The Baronets and their Brides

Preface

. The aim of the Author has been to take a humble part with those who are endeavouring to turn to good account the growing rage for sensational novel reading. If the unpretending production be found— especially among the younger readers, whom the writer has kept prominently in view — to instruct and persuade, as well as interest and amuse, grateful will be his reflection that the publication of this, as the first of a contem plated series of a somewhat similar kind, has not been altogether in vain. W. M. C. Tookwith Vicarage, York. September, 1S90, CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. Arthur Bevan c,i route for the Highlands — Charming society amid charming scenery 1 II. The interchange of visits between Oaklands and Kensington 9 -T III. The Dowager Lady Hazledale and her orphan prottgie IS IV. A dinner party at Newland Park — Dorothy Catherine Ashburton turns it to good account 26 V. Sir Richard Hazledale and Captain Beverley over their wines and witticisms — Alcoholic excitement and maudlin fancies 34 VI.

A perilous drive by night — A strange tete-d-tetc after supper J 3 ATI. The Dowager, with her serene sense of propriety, lectures her son on courtship and marriage 4S VIII. Sir Richard's strange way of proposing ; and the lady's ideal of matrimony 54 IX. Captain Beverley starts for the war, but leaves his heart behind 62 X. War news — A wild ride— A touching scene — The holy power of prayer 70 XI. An eventful railway journey 79 XII. An unexpected meeting 91 XIII. Arthur Bevan revisits Oaklands, and finds tnsfianeic out — in more ways than one 99 XIV. The jealousy of a rival and the policy of a jilt 105 XV, Amelia Finlay in a round of gaiety at Newland Park CONTENTS. VIII CHAP. PAGE XVI. A faithless fiancee in a dilemma 116 XVII. Double-dealing, fear, and flight 122 XVIII. A startling visitor— An affecting interview— A journey in a hurricane 128 XIX.

The family mansion a wreck — The Baronet becomes a Benedict 136 XX. Sir Richard and Lady Hazledale arrive in Paris— A Parisian Sabbath — A visit to the Royal Palace of Fontainebleau 140 XXI. A mysterious discovery — A night adventure — Awakening visions of the past 149 XXII. Madame de Fonvielle — French society — A duellist's challenge 157 XXIII. A wicked woman's revenge recoiling upon herself 167 XXIV. A narrow escape from a felon's doom 171 XXV. En route for the Riviera 177 XXVI. Monte Carlo — The gambler's scourge 181 XXVII. A moonlight tragedy 186 XXVIII. A fatherless heir and a portionless widow 193 XXIX. Arthur Bevan succeeds to his father's wealth and baronetcy 200 XXX. " Base envy withers at another's joy " 211 XXXI. The widow's marriage and the Christian's death 222 XXXII. Intemperate habits and a terrible temptation 232 XXXIII. Happiness in making others happy 236 XXXIV. The Baronet and his Bride

Chapter I

What contrasts we see in matrimonial alliances. The dark and fair in complexion, the tall and short in stature, the sanguine and phlegmatic in temperament, the obtuse and acute in intellect, the firm and the frivolous in character — how often we see these and other con trarieties united in married life. It is well to be so ; though Dame Nature may some times seem severe in sacrificing congeniality to utility. For does it not tend to adjust the balance between the otherwise preponderating distinctions of the human race? They are modified and harmonized by the close and constant union with each other, and mutual im provement is the result. It is true when such contra distinctions come into contact, they may be felt chafing the spirit ; but it is only the friction of the jewels that they may shine the brighter.

However, those that knew them best wondered the most at the remarkable contrast in so many respects be tween Arthur Bevan and Amelia Finlay, his fiancee. Not only was he very dark, while she was extremely fair, and he was tall and muscular, while she was diminutive and delicate ; but he was an energetic, manly, and matter-of-fact young man, while she was in character — what the reader will learn. B THE HAROXETS AND THEIR BRIDES. They had first met at a table d'hote at the well named " Modern Athens " — Edinburgh. As they and their respective travelling companions were on a tour to the Highlands, they engaged a railway carriage compartment for the whole party. The beautiful scenery of mountain and loch, loch and mountain, which enraptured the ladies nearly all the way from Callander to Oban afforded matters for ani mated conversation.

