THE NEW MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE. SEPTEMBER, 1849. GRACE BOWDEN. (A Story of the Last Century.) BY ELIZABETH O'HARA. Poor Grace! it is now many years since you were the belle of South Devonshire, since you were toasted as the Rose of Devon; it is even many years since you were followed to your grave by your weeping friends, and none but an old Devonian would recognize you in your present disguise. Should any of your contemporaries still exist, they will remember your story and vouch for its truth, though none but an octogenarian can have more than a traditionary knowledge of your adventures; those immediately interested in them have long passed from life's busy scene, and so we need not hesitate in producing you as a heroine. Grace Bowden was the youngest daughter of Squire Bowden, a descendant of one of the old county families, and a most elegant gentleman like man. The Bowdens lived in quiet but good style at their family mansion, the estate being all let off in farms, as Mr. Bowden had no genius for agriculture, and had always been a man about town. He married, late in life, a young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring squire; but her influence and the charm of a lovely family were insufficient to destroy the habit of years, and soon after his marriage he resumed his old way of living, and spent the greater part of his time in town, being a member of the best clubs of that day: with this exception he was a kind husband and fond father, never returning without some present for each, and providing most liberally for all their wants. Mrs. Bowden used sometimes to complain that she never could get her husband to talk on business, and that she had no idea what their real income was, nor how their affairs stood; but many men are reserved on these subjects with their wives, and in fact the good lady never recurred to this theme unless at a loss for a grumbling stock; she had but one other-Mr. Bowden not only had never taken her up to town, always deferring the trip on some pretext or other, but never gave any other address than the club. "And," as she pathetically said, "he might be dead and buried, and I could only reach him through that horrid club!" This was in the days of dear postage, long journeys, and highwaymen ; before railways were dreamt of, or Rowland Hill born, and when truant husbands had full impunity; for few wives would brave the terrors of the route to go in search of their naughty men; so, if ever Mrs. Bowden ventured on a gentle scold, Mr. Bowden would place a handsome sum of money in her hands, mount his horse, and ride off alone-without a groom even-and months would elapse before his return. Under these circumstances Mrs. Bowden learnt to restrain her feelings, or at least the exhibition of them, and waited till a smart fit of the gout or some such casualty should place her refractory spouse at her mercy. In the meantime her three daughters, Mary, Agnes, and Grace, grew up to be handsome young women, and took their places at the Exeter county balls, and the other gay doings. Grace was decidedly the most admired; she was indeed very beautiful, and of a sweet, yielding, retiring disposition: she was the youngest of the family, their darling and plaything, and at seventeen was still fondly called "Baby" by her brothers, both of whom were in America fighting against Washington, one by sea and the other by land. They were fine, clever, spirited young men, and had distinguished themselves in their respective professions, and there could not be a prouder woman than Mrs. Bowden when, in the winter of 178-, she took her place at the assize ball at Exeter, was congratulated on her sons' achievements, and K saw that her daughters were the belles of the room. and that any attempt to raise money would embarrass him seriously. She then offered, nay, implored permission, to change their style of living, so that they might secure a provision for the girls, should they not marry. This she was told was quite unnecessary, and highly inju dicious, as it would draw down attention, and disagreeable remarks, which might be very prejudicial to her children, while any paltry saving effected by her false economy would be too trifling to assist them; nor was it wanted; this was a temporary pressure, owing to Mr. Bowden's having made several investments which would yield a handsome profit, but that he did not choose to be more explicit, as he had no desire to call attention to his speculations, and perhaps competition; so his poor wife was obliged to content herself with this barren account, which, however, perfectly satisfied the Ferrers family, and went a great way in over coming Sir William's objections. We can hardly suppose that the girls saw things en noir, when wiser heads were pleased; and there was not a happier group in all Devonshire than the Bowdens. William Ferrers, nephew and heir to Sir William, a baronet, and the high sheriff for that year, danced the first minuet with Grace; she was indeed grace as she moved through that courtly dance with swan-like elegance; none could doubt her partner's