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Title: Precaution

Author: James Fenimore Cooper

Release Date: December 2, 2003 [EBook #10365]

Language: English

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PRECAUTION.

A Novel.

By J. Fenimore Cooper.


    "Be wise to-day. It is madness to defer;
    To-morrow's caution may arrive too late."




W. C. Bryant's Discourse on the Life, Genius, and Writings of James
Fenimore Cooper,

Delivered at Metropolitan Hall, N.Y., February 25, 1852.



It is now somewhat more than a year, since the friends of JAMES FENIMORE
COOPER, in this city; were planning to give a public dinner to his honor.
It was intended as an expression both of the regard they bore him
personally, and of the pride they took in the glory his writings had
reflected on the American name. We thought of what we should say in his
hearing; in what terms, worthy of him and of us, we should speak of the
esteem in which we held him, and of the interest we felt in a fame which
had already penetrated to the remotest nook of the earth inhabited by
civilized man.

To-day we assemble for a sadder purpose: to pay to the dead some part of
the honors then intended for the living. We bring our offering, but he is
not here who should receive it; in his stead are vacancy and silence;
there is no eye to brighten at our words, and no voice to answer. "It is
an empty office that we perform," said Virgil, in his melodious verses,
when commemorating the virtues of the young Marcellus, and bidding flowers
be strewn, with full hands, over his early grave. We might apply the
expression to the present occasion, but it would be true in part only. We
can no longer do anything for him who is departed, but we may do what will
not be without fruit to those who remain. It is good to occupy our
thoughts with the example of great talents in conjunction with great
virtues. His genius has passed away with him; but we may learn, from the
history of his life, to employ the faculties we possess with useful
activity and noble aims; we may copy his magnanimous frankness, his
disdain of everything that wears the faintest semblance of deceit, his
refusal to comply with current abuses, and the courage with which, on all
occasions, he asserted what he deemed truth, and combated what he thought
error.

The circumstances of Cooper's early life were remarkably suited to confirm
the natural hardihood and manliness of his character, and to call forth
and exercise that extraordinary power of observation, which accumulated
the materials afterwards wielded and shaped by his genius. His father,
while an inhabitant of Burlington, in New Jersey, on the pleasant banks of
the Delaware, was the owner of large possessions on the borders of the
Otsego Lake in our own state, and here, in the newly-cleared fields, he
built, in 1786, the first house in Cooperstown. To this home, Cooper, who
was born in Burlington, in the year 1789, was conveyed in his infancy, and
here, as he informs us in his preface to the _Pioneers_, his first
impressions of the external world were obtained. Here he passed his
childhood, with the vast forest around him, stretching up the mountains
that overlook the lake, and far beyond, in a region where the Indian yet
roamed, and the white hunter, half Indian in his dress and mode of life,
sought his game,--a region in which the bear and the wolf were yet hunted,
and the panther, more formidable than either, lurked in the thickets, and
tales of wanderings in the wilderness, and encounters with these fierce
animals, beguiled the length of the winter nights. Of this place, Cooper,
although early removed from it to pursue his studies, was an occasional
resident throughout his life, and here his last years were wholly passed.

At the age of thirteen he was sent to Yale College, where, notwithstanding
his extreme youth,--for, with the exception of the poet Hillhouse, he was
the youngest of his class, and Hillhouse was afterwards withdrawn,--his
progress in his studies is said to have been honorable to his talents. He
left the college, after a residence of three years, and became a
midshipman in the United States navy. Six years he followed the sea, and
there yet wanders, among those who are fond of literary anecdote, a story
of the young sailor who, in the streets of one of the English ports,
attracted the curiosity of the crowd by explaining to his companions a
Latin motto in some public place. That during this period he made himself
master of the knowledge and the imagery which he afterwards employed to so
much advantage in his romances of the sea, the finest ever written, is a
common and obvious remark; but it has not been so far as I know, observed
that from the discipline of a seaman's life he may have derived much of
his readiness and fertility of invention, much of his skill in surrounding
the personages of his novels with imaginary perils, and rescuing them by
probable expedients. Of all pursuits, the life of a sailor is that which
familiarizes men to danger in its most fearful shapes, most cultivates
presence of mind, and most effectually calls forth the resources of a
prompt and fearless dexterity by which imminent evil is avoided.

In 1811, Cooper, having resigned his post as midshipman, began the year by
marrying Miss Delaney, sister of the present bishop; of the diocese of
Western New York, and entered upon a domestic life happily passed to its
close. He went to live at Mamaroneck, in the county of Westchester, and
while here he wrote and published the first of his novels, entitled
_Precaution_. Concerning the occasion of writing this work, it is related,
that once, as he was reading an English novel to Mrs. Cooper, who has,
within a short time past, been laid in the grave beside her illustrious
husband, and of whom we may now say, that her goodness was no less eminent
than his genius, he suddenly laid down the book, and said, "I believe I
could write a better myself." Almost immediately he composed a chapter of
a projected work of fiction, and read it to the same friendly judge, who
encouraged him to finish it, and when it was completed, suggested its
publication. Of this he had at the time no intention, but he was at length
induced to submit the manuscript to the examination of the late Charles
Wilkes, of this city, in whose literary opinions he had great confidence.
Mr. Wilkes advised that it should be published, and to these circumstances
we owe it that Cooper became an author.

I confess I have merely dipped into this work. The experiment was made
with the first edition, deformed by a strange punctuation--a profusion of
commas, and other pauses, which puzzled and repelled me. Its author, many
years afterwards, revised and republished it, correcting this fault, and
some faults of style also, so that to a casual inspection it appeared
almost another work. It was a professed delineation of English manners,
though the author had then seen nothing of English society. It had,
however, the honor of being adopted by the country whose manners it
described, and, being early republished in Great Britain, passed from the
first for an English novel. I am not unwilling to believe what is said of
it, that it contained a promise of the powers which its author afterwards
put forth.

Thirty years ago, in the year 1821, and in the thirty-second of his life,
Cooper published the first of the works by which he will be known to
posterity, the _Spy_. It took the reading world by a kind of surprise; its
merit was acknowledged by a rapid sale; the public read with eagerness and
the critics wondered. Many withheld their commendations on account of
defects in the plot or blemishes in the composition, arising from want of
practice, and some waited till they could hear the judgment of European
readers. Yet there were not wanting critics in this country, of whose
good opinion any author in any part of the world might be proud, who spoke
of it in terms it deserved. "Are you not delighted," wrote a literary
friend to me, who has since risen to high distinction as a writer, both in
verse and in prose, "are you not delighted with the _Spy_, as a work of
infinite spirit and genius?" In that word genius lay the explanation of
the hold which the work had taken on the minds of men. What it had of
excellence was peculiar and unborrowed; its pictures of life, whether in
repose or activity, were drawn, with broad lights and shadows, immediately
from living originals in nature or in his own imagination. To him,
whatever he described was true; it was made a reality to him by the
strength with which he conceived it. His power in the delineation of
character was shown in the principal personage of his story, Harvey Birch,
on whom, though he has chosen to employ him in the ignoble office of a
spy, and endowed him with the qualities necessary to his
profession,--extreme circumspection, fertility in stratagem, and the art
of concealing his real character--qualities which, in conjunction with
selfishness and greediness, make the scoundrel, he has bestowed the
virtues of generosity, magnanimity, an intense love of country, a fidelity
not to be corrupted, and a disinterestedness beyond temptation. Out of
this combination of qualities he has wrought a character which is a
favorite in all nations, and with all classes of mankind.

It is said that if you cast a pebble into the ocean, at the mouth of our
harbor, the vibration made in the water passes gradually on till it
strikes the icy barriers of the deep at the south pole. The spread of
Cooper's reputation is not confined within narrower limits. The _Spy_ is
read in all the written dialects of Europe, and in some of those of Asia.
The French, immediately after its first appearance, gave it to the
multitudes who read their far-diffused language, and placed it among the
first works of its class. It was rendered into Castilian, and passed into
the hands of those who dwell under the beams of the Southern Cross. At
length it passed the eastern frontier of Europe, and the latest record I
have seen of its progress towards absolute universality, is contained in a
statement of the _International Magazine_, derived, I presume, from its
author, that in 1847 it was published in a Persian translation at Ispahan.
Before this time, I doubt not, they are reading it in some of the
languages of Hindostan, and, if the Chinese ever translated anything, it
would be in the hands of the many millions who inhabit the far Cathay.

I have spoken of the hesitation which American critics felt in admitting
the merits of the _Spy_, on account of crudities in the plot or the
composition, some of which, no doubt, really existed. An exception must be
made in favor of the _Port Folio_, which, in a notice written by Mrs.
Sarah Hall, mother of the editor of that periodical, and author of
_Conversations on the Bible_, gave the work a cordial welcome; and Cooper,
as I am informed, never forgot this act of timely and ready kindness.

It was perhaps favorable to the immediate success of the _Spy_, that
Cooper had few American authors to divide with him the public attention.
That crowd of clever men and women who now write for the magazines, who
send out volumes of essays, sketches, and poems, and who supply the press
with novels, biographies, and historical works, were then, for the most
part, either stammering their lessons in the schools, or yet unborn. Yet
it is worthy of note, that just about the time that the _Spy_ made its
appearance, the dawn of what we now call our literature was just breaking.
The concluding number of Dana's _Idle Man_, a work neglected at first, but
now numbered among the best things of the kind in our language, was issued
in the same month. The _Sketch Book_ was then just completed; the world
was admiring it, and its author was meditating _Bracebridge Hall_. Miss
Sedgwick, about the same time, made her first essay in that charming
series of novels of domestic life in New England, which have gained her so
high a reputation. Percival, now unhappily silent, had just put to press a
volume of poems. I have a copy of an edition of Hallock's _Fanny_,
published in the same year; the poem of _Yamoyden,_ by Eastburn and Sands,
appeared almost simultaneously with it. Livingston was putting the
finishing hand to his _Report on the Penal Code of Louisiana,_ a work
written with such grave, persuasive eloquence, that it belongs as much to
our literature as to our jurisprudence. Other contemporaneous American
works there were, now less read. Paul Allen's poem of _Noah_ was just laid
on the counters of the booksellers. Arden published, at the same time, in
this city, a translation of Ovid's _Tristia_, in heroic verse, in which
the complaints of the effeminate Roman poet were rendered with great
fidelity to the original, and sometimes not without beauty. If I may speak
of myself, it was in that year that I timidly intrusted to the winds and
waves of public opinion a small cargo of my own--a poem entitled _The
Ages,_ and half a dozen shorter ones, in a thin duodecimo volume, printed
at Cambridge.