Whilst lunching, and afterwards waiting at the latter place for the steamboat that was to take them up Loch Linnhe, Miss Finlay and Mr. Bevan became yet more intimate. Peacefully as the tide seems to flow along Loch Linnhe in the view of most of the autumnal tourists, it is never theless liable to sudden squalls. Our friends found the steamer to pitch and roll more than they had expected. When the ladies in consequence adjourned to the saloon, Miss Finlay felt sure that to go down there would make her ill ; therefore she would remain on deck. She feared there was a danger of catching cold by sitting still, and yet the vessel tossed too much to admit of her walking about the deck — except with support. Now Mr. Bevan's muscidar and warm-hearted nature was ever ready to yield support where it was likely to be acceptable.

He, therefore, deferentially offered his arm to the lady, who readily accepted it. As he felt her dainty fingers nestling there, at the same time that her languish ing blue eyes seemed so complacently to appeal to his own, he became conscious of a tendency to sensations which he had never been so inclined to give way to before. To and fro they walked the deck, charmed with the surrounding scenery and — with each other. Now they watched with considerable interest the gambols of a pair of white sea-gulls that fluttered in the wake of the steamer, and then they watched with greater interest slight blushes that mounted a pair of cheeks. Now they listened with mutual impression to the plaintive strains of a Highlander's pibroch at the other end of the boat, and then they listened with deeper impression to the tete-a-tete that became more and more marked with tender accents.

By the time they reached Ballachulish pier, Arthur Bevan had lost his hat in Loch Leven, and his heart to Amelia Finlay. At the hotel dinner, as they sat vis-a-vis, occasional glances across the table were too telegraphic to escape the observation of some of the company. As the evening passed away, he was so interested in conversa tion with the ladies in general, and one lady in particular, that, fond as he was of a cigarette, he did not retire to the smoking-room till they had retired for the night to rest. The next morning they crossed the loch to North Ballachulish. After inspecting the pretty little village church of St. Bride's they began to ascend the moun tain behind it, and they obliquely mounted the long range till they reached a point that commanded a view of the scenery on each side of it, where they sat down to a picnic luncheon.

How quickly seemed to fly those memorable six hours spent in climbing and descending that mountain b range, where, of course, Miss Finlay was glad of the support of Mr. Bevan's strong arm ; and was enrap tured with the magnificent surroundings as he read to her from the guide-book which pointed out their beauty. North-eastward they saw Ben Nevis and the mountains beyond, and northward they looked down the long green valley of Sallachiel, terminating in the distant loch, which glistened in the sunshine. Westward they gazed on range beyond range of Highland scenery till the eye rested on Ireland in the purple distance of the horizon. Southward Loch Leven was seen winding in and out among the surrounding hillsf reflecting in its blue depths a cloudless sky, and silvered far and wide with the noonday sun.

As they descended towards the thatched white cottages that skirted the foot of the mountain, and the far-seen residence of the Bishop of Argyll beyond, and directed their attention to their left-hand view, with what interest they watched the lights and shades over the rugged heights of Glencoe, till they were literally crimsoned with the sunset reflected from across the loch. The next morning, when the other ladies felt too tired from the past day's mountain climbing to rise at the usual breakfast hour, Miss Finlay was up betimes, and, book in hand, went out for a stroll along the road that bordered the loch and led to the pier. As she was returning, she recognized the voice of a gentleman, who, on overtaking her, said — "lam glad to see reason to indulge the hope that THE BARONETS AXI) THEIR BRIDES.

Miss Finlay is not suffering at all from her mountain exploits of yesterday." " Not much to complain of, Mr. Bevan ; indeed, my friends, whom I left at the hotel too tired to come out, have been expressing their surprise that I should feel so fresh and well. But then, you know, it did not require much exertion on my part to ascend or descend those awful heights yesterday, thanks to the strong arm that so kindly helped me up and down." " Well, we shall have no need to walk to-day, for there is a strange phenomenon, in the form of a kind of coach drawn by five horses, that will take us up to Glencoe." Accordingly, about an hour after breakfast, they were seated by each other's side in the conveyance that was winding its way between those magnificent mountains. " Glencoe," she remarked, " sounded rather poetic.

I wonder if there is any particular meaning to the name of this strange wild valley." "Yes," he replied, "it has an expressive meaning, and, as you intimate, suggests very poetic ideas — the weeping glen." " And was that name suggested by the lamentations with which it must have resounded for the treacherous massacre that was perpetrated here ? " " No, though it might on that account well have been called a vale of tears. But look at the numerous cataracts that are streaming down the face of that mountain, and indeed of nearly all we have passed." " Ah, I see Glencoe is a vale overshadowed by weep ing mountains." As he looked down upon the fair face by his side, and then up to those " weeping mountains," he little thought how often in after years they would appear to mournful memory's vision.

