Old Saint Pauls | Page 5

condition. You
may be a man of rank. You may be one of the profligate and profane
crew who haunt the court. You may be the worst of them all, my Lord
Rochester himself. He is about your age, I have heard, and though a
mere boy in years, is a veteran in libertinism. But, whoever you are,
and whatever your rank and station may be, unless your character will
bear the strictest scrutiny, I am certain Stephen Bloundel will never
consent to your union with his daughter."
"Nay, mother," observed Amabel, "you judge the gentleman unjustly. I
am sure he is neither a profligate gallant himself, nor a companion of
such--especially of the wicked Earl of Rochester."
"I pretend to be no better than I am," replied the young man, repressing
a smile that rose to his lips at Mrs. Bloundel's address; "but I shall
reform when I am married. It would be impossible to be inconstant to
so fair a creature as Amabel. For my rank, I have none. My condition is
that of a private gentleman,--my name, Maurice Wyvil."
"What you say of yourself, Mr. Maurice Wyvil, convinces me you will
meet with a decided refusal from my husband," returned Mrs.
Bloundel.
"I trust not," replied Wyvil, glancing tenderly at Amabel. "If I should
be so fortunate as to gain his consent, have I _yours_?"

"It is too soon to ask that question," she rejoined, blushing deeply.
"And now, sir, you must go, indeed, you must. You distress my
mother."
"If I do not distress you, I will stay," resumed Wyvil, with an imploring
look.
"You do distress me," she answered, averting her gaze.
"Nay, then, I must tear myself away," he rejoined. "I shall return
shortly, and trust to find your father less flinty-hearted than he is
represented."
He would have clasped Amabel in his arms, and perhaps snatched a
kiss, if her mother had not rushed between them.
"No more familiarities, sir," she cried angrily; "no court manners here.
If you look to wed my daughter, you must conduct yourself more
decorously; but I can tell you, you have no chance--none whatever."
"Time will show," replied Wyvil, audaciously. "You had better give her
to me quietly, and save me the trouble of carrying her off,--for have her
I will."
"Mercy on us!" cried Mrs. Bloundel, in accents of alarm; "now his
wicked intentions are out."
"Fear nothing, mother," observed Amabel, coldly. "He will scarcely
carry me off without my own consent; and I am not likely to sacrifice
myself for one who holds me in such light esteem."
"Forgive me, Amabel," rejoined Wyvil, in a voice so penitent that it
instantly effaced her displeasure; "I meant not to offend. I spoke only
the language of distraction. Do not dismiss me thus, or my death will
lie at your door."
"I should be sorry for that," she replied; "but, inexperienced as I am, I
feel this is not the language of real regard, but of furious passion."
A dark shade passed over Wyvil's handsome features, and the almost
feminine beauty by which they were characterized gave place to a
fierce and forbidding expression. Controlling himself by a powerful
effort, he replied, with forced calmness, "Amabel, you know not what it
is to love. I will not stir hence till I have seen your father."
"We will see that, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bloundel, angrily. "What, ho!
son Stephen! Leonard Holt! I say. This gentleman will stay here,
whether I like or not. Show him forth."
"That I will, right willingly," replied the apprentice, rushing before the

younger Bloundel, and flourishing his formidable cudgel. "Out with
you, sir! Out with you!"
"Not at your bidding you, saucy knave," rejoined Wyvil, laying his
hand upon his sword: "and if it were not for the presence of your
mistress and her lovely daughter, I would crop your ears for your
insolence."
"Their presence shall not prevent me from making my cudgel and your
shoulders acquainted, if you do not budge," replied the apprentice,
sturdily.
Enraged by the retort, Wyvil would have drawn his sword, but a blow
on the arm disabled him.
"Plague on you, fellow!" he exclaimed; "you shall rue this to the last
day of your existence."
"Threaten those who heed you," replied Leonard, about to repeat the
blow.
"Do him no further injury!" cried Amabel, arresting his hand, and
looking with the greatest commiseration at Wyvil. "You have dealt
with him far too rudely already."
"Since I have your sympathy, sweet Amabel," rejoined Wyvil, "I care
not what rude treatment I experience from this churl. We shall soon
meet again." And bowing to her, he strode out of the room.
Leonard followed him to the shop-door, hoping some further pretext
for quarrel would arise, but he was disappointed. Wyvil