We had, at the same time, works of elegant literature, fresh from the
press of Great Britain, which are still read and admired. Barry Cornwall,
then a young suitor for fame, published in the same year his _Marcia
Colonna_; Byron, in the full strength and fertility of his genius, gave
the readers of English his tragedy of _Marino Faliero_, and was in the
midst of his spirited controversy with Bowles concerning the poetry of
Pope. The _Spy_ had to sustain a comparison with Scott's _Antiquary_,
published simultaneously with it, and with Lockhart's _Valerius_, which
seems to me one of the most remarkable works of fiction ever composed.

In 1823, and in his thirty-fourth year, Cooper brought out his novel of
the _Pioneers_, the scene of which was laid on the borders of his: own
beautiful lake. In a recent survey of Mr; Cooper's works, by one of his
admirers, it is intimated that the reputation of this work may have been,
in some degree factitious. I cannot think so; I cannot see how such a work
could fail of becoming, sooner or later, a favorite. It was several years
after its first appearance that I read the _Pioneers_, and I read it with
a delighted astonishment. Here, said I to myself, is the poet of rural
life in this country--our Hesiod, our Theocritus, except that he writes
without the restraint of numbers, and is a greater poet than they. In the
_Pioneers_, as in a moving picture, are made to pass before us the hardy
occupations and spirited, amusements of a prosperous settlement, in, a
fertile region, encompassed for leagues around with the primeval
wilderness of woods. The seasons in their different aspects, bringing with
them, their different employments; forests falling before the axe; the
cheerful population, with the first mild; day of spring, engaged in the
sugar orchards; the chase of the deer through the deep woods, and into the
lake; turkey-shooting, during the Christmas holidays, in which the Indian
marksman vied for the prize of skill with the white man; swift sleigh
rides under the bright winter sun, and, perilous encounters with wild
animals in the forests; these, and other scenes of rural life, drawn, as
Cooper knew how to draw them, in the bright and healthful coloring of
which he was master are interwoven with a regular narrative of human
fortunes, not unskilfully constructed; and how could such a work be
otherwise than popular?

In the _Pioneers_, Leatherstocking; is first introduced--a philosopher of
the woods, ignorant of books, but instructed in all that nature, without
the aid of, science, could reveal to the man of quick senses and inquiring
intellect, whose life has been passed under the open sky, and in
companionship with a race whose animal perceptions are the acutest and
most cultivated of which there is any example. But Leatherstocking has
higher qualities; in him there is a genial blending of the gentlest
virtues of the civilized man with the better nature of the aboriginal
tribes; all that in them is noble, generous, and ideal, is adopted into
his own kindly character, and all that is evil is rejected. But why should
I attempt to analyse a character so familiar? Leatherstocking is
acknowledged, on all hands, to be one of the noblest, as well as most
striking and original creations of fiction. In some of his subsequent
novels, Cooper--for he had not yet Attained to the full maturity of his
powers--heightened and ennobled his first conception of the character,
but in the _Pioneers_ it dazzled the world with the splendor of novelty;

His next work was the _Pilot_, in which he showed how, from the
vicissitudes of a life at sea, its perils and escapes, from the beauty and
terrors of the great deep, from the working of a vessel on a long voyage,
and from the frank, brave, and generous but peculiar character of the
seaman, may be drawn materials of romance by which the minds of men may be
as deeply moved as by anything in the power of romance to present. In this
walk, Cooper has had many disciples but no rival. All who have since
written romances of the sea have been but travellers in a country of which
he was the great discoverer; and none of them all seemed to have loved a
ship as Cooper loved it, or have been able so strongly to interest all
classes of readers in its fortunes. Among other personages drawn with
great strength in the _Pilot_, is the general favorite, Tom Coffin, the
thorough seaman with all the virtues and one or two of the infirmities of
his profession, superstitious, as seamen are apt to be, yet whose
superstitions strike us as but an irregular growth of his devout
recognition of the Power who holds the ocean in the hollow of his hand;
true-hearted, gentle, full of resources, collected in danger, and at last
calmly perishing at the post of duty, with the vessel he has long guided,
by what I may call a great and magnanimous death. His rougher and coarser
companion, Boltrope, is drawn with scarcely less skill, and with a no less
vigorous hand.

The _Pioneers_ is not Cooper's best tale of the American forest, nor, the
_Pilot_, perhaps, in all respects, his best tale of the sea; yet, if he
had ceased to write here, the measure of his fame would possibly have been
scarcely less ample than it now is. Neither of them is far below the best
of his productions, and in them appear the two most remarkable creations
of his imagination--two of the most remarkable characters in all fiction.

It was about this time that my acquaintance with Cooper began, an
acquaintance of more than a quarter of a century, in which his deportment
towards me was that of unvaried kindness. He then resided a considerable
part of the year in this city, and here he had founded a weekly club, to
which many of the most distinguished men of the place belonged. Of the
members who have since passed away, were Chancellor Kent, the jurist;
Wiley the intelligent and liberal bookseller; Henry D. Sedgwick, always
active in schemes of benevolence; Jarvis, the painter, a man of infinite
humor, whose jests awoke inextinguishable laughter; De Kay, the
naturalist; Sands, the poet; Jacob Harvey whose genial memory is cherished
by many friends. Of those who are yet living was Morse, the inventor of
the electric telegraph; Durand, then, one of the first of engravers, and
now no less illustrious as a painter; Henry James Anderson, whose
acquirements might awaken the envy of the ripest scholars of the old
world; Halleck, the poet and wit; Verplanck, who has given the world the
best edition of Shakspeare for general readers; Dr. King, now at the head
of Columbia College, and his two immediate predecessors in that office. I
might enlarge the list with many other names of no less distinction. The
army and navy contributed their proportion of members, whose names are on
record in our national history. Cooper when in town was always present,
and I remember being struck with the inexhaustible vivacity of his
conversation and the minuteness of his knowledge, in everything which
depended upon acuteness of observation and exactness of recollection. I
remember, too, being somewhat startled, coming as I did from the seclusion
of a country life, with a certain emphatic frankness in his manner, which,
however, I came at last to like and to admire. The club met in the hotel
called Washington Hall, the site of which, is now occupied by part of the
circuit of Stewart's marble building.

_Lionel Lincoln_, which cannot be ranked among the successful productions
of Cooper, was published in 1825; and in the year following appeared the
_Last of the Mohicans_ which more than recovered the ground lost by its
predecessor. In this work, the construction of the narrative has signal
defects, but it is one of the triumphs of the author's genius that he
makes us unconscious of them while we read. It is only when we have had
time to awake from the intense interest in which he has held us by the
vivid reality of his narrative, and have begun to search for faults in
cold blood, that we are able to find them, In the _Last of the Mohicans,_
we have a bolder portraiture of. Leatherstocking than in the _Pioneers_.

This work was published in 1826, and in the same year Cooper sailed with
his family for Europe. He left New York as one of the vessels of war,
described in his romances of the sea, goes out of port, amidst the thunder
of a parting salute from the big guns on the batteries. A dinner was given
him just before his departure, attended by most of the distinguished men
of the city, at which Peter A. Jay presided, and Dr. King addressed him in
terms which some then thought too glowing, but which would now seem
sufficiently temperate, expressing the good wishes of his friends, and
dwelling on the satisfaction they promised themselves in possessing so
illustrious a representative of American literature in the old world.
Cooper was scarcely in France when he remembered his friends of the weekly
club, and sent frequent missives to be read at its meetings; but the club
missed its founder went into a decline, and not long afterwards quietly
expired.

The first of Cooper's novels published after leaving America: was the
_Prairie_, which appeared early in 1827, a work with the admirers of which
I wholly agree. I read it with a certain awe, an undefined sense of
sublimity, such as one experiences on entering, for the first time, upon
those immense grassy deserts from which the work takes its name. The
squatter and his family--that brawny old man and his large-limbed sons,
living in a sort of primitive and patriarchal barbarism, sluggish on
ordinary occasions, but terrible when roused, like the hurricane that
sweeps the grand but monotonous wilderness in which they dwell--seem a
natural growth of ancient fields of the West. Leatherstocking, a hunter in
the _Pioneers_, a warrior in the _Last of the Mohicans_, and now, in his
extreme old age, a trapper on the prairie, declined in strength, but
undecayed in intellect, and looking to the near close of his life, and a
grave under the long grass, as calmly as the laborer at sunset looks to
his evening slumber, is no less in harmony with the silent desert in which
he wanders. Equally so are the Indians, still his companions, copies of
the American savage somewhat idealized, but not the less a part of the
wild nature in which they have their haunts.

Before the year closed, Cooper had given the world another nautical tale,
the _Red Rover_, which, with many, is a greater favorite than the _Pilot_,
and with reason, perhaps, if we consider principally the incidents, which
are conducted and described with a greater mastery over the springs of
pity and terror.

It happened to Cooper while he was abroad, as it not unfrequently happens
to our countrymen, to hear the United States disadvantageously compared
with Europe. He had himself been a close observer of things both here and
in the old world, and was conscious of being able to refute the detractors
of his country in regard to many points. He published in 1828, after he
had been two years in Europe, a series of letters, entitled _Notions of
the Americans, by a Travelling Bachelor_, in which he gave a favorable
account of the working of our institutions, and vindicated his country
from various flippant and ill-natured misrepresentations of foreigners. It
is rather too measured in style, but is written from a mind full of the
subject, and from a memory wonderfully stored with particulars. Although
twenty-four years have elapsed since its publication, but little of the
vindication has become obsolete.

Cooper loved his country and was proud of her history and her
institutions, but it puzzles many that he should have appeared, at
different times, as her eulogist, and her censor. My friends, she is
worthy both of praise and of blame, and Cooper was not the man to shrink
from bestowing either, at what seemed to him the proper time. He defended
her from detractors abroad; he sought to save her from flatterers at home.
I will not say that he was in as good humor with his country when he
wrote _Home at Found_, as when he wrote his _Notions of the Americans_,
but this I will say that whether he commended or censured, he did it in
the sincerity of his heart, as a true American, and in the belief that it
would do good. His _Notions of the Americans_ were more likely to lessen
than to increase his popularity in Europe, inasmuch as they were put forth
without the slightest regard to European prejudices.

