
 Eveline ; and, addressing Edith, " you must 
 know then, Mrs. L'Estrange," she began, " that 
 some years ago, Seymour was not always as 
 rich as he is now — '*
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 355 
 
 " In fact, I was very poor — a poor devil of a 
 barrister without a brief — the last scion of an 
 ancient family whose patrimony had dwindled 
 away to nothing,'* added in he. 
 
 "■ Now, Seymour, will you let me tell the 
 story, will you ?" cried her ladyship, " how can 
 I go on, if you interrupt me ?" 
 
 '* 1 was only volunteering a few explana- 
 tions," he answered, " but before you com- 
 mence in good earnest, Eveline, call all the 
 parties assembled here to this end of the room, 
 and make them sit round you, that I may ob- 
 serve the effect your wondrous tale has upon 
 each of them ; you know whenever the story is 
 related that is my mode of proceeding." 
 
 " Do you think,'^ laughed her ladyship, " that 
 Mr, Beresiord, or that old mummy yonder had 
 any thing to do with it?" 
 
 " No," answered Seymour, " but they might 
 be acquainted with some one who had, might 
 they not?" 
 
 "Very well," she replied, " Mr. Beresford,
 
 356 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 Mr. Ramsay, will you have the kindness to step 
 this way V 
 
 And the matter being explained to them, they 
 did. 
 
 " Mrs. Beresford,'^ said Lady Eveline, " has 
 heard it over and over again, so I will not call her. 
 Now I begin — where was I ? oh ! Seymour 
 was very poor — very. Well, about that time a 
 very rich but distant relation of his died without 
 a will, and no one knew to whom the old miser's 
 estates would go. Five or six persons set up 
 for the property, and Seymour amongst them, 
 but you all know that lawsuits are most tiresome 
 things, and nobody can tell how they may finish, 
 80 Seymour, having very little money to throw 
 away, was about to withdraw his claim altogether, 
 when he found there were so many re idy to 
 dispute it, as he thought it silly to risk his scanty 
 income in pursuit of what might be nothing at 
 all — (which puts one in mind of the dog 
 and the shadow, a very disagreeable fable I 
 learnt when I was in school) when, — what was
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 357 
 
 I going to say ? ah ! when one evening, he was 
 all at once relieved from his anxieties on that 
 head by the following unexpected circirmstance. 
 As he was sitting at dusk in his chambers in 
 the Temple, thinking how very delightful it was 
 to be rich, how very unpleasant it was to be 
 poor, a loud knock came to the door, and soon 
 after the old woman who waited there came up 
 with a brown paper parcel, not very large, nor 
 yet very small, which she said a servant man 
 had brought for him — for Seymour, you know. 
 Well, he opened it, and what do you think it 
 contained ? money, money, money, nothing but 
 money, all in bank notes, to the amount of six 
 thousand pounds, and a beautiful gold ring set 
 with a sapphire — the one Kate picked up a 
 short while ago, Mrs. L'Estrange. Was he not 
 astonished ! I dare say he was— and the more 
 so when he found a slip of paper, which was 
 placed there, too. In a large bold handwriting 
 were written the words I am going to repeat — 
 that is to say, if I can recollect them. Now I
 
 358 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 have them ! — here they are: * Scruple not to 
 use that which Providence sends : the person 
 who offers you the enclosed sum of money biit 
 sends the superfluous thousands of a large for- 
 tune, which cannot be better employed than in 
 aiding the lawful heir of the Goodwood estates 
 to assert his claim upon them. Seek not to 
 know the giver, for that knowledge will never 
 be yours, but be wise and delay not to use the 
 means that Heaven has assigned to you of tri- 
 umphing over your adversaries. Wear the en- 
 closed ring — it is the only mark of gratitude 
 that the writer of these lines will ever require, 
 or can receive from you.' Those were the 
 words, I have not missed a syllable, I assure 
 you; — yet Seymour could make nothing of 
 them, although he read them over and over 
 again — that is to say, he never could tell who it 
 was forwarded him the packet, and even now he 
 has not one satisfactory idea upon the subject. 
 He did, however, use the money, after a good 
 deal of deliberation, and a great many useless
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 359 
 
 efforts to find out who it came from, and won 
 the estates.^^ 
 
 "Indeed !" said Frank Beresford, "is this a 
 true tale, Mr. Glenallan ? or is her ladyship 
 jesting?" 
 