opinion, for he never left her side a single moment, and was her constant attendant through all the gaieties of the week, following up his assiduities by soon calling at Bowdesworthy, their place, and in due time he made formal proposals for Grace's hand. Mrs. Ferrers, his mother, who seldom visited Devonshire, wrote in the most flattering manner in support of her son's pretensions; and even Sir William seemed satisfied. Grace was truly happy; she loved, and William was every way deserving that precious gift, her heart; he had been first attracted by her beauty and fascinating manner, but he soon discovered the priceless jewel enshrined in that beautiful casket; he now loved her for her high-toned mind and sterling qualities, nor did he seek her hand till well assured of her inestimable worth; her | empire over him could never cease; she knew At this time Mrs. Compton, Mrs. Bowden's it; need we wonder that her love for him was sister, had a severe illness, and was ordered to fond and deeply seated, that her happiness was try the Bath waters. Bath was then a very gay without alloy? Her mother grieved and was place, and young ladies' hearts beat high as they surprised when Mr. Bowden declared his in- heard its name; it was the field where rival ability to bestow a portion on his daughter; beauties entered the lists and tilted at each Grace personally cared not, William had enough other, or at the prize and victim-always some for both; their marriage would not drag him gay squire or rich nabob: in the one case the from his sphere, nor curtail his public or private weapon was a tongue; in the other, bright eyes ; usefulness; had it presented such a prospect, and each often gave deep, sometimes incurable she loved him far too truly to have accepted wounds. Hearts and reputations were alike him, duty as well as pride would have forbidden wounded at Bath-waters were drunk, minuets it; she would have crushed those smiling hopes, were danced, and daughters were married. now so dear to her, and have sacrificed herself Bath served instead of the continent, to the to his welfare; but it was not so, and she gladly shoals of people who now yearly ramble and entered into his joyous anticipations, and pre-scramble over it, and do their best to render the pared to scatter flowers on the path they were to traverse hand in hand. One thing alone disturbed their felicity: Mr. Bowden was still from home; his presence was missing, though his willing consent sanctified their attachment; he had also made it an especial condition, that Grace's want of dowry should remain unknown, lest it should interfere with her sisters' prospects. This seemed an acted lie to his daughter's guileless mind, and she insisted that at least Mrs. Ferrers and Sir William should be acquainted with the truth. Sir William at first demurred, on receiving the unwelcome information; but as Mrs. Ferrers, charmed with Grace's candour, still approved of the match, he at last consented, with one restriction, that the marriage should be deferred for a year, so as to allow the young people time for reflection, and perhaps with a lingering hope, that in that period some chance might occur to break off the match entirely. Mrs. Bowden was sadly puzzled at her husband's inability to portion his daughter, and vainly sought an explanation; the only information vouchsafed was, that their property, including her own handsome fortune, was locked up, English name ridiculous. If we could but send down a clever diver when half-way over the Straits of Dover, what a deal of common sense and decency he might pick up, for surely twothirds of our compatriots throw theirs overboard ere leaving the steamer, or else Messrs. Brown and Smith, and Mesdames White and Green, would never play those ridiculous pranks which make our neighbours exclaim, "Sont ils originaux ces Anglais." Or is it the violent reaction, the sudden unbending of a stiff bow? There's no fool like an old fool-no laisser-aller like that of the solemn English. What an awful parenthesis! and all this time poor Mrs. Compton is waiting to go to Bath with her favourite niece, "little Gracey." It was settled that William was to follow them, and they were to be joined at Bath by Mrs. Ferrers. Mr. Bowden was apprised of their mo tions; and they hoped that he too would pay them a visit, so as to be introduced to his daughter's lover; and the travellers lost no time in preparing for the journey. Mrs. Compton only took her maid with her, as a carriage was comparatively useless in the up-and-down-stair streets of old Bath, and sedan chairs were the fashionable conveyance; so, as she was an ener- | getic old lady, her plan was no sooner formed than she put it in execution, and a day or two saw them in a postchaise, rolling-no, jolting along the Bath road; for even Macadam was not in being to alleviate the horrors of travel; and those who ventured from home might probably be killed by an upset, or robbed by a highwayman; while they were sure to be pretty well fleeced by the various landlords they were obliged to patronise on the way. Our party had nearly reached their