In 1829, he brought out the novel entitled the _Wept of Wishton-Wish_, one
of the few of his works which we now rarely hear mentioned. He was engaged
in the composition of a third nautical tale, which he afterwards published
under the name of the _Water-Witch,_ when the memorable revolution of the
Three Days of July broke out. He saw a government, ruling by fear and in
defiance of public opinion, overthrown in a few hours, with little
bloodshed; he saw the French nation, far from being intoxicated with their
new liberty, peacefully addressing themselves to the discussion of the
institutions under which they were to live. A work which Cooper afterwards
published, his _Residence in Europe_, gives the outline of a plan of
government for France furnished by him at that time, to La Fayette, with
whom he was in habits of close and daily intimacy. It was his idea to give
permanence to the new order of things by associating two strong parties in
its support, the friends of legitimacy and the republicans. He suggested
that Henry V. should be called to the hereditary throne of France, a youth
yet to be educated as the head of a free people, that the peerage should
be abolished, and a legislature of two chambers established, with a
constituency of at least a million and a half of electors; the senate to
be chosen by the general vote, as the representative of the entire nation,
and the members of the other house to be chosen by districts, as the
representatives of the local interests. To the middle ground of politics
so ostentatiously occupied by Louis Philippe at the beginning of his
reign, he predicted a brief duration, believing that it would speedily be
merged in despotism, or supplanted by the popular rule. His prophecy has
been fulfilled more amply than he could have imagined--fulfilled in both
its alternatives.

In one of the controversies of that time, Cooper bore a distinguished
part. The _Revue Britannique_, a periodical published in Paris, boldly
affirmed the government of the United States to be one of the most
expensive in the world, and its people among the most heavily taxed of
mankind. This assertion was supported with a certain show of proof, and
the writer affected to have established the conclusion that a republic
must necessarily be more expensive than a monarchy. The partisans of the
court were delighted with the reasoning of the article, and claimed a
triumph over our ancient friend La Fayette, who, during forty years, had
not ceased to hold up the government of the United States as the cheapest
in the world. At the suggestion of La Fayette, Cooper replied to this
attack upon his country in a letter which was translated into French, and,
together with, another from General Bertrand, for many years a resident in
America, was laid before the people of France.

These, two letters provoked a shower of rejoinders, in which, according to
Cooper, misstatements were mingled with scurrility. He commenced a series
of letters on the question in dispute, which were published in the
_National_, a daily sheet, and gave the first evidence of that
extraordinary acuteness in controversy which was no less characteristic of
his mind than the vigor of his imagination. The enemies of La Fayette
pressed into their service Mr. Leavitt Harris, of New Jersey, afterwards
our _charge d'affaires_ at the court of France, but Cooper replied to Mr.
Harris in the _National_ of May 2d, 1832, closing a discussion in which he
had effectually silenced those who objected to our institutions on the
score of economy. Of these letters, which would form an important chapter
in political science, no entire copy, I have been told, is to be found in
this country.

One of the consequences of earnest controversy is almost invariably
personal ill-will. Cooper was told by one who held an official station
under the French government, that the part he had taken in this dispute
concerning taxation would neither be forgotten nor forgiven. The dislike
he had incurred in that quarter was strengthened by his novel of the
_Bravo_, published in the year 1831, while he was in the midst of his
quarrel with the aristocratic party. In that work, of which he has himself
justly said that it was thoroughly American in all that belonged to it,
his object was to show how institutions, professedly created to prevent
violence and wrong, become, when perverted from their natural destination,
the instruments of injustice; and how, in every system which makes power
the exclusive property of the strong, the weak are sure to be oppressed.
The work is written with all the vigor and spirit of his best novels; the
magnificent city of Venice, in which the scene of the story is laid,
stands continually before the imagination; and from time to time the
gorgeous ceremonies of the Venetian republic pass under our eyes, such as
the marriage of the Doge with the Adriatic, and the, contest of the
gondolas for the prize of speed. The Bravo himself and several of the
other characters are strongly conceived and distinguished, but the most
remarkable of them all is the spirited and generous-hearted daughter of
the jailer.

It has been said by some critics, who judge of Cooper by his failures,
that he had no skill in drawing female characters. By the same process,
it might, I suppose, be shown that Raphael was but an ordinary painter. It
must be admitted that when Cooper drew a lady of high breeding, he was apt
to pay too much attention to the formal part of her character, and to make
her a mere bundle of cold proprieties. But when he places his heroines in
some situation in life which leaves him nothing to do but to make them
natural and true, I know of nothing finer, nothing more attractive or more
individual than the portraitures he has given us.

_Figaro_, the wittiest of the French periodicals, and at that time on the
liberal side, commended the _Bravo_; the journals on the side of the
government censured it. _Figaro_ afterwards passed into the hands of the
aristocratic party, and Cooper became the object of its attacks. He was
not, however, a man to be driven from any purpose which he had formed,
either by flattery or abuse, and both were tried with equal ill success.
In 1832 he published his _Heidenmauer_, and in 1833 his _Headsman of
Berne_, both with a political design similar to that of the _Bravo_,
though neither of them takes the same high rank among his works.

In 1833, after a residence of seven years in different parts of Europe,
but mostly in France, Cooper returned to his native country. The welcome
which met him here was somewhat chilled by the effect of the attacks made
upon him in France, and remembering with what zeal, and at what sacrifice
of the universal acceptance which his works would otherwise have met, he
had maintained the cause of his country against the wits and orators of
the court party in France, we cannot wonder that he should have felt this
coldness as undeserved. He published, shortly after his arrival in this
country, _A Letter to his Countrymen_ in which he complained of the
censures cast upon him in the American newspapers, gave a history of the
part he had taken in exposing the misstatements of the _Revue
Britannique_, and warned his countrymen against the too common error of
resorting, with a blind deference, to foreign authorities, often swayed by
national or political prejudices, for our opinions of American authors.
Going beyond this topic, he examined and reprehended the habit of applying
to the interpretation of our own constitution maxims derived from the
practice of other governments, particularly that of Great Britain. The
importance of construing that instrument by its own principles, he
illustrated by considering several points in dispute between parties of
the day, on which he gave very decided opinions.

The principal effect of this pamphlet, as it seemed to me, was to awaken
in certain quarters a kind of resentment that a successful writer of
fiction should presume to give lessons in politics. I meddle not here with
the conclusions to which he arrived, though must be allowed to say that
they were stated and argued with great ability. In 1835 Cooper published
_The Monnikins_, a satirical work, partly with a political aim; and in the
same year appeared his _American Democrat_, a view of the civil and social
relations of the United States, discussing more gravely various topics
touched upon in the former work, and pointing out in what respects he
deemed the American people in their practice to have fallen short of the
excellence of their institutions.

He found time, however, for a more genial task--that of giving to the
world his observations on foreign countries. In 1836 appeared his
_Sketches of Switzerland_, a series of letters in four volumes, the second
part published about two months after the first, a delightful work,
written in a more fluent and flexible style than his _Notions of the
Americans_. The first part of _Gleanings in Europe,_ giving an account of
his residence in France, followed in the same year; and the second part of
the same work, containing his observations on England, was published in
April, 1837. In these works, forming a series of eight volumes, he relates
and describes with much of the same distinctness as in his novels; and his
remarks on the manners and institutions of the different countries, often
sagacious, and always peculiarly his own, derive, from their frequent
reference to contemporary events, an historical interest.

In 1838 appeared _Homeward Bound_ and _Home as Found_, two satirical
novels, in which Cooper held up to ridicule a certain class of conductors
of the newspaper press in America. These works had not the good fortune to
become popular. Cooper did not, and, because he was too deeply in earnest,
perhaps would not, infuse into his satirical works that gaiety without
which satire becomes wearisome. I believe, however, that if they had been
written by anybody else they would have met with more favor; but the world
knew that Cooper was able to give them something better, and would not be
satisfied with anything short of his best, Some childishly imagined that
because, in the two works I have just mentioned, a newspaper editor is
introduced, in whose character almost every possible vice of his
profession is made to find a place, Cooper intended an indiscriminate
attack upon the whole body of writers for the newspaper press, forgetting
that such a portraiture was a satire only on those to whom it bore a
likeness We have become less sensitive and more reasonable of late, and
the monthly periodicals make sport for their readers of the follies and
ignorance of the newspaper editors, without awakening the slightest
resentment; but Cooper led the way in this sort of discipline, and I
remember some instances of towering indignation at his audacity expressed
in the journals of that time.

The next year Cooper made his appearance before the public in a new
department of writing; his _Naval History of the United States_ was
brought out in two octavo volumes at Philadelphia, by Carey and Lea. In
writing his stories of the sea, his attention had been much turned to this
subject, and his mind filled with striking incidents from expeditions and
battles in which our naval commanders had been engaged. This made his task
the lighter; but he gathered his materials with great industry, and with a
conscientious attention to exactness, for he was not a man to take a fact
for granted, or allow imagination to usurp the place of inquiry He
digested our naval annals into a narrative, written with spirit it is
true, but with that air of sincere dealing which the reader willingly
takes as a pledge of its authenticity.

An abridgment of the work was afterwards prepared and published by the
author. The _Edinburgh Review_, in an article professing to examine the
statements both of Cooper's work and of _The History of the English Navy_,
written by Mr. James, a surgeon by profession, made a violent attack upon
the American historian. Unfortunately, it took James's narrative as its
sole guide, and followed it implicitly. Cooper replied in the _Democratic
Review_ for January, 1840, and by a masterly analysis of his statements,
convicting James of self-contradiction in almost every particular in which
he differed from himself, refuted both James and the reviewer. It was a
refutation which admitted of no rejoinder.

Scarce anything in Cooper's life was so remarkable, or so strikingly
illustrated his character, as his contest with the newspaper press. He
engaged in it after provocations, many and long endured, and prosecuted it
through years with great energy, perseverance, and practical dexterity,
till he was left master of the field. In what I am about to say of it, I
hope I shall not give offence to any one, as I shall speak without the
slightest malevolence towards those with whom he waged this controversy.
Over some of them, as over their renowned adversary, the grave has now
closed. Yet where shall the truth be spoken, if not beside the grave?

I have already alluded to the principal causes which provoked the
newspaper attacks upon Cooper. If he had never meddled with questions of
government on either side of the Atlantic, and never satirized the
newspaper press, I have little doubt that he would have been spared these
attacks. I cannot, however, ascribe them all, or even the greater part of
them, to personal malignity. One journal followed the example of another,
with little reflection, I think, in most cases, till it became a sort of
fashion, not merely to decry his works, but to arraign his motives.

It is related that, in 1832, while he was at Paris, an article was shown
him in an American newspaper, purporting to be a criticism on one of his
works, but reflecting with much asperity on his personal character. "I
care nothing," he is reported to have said, "for the criticism, but I am
not indifferent to the slander. If these attacks on my character should be
kept up five years after my return to America, I shall resort to the New
York courts for protection." He gave the newspaper press of this state the
full period of forbearance on which he had fixed, but finding that
forbearance seemed to encourage assault, he sought redress in the courts
of law.

When these litigations were first begun, I recollect it seemed to me that
Cooper had taken a step which would give him a great deal of trouble, and
effect but little good. I said to myself--

                   "Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed!"