What a blessing it is that we know not what lies before us in the dim and distant future. The current of our emotions is like that of rivers: the deeper they are, the less noise they make. Arthur Bevan was a man of strong feelings, but few words. Though he had become warmly attached to Amelia Finlay, he had not yet told his love, nor asked for hers. He was anxiously waiting for a letter from his father, whom he had informed of his attachment, and to whom he had appealed for his approval. At length the letter came that was to seal his fate : " My own dear Arthur, " Right glad am I to know you are so enjoying your visit to Bonnie Scotland ; but I little thought of hearing of the new-found source of pleasure which occupies so much of your affectionate epistle. So platonic and unimpressible as you have hitherto been, it is amusing to learn that the stalwart stickler for bachelor blessedness has all at once succumbed to little Cupid.

" Whoever can the fortunate fair one be, and with whatever angelic attractions can she be endowed, that you have so suddenly chosen her the one being in crea tion to whom you mean to declare — ' With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow ' ? " I know that your kind heart is more likely to be swayed by sympathy than sentiment ; but I do hope that higher considerations than those which are merely or principally sympathetic have moved you to this sud den choice. " But I am happy to know that you are of age to judge for yourself. Also, it is natural for a parent, especially a father of my advanced years, to wish to see a son in the enjoyment of the society and sympathy and affection of a partner for life worthy of his love. " I have lately thought the more of this, inasmuch as I begin to feel the necessity of transferring my share of the responsibilities of our firm to yourself.

I cannot feel too thankful for the domestic bliss I have so many years enjoyed. To retire to it after the daily toils and cares of business, I have prized as among the happiest privileges of my Hfe. I have never met with a couple more congenially united than your late dear mother and myself. Yes, Arthur, if you were to ask me for one word that would most comprehensively express the qualifications for a happy married life, I would say — congeniality. " Now, so far as you are able to judge of the lady of your choice at this early stage of your acquaintance, is there likely to be this congeniality between you? There is a decade between your ages ; but the difference is on the right side. " Very early marriages have so often turned out to be unhappy, that I am glad there is no danger of that with you at the age of twenty-eight.

Yet you are conscious of very different views and feelings now from those you had at eighteen. Miss Finlay, it seems, is just about that age ; and at eighteen the history of life essentially begins. It is then that a lady is passing the boundary between girlhood and womanhood ; awaking up from the dreams of youth to come into contact with no ideal world. She is just leaving the elf-land of visionary romance to launch upon au ocean of stern realities. Are you sure there is the promise of a solidity that will weather the storms ? Oh ! if she fail in the hour of trial, what a wreck of your fondest hopes for life. " But some persons are mature in judgment and ex perience beyond their years. Does Miss Finlay seem wise enough to know her own mind, and staid enough to remain of the same mind for years to come ?

" I need hardly remind you that you have not known her long, and only as a fellow-traveller with her party. It is home-life you will have to spend with her, and I should like you to have opportunities of seeing her at home as well as abroad. " If your mutual attachment grows, and you see your way clear to make a proposal by the time you return, Alice will avail herself of an early introduction, and welcome her as her sister here. ' Do nothing rashly,' and seek that guidance which never errs. " With best wishes, " Affectionately your Father."

Chapter II

Ox the eve of their return from Scotland, Arthur Bevan proposed and was accepted. He lost no time in seeking an interview with the guardians of the orphan lady and her late mother's mother, Mrs. Finlay, with whom she resided when at home. His person, connections, circumstances and prospects secured the immediate approval of his suit. After some two months' correspondence, he was in vited by Mrs. Finlay to spend a week at Oaklands. The venerable lady was much pleased with his visit. Politeness is benevolence in trifles. His gentlemanly bearing, his unpretending care for the comfort of others, his cheerful and witty conversational powers, and the spirit of charity that pervaded his remarks on human failings gave to him, without any ostensible conscious ness of it on Iris part, a weight of character and in fluence that could not fail to win esteem and respect.

He soon made his way among the society to which he was introduced at Oaklands and the neighbourhood. Married and single, bachelors and spinsters, gave him a general welcome. Even the unengaged young ladies, who are generally such severe critics of another's fiancti, found but little fault with him. While it was evident to all as to the object of his attachment, they could catch none of those spoony passes between him and her which often render lovers so distasteful to company, and make every one but themselves feel de trop. Though he had as little sympathy with the goody goody type of character as he had with the mashers who consider it quite the thing to be fast young fools, he was not ashamed to attend church twice on Sunday, and join in the responses and hymns of the service there ; neither was he above sparing good old Mrs. Finlay's eyes by offering to read the lessons at the family prayers of her household.

