Miss Bouverie

Chapter I

gp^|OMEHOW the idea of Laura mar rSre?41 rying seemed, the more Major Sydney thought of it, to grow the less attractive. He could have cared for her as for a younger sister, he said to him self; even now, little as he had seen of her, thoroughly aware as he was of her dislike, something of an elder-brotherly feeling seemed to be in him towards her. He felt a curious dislike to her going away VOL. II. B out of her girlhood and her freedom to be long to somebody else — to some man in whose existence thenceforth her own would be merged. "It will be a trial for her father when she marries," thought Hugh. " I can almost enter into his feelings." And he felt a little surprised at his own power of sympathy ; the girl seemed just then under his care, as it were ; they had lost sight of Lady Bouverie and Edouard in the crowd, and once or twice, to avoid jostling others as they passed, once in particular, to escape contact with a some what dissipated-looking man, who glanced up at her with the sort of insolent curiosity common to men of his type, Laura had instinctively pressed a little closer to her cousin, and he had been sensible of it with a strange gratification.

And she looked so wnspoilt just then, so gentle and serious, and perhaps a little, a very little sad. What could she have to be sad about ? he asked himself. And all this time he had not replied to her invitation. She looked up again. "Triltern is so pretty just now," she said, softly. " I grudge every day I am away from it. The trees in the little wood on the other side of the long avenue — do you remember that little wood ?" Hugh bent his head in token of assent. " The trees have grown splendidly of late years. It used to be hardly worthy of the name of a wood — the trees were so very young, but now they are beginning b2 Aliss Bouverie. 4 to look quite respectably middle-aged. And it — the little wood, I mean — is such a place for birds ; I think every kind of little bird is to be found there."

"But there were some old trees, if I remember rightly, on that side of the avenue," said Hugh, consideringly. " Oh ! yes, a good many," said Laura, eagerly. "But my great-grandfather — I beg your pardon," she added, hastily, "our great-grandfather, I should say, for he was as much yours as mine, or even more in a sense, as you bear his name," the colour mounting rapidly to her cheeks as she spoke, "he cut down a good many, and in their place this new little wood is growing up. I used to call it my forest when I was a very little girl, for one day papa said something about its being a baby forest, and that the trees and I would grow up together." She ran on quite simply, really forget ting, for the moment, to whom she was speaking. They had left the more crowd ed part of the grounds now, and were pacing slowly along a shady path ; the trees overhead, the sheltered, secluded feeling of the place, and the twittering of the birds had all helped to carry Laura's thoughts to her home.

Major Sydney was silent for a minute or two. Then he said — it might have sounded abrupt, but that his voice was soft and reflective in tone — "You must love Triltern very much. It is pleasant to think you need never leave it unless you choose — that there is no brother in the background who some day, as is the manner of even the best of brothers, will come forward to claim his own. I think it is often an excellent thing for all concerned for a woman to inherit property. In your case, for in stance, you are thoroughly identified with the place and the people ; whereas, had it," he stopped — " had it been otherwise, it would probably all these years have been let to strangers or left to agents." " Do you mean," said Laura, looking straight up at him with her downright eyes — " do you mean, if it had been yours, as it should have been ?"

"Yes," said Hugh, calmly. " I mean if it had been mine, but I don't mean that it should have been so. If, however, it had been, I could not — years ago, when I was a young man — I could not have been con tent to settle down and look after things in the excellent way your father has done. The wish for work of another kind was too strong on me. So you see how well things turn out, after all." " But now," said Laura, innocently — " now that you have had your work of another kind, would you not like to settle down to that sort of life ?" She was still looking up at him as she spoke. Suddenly, as the last words left her lips, a consciousness, a miserable per ception of how they might sound, of the interpretation they might bear, rushed over her. Her bright, quietly interested expression fled, a painful flood of crimson rushed over her face, even to the roots of her hair, and Hugh, in the hundredth part of a second that elapsed before he realized that he was not to see, had seen that her hand clenched the parasol it was holding with a little passion of annoyance and mortification, that she bit her lips with a determination to control herself which almost made him feel as if a wrong move on his part might make her burst into tears.