As he proceeded, however, I saw that he had understood the matter better
than I. He put a hook into the nose of this huge monster, wallowing in his
inky pool and bespattering the passers-by; he dragged him to the land and
made him tractable. One suit followed another; one editor was sued, I
thinly half-a-dozen times; some of them found themselves under a second
indictment before the first was tried. In vindicating himself to his
reader, against the charge of publishing one libel, the angry journalist
often floundered into another. The occasions of these prosecutions seem to
have been always carefully considered, for Cooper was almost uniformly
successful in obtaining verdicts. In a letter of his, written in February,
1843, about five years, I think, from the commencement of the first
prosecutions, he says, "I have beaten every man I have sued, who has not
retracted his libels."

In one of these suits, commenced against the late William L. Stone of the
_Commercial Advertiser_, and referred to the arbitration of three
distinguished lawyers, he argued himself the question of the authenticity
of his account of the battle of Lake Erie, which was the matter in
dispute. I listened to his opening; it was clear, skilful, and persuasive,
but his closing argument was said to be splendidly eloquent. "I have heard
nothing like it," said a barrister to me, "since the days of Emmet."

Cooper behaved liberally towards his antagonists, so far as pecuniary
damages were concerned, though some of them wholly escaped their payment
by bankruptcy. After, I believe, about, six years of litigation, the
newspaper press gradually subsided into a pacific disposition towards its
adversary, and the contest closed with the account of pecuniary profit and
loss, so far as he was concerned, nearly balanced. The occasion of these
suits was far from honorable to those who provoked them, but the result
was I had almost said, creditable to all parties; to him, as the
courageous prosecutor, to the administration of justice in this country,
and to the docility of the newspaper press, which he had disciplined into
good manners.

It was while he was in the midst of these litigations, that he published,
in 1840, the _Pathfinder_. People had begun to think of him as a
controversialist, acute, keen, and persevering, occupied with his personal
wrongs and schemes of attack and defence. They were startled from this
estimate of his character by the moral duty of that glorious work--I must
so call it; by the vividness and force of its delineations, by the
unspoiled love of nature apparent in every page, and by the fresh and warm
emotions which everywhere gave life to the narrative and the dialogue.
Cooper was now in his fifty-first year, but nothing which he had produced
in the earlier part of his literary life was written with so much of what
might seem the generous fervor of youth, or showed the faculty of
invention in higher vigor. I recollect that near the time of its
appearance I was informed of an observation made upon it by one highly
distinguished in the literature of our country and of the age, between
whom and the author an unhappy coolness had for some years existed. As he
finished the reading of the Pathfinder, he exclaimed, "They may say what
they will of Cooper; the man who wrote this book is not only a great man,
but a good man."

The readers of the _Pathfinder_ were quickly reconciled to the fourth
appearance of Leatherstocking, when they saw him made to act a different
part from any which the author had hitherto assigned him--when they saw
him shown as a lover, and placed in the midst of associations which
invested his character with a higher and more affecting heroism. In this
work are two female characters, portrayed in a masterly manner,--the
corporal's daughter, Mabel Dunham, generous, resolute, yet womanly, and
the young Indian woman, called by her tribe the Dew of June, a
personification of female truth, affection, and sympathy, with a strong
aboriginal cast, yet a product of nature as bright and pure as that from
which she is named.

_Mercedes of Castile_, published near the close of the same year, has none
of the stronger characteristics of Cooper's genius; but in the
_Deerslayer_, which appeared in 1841, another of his Leatherstocking
tales, he gave us a work rivalling the Pathfinder. Leatherstocking is
brought before us in his early youth, in the first exercise of that keen
sagacity which is blended so harmoniously with a simple and ingenuous
goodness. The two daughters of the retired freebooter dwelling on the
Otsego lake, inspire scarcely less interest than the principal personage;
Judith, in the pride of her beauty and intellect, her good impulses
contending with a fatal love of admiration, holding us fascinated with a
constant interest in her fate, which, with consummate skill, we are
permitted rather to conjecture than to know; and Hetty, scarcely less
beautiful in person, weak-minded, but wise in the midst, of that weakness
beyond the wisdom of the loftiest intellect, through the power of
conscience and religion. The character of Hetty would have been a
hazardous experiment in feebler hands, but in his it was admirably
successful.

The _Two Admirals_ and _Wing-and-Wing_ were given to the public in 1842,
both of them taking a high rank among Cooper's sea-tales. The first of
these is a sort of naval epic in prose; the flight and chase of armed
vessels hold us in breathless suspense, and the sea-fights are described
with a terrible power. In the later sea-tales of Cooper, it seems to me
that the mastery with which he makes his grand processions of events pass
before the mind's eye is even greater than in his earlier. The next year
he published the _Wyandotte or Hutted Knoll_, one of his beautiful
romances of the woods, and in 1844 two more of his sea-stories, _Afloat
and Ashore_ and _Miles Wallingford_its sequel. The long series of his
nautical tales was closed by _Jack Tier or the Florida Reef,_ published in
1848, when Cooper was in his sixtieth year, and it is as full of spirit,
energy, invention, life-like presentation of objects and events--

    The vision and the faculty divine--

as anything he has written.

Let me pause here to say that Cooper, though not a manufacturer of verse,
was in the highest sense of the word a poet; his imagination wrought nobly
and grandly, and imposed its creations on the mind of the reader for
realities. With him there was no withering, or decline, or disuse of the
poetic faculty; as he stepped downwards from the zenith of life, no shadow
or chill came over it; it was like the year of some genial climates, a
perpetual season of verdure, bloom, and fruitfulness. As these works came
out, I was rejoiced to see that he was unspoiled by the controversies in
which he had allowed, himself to become engaged; that they had not given
to these better expressions of his genius, any tinge of misanthropy, or
appearance of contracting and closing sympathies any trace of an interest
in his fellow-beings less large and free than in his earlier works.

Before the, appearance of his _Jack Tier_, Cooper published, in 1845 and
the following year, a series of novels relating to the Anti-rent question,
in which he took great interest. He thought that the disposition
manifested in certain quarters to make con cessions, to what he deemed a
denial of the rights of property was a first step in a most dangerous
path. To discourage this disposition, he wrote _Satanstoe, The
Chainbearer,_ and _The Redskins_. They are didactic in their design, and
want the freedom of invention which belongs to Cooper's best novels; but
if they had been written by anybody but Cooper,--by a member of Congress,
for example, or an eminent politician of any class,--they would have made
his reputation. It was said, I am told, by a distinguished jurist of our
state, that they entitled the author to as high a place in law as his
other works had won for him in literature.

I had thought, in meditating the plan of this discourse, to mention all
the works of Mr. Cooper, but the length to which I have found it extending
has induced me to pass over several written in the last ten years of his
life, and to confine myself to those which best illustrate his literary
character. The last of his novels was _The Ways of the Hour_, a work in
which the objections he entertained to the trial by jury in civil causes
were stated in the form of a narrative.

It is a voluminous catalogue--that of Cooper's published works--but it
comprises not all he wrote. He committed to the fire, without remorse,
many of the fruits of his literary industry. It was understood, some years
since, that he had a work ready for the press on the _Middle States of the
Union_, principally illustrative of their social history; but it has not
been found among his manuscripts, and the presumption is that he must have
destroyed it. He had planned a work on the _Towns of Manhattan_, for the
publication of which he made arrangements with Mr. Putnam of this city,
and a part of which, already written, was in press at the time of his
death. The printed part has since been destroyed by fire, but a portion of
the manuscript was recovered. The work, I learn, will be completed by one
of the family, who, within a few years past, has earned an honorable name
among the authors of our country. Great as was the number of his works,
and great as was the favor with which they were received, the pecuniary
rewards of his success were far less than has been generally
supposed--scarcely, as I am informed, a tenth part of what the common
rumor made them. His fame was infinitely the largest acknowledgment which
this most successful of American authors received for his labors.

_The Ways of the Hour_ appeared in 1850. At this time his personal
appearance was remarkable. He seemed in perfect health, and in the highest
energy and activity of his faculties. I have scarcely seen any man at that
period of life on whom his years sat more lightly. His conversation had
lost none of its liveliness, though it seemed somewhat more genial and
forbearing in tone, and his spirits none of their elasticity. He was
contemplating, I have since been told, another Leatherstocking tale,
deeming that he had not yet exhausted the character; and those who
consider what new resources it yielded him in the _Pathfinder_ and the
_Deerslayer_, will readily conclude that he was not mistaken.

The disease, however, by which he was removed, was even then impending
over him, and not long afterwards his friends here were grieved to learn
that his health was declining. He came to New York so changed that they
looked at him with sorrow, and after a stay of some weeks, partly for the
benefits of medical advice returned to Cooperstown, to leave it no more.
His complaint gradually gained strength, subdued a constitution originally
robust, and finally passed into a confirmed dropsy. In August, 1851, he
was visited by his excellent and learned friend, Dr. Francis, a member of
the weekly club which he had founded in the early part of his literary
career. He found him bearing the sufferings of his disease with manly
firmness, gave him such medical counsels as the malady appeared to
require, prepared him delicately for its fatal termination, and returned
to New York with the most melancholy anticipations. In a few days
afterwards, Cooper expired, amid the deep affliction of his family, on the
14th of September, the day before that on which he should have completed
his sixty-second year. He died, apparently without pain, in peace and
religious hope. The relations of man to his Maker, and to that state of
being for which the present is but a preparation, had occupied much of his
thoughts during his whole lifetime, and he crossed, with a serene
composure, the mysterious boundary which divides this life from the next.

The departure of such a man, in the full strength of his faculties,--on
whom the country had for thirty years looked as one of the permanent
ornaments of its literature, and whose name had been so often associated
with praise, with renown, with controversy, with blame, but never with
death,--diffused a universal awe. It was as if an earthquake had shaken
the ground on which we stood, and showed the grave opening by our path. In
the general grief for his loss, his virtues only were remembered; and his
failings forgotten.