journey's end, and were congratulating themselves on their escape from these dangers, when a rough voice commanded the postilion to stop. A scuffle ensued-they heard him dragged from the saddle. Grace had put down the window, and saw him hurled beneath the wheel. “Oh, stay!" she shrieked. One man mounted guard over the post-boy, another came forward and asked for their purses. They promptly produced them. Your jewels!" "In this case," said Mrs. Compton. "You have watches, ladies-I am sorry to disturb you, but we really require these little trinkets. I believe this lady wears a broocha useless ornament; ' Beauty when unadorned' you know the quotation." "Oh, spare me this!" cried Mrs. Compton, "it was my husband's.” "Ah! it is a souvenir-we'll say nothing about it, madam; but surely I see a third lady," pointing to the maid, who, sitting between her mistress and Grace, had remained unobserved. Nay, ladies, this is not fair. I must trouble you, madam, for your contribution." "It is my maid, sir,” replied Mrs. Compton; "you would not rob a poor servant girl." Certainly not, madam; I rejoice to find that a gentleman's feelings are appreciated by you. I will not deprive your Abigail of the remains of her quarter's stipend, a brass thimble, a nutmeggrater, a clove of ginger, a bunch of keys, a ball of worsted, a crooked sixpence, and a needlecase-the invariable contents of a sewing-wench's pocket, as Congreve says. I have the honour to wish a pleasant evening and a safe journey to Prince Bladud's city, ladies." And desiring his comrade to assist the post-boy from his dangerous position, he withdrew. you “Sir, sir,” cried Mrs. Compton, “will you not fasten the door? We are in danger." The other man advanced, to comply with her request, and, as he bent forward from his horse, Grace, who had hitherto remained calm, gave a piercing scream and fainted away. The man muttered an apology for alarming the young lady, and, bidding the boy drive on, galloped off in the contrary direction. Grace remained long insensible, and was so ill, that, on their arrival at Bath, it became necessary to call in medical advice. The shock was so severe she seemed unable to recover from it. Her father joined them; she was his darling, and he wept as he spoke of her illness. He replaced her ornaments, and replenished her purse; but she took no notice of the elegant trinkets he lavished on her. She was now well enough to leave her bed, though the change in her manner still alarmed them all. She sometimes scarce endured her father's presence; again she would fondly cling to him, watch all his actions, and be uneasy were he a moment from her sight. She questioned him about his property and movements, as neither wife nor child dared question him 'before; but her excitement was but momentary, she would soon relapse into a kind of melancholy apathy. The Ferrers hastened to her; for Mrs. Ferrers was most anxious to see the unknown Grace she already loved, and whose letters had given her so much pleasure. William was again by her side; she received him with uncontrollable emotion. She had awaited his coming; she had nerved herself to undergo a severe trial— to meet him coldly. In vain her self-schooling— she flew to his arms; though, the next moment, she shrank from his caress and refused his kiss. "Grace, my own Grace, what is this?" She wept violently; she was convulsed with bitter sobs. She still fondly held his hand; she pressed it to her lips. Forgive me," she sighed. "I know I must cause you bitter pain; but William, dearest, we must part." "Part! part from you, my Grace! This is madness! Surely your father can have raised no objection to our union-and who else shall sever us ?" "God-not man; this must be our last meeting. I knew I must grieve; but I hoped, I prayed, for firmness." "But why, love? why part? Our friends sanction our affection. Grace, has it ceased to be mutual? and yet, your agony, painful as it is to witness, is soothing to me-it speaks your love; what am I to think?" "Anything, anything; but do not question me further; and do not-do not doubt my love." "Not question you-not doubt you, and yet part from you by your own act? Grace, it is impossible. But surely there is some misconception! Has my mother offended you? or Mrs. Compton? She will gladly explain." "Your mother has been all kindness. It is no slight trial to feel I can never be her daughter. Oh! William; my heart is breaking." "And why? this is cruelty to yourself-to me. You cannot dream how fondly, how truly, I love you; or you would not bid me leave you for ever. Dearest, my every hope merges itself in you. I have not a thought, not a hope, not a pursuit, but your form is blended with it! You are become a part of my existence of myself! How can I tear your love from my heart? Grace, Grace, be merciful!" He hid his face, and the couch shook beneath his emotion. 66 William, be merciful also! See, on my knees I implore you to be calm. Did not your love, your strength of mind, support me when I heard of our poverty?" "That is it-it is your father's loss of fortune. My uncle's hesitation has offended him. He |