At length it was with unfeigned pleasure she accepted an invitation to accompany her niece and him on his return to London. They spent a happy fortnight with him and his father and sister at their Kensington home. When pressed to stay longer, the kind-hearted old lady said it was absolutely necessary for her to return to Oaklands, but insisted on going unaccompanied by any one except her maid, in order that the young people might enjoy each other's society a little longer. Therefore, accompanying her in their own carriage to King's Cross station, and directing with a practical encouragement the kindly looking conductor's attention to the compartment in which she was comfortably seated, they saw her off by the Scotch express for York. Her granddaughter remained for a fortnight longer, enjoying herself from day to day with the amiable sister of her fiance, and with him, who spent every evening in her company, either at home or escorting them to some place of London amusement, or sharing the hospitality of the social circle to which he was so proud to introduce her.

At length the dull day of parting came, the regret for which was relieved by the hope of an early reunion, but — " Hope told a flattering tale that joy would soon return.' " Well, father, what do you think of my choice ? " was the question Arthur Bevan asked the first evening after the departure of his intended from London. " I think you have chosen a very good-looking, well mannered, highly-fashionable young lady." " No doubt of that, father." " I have no doubt, also, that in some respects she meets the views I have heard you express, Arthur. You have repeatedly said you would never marry one the world calls a strong-minded woman. You are not likely to break your word on that point if you marry Amelia Finlay. Then, again, you have often said you prefer seeing contrasts in marriage. You will be acting consistently with your views if you have her, for she is the veriest opposite of yourself."

" In what respects, father ? " " In every respect — physically, intellectually, and morally." " But remember, dear father, you do not see her with my eyes." " No, my son, but the eyes of young love are some times dazzled with the brightness of its own flame ; and the hotter it burns, the greater danger of being influenced by an overheated imagination. No love is more disinterested than a parent's. Now, it is in the nature of disinterested love to seek the happiness of its object. Then, in thus studying the happiness of a son, who is likely to view a lady in a more unprejudiced light than a father that wishes to see that son comfort ably settled in life ? I know what married life is from a long experience in my own hapjiy home, and by many years' observation of the homes of others. From what I know of your uncompromising principles, your stability of character, and depth of feeling, marriage will be to you a happy life or a living death.

You have asked my opinion now that I have seen the lady, as you in a filial spirit did when you first became acquainted with her ; and I feel it my duty to beseech you to consider well all the bearings of the case before you finally commit yourself to this most important transaction of your life. Remember, you are to live together as long as time shall last. When I stood before the altar with your late dear mother I was struck with the solemnity and deep feeling with which the clergyman uttered those words for us to say after him — ' till death do us part.' From what I know of you and have seen of Miss Finlay, I would affectionately advise you, dear Arthur, to become longer acquainted before you seal your life-long destiny." The tender-hearted old gentleman deeply sympathized with his son as he saw a shade of sadness gathering on the young man's usually sunny face ; but thought, as he gave a parting kiss to his forehead, " Better have a passing sorrow now than a blighted hfe for years to come."

He knew that that silver-toned, silken-haired, azure-eyed beauty was too much of a butterfly being for a man of Arthur's solid worth to have flitting and flirting about him for ever. He thought to himself, " There is indeed no accounting for taste, or Socrates, Milton, Bulwer, and many other men of mind would not have made such unhappy matches. But whatever can have led my stout-hearted and strong-minded Arthur to fix upon such a doll I am at a total loss to conceive, unless it was that he thought she needed a strong man to sup port her, and his sympathy ripened into love." How thankful in after years was Arthur for the advice which proved to have been so sound. Though at the time the ardour of his worship for the idol of his heart prevented him from seeing as his father saw, upon after reflection he reasoned himself into a conviction that his father's tender attachment to him, and concern for his contracting a happy marriage, would lead him to take the most favourable views possible of the lady of his choice.

Therefore his father, whose whole life had had so much to do with the study of character, must have some good reasons for the caution he so kindly gave. At length the gushing flood of first-love excitement had found its level, and the strong man's passion had gradually calmed down. With the lapse of time, and the absence of his dear one, he returned to a normal state of mind more favourable to the exercise of an unbiassed judgment. They had arranged to correspond with each other at least once a week. He would sometimes quote extracts from her letters in the course of conversation with his sister and father, with a view to impressing them with her intelligence. Certainly some of these passages were very beautiful. On one such occasion his father said — " The lady is more eloquent with her pen than her tongue ; her correspondence displays much more mind than her conversation.