Of his failings I have said little; such as he had were obvious to all the
world; they lay on the surface of his character; those who knew him least
made the most account of them. With a character so made up of positive
qualities--a character so independent and uncompromising, and with a
sensitiveness far more acute than he was willing to acknowledge, it is not
surprising that occasions frequently arose to bring him, sometimes into
friendly collision, and sometimes in to graver disagreements and
misunderstandings with his fellow-men. For his infirmities, his friends
found an ample counterpoise in the generous sincerity of his nature. He
never thought of disguising his opinions, and he abhorred all disguise in
others; he did not even deign to use that show of regard towards those of
whom he did not think well, which the world tolerates, and almost demands.
A manly expression of opinion, however different from his own, commanded
his respect. Of his own works, he spoke with the same freedom as of the
works of others; and never hesitated to express his judgment of a book for
the reason that it was written by himself: yet he could bear with
gentleness any dissent from the estimate lie placed on his own writings.
His character was like the bark of the cinnamon, a rough and astringent
rind without, and an intense sweetness within. Those who penetrated below
the surface found a genial temper, warm affections, and a heart with ample
place for his friends, their pursuits, their good name, their welfare.
They found him a philanthropist, though not precisely after the fashion of
the day; a religious man, most devout where devotion is most apt to be a
feeling rather than a custom, in the household circle; hospitable, and to
the extent of his means liberal-handed in acts of charity. They found,
also, that though in general he would as soon have thought of giving up an
old friend as of giving up an opinion, he was not proof against testimony,
and could part with a mistaken opinion as one parts with an old friend who
has been proved faithless and unworthy. In short, Cooper was one of those
who, to be loved, must be intimately known.

Of his literary character I have spoken largely in the narrative of his
life, but there are yet one or two remarks which must be made to do it
justice. In that way of writing in which he excelled, it seems to me that
he united, in a pre-eminent degree, those qualities which enabled him to
interest the largest number of readers. He wrote not for the fastidious,
the over-refined, the morbidly delicate; for these find in his genius
something too robust for their liking--something by which their
sensibilities are too rudely shaken; but he wrote for mankind at
large--for men and women in the ordinary healthful state of feeling--and
in their admiration he found his reward. It is for this class that public
libraries are obliged to provide themselves with an extraordinary number
of copies of his works: the number in the Mercantile Library in this city,
I am told, is forty. Hence it is, that he has earned a fame, wider, I
think, than any author of modern times--wider, certainly, than any author,
of any age, ever enjoyed in his lifetime. All his excellences are
translatable--they pass readily into languages the least allied in their
genius to that in which he wrote, and in them he touches the heart and
kindles the imagination with the same power as in the original English.

Cooper was not wholly without humor; it is sometimes found lurking in the
dialogue of Harvey Birch, and of Leatherstocking but it forms no
considerable element in his works; and if it did, it would have stood in
the way of his universal popularity; since of all qualities, it is the
most difficult to transfuse into a foreign language. Nor did the effect he
produced upon the reader depend on any grace of style which would escape a
translator of ordinary skill. With his style, it is true, he took great
pains, and in his earlier works, I am told, sometimes altered the proofs
sent from the printer so largely that they might be said to be written
over Yet he attained no special felicity, variety, or compass of
expression. His style, however, answered his purpose; it has defects, but
it is manly and clear, and stamps on the mind of the reader the impression
he desired to convey. I am not sure that some of the very defects of
Cooper's novels do not add, by a certain force of contrast, to their power
over the mind. He is long in getting at the interest of his narrative. The
progress of the plot, at first, is like that of one of his own vessels of
war, slowly, heavily, and even awkwardly working out of a harbor. We are
impatient and weary, but when the vessel is once in the open sea, and
feels the free breath of heaven in her full sheets, our delight and
admiration is all the greater at the grace, the majesty, and power with
which she divides and bears down the waves, and pursues her course, at
will, over the great waste of waters.

Such are the works so widely read, and so universally admired, in all the
zones of the globe, and by men of every kindred and every tongue; works
which have made of those who dwell in remote latitudes, wanderers in our
forests, and observers of our manners, and have inspired them with an
interest in our history. A gentleman who had returned from Europe just
before the death of Cooper, was asked what he found the people of the
Continent doing. "They all are reading Cooper," he answered; "in the
little kingdom of Holland, with its three millions of inhabitants, I
looked into four different translations of Cooper in the language of the
country." A traveller, who has seen much of the middle classes of Italy,
lately said to me, "I found that all they knew of America, and that was
not little, they had learned from Cooper's novels; from him they had
learned the story of American liberty, and through him they had been
introduced to our Washington; they had read his works till the shores of
the Hudson, and the valleys of Westchester, and the banks of Otsego lake,
had become to them familiar ground."

Over all the countries into whose speech this great man's works have been
rendered by the labors of their scholars, the sorrow of that loss which we
deplore is now diffusing itself. Here we lament the ornament of our
country, there they mourn the death of him who delighted the human race.
Even now, while I speak, the pulse of grief which is passing through the
nations has haply just reached some remote neighborhood; the news of his
death has been brought to some dwelling on the slopes of the Andes, or
amidst the snowy wastes of the North, and the dark-eyed damsel of Chile,
or the fair-haired maid of Norway, is sad to think that he whose stories
of heroism and true love have so often kept her for hours from her pillow,
lives no more.

He is gone! but the creations of his genius, fixed in living words,
survive the frail material organs by which the words were first traced.
They partake of a middle nature, between the deathless mind and the
decaying body of which they are the common offspring, and are, therefore,
destined to a duration, if not eternal, yet indefinite. The examples he
has given in his glorious fictions, of heroism, honor, and truth, of large
sympathies between man and man, of all that is good, great, and excellent,
embodied in personages marked with so strong an individuality that we
place them among our friends and favorites; his frank and generous men,
his gentle and noble women, shall live through centuries to come, and only
perish with our language. I have said with our language; but who shall say
when it may be the fate of the English language to be numbered with the
extinct forms of human speech? Who shall declare which of the present
tongues of the civilized world will survive its fellows? It may be that
some one of them, more fortunate than the rest, will long outlast them, in
some undisturbed quarter of the globe, and in the midst of a new
civilization. The creations of Cooper's genius, even now transferred to
that language, may remain to be the delight of the nations through another
great cycle of centuries, beginning after the English language and its
contemporaneous form of civilization shall have passed away.




Preface to the New Edition



This book originally owed its existence to an accident, and it was printed
under circumstances that prevented the usual supervision of the press by
the author. The consequences were many defects in plot, style, and
arrangement, that were entirely owing to precipitation and inexperience;
and quite as many faults, of another nature, that are to be traced solely
to a bad manuscript and worse proof reading. Perhaps no novel of our times
was worst printed than the first edition of this work. More than a hundred
periods were placed in the middle of sentences, and perhaps five times
that number were omitted in places where they ought to have been
inserted. It is scarcely necessary to add, that passages were rendered
obscure, and that entire paragraphs were unintelligible.

Most of the faults just mentioned have now been corrected, though it would
require more labor than would produce an entirely new work, to repair all
the inherent defects that are attributable to haste, and to the
awkwardness of a novice in the art of composing. In this respect, the work
and its blemishes are probably inseparable. Still, the reader will now be
better rewarded for his time, and, on the whole; the book is much more
worthy of his attention.

It has been said that Precaution owes its existence to fortuitous
circumstances. The same causes induced its English plot, and, in a
measure, the medley of characters that no doubt will appear a mistake in
the conception. It can scarcely be said that the work was commenced with
any view to publication; and when it was finally put into a publisher's
hands, with "all its imperfections on its head," the last thought of the
writer was any expectation that it would be followed by a series of
similar tales from the same pen.

More than this the public will feel no interest in knowing, and less than
this the author could not consent to say on presenting to the world a
reprint of a book with so few claims to notice.





PRECAUTION.




Chapter I.


"I wonder if we are to have a neighbor in the Deanery soon," inquired
Clara Moseley, addressing herself to a small party assembled in her
father's drawing-room, while standing at a window which commanded a
distant view of the house in question.

"Oh yes," replied her brother, "the agent has let it to a Mr. Jarvis for a
couple of years, and he is to take possession this week."

"And who is the Mr. Jarvis that is about to become so near a neighbor?"
asked Sir Edward Moseley.

"Why, sir, I learn he has been a capital merchant; that he has retired
from business with a large fortune; that he has, like yourself, sir, an
only hope for his declining years in son, an officer in the army; and,
moreover, that he has couple of fine daughters; so, sir, he is a man of
family in one sense, at least, you see. But," dropping his voice, "whether
he is a man of family in your sense, Jane," looking at his second sister,
"is more than I could discover."

"I hope you did not take the trouble, sir, to inquire on my account,"
retorted Jane, coloring slightly with vexation at his speech.

"Indeed I did, my dear sis, and solely on your account," replied the
laughing brother, "for you well know that no gentility, no husband; and
it's dull work to you young ladies without at least a possibility of
matrimony; as for Clara, she is----"

Here he was stopped by his youngest sister Emily placing her hand on his
mouth, as she whispered in his ear, "John, you forget the anxiety of a
certain gentleman about a fair incognita at Bath, and a list of inquiries
concerning her lineage, and a few other indispensables." John, in his
turn, colored, and affectionately kissing the hand which kept him silent,
addressed himself to Jane, and by his vivacity and good humor soon
restored her to complacency.

"I rejoice," said Lady Moseley, "that Sir William has found a tenant,
however; for next to occupying it himself, it is a most desirable thing to
have a good tenant in it, on account of the circle in which we live."

"And Mr. Jarvis has the great goodness of money, by John's account,"
caustically observed Mrs. Wilson, who was a sister of Sir Edward's.

"Let me tell you, madam," cried the rector of the parish, looking around
him pleasantly, and who was pretty constant, and always a welcome visitor
in the family, "that a great deal of money is a very good thing in itself,
and that a great many very good things may be done with it."

"Such as paying tythes, ha! doctor," cried Mr. Haughton, a gentleman of
landed property in the neighborhood, of plain exterior, but great goodness
of heart, and between whom and the rector subsisted the most cordial good
will.

"Aye, tythes, or halves, as the baronet did here, when he forgave old
Gregson one half his rent, and his children the other."

"Well, but, my dear," said Sir Edward to his wife, "you must not starve
our friends because we are to have a neighbor. William has stood with the
dining-room door open these five minutes--"

Lady Moseley gave her hand to the rector, and the company followed them,
without any order, to the dinner table.

The party assembled around the hospitable board of the baronet was
composed, besides the before-mentioned persons, of the wife of Mr.
Haughton, a woman of much good sense and modesty of deportment: their
daughter, a young lady conspicuous for nothing but good nature; and the
wife and son of the rector--the latter but lately admitted to holy orders
himself.

The remainder of the day passed in an uninterrupted flow of pleasant
conversation, the natural consequence of a unison of opinions on all
leading questions, the parties having long known and esteemed each other
for those qualities which soonest reconcile us to the common frailties of
our nature. On parting at the usual hour, it was agreed to meet that day
week at the rectory, and the doctor, on making his bow to Lady Moseley,
observed, that he intended, in virtue of his office, to make an early call
on the Jarvis family, and that, if possible, he would persuade them to be
of the party.