 " EveHne has told nothing but the truth/' 
 replied Seymour. 
 
 " Most extraordinary !" muttered Mr. Ram- 
 say, " disinterested actions are not very common 
 now-a-days.'' 
 
 " Nor ever were," said Kate. 
 
 *' But is it not a strange story ?" Lady Eve- 
 line asked; '^ Mrs. L'Estrange, you do not seem 
 surprised at it.'' 
 
 " 1 can hardly think it true," she replied. 
 
 " Oh ! but it is true, is it not, Kate ? How 
 1 should like to know all about it I — whether it 
 was a lady or gentleman sent the money to Sey- 
 mour !" 
 
 " Oh ! a lady of course," said Kate, " a man 
 would never have thought of the pretty little 
 satinwood box in which the notes and ring were
 
 360 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIB. 
 
 enclosed ; and then the writer begging Seymour 
 to wear the ring, that just seems like a woman's 
 fancy." 
 
 *' But/^ observed Edith, " her ladyship said, 
 Kate, that the letter was written in a large bold 
 hand, which does not make it appear as if it 
 came from a lady.'* 
 
 '^ Pooh ! my dear Edith,'' answered Kate, 
 " that is no proof against my supposition ; we 
 all can disguise our handwritings as easily as 
 possible — can not you ?" 
 
 " Disguise their handwritings !" growled 
 Mr. Ramsay, " what next do they disguise ? 
 themselves ! Frank, hear that — woman is made 
 up of falsehood." 
 
 *' Come, come, old cynic, no more railing, if 
 you please !" said Kate ; " you are in ladies' 
 society now, my dear sir." 
 
 " And what do you know about the cynics, 
 Kate ?" said Frank, aroused from his usual 
 silence by the word, which launched his mind 
 at once upon a chaos of Grecian philosophy.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 361 
 
 " Nothing, but that they were ill-tempered 
 people something like yourself and Mr. Ram- 
 say, who reasoned themselves into folly," an- 
 swered she ; then turning to Seymour, she said, 
 ** I maintain, my dear cousin, that it is to a 
 woman you are indebted; one, perhaps, of those 
 very persons whom you deem so fickle." 
 
 '' Well," replied he, " if a woman existed, who 
 could thus generously assist me, and yet for six 
 years keep the secret, I should — hum I" said 
 he, suddenly stopping short, and looking at 
 Eveline, who was turning over some new music 
 with Mrs. L'Estrange. 
 
 " You should ?" asked Kate, amused at his 
 hesitation. 
 
 " 1 should say she was in love with me," an- 
 swered he. 
 
 "Nonsense, that was not what you were 
 going to say,'' remarked Kate, " but there I 
 allow you to be silent as Eveline is present." 
 
 " My dear Sir Arthur !" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Beresford from the other end of the room, 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 362 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 ** what an unexpected pleasure ! I thought you 
 were in the country/' 
 
 And the party round the piano, aroused by 
 this exclamation, one and all turned their eyes 
 towards the doorway, through which they saw 
 the tall and stately form of Sir Arthur Bouverie 
 entering the room. Kate instantly started up 
 and ran towards her uncle ; Frank, Seymour, 
 Edith and Eveline, after his bow of recognition, 
 remained where they were ; but Mr. Ramsay 
 in the first moment of his entrance, with a sud- 
 den start rose from his chair, gazed in bewil- 
 dered surprise upon him, and became ashy pale, 
 till gradually seeming to recover himself, he 
 hastily quitted the room. Sir Arthur, Kate 
 and Mrs. Beresford did not perceive this ; the 
 rest, however, could not help doing so, and in 
 perfect astonishment they looked at the open 
 door, through which he passed, until their cu- 
 riosity was still more excited, by seeing Frank, 
 without the slightest intimation of his purpose, 
 also rise and relieve them of his company.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 363 
 
 Meanwhile, Kate and Sir Arthur were standing 
 near the fireplace together. 
 