Those passages are quite too exquisitely beautiful for us to have expected from one so young. Why, Arthur, you seem to have fixed upon a blue-stocking after all." Arthur's was a well-cultured mind, and he continued to improve it by daily reading. His library, though not large, was select. He made it a rule not to skim through a production and lay it aside for ever, as some do, merely for sensational amusement. He believed that what was worth reading at all was worth reading well ; and if a first perusal particularly interested him, in a year or two's time he would read it again, when it seemed like communing with a welcome friend. In the last letter he had received from Oaklands he had been struck more than ever with a page of fine ideas expressed in a beautiful flow of language. He thought that he hadreadideas somewhat like them before.

" Oh ! " said he, "I daresay she has expressed some of them in one of her previous letters, and in the excitement of writing a love-letter has forgotten that she had done so." In reading again Bulwer's " Last of the Barons," after having laid it aside some twelve months, he came across a passage that recalled the page he had so admired in her epistle. He drew it from the breast pocket in which he always carried about with him her last letter till another one arrived. Imagine his astonish ment at finding a verbatim copy of Bulwer's language, without the least intimation of its being a quotation. With his high sense of honour, his reverence for truth, his disgust at every kind of sham, he could hardly believe his own eyes as he gazed upon the plagiarism. How his heart sank within him. Of course, his father or any one else might naturally have thought that other beautiful passages in previous letters had been introduced surreptitiously also.

" But charity hopeth all things," and love is slow to believe anything that can derogate from the perfection of the idol worshipped. Common sense said, " The writer is a plagiarist ; " charity said, " She is a mystery;" love said, "She is an angel." Which would he beheve ? Ah ! dear reader, you know. A small object held near the eye will exclude from view all other objects in the horizon around ; and one little monosyllable expressed what shut out from Arthur's view all the dark spots in his fair one's character. If love cannot find an excuse, it will invent one. Hence, Arthur began to reason hypotheses into possi bilities, possibilities into probabilities, and probabilities into certainties. Then the wish that was father to the thought inly triumphed, quod erat demonstrandum. " In the first place, Amelia was writing only to me, and not for the press and public eye ; and in printed books I have occasionally seen the same thoughts and illustrations, only expressed in somewhat different lan guage.

Also she has shown she is not so shallow-minded as my dear father seems to think she is ; for she has copied one of the best authors and one of the mostbeauti ful passages in the whole book. But I cannot think she intended to pass it off as her own. How easy it was in the haste and excitement of writing a letter to me to omit the two short words, ' Bulwer says,' which were all that was needed. Shall I condemn the poor girl unheard for the sake of such a little omission ? How ever, lest the same oversight should occur in writing to any one else, I will just remind her of it in my next letter." An answer to his letter came by return of post, in which the writer said — " I am sorry I have not been punctilious enough to please my dear Arthur ; but I should have been more so in writing to any one else.

To you I dash off the effu sions of fond feeling and thought just as they come gushing from my heart and soul ; and as you have before reminded me, I do not stop to dot my i's and cross my t's. So it happened I omitted to dot down the httle inverted commas that should precede and follow a quotation. I am sure you will excuse the trifling omission in view of the hurry in which I wrote the letter, that I might not disappoint you by missing the post. But that I should have rendered myself open to misconstruction, as if I could be thought for one moment capable of knowingly conveying the impression that the passage was my own composition has caused tears, which I perceive have stained this paper. I am ashamed to send it off, blurred as it is ; but I have not time to write another before the post starts."

Ah ! daughter of Eve, this is the beginning of the end — "Be sure your sin will find you out." That letter was quite enough for Arthur Bevan ; it awakened all the sympathies of his tender heart. He pressed the tear-stained epistle to his lips, sat down im mediately to send a reply, and the big, strong man actually wrote — " Would that I could enfold myself instead of this letter in the envelope, that I might kiss away every trace of the tears caused by my last unfortunate note ! "

Chapter III

Miss Catherine Dorothy Ashburton was a beautiful brunette. Her mother had been a Florentine lady, whose loveliness of person and amiableness of character had won the heart of the second son of one of our distinguished old English families. The daughter inherited not only her mother's com plexion and features, but her graceful bearing, her poetic temperament, and her warm, loving heart. Though melancholy sentiment might often be seen dreaming in her soft dark eye, especially since her dear parent's death, yet she had been so well trained, and she seemed possessed of so much sound common sense, that there was no danger of her becoming a victim to morbid sentimentality. Seated in evening dress, her prim little foot resting on a tapestried stool, a Spanish guitar suspended with a broad crimson ribbon around her shoulder, her left arm gracefully curved up to the neck of the instrument to form the notes, and her right hand lowered to strike the strings, she was playing an accompaniment to her rich contralto voice.