Sir Edward Moseley was descended from one of the most respectable of the
creations of his order by James, and had inherited, with many of the
virtues of his ancestor, an estate which placed him amongst the greatest
landed proprietors of the county. But, as it had been an invariable rule
never to deduct a single acre from the inheritance of the eldest son, and
the extravagance of his mother, who was the daughter of a nobleman, had
much embarrassed the affairs of his father, Sir Edward, on coming into
possession of his estate, had wisely determined to withdraw from the gay
world, by renting his house in town, and retiring altogether to his
respectable mansion, about a hundred miles from the metropolis. Here he
hoped, by a course of systematic but liberal economy, to release himself
from all embarrassments, and to make such a provision for his younger
children, the three daughters already mentioned, as he conceived their
birth entitled them to expect. Seventeen years enabled him to accomplish
this plan; and for more than eighteen months, Sir Edward had resumed the
hospitality and appearance usual in his family, and had even promised his
delighted girls to take possession, the ensuing winter, of the house in
St. James's Square. Nature had not qualified Sir Edward for great or
continued exertions, and the prudent decision he had taken to retrieve his
fortunes, was perhaps an act of as much forecast and vigor as his talents
or energy would afford; it was the step most obviously for his interests,
and the one that was safest both in its execution and consequences, and as
such it had been adopted: but, had it required a single particle more of
enterprise or calculation, it would have been beyond his powers, and the
heir might have yet labored under the difficulties which distressed his
more brilliant, but less prudent parent.

The baronet was warmly attached to his wife; and as she was a woman of
many valuable and no obnoxious qualities, civil and attentive by habit to
all around her, and perfectly disinterested in her attachments to her own
family, nothing in nature could partake more of perfection in the eyes of
her husband and children than the conduct of this beloved relative. Yet
Lady Moseley had her failings, however, although few were disposed to view
her errors with that severity which truth and a just discrimination of
character render necessary. Her union had been one of love, and for a
time it had been objected to by the friends of her husband, on the score
of fortune; but constancy and perseverance prevailed, and the protracted
and inconsequent opposition of his parents had left no other effects than
an aversion in the children to the exercise of parental authority, in
marrying their own descendents: an aversion which, though common to both
the worthy baronet and his wife, was somewhat different in its two
subjects. In the husband it was quiescent; but in the wife, it was
slightly shaded with the female _esprit de corps_, of having her daughters
comfortably established, and that in due season. Lady Moseley was
religious, but hardly pious; she was charitable in deeds, but not always
in opinions; her intentions were pure, but neither her prejudices nor her
reasoning powers suffered her to be at all times consistent. Still few
knew her that did not love her, and none were ever heard to say aught
against her breeding, her morals, or her disposition.

The sister of Sir Edward had been married, early in life, to an officer in
the army, who, spending much of his time abroad on service, had left her a
prey to that solicitude to which she was necessarily a prey by her
attachment to her husband. To find relief from this perpetual and
life-wearing anxiety, an invaluable friend had pointed out the only true
remedy of which her case admitted, a research into her own heart, and the
employments of active benevolence. The death of her husband, who lost his
life in battle, caused her to withdraw in a great measure from the world,
and gave time and inducement for reflections, which led to impressions on
religion that were sufficiently correct in themselves, and indispensable
as the basis of future happiness, but which became slightly tinctured with
the sternness of her vigorous mind, and possibly, at times were more
unbending than was compatible with the comforts of this world; a fault,
however, of manner, more than of matter. Warmly attached to her brother
and his children, Mrs. Wilson, who had never been a mother herself,
yielded to their earnest entreaties to become one of the family; and
although left by the late General Wilson with a large income, ever since
his death she had given up her own establishment, and devoted most of her
time to the formation of the character of her youngest niece. Lady Moseley
had submitted this child entirely to the control of the aunt; and it was
commonly thought Emily would inherit the very handsome sum left at the
disposal of the General's widow.

Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley possessed a large share of personal
beauty when young, and it had descended in common to all their children,
but more particularly to the two youngest daughters. Although a strong
family resemblance, both in person and character, existed between these
closely connected relatives, yet it existed with shades of distinction
that had very different effects on their conduct, and led to results which
stamped their lives with widely differing degrees of happiness.

Between the families at Moseley Hall and the rectory, there had existed
for many years an intimacy founded on esteem and on long intercourse.
Doctor Ives was a clergyman of deep piety; and of very considerable
talents; he possessed, in addition to a moderate benefice, an independent
fortune in right of his wife, who was the only child of a distinguished
naval officer. Both were well connected, well bred, and well disposed to
their fellow creatures. They were blessed with but one child, the young
divine we have mentioned, who promised to equal his father in all those
qualities which had made the Doctor the delight of his friends, and almost
the idol of his parishioners.

Between Francis Ives and Clara Moseley, there had been an attachment,
which had grown with their years, from childhood. He had been her
companion in their youthful recreations, had espoused her little quarrels,
and participated in her innocent pleasures, for so many years, and with
such an evident preference for each other in the youthful pair, that, on
leaving college to enter on the studies of his sacred calling with his
father, Francis rightly judged that none other would make his future life
as happy, as the mild, the tender, the unassuming Clara. Their passion, if
so gentle a feeling deserve the term, received the sanction of their
parents, and the two families waited only for the establishment of the
young divine, to perfect the union.

The retirement of Sir Edward's family had been uniform, with the exception
of an occasional visit to an aged uncle of his wife's, and who, in return,
spent much of his time with them at the Hall, and who had openly declared
his intention of making the children of Lady Moseley his heirs. The visits
of Mr. Benfield were always hailed with joy, and as an event that called
for more than ordinary gaiety; for, although rough in manner, and somewhat
infirm from years, the old bachelor, who was rather addicted to the
customs in which he had indulged in his youth, and was fond of dwelling on
the scenes of former days, was universally beloved where he was intimately
known, for an unbounded though eccentric philanthropy.

The illness of the mother-in-law of Mrs. Wilson had called her to Bath the
winter preceding the spring when our history commences, and she had been
accompanied thither by her nephew and favorite niece. John and Emily,
during the month of their residence in that city, were in the practice of
making daily excursions in its environs. It was in one of these little
drives that they were of accidental service to a very young and very
beautiful woman, apparently in low health. They had taken her up in their
carriage, and conveyed her to a farm-house where she resided, during a
faintness which had come over her in a walk; and her beauty air, and
manner, altogether so different from those around her, had interested them
both to a painful degree. They had ventured to call the following day to
inquire after her welfare, and this visit led to a slight intercourse,
which continued for the fortnight they remained there.

John had given himself some trouble to ascertain who she was, but in vain.
They could merely learn that her life was blameless, that she saw no one
but themselves, and her dialect raised a suspicion that she was not
English, It was to this unknown fair Emily alluded in her playful attempt
to stop the heedless rattle of her brother, who was not always restrained
from uttering what he thought by a proper regard for the feelings of
others.




Chapter II.



The morning succeeding the day of the dinner at the Hall, Mrs. Wilson,
with all her nieces and her nephew, availed herself of the fineness of the
weather to walk to the rectory, where they were all in the habit of making
informal and friendly visits. They had just got out of the little village
of B----, which lay in their route, when a rather handsome travelling
carriage and four passed them, and took the road which led to the Deanery.

"As I live," cried John, "there go our new neighbors the Jarvis's; yes,
yes, that must be the old merchant muffled up in the corner; I mistook him
at first for a pile of bandboxes; then the rosy-cheeked lady, with so many
feathers, must be the old lady--heaven forgive me, Mrs. Jarvis I
mean--aye, and the two others the belles."

"You are in a hurry to pronounce them belles, John," said Jane, pettishly;
"it would be well to see more of them before you speak so decidedly."

"Oh!" replied John, "I have seen _enough_ of them, and"--he was
interrupted by the whirling of a tilbury and tandem followed by a couple
of servants on horseback. All about this vehicle and its masters bore the
stamp of decided fashion; and our party had followed it with their eyes
for a short distance, when, having reached a fork in the roads, it
stopped, and evidently waited the coming up of the pedestrians, as if to
make an inquiry. A single glance of the eye was sufficient to apprise the
gentleman on the cushion (who held the reins) of the kind of people he had
to deal with, and stepping from his carriage, he met them with a graceful
bow, and after handsomely apologizing for the trouble he was giving, he
desired to know which road led to the Deanery. "The right," replied John,
returning his salutation.

"Ask them, Colonel," cried the charioteer, "whether the old gentleman went
right or not."

The Colonel, in the manner of a perfect gentleman, but with a look of
compassion for his companion's want of tact, made the desired inquiry;
which being satisfactorily answered, he again bowed and was retiring, as
one of several pointers who followed the cavalcade sprang upon Jane, and
soiled her walking dress with his dirty feet.

"Come hither, Dido," cried the Colonel, hastening to beat the dog back
from the young lady; and again he apologized in the same collected and
handsome manner, then turning to one of the servants, he said, "call in
the dog, sir," and rejoined his companion. The air of this gentleman was
peculiarly pleasant; it would not have been difficult to pronounce him a
soldier had he not been addressed as such by his younger and certainly
less polished companion. The Colonel was apparently about thirty, and of
extremely handsome face and figure, while his driving friend appeared
several years younger, and of altogether different materials.

"I wonder," said Jane, as they turned a corner which hid them from view,
"who they are?"

"Who they are?" cried the brother, "why the Jarvis's to be sure; didn't
you hear them ask the road to the Deanery?

"Oh! the one that drove, _he_ may be a Jarvis, but not the gentleman who
spoke to us--surely not, John; besides, he was called Colonel, you know."

"Yes, yes," said John, with one of his quizzing expressions, "Colonel
Jarvis, that must be the alderman; they are commonly colonels of city
volunteers: yes, that must have been the old gem'mun who spoke to us, and
I was right after all about the bandboxes."

"You forget," said Clara, smiling, "the polite inquiry concerning the old
gem'mun."

"Ah! true; who the deuce can this Colonel be then, for young Jarvis is
only a captain, I know; who do you think he is, Jane?"

"How do you think I can tell you, John? But whoever he is, he owns the
tilbury, although he did not drive it; and he is a gentleman both by birth
and manners."

"Why, Jane, if you know so much of him, you should know more; but it is
all guess with you."

"No; it is not guess--I am certain of what I say."

The aunt and sisters, who had taken little interest in the dialogue,
looked at her with some surprise, which John observing, he exclaimed,
"Poh: she knows no more than we all know."

"Indeed I do."

"Poh, poh, if you know, tell."

"Why, the arms were different."

John laughed as he said, "That _is_ a good reason, sure enough, for the
tilbury's being the colonel's property; but now for his blood; how did you
discover that, sis--by his gait and actions, as we say of horses?"