All his feelings were forgotten in pity for her. " What a shame !" he reflected — " some thing has been said to her too. No won der she, too, is on the defensive." And, with a tact which even Edouard Aliss Bouverie: 9 De la Croye might have envied, he set himself to prove to her that he had neither seen her confusion, nor dreamt of anything but of the simplest common-place in her question. He looked up at the trees, down at the ground in an absent-minded way, as if slowly considering the matter. Then gradually he allowed his eyes to travel back in a matter-of-fact manner to his companion's face. Yes, it was all right. Laura was cool and composed ; only the tension of her hold of the poor little parasol, only a slight quiver at one corner of her mouth, told of what had been. " I really don't know," he said at last.

" 1 don't think that by nature I have much of the make of the squire in me. I don't think I should make a popular land lord. But the truth is that I have never thought of myself in such a position. It is quite on the cards that I may go out to India again six months hence. But I should like to see Triltern again very much, to refresh my memory. I often thought of it when I was out in India as a sort of ideal English home, and I should like to retain — to renew the impression before I go out again." "Yes," said Laura. "You will find it little changed. And if you go out to India for another twelve years, and come back again, you will still, I hope and think, find it little changed. I shall have grown from a young woman into an old maid, as this time into a young woman from a little girl — that will be all." .

Major Sydney stopped short and looked at her curiously — she was perfectly cool and composed. " An old maid?" he repeated. "Yes," replied Laura, calmly. "I am never going to marry." Hugh made no reply. Laura glanced up under her eyelashes to see why. She saw very little. Her companion's face looked as quiet and unmoved as usual — her astounding piece of information seem ed to have had very little effect on him. She felt annoyed. " I daresay you think I am talking non sense, like many silly girls," she resumed, " but, if so, you mistake me. I am glad of the opportunity of telling you this, as — it cannot but make some difference to you. You cannot refuse to take what will be come yours by inheritance." For a minute or two Major Sydney hardly understood her. Then a light broke upon him ; but, to tell the truth, his first inclination was to laugh.

Laura saw the amusement in his face, and her own hardened. " I am twelve or fourteen years older than you," he said. " It is very improba ble that such a contingency as my inherit ing from you will ever arise." "But," said Laura, growing a little red again, "your children would. The pro perty, at my death, cannot but get back into the right line if I never marry. " Again Major Sydney looked at her curiously. "At your age," he said, "it is impossible to be sure of keeping to any such resolution, however much in earnest you may be at present. But — it is impossible, I hardly like to suggest such an idea — it is surely impossible that this, you must allow me to say, exaggerated notion about your grandfather's property is influencing you in what you say. It would be too absurd — too Quixotic."

Laura grew more and more inwardly irate. " I am not Quixotic, I assure you," she said, calmly. " If I cared to marry, I do not think the question of the property would influence me one way or the other. But as I do not, and never shall wish to marry, it is just as well you should know it, as, look upon it as you will, it cannot but affect your future." In his turn Hugh was annoyed. He was annoyed with himself for having supposed that the question of his rights, real or imaginary, had been so important with this girl, who so calmly showed him the absurdity of such an idea. " To be sure," he said, in answer to the first part of her reply— " to be sure, it was too absurd of me, and you must forgive me." "No," said Laura, "it was not absurd. If I felt that I had an injustice to repair, I hope and believe that I should do it, were it towards my worst enemy.

But the thing is not in my hands, and I can do nothing. It only seemed to me well that you should know this determination of mine, and now we need say no more." " Only one thing," persisted Hugh. " You must let me say that some day I hope you will change your mind, and marry happily. Selfishly speaking, I wish very much that it may be so." " What do you mean ?" said Laura, turning round with a flash in her eyes. " How, except as I said just now — how can my marrying or not possibly affect Aliss Bouverie. 16 " It might modify things altogether. Your husband, if he were a sensible man, would, I should hope, have some influence with your father and yourself. Your father has really done all that man can do, short of killing himself and his daughter, towards making me take what isn't mine, and even his sensitive conscientiousness may be at rest.

And — now you are not to get angry with me — his feelings and views would alter, if he learnt to look upon Triltern as the future home of his grand children and great-grandchildren." He smiled as he spoke — that strangely metamorphosing smile of his. Laura could not keep up her indignation in face of it, especially as beneath this smile she read a curious little undertone of sadness. He spoke of future days of happiness for others in which he would have no part, but maintained a strange reserve as to his own hopes or anticipations. Again Laura felt sorry for him, vaguely and half pro vokedly so. " I wonder if he has had some love affair, what people call a ' disappointment,' which makes him so queer," she said to herself, with some curiosity. And her voice was neither cold nor hard as she replied, shaking her head, "No: nothing would ever make papa or me think differently about it.