 " How glad 1 am to see you, uncle," said 
 Kate ; '* when did you arrive ?" 
 
 " Last night/' he answered ; " I have for 
 some time been wishing to come up to town, only 
 different things detained me in the country." 
 
 '* And now, uncle, you are come when every 
 body else is leaving it." 
 
 *' I do not stay for long, Kate ; I merely left 
 Wiltshire to transact some little business, and 
 to settle with your brother and his wife, about 
 their visiting me in the autumn." 
 
 " And does Cecil intend to do so ?" asked 
 Kate. 
 
 " Is there any reason why he should not?" 
 
 " Oh no ! and when are they going to leave, 
 uncle ? I should like to know, because Mrs. 
 Bouverie — " 
 
 " Mrs. Bouverie, Kate ? whom do you mean ?" 
 
 ** Why, Mrs. Bouverie, Cecil's wife, uncle." 
 
 "Oh, Amy — well, what of her?" 
 
 R 2
 
 364 SIR A.RTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " She wishes me to spend a month or two at 
 Belgrave Street ; but if she quits London soon, 
 there will be no time to do so." 
 
 " There will not ; w ithin a fortnight she leaves 
 town ; yet that scarcely alters the case either, 
 with respect to this visit of yours, for you are 
 to come down with them." 
 
 " To Bouverie Castle, uncle ?" 
 
 ** Yes ; I suppose you would rather not ?" 
 
 " Oh no ! I should Uke it exceedingly." 
 
 But this was false : for Kate saw no pleasure 
 in passing her time with persons who did not 
 agree between themselves, as she well knew, 
 her brother and Sir Arthur had not come since 
 the former's marriage. 
 
 " Come hither, Kate," said her uncle, after a 
 moment or two of silence, and he walked to- 
 wards a sofa at a distance from Mrs. Beresford, 
 and from the musical party, '^ come hither, I 
 wish to speak with you.'^ 
 
 His niece obediently followed him, sat down 
 by his side, and awaited his further pleasure.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 365 
 
 «^ Kate " said Sir Arthur, after remaining a 
 moment or two silent, with his eyes fixed on the 
 ground, as if at a loss how to commence the 
 conversation ; " Kate, you know most of the 
 circumstances relating to your brother's marri- 
 age, do you not?" 
 
 ^' Uncle!" 
 
 '* You do," he continued, fixing his keen 
 black eyes upon her, '^ I knew it by some re- 
 marks you let fall before me the other day — 
 now tell me what you think of it ?" 
 
 « Of what uncle ?" 
 
 " Of the marriage." 
 
 "What I think of it?" answered Kate, ra- 
 ther haughtily; ** I think it an ill assorted 
 one. 
 
 "Was it not justice that Cecil should marry 
 the girl, after having intentionally gained her 
 affections ?" 
 
 '' Are you sure that he intentionally gained 
 them ?" 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 R 3
 
 366 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 '' We differ in opinion then, uncle." 
 '^ We do ; I see your aflfection for your 
 brother bUnds you to his faults, and that you 
 are as fooUshly proud as he ; but recollect Kate^ 
 no 'pride should prevent us doing a just ac- 
 tion." 
 
 *' But to bind Cecil to a woman he did not 
 
 love, uncle ! one, too, so much beneath him in 
 rank and education/' 
 
 " She is well educated.'* 
 
 " She is very silly." 
 
 ^' I do not think so." 
 
 ** But she is uncle, and very gauche and 
 childish." 
 
 '' That will wear off. But how comes it, 
 Kate, if these are your real sentiments respect- 
 ing Amy, that you have made yourself so amiable 
 in her eyes, as to win her good opinion ? which 
 you must have done before she would have 
 spoken of you to me in the terms she did this 
 morning." 
 