Jane colored a little, and laughed faintly. "The arms on the tilbury had
six quarterings."

Emily now laughed, and Mrs. Wilson and Clara smiled while John continued
his teazing until they reached the rectory.

While chatting with the doctor and his wife, Francis returned from his
morning ride, and told them the Jarvis family had arrived; he had
witnessed an unpleasant accident to a gig, in which were Captain Jarvis,
and a friend, a Colonel Egerton; it had been awkwardly driven in turning
into the Deanery gate, and upset: the colonel received some injury to his
ankle, nothing, however, serious he hoped, but such as to put him under
the care of the young ladies, probably, for a few days. After the
exclamations which usually follow such details, Jane ventured to inquire
who Colonel Egerton was.

"I understood at the time, from one of the servants, that he is a nephew
of Sir Edgar Egerton, and a lieutenant-colonel on half-pay, or furlough,
or some such thing."

"How did he bear his misfortune, Mr. Francis?" inquired Mrs. Wilson.

"Certainly as a gentleman, madam, if not as a Christian," replied the
young clergyman, slily smiling; "indeed, most men of gallantry would, I
believe, rejoice in an accident which drew forth so much sympathy as both
the Miss Jarvis's manifested."

"How fortunate you should all happen to be near!" said the tender-hearted
Clara.

"Are the young ladies pretty?" asked Jane, with something of hesitation in
her manner.

"Why, I rather think they are; but I took very little notice of their
appearance, as the colonel was really in evident pain."

"This, then," cried the doctor, "affords me an additional excuse for
calling on them at an early day, so I'll e'en go to-morrow."

"I trust Doctor Ives wants no apologies for performing his duty," said
Mrs. Wilson.

"He is fond of making them, though," said Mrs. Ives, peaking with a
benevolent smile, and for the first time in the little conversation.

It was then arranged that the rector should make his official visit, as
intended by himself; and on his report, the ladies would act. After
remaining at the rectory an hour, they returned to the hall, attended by
Francis.

The next day the doctor drove in, and informed them the Jarvis family were
happily settled, and the colonel in no danger, excepting from the
fascinations of the two young ladies, who took such palpable care of him
that he wanted for nothing, and they might drive over whenever they
pleased, without fear of intruding unseasonably.

Mr. Jarvis received his guests with the frankness of good feelings, if not
with the polish of high life; while his wife, who seldom thought of the
former, would have been mortally offended with the person who could have
suggested that she omitted any of the elegancies of the latter. Her
daughters were rather pretty, but wanted, both in appearance and manner,
the inexpressible air of _haut ton_ which so eminently distinguished the
easy but polished deportment of Colonel Egerton, whom they found reclining
on a sofa with his leg on a chair, amply secured in numerous bandages, but
unable to rise. Notwithstanding the awkwardness of his situation, he was
by far the least discomposed person of the party, and having pleasantly
excused himself, he appeared to think no more of the matter.

The captain, Mrs. Jarvis remarked, had gone out with his dogs to try the
grounds around them, "for he seems to live only with his horses and his
gun: young men, my lady, nowadays, appear to forget that there are any
things in the world but themselves; now I told Harry that your ladyship
and daughters would favor us with a call this morning--but no: there he
went, as if Mr. Jarvis was unable to buy us a dinner, and we should all
starve but for his quails and pheasants."

"Quails and pheasants," cried John, in consternation, "does Captain
Jarvis shoot quails and pheasants at this time of the year?"

"Mrs. Jarvis, sir," said Colonel Egerton, with a correcting smile,
"understands the allegiance due from us gentlemen to the ladies, better
than the rules of sporting; my friend, the captain, has taken his fishing
rod, I believe."

"It is all one, fish or birds," continued Mrs. Jarvis, "he is Out of the
way when he is wanted, and I believe we can buy fish as easily as birds; I
wish he would take pattern after yourself, colonel, in these matters."

Colonel Egerton laughed pleasantly, but he did not blush; and Miss Jarvis
observed, with a look, of something like admiration thrown on his
reclining figure, "that when Harry had been in the army as long as his
friend, he would know the usages of good society, she hoped, as well."

"Yes," said her mother, "the army is certainly the place to polish a young
man;" and turning to Mrs. Wilson, she abruptly added, "Your husband, I
believe, was in the army, ma'am?"

"I hope," said Emily hastily, "that we shall have the pleasure of seeing
you soon, Miss Jarvis, at the Hall," preventing by her promptitude the
necessity of a reply from her aunt. The young lady promised to make an
early visit, and the subject changed to a general and uninteresting
discourse on the neighborhood, the country, the weather, and other
ordinary topics.

"Now, John," cried Jane in triumph, as they drove from the door, "you must
acknowledge my heraldic witchcraft, as you are pleased to call it, is
right for once at least."

"Oh! no doubt, Jenny," said John, who was accustomed to use that
appellation to her as a provocation, when he wished what he called an
enlivening scene; but Mrs. Wilson put a damper on his hopes by a remark to
his mother, and the habitual respect of both the combatants kept them
silent.

Jane Moseley was endowed by nature with an excellent understanding, one at
least equal to that of her brother, but the wanted the more essential
requisites of a well governed mind. Masters had been provided by Sir
Edward for all his daughters, and if they were not acquainted with the
usual acquirements of young women in their rank of life, it was not his
fault: his system of economy had not embraced a denial of opportunity to
any of his children, and the baronet was apt to think all _was_ done, when
they were put where all _might_ be done. Feeling herself and parents
entitled to enter into all the gaieties and splendors of some of the
richer families in their vicinity, Jane, who had grown up during the
temporary eclipse of Sir Edward's fortunes, had sought that
self-consolation so common to people in her situation, which was to be
found in reviewing the former grandeur of her house, and she had thus
contracted a degree of family pride. If Clara's weaknesses were less
striking than those of Jane, it was because she had less imagination, and
because that in loving Francis Ives she had so long admired a character,
where so little was to be found that could be censured, that she might be
said to have contracted a habit of judging correctly, without being able
at all times to give a reason for her conduct or her opinions.




Chapter III.



The day fixed for one of the stated visits of Mr. Benfield had now
arrived, and John, with Emily, who was the old bachelor's favorite niece,
went in the baronet's post-chaise to the town of F----, a distance of
twenty miles, to meet him, in order to accompany him in the remainder of
his journey to the Hall, it being a settled rule with the old man, that
his carriage horses should return to their own stables every night, where
he imagined they could alone find that comfort and care to which their age
and services gave them a claim. The day was uncommonly pleasant, and the
young people were in high spirits with the expectation of meeting their
respected relative, whose absence had been prolonged a few days by a
severe fit of the gout.

"Now, Emily," cried John, as he settled himself comfortably by the side of
his sister in the chaise, "let me know honestly how you like the Jarvis's,
and particularly how you like the handsome colonel."

"Then, John, honestly, I neither like nor dislike the Jarvis's or the
handsome colonel."

"Well, then, there is no great diversity in our sentiments, as Jane would
say."

"John!"

"Emily!"

"I do not like to hear you speak so disrespectfully of out sister, whom I
am sure you love as tenderly as I do myself."

"I acknowledge my error," said the brother, taking her hand and
affectionately kissing it, "and will endeavor to offend no more; but this
Colonel Egerton, sister, is certainly a gentleman, both by blood and in
manners, as Jane"--Emily interrupted him with a laugh, which John took
very good-naturedly, repeating his remark without alluding to their
sister.

"Yes," said Emily, "he is genteel in his deportment, if that be what you
mean; I know nothing of his family."

"Oh, I have taken a peep into Jane's Baronetage, where find him set down
as Sir Edgar's heir."


"There is something about him," said Emily, musing, "that I do not much
admire; he is too easy--there is no nature; I always feel afraid such
people will laugh at me as soon as my back is turned, and for those very
things they seem most to admire to my face. If I might be allowed to
judge, I should say his manner wants one thing, without which no one can
be truly agreeable."

"What's that?"

"Sincerity."

"Ah! that's my great recommendation; but I am afraid I shall have to take
the poacher up, with his quails and his pheasants, indeed."

"You know the colonel explained that to be a mistake."

"What they call explaining away; but unluckily I saw the gentleman
returning with his gun on his shoulder, and followed by a brace of
pointers."

"There's a specimen of the colonel's manners then," said Emily, smiling;
"it will do until the truth be known."

"And Jane, when she saw him also, praised his good nature and
consideration, in what she was pleased to call relieving the awkwardness
of my remark."

Emily finding her brother disposed to dwell on the foibles of Jane, a
thing he was rather addicted to at times, was silent. They rode some
distance before John, who was ever as ready to atone as he was to offend,
again apologized, again promised reformation, and during the remainder of
the ride only forgot himself twice more in the same way.

They reached F---- two hours before the lumbering coach of their uncle
drove into the yard of the inn, and had sufficient time to refresh their
own horses for the journey homewards.

Mr. Benfield was a bachelor of eighty, but retained the personal activity
of a man of sixty. He was strongly attached to all the fashions and
opinions of his youth, during which he had sat one term in parliament,
having been a great beau and courtier in the commencement of the reign. A
disappointment in an affair of the heart drove him into retirement; and
for the last fifty years he had dwelt exclusively at a seat he owned
within forty miles of Moseley Hall, the mistress of which was the only
child of his only brother. In figure, he was tall and spare, very erect
for his years, and he faithfully preserved in his attire, servants,
carriages, and indeed everything around him, as much of the fashions of
his youth as circumstances would allow: such then was a faint outline of
the character and appearance of the old man, who, dressed in a cocked hat,
bag wig, and sword, took the offered arm of John Moseley to alight from
his coach.

"So," cried the old gentleman, having made good his footing on the ground,
as he stopped short and stared John in the face, "you have made out to
come twenty miles to meet an old cynic, have you, sir? but I thought I bid
thee bring Emmy with thee."

John pointed to the window, where his sister stood anxiously watching her
uncle's movements. On catching her eye, he smiled kindly, and pursued his
way into the house, talking to himself.

"Aye, there she is indeed; I remember now, when I was a youngster, of
going with my kinsman, old Lord Gosford, to meet his sister, the Lady
Juliana, when she first came from school (this was the lady whose
infidelity had driven him from the world); and a beauty she was indeed,
something like Emmy there; only she was taller, and her eyes were black,
and her hair too, that was black; and she was not so fair as Emmy, and she
was fatter, and she stooped a little--very little; oh! they are
wonderfully alike though; don't you think they were, nephew?" he stopped
at the door of the room; while John, who in this description could not see
a resemblance, which existed nowhere but in the old man's affections, was
fain to say, "yes; but they were related, you know, uncle, and that
explains the likeness."