But all this time you have never answered my message about Triltern — about coming there. What am I to say to papa ? Edouard has promised to come." VOL. II. c Major Sydney's manner changed at once. " I do not know how he intends to manage it," he said, coldly ; " everything was arranged for our leaving England three or four weeks hence. Still, of course, De la Croye is bis own master. But you must be so good as to tell your father, from me, that there is no possibility of my going to Triltern this summer. It is very kind of him — very kind indeed to have asked me, and I should have liked to see him again. I must hope for some other opportunity of doing so." "Then you won't come?" said Laura, abruptly. "I am very sorry " began Major Sydney. " Never mind," interrupted Miss Bouverie, " I quite understand. I will tell papa. c2

Chapter II

" B8P^ s0 you are rea^y §^ to Rw.V|| home again, Laura?" "Glads — glad is no word for it," said the girl. "Papa, I am thankful — I am delighted, enchanted to be home again ; I just wish the world, and time, and every thing would stand still and leave us two together here, just as we are — here where we are happier than anywhere else." "You are a queer child," said her father. " Still I own to you I feel rather as you do. I have missed you — no, I can't tell how I have missed you. It is new life to have you back. And you think Triltern looks nice after Lon don ?" " Oh, papa, how can you ask such a thing ? Of course it does. I don't think 1 ever admired my home quite as much before." Triltern Manor was certainly looking its best. Its old weather-beaten walls had a mellow light in the soft warm sunshine of the July evening ; the beautiful trees which made its background were in their full and fresh luxuriance ; and, as Laura and her father walked slowly up and down the broad gravel drive which divided the house from the far-stretching lawn in front, on all sides the prospect which met their eyes was very fair to look upon.

" I wish Edouard De la Croye could see it just at this moment," thought Laura to herself. She had returned from London only that afternoon, escorted by her maid and the old man-servant whom her father had sent up to town for the purpose. For, after all, Mr. Bouverie had found it impossible to go himself at all, and his daughter's pleasure at her return home was therefore twofold. " Oh, papa," she repeated, " I am so glad to be home again ! You will never send me away without you again, will you ?" " Not against your wishes, if I can possibly help it," said her father. " But some day you may wish to go away with out me, Laura." He looked at her as he said so. She met his eyes unflinchingly. "Never, papa," she said, emphatically — _c c" never ! " You are a queer child," said Mr. Bou verie, for the second time, with a smile.

But, even though he smiled, Laura's quick ears detected a little sigh, which threw a shadow over her great content. What was the interpretation of the little sigh ? Laura thought she knew, but was determined not to seem to do so. After much cool and mature reflection, she had resolved on saying nothing to her father about the affair which had so dis tressed her on her first arrival in town. Lady Bouverie, she felt sure, would not do so — -in fact, a sort of tacit agreement that the subject should be henceforth avoided had been arrived at between her aunt and herself, and Laura had no wish to cause any further annoyance. The first impulse of indignation against her father for harbouring, or, still worse, discussing with others any plans for her future, un known to herself, had calmed down. " If he has said anything to my uncle and aunt, it can only have been very, very little — a mere allusion, a sort of thinking aloud, perhaps.

And most likely it was Aunt Mildred that said the things, and papa heard them, and then she made herself believe he had said them. Besides, how can I blame him for picturing to himself possibilities for my future which he thinks would make me happy? Poor dear papa ! he has not seen Hugh Sydney for twelve years, and twelve years ago he was very loveable. No, I cannot blame papa." So the little sigh was allowed to pass unchallenged. " Papa," said Laura, again, after a pause, "you haven't forgotten your promise for the summer — late this summer or early autumn, I mean?" Mr. Bouverie was staring before him absently. Evidently his thoughts were far away. "Papa," repeated Laura. "What, my dear? What were you saying ? I beg your pardon, I was not listening." " I was reminding you, papa," said Laura, insidiously, "just reminding you of your promise, you know, about taking me to France this year."

"Promise, my dear child!" said Mr. Bouverie, in surprise, " Did it go the length of a promise ?" " Yes, papa. You said if I pleased you by going cheerfully to town without you, it vou " Ah ! yes, I remember," interrupted he. " And," pursued Laura, " I really think I far more than fulfilled the condition. I went to town cheerfully, hoping to have you there in three or four weeks, and when you didn't come " She stopped and looked up at her father with a sort of affectionate mischievousness pretty to see. " Well," said Mr. Bouverie, " when I didn't come, you took it cheerfully too ?" " No," said Laura, " I didn't. I cried one evening up in my room for two hours at least. And I was very angry. I told Edouard De la Croye the next day that I had been cheated and deceived into coming to town, and that I would write to you to expect me by the next train."