 " Did she speak well of me ?"
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 36? 
 
 '' Yes ; accidentally, she gave me to under- 
 stand that she liked you very much." 
 
 *' I "did not know that ; I never took any 
 trouble to make her like me, I must say." 
 
 ''Why not?" 
 
 *' I did not feel inclined that she should." 
 
 "You did not?" 
 
 " No ; I did not wish such a sort of person 
 to Hke me." 
 
 " You speak unwisely, Kate ; remember you 
 are indirectly blaming me." 
 
 ^' Not indirectly ; you asked me my opinion 
 of her, uncle, and I think I gave it openly 
 enough." 
 
 "Then you are resolved not to like your 
 brother's wife ?" 
 
 '^ I said not so ; for if I feel disposed to like 
 her, why I must ; I cannot help myself in that 
 case." 
 
 ^* Is she perfectly unworthy of your affection 
 then ?" 
 
 '* She is very pretty, and timid, and kind, 
 only I cannot exactly like her."
 
 368 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 " And your brother — is he reconciled to the 
 match ? what does he say about her?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 Sir Arthur was silent for some time ; then 
 taking a small morocco case from his waistcoat 
 pocket, " here, Kate," he said, ** this is what I 
 chiefly came for to-night, this is your birthday 
 present — it is your birthday, is it not ? And 
 now, good night, I see that it is already late.'' 
 And glancing at the time-piece he rose from 
 the sofa. 
 
 " Thank you, uncle," said Kate, as she bent 
 her face towards him to receive a kiss ; '^you are 
 not angry with me, are you ? You asked me to 
 speak openly, you know.*' 
 
 " I did ; no, I am not angry ; why should I 
 be ? good night.'' 
 
 And making his farewell compliments to 
 Mrs. Beresford and the rest of the company, he 
 departed. ^ 
 
 *' How strange of your uncle to come so late, 
 and stay so short a time, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Beresford.
 
 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 369 
 
 ^' He only came to give me this bracelet, 
 mamma ; it is his custom on every birthday to 
 give me something : he said he had not time 
 to step in to us before." 
 
 Here Lady Eveline ran up to them, and ex- 
 claimed upon the singularity of Frank's and 
 Mr. Ramsay's disappearance, relating the lat- 
 ter's strange behaviour when he first discerned 
 Sir Arthur. 
 
 " I dare say/' she concluded, " that he is 
 slightly deranged — I always thought he must 
 be, from what Kate has often told me about his 
 oddities — Mr. Beresford, of course, saw the fit 
 was upon him, and so went out to know whe- 
 ther he did himself an injury.'' 
 
 Kate laughed ; Mrs. Beresford looked alarm- 
 ed, and Edith said, 
 
 ** I think his emotion had some connection 
 with the sight of Sir Arthur." 
 
 " Yes," rejoined Seymour," it certainly had." 
 
 '' Well," continued Lady Eveline ; " Sir Ar- 
 thur looks so stately at limes, that he actually
 
 370 SIR ARTHUR BOUVERIE. 
 
 frightens me, so I dare say, he frightened poor 
 little Mr. Ramsay, who never sees a soul from 
 from one week's end to another's." 
 
 Mrs. Beresford, however, did not seem satis- 
 fied with this explanation, and she was about to 
 leave the drawing-room in search of her son, 
 when he entered it. To the inquiries addressed to 
 him respecting Mr. Ramsay's discomposure, he 
 only answered that his old friend had been at- 
 tacked by a sudden dimness of sight and giddi- 
 ness, which bewildered him for a time, but that 
 he had now quite recovered. 
 
 " I do not think it was exactly so,'' said Lady 
 Eveline, with a sagacious shake of her head, as 
 she wished Mrs. Beresford good night, and Kate 
 and Seymour agreed with her in this opinion ; 
 but Frank firmly standing to the truth of the 
 explanations he gave, they were obliged to con- 
 tent themselves with a vacillating sort of belief 
 in them, and soon after they separated for the 
 night. 
 
 END OF VOL. 1.
 
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