"And what said Monsieur Edouard De la Croye? Did he offer to escort you home ?" exclaimed her father, in a tone which Laura scarcely understood. " No," replied Miss Bouverie, blushing a little, but laughing, too, at the recollection of her cousin's astonished face ; "he look ed so amazed that I was obliged to leave off being angry. I suppose young women in France don't express themselves so ve hemently." " I suppose not," said Mr. Bouverie, drily. "But really, papa," continued Laura, "Edouard was very nice and sensible. You would have been quite pleased with what he said. He told me I was silly and childish, and — you know it is not every one I would like to say that to me, is it?" " It certainly is not," he replied. " Well, go on about Monsieur Edouard, my dear. So you like him very much.

He is a very unexceptionable young man, it appears." " He is very nice," said Laura, simply, either not detecting, or preferring not to notice, the slight touch of sarcasm in her father's tone. " He is kind, and frank, and unaffected, and not always pulling people to pieces, and making them think themselves horrid. It was refreshing to be with him. He makes one think one self nice too." " Ah ! that is a grand quality," said Mr. Bouverie, smiling. " And your other cousin, Laura, Hugh Sydney, you scarce ly mentioned him in your letters ?" Laura walked on silently. Her fair face grew cloudy and depressed. She felt Miss Bouverie. 30 too that her father was watching her, keenly and anxiously. "Papa," she said, suddenly, "I would like to tell you the truth ; it must be best to do so, even though you may think me very foolish and very wrong, even though what I say may disappoint you in some way I suspect, but scarcely understand.

Papa, I cannot bear Hugh Sydney ; I dis like him more than I could have imagined myself disliking anyone." Mr. Bouverie did not look as surprised as she had expected. He said nothing. Did he not mind ? Laura asked herself, with a very strange, undefinable feeling almost of disappointment as the idea suggested itself. She looked up questioningly into her father's face ; he did not look at her. His face was grave and considering, neither exactly annoyed nor yet per plexed. " Why ?" he asked, somewhat abruptly, after a little pause, and then he looked at her. " Papa," replied Laura, the colour in her cheeks deepening a very little, " I don't think I could tell you properly if I tried ; he is so cynical and criticising — he thinks me a fool, a spoilt, shallow girl, and takes no pains to hide it ; he has made me think more poorly of myself than anyone I ever knew, and — and — that is morti fying."

" It is not pleasant, but sometimes things that are not pleasant are whole some," replied Mr. Bouverie. "Perhaps," said Laura. "I daresay it is not a bad thing to be made to think poorly of oneself, but yet I don't know, not in that way ; for me, at least, it is not good. When anyone seems to take pains to mortify and humble me, it rouses my bitter, angry feelings, it makes me proud instead of humble." " Yes ; I understand how you mean. But surely you are running on too fast ; you speak as if your cousin had but one mission in life — to mortify and vex you. Have you not been exaggerating it all, my little girl? — letting your lively imagina tion exaggerate it?" "Papa," said Laura, blushing furiously this time, "you will mortify me if you speak so. I am not so conceited or silly as to imagine any sensible person would think me of consequence enough to treat me so.

I do not suppose Major Sydney thinks about me at all except when I come in his way, and then he behaves to me as I have described just because he dislikes me, I suppose, and is prejudiced against me. He does not judge me fairly — even Edouard allows that, though, as a rule, he defends Hugh through thick and thin." " Defends him, does he ?" said Mr. Bouverie, in a tone of some surprise. The little drama, which was gradually unfolding itself, struck him as very amusing, only on the whole he would have preferred that the heroine of it had not been his little Laura. He had wished that VOL. II. D her life should be so smooth and straight forward ; he had fancied he could shield her from even the thorns and briers of ordinary girlhood's experiences. "Yes," said Laura, " they are immense friends.

And Edouard is very fair and unprejudiced, I think." " Well, try to follow his example," said her father. " I do wish — I have wished to do so," said Laura, earnestly. " But it is no use — it is so evident that Major Sydney is prejudiced against me. He has taken up a certain notion about me, and everything I do or say he interprets by it." " It is curious," said Mr. Bouverie, thoughtfully; for though Lady Bouverie had taken care to inform him of the want of cordiality between the cousins, she had done so in her own way, steering clear of any confession of her own mismanage ment, as she felt assured that on this point Laura would keep silent. " It is curious," repeated Mr. Bouverie. " I cannot understand what can have given rise to such a prejudice." "It is strange," said Laura. " For he can be nice to others — more like my re membrance of him long ago.

And once or twice he has been nice to me, and he always speaks cordially of you, otherwise, of course, I ivouldn't stand him." " Ah, well !" said Mr. Bouverie, " it cannot be helped. Perhaps, later in life, d S> you may get to know each other better, for I cannot conceal from you, Laura, that I think him — I cannot help doing so — a very fine fellow, a thoroughly honourable and reliable man. Perhaps, if he were married — to a nice wife, of course — you might get on better. For, in case of my death, he is almost your nearest relation, you know, and I have always thought he would be a good friend to you." Laura felt surprised at her father's taking this tone — surprised, and yet more, to her own surprise, in the most ridicu lous, unreasonable, contradictory way, a very little disappointed. But this she would scarcely allow even to herself, certainly not to anyone else.

"Ye-es," she said. "Perhaps, if he were married, it would be different. I might get to know him better through his wife." Her tone was unexceptionable, yet it failed to ring true to her father. " She dislikes him, or thinks she does," he reflected, " yet she evidently does not relish the idea of his marrying. Truly a girl's likes and dislikes are hard to under stand, for there is nothing of the coquette about Laura." And in a minute or two Laura had to herself satisfactorily accounted for her contradictory feelings. " Naturally," she thought, " I should not care for a third person — above all, a stranger — teaching my own cousin to like me. Imagine that Eliza Le Marchant, for instance, who runs after Hugh so disgustingly — imagine her his wife, and patronizingly pointing out to him my good qualities.

There is nothing to be ashamed of in my feeling. I should have liked him to like me." "And young De la Croye and he are great friends, you say," continued her father. " Great friends," replied Laura. " It is rather nice to see how much they like each other. Edouard hopes to come here soon, you know, papa, I gave him your message." " And not Sydney ?" Laura shook her head. "No," she replied. " He never wavered in saying he could not come. I almost fancy Edouard and he had a little quarrel about it. He gave no reason but that he was sorry he could not, and always repeated that he would have liked so much to see you again." " It is odd, certainly," repeated Mr. Bouverie. " Perhaps he is afraid of my reviving the old discussion." " Perhaps," said Laura. " But, papa," she resumed, after a little pause, "you will be glad to see Edouard De la Croye here, won't you ?"

" Oh ! yes, my dear, very glad," replied Mr. Bouverie, cordially, but without any very great enthusiasm. He did not share his sister-in-law's alarms on the subject of the fascinating young Frenchman, but neither did he feel any overwhelming interest about him, and he rather wished, though he was too unselfish to say so, that Laura's memory on the subject of the promise had been less retentive. He had spent all his life in England, and had found it enough for him — it contained all the associations, happy, and the reverse, of his life, and he felt no desire to extend them. Besides, — and this, perhaps, was really the strongest influence at work — he shrewdly suspected that, once Laura got him across the Channel, Paris would prove all too small a field for her exploring energies. He would be coaxed and per suaded into a visit to La Croye — a visit which for him was the reverse of attractive, for, to confess the ignoble truth, Mr. Bouverie was mortally afraid of the old Baronne.

In the meantime, however, he put the whole matter off his mind, and Laura was considerate and wise enough to allow him to do so by not again referring to it. She had no misgivings as to getting her own way in the end, and could therefore afford to be patient. "And Edouard will be a great help to me," she said to herself. " He is so anxious that papa and I should go, and that we should see each other — we and our French cousins — from time to time. And when papa sees how nice he is, and hears him talk about La Croye, he will want to go as much as I do." So some days passed with no further mention of the proposed travels. Laura was happy to be home again, busy and interested with her pets and her proteges, human and otherwise. Nowhere, never, she kept repeating to herself, could she be as happy, as entirely satisfied and con tented, as in her home-life at Triltern ; but yet, even during these few summer days, there were times when her usual interests and occupations seemed less at tractive than of yore, when, had she been in the least inclined to sentimentality, she would have said to herself that she felt lonely, that for the first time in her life she had a vague longing for sympathy and companionship.