"True, boy, true," said his uncle, pleased at a reason for a thing he
wished, and which flattered his propensities. He had once before told
Emily she put him in mind of his housekeeper, a woman as old as himself,
and without a tooth in her head.

On meeting his niece, Mr. Benfield (who, like many others that feel
strongly, wore in common the affectation of indifference and displeasure)
yielded to his fondness, and folding her in his arms, kissed her
affectionately, while a tear glistened in his eye; and then pushing her
gently from him, he exclaimed, "Come, come, Emmy, don't strangle me, don't
strangle me, girl; let me live in peace the little while I have to remain
here--so," seating himself composedly in an arm chair his niece had placed
for him with a cushion, "so Anne writes me, Sir William Harris has let the
deanery."

"Oh, yes, uncle," cried John.

"I'll thank you, young gentleman," said Mr. Benfield, sternly, "not to
interrupt me when I am speaking to a lady that is, if you please, sir.
Then Sir William has let the deanery to a London merchant, a Mr. Jarvis.
Now I knew three people of that name; one was a hackney coachman, when I
was a member of the parliament of this realm, and drove me often to the
house; the other was _valet-de-chambre_ to my Lord Gosford; and the third,
I take it, is the very man who has become your neighbor. If it be the
person I mean, Emmy dear, he is like--like--aye, very like old Peter, my
steward."

John, unable to contain his mirth at this discovery of a likeness between
the prototype of Mr. Benfield himself in leanness of figure, and the jolly
rotundity of the merchant, was obliged to leave the room; Emily, though
she could not forbear smiling at the comparison, quietly said, "You will
meet him to-morrow, dear uncle, and then you will be able to judge for
yourself."

"Yes, yes," muttered the old man, "very like old Peter, my steward; as
like as two peas." The parallel was by no means as ridiculous as might be
supposed; its history being as follows:

Mr. Benfield had placed twenty thousand pounds in the hands of a broker,
with positive orders for him to pay it away immediately for government
stock, bought by the former on his account; but disregarding this
injunction, the broker had managed the transaction in such a way as to
postpone the payment, until, on his failure, he had given up that and a
much larger sum to Mr. Jarvis, to satisfy what he called an honorary debt.
In elucidating the transaction Mr. Jarvis paid Benfield Lodge a visit, and
honestly restored the bachelor his property. This act, and the high
opinion he entertained of Mrs. Wilson, with his unbounded love for Emily,
were the few things which prevented his believing some dreadful judgment
was about to visit this world, for its increasing wickedness and follies.
As his own steward was one of the honestest fellows living, he had ever
after fancied that there was a personal resemblance between him and the
conscientious merchant.

The horses being ready, the old bachelor was placed carefully between his
nephew and niece, and in that manner they rode on quietly to the Hall, the
dread of accident keeping Mr. Benfield silent most of the way. On passing,
however a stately castle, about ten miles from the termination of their
ride, he began one of his speeches with,

"Emmy, dear, does Lord Bolton come often to see you?"

"Very seldom, sir; his employment keeps him much of his time at St.
James's, and then he has an estate in Ireland."

"I knew his father well--he was distantly connected by marriage with my
friend Lord Gosford; you could not remember him, I suspect" (John rolled
his eyes at this suggestion of his sister's recollection of a man who had
been forty years dead); "he always voted with me in the parliament of this
realm; he was a thoroughly honest man; very much such a man to look at as
Peter Johnson, my steward: but I am told his son likes the good things of
the ministry; well, well, William Pitt was the only minister to my mind.
There was the Scotchman of whom they made a Marquis; I never could endure
him--always voted against him."

"Right or wrong, uncle," cried John, who loved a little mischief in his
heart.

"No, sir--right, but never wrong. Lord Gosford always voted against him
too; and do you think, jackanapes, that my friend the Earl of Gosford
and--and--myself were ever wrong? No, sir, men in my day were different
creatures from what they are now: we were never wrong, sir; we loved our
country, and had no motive for being in the wrong."

"How was it with Lord Bute, uncle?"

"Lord Bute, sir," cried the old man with great warmth, "was the minister,
sir--he was the minister; aye, he was the minister, sir, and was paid for
what he did."

"But Lord Chatham, was he not the minister too?"

Now, nothing vexed the old gentleman more than to hear William Pitt
called by his tardy honors; and yet, unwilling to give up what he thought
his political opinions, he exclaimed, with an unanswerable positiveness of
argument,

"Billy Pitt, sir, was the minister, sir; but--but--but--he was _our_
minister, sir."

Emily, unable to see her uncle agitated by such useless disputes, threw a
reproachful glance on her brother, as she observed timidly,

"That was a glorious administration, sir, I believe."

"Glorious indeed! Emmy dear," said the bachelor, softening with the sound
of her voice, and the recollections of his younger days, "we beat the
French everywhere--in America--in Germany;--we took--(counting on his
fingers)--we took Quebec--yes, Lord Gosford lost a cousin there; and we
took all the Canadas; and we took their fleets: there was a young man
killed in the battle between Hawke and Conflans, who was much attached to
Lady Juliana--poor soul! how much she regretted him when dead, though she
never could abide him when living--ah! she was a tender-hearted creature!"

Mr. Benfield, like many others, continued to love imaginary qualities in
his mistress, long after her heartless coquetry had disgusted him with her
person: a kind of feeling which springs from self-love, which finds it
necessary to seek consolation in creating beauties, that may justify our
follies to ourselves; and which often keeps alive the semblance of the
passion, when even hope, or real admiration, is extinct.

On reaching the Hall, every one was rejoiced to see their really
affectionate and worthy relative, and the evening passed in the tranquil
enjoyment of the blessings which Providence had profusely scattered
around the family of the baronet, but which are too often hazarded by a
neglect of duty that springs from too great security, or an indolence
which renders us averse to the precaution necessary to insure their
continuance.




Chapter IV.



"You are welcome, Sir Edward," said the venerable rector, as he took the
baronet by the hand; "I was fearful a return of your rheumatism would
deprive us of this pleasure, and prevent my making you acquainted with the
new occupants of the deanery, who have consented to dine with us to-day,
and to whom I have promised, in particular, an introduction to Sir Edward
Moseley."

"I thank you, my dear doctor," rejoined the baronet; "I have not only come
myself, but have persuaded Mr. Benfield to make one of the party; there he
comes, leaning on Emily's arm, and finding fault with Mrs. Wilson's
new-fashioned barouche, which he says has given him cold."

The rector received the unexpected guest with the kindness of his nature,
and an inward smile at the incongruous assemblage he was likely to have
around him by the arrival of the Jarvis's, who, at that moment, drove to
his door. The introductions between the baronet and the new comers had
passed, and Miss Jarvis had made a prettily worded apology on behalf of
the colonel, who was not yet well enough to come out, but whose politeness
had insisted on their not remaining a home on his account, as Mr.
Benfield, having composedly put on his spectacles, walked deliberately up
to the place where the merchant had seated himself, and having examined
him through his glasses to his satisfaction, took them off, and carefully
wiping them, he began to talk to himself as he put them into his
pocket--"No, no; it's not Jack, the hackney coachman, nor my Lord
Gosford's gentleman, but"--cordially holding out both hands, "it's the
man who saved my twenty thousand pounds."

Mr. Jarvis, whom shame and embarrassment had kept silent during this
examination, exchanged greetings sincerely with his old acquaintance, who
now took a seat in silence by his side; while his wife, whose face had
begun to kindle with indignation at the commencement of the old
gentleman's soliloquy, observing that somehow or other it had not only
terminated without degradation to her spouse, but with something like
credit, turned complacently to Mrs. Ives, with an apology for the absence
of her son.

"I cannot divine, ma'am, where he has got to; he is ever keeping us
waiting for him;" and, addressing Jane, "these military men become so
unsettled in their habits, that I often tell Harry he should never quit
the camp."

"In Hyde Park, you should add, my dear, for he has never been in any
other," bluntly observed her husband.

To this speech no reply was made, but it was evidently little relished by
the ladies of the family, who were a good deal jealous of the laurels of
the only hero their race had ever produced. The arrival and introduction
of the captain himself changed the discourse, which turned on the comforts
of their present residence.

"Pray, my lady," cried the captain, who had taken a chair familiarly by
the side of the baronet's wife, "why is the house called the deanery? I am
afraid I shall be taken for a son of the church, when I invite my friends
to visit my father at the deanery."

"But you may add, at the same time, sir, if you please," dryly remarked
Mr. Jarvis, "that it is occupied by an old man, who has been preaching and
lecturing all his life; and, like others of the trade, I believe, in
vain."

"You must except our good friend, the doctor here, at least, sir," said
Mrs. Wilson; who, observing that her sister shrank from a familiarity she
was unused to, took upon herself the office of replying to the captain's
question: "The father of the present Sir William Harris held that station
in the church, and although the house was his private property it took its
name from the circumstance, which has been continued ever since."

"Is it not a droll life Sir William leads," cried Miss Jarvis, looking at
John Moseley, "riding about all summer from one watering-place to another,
and letting his house year after year in the manner he does?"

"Sir William," said Dr. Ives, gravely, "is devoted to his laughter's
wishes; and since his accession to his title, has come into possession of
another residence in an adjoining county, which, I believe, he retains in
his own hands."

"Are you acquainted with Miss Harris?" continued the lady, addressing
herself to Clara; though, without waiting for an answer, she added, "She
is a great belle--all the gentlemen are dying for her."

"Or her fortune," said her sister, with a pretty toss of the head; "for my
part, I never could see anything so captivating in her, although so much
is said about her at Bath and Brighton."

"You know her then," mildly observed Clara.

"Why, I cannot say--we are exactly acquainted," the young lady
hesitatingly answered, coloring violently.

"What do you mean by exactly acquainted, Sally?" put in the father with a
laugh; "did you ever speak to or were you ever in a room with her, in your
life, unless it might be at a concert or a ball?"

The mortification of Miss Sarah was too evident for concealment, and it
happily was relieved by a summons to dinner.

"Never, my dear child," said Mrs. Wilson to Emily, the aunt being fond of
introducing a moral from the occasional incidents of every-day life,
"never subject yourself to a similar mortification, by commenting on the
characters of those you don't know: ignorance makes you liable to great
errors; and if they should happen to be above you in life, it will only
excite their contempt, should it reach their ears, while those to whom
your remarks are made will think it envy."

"Truth is sometimes blundered on," whispered John, who held his sister's
arm, waiting for his aunt to precede them to the dining-room.

The merchant paid too great a compliment to the rector's dinner to think
of renewing the disagreeable conversation, and as John Moseley and the
young clergyman were seated next the two ladies, they soon forgot what,
among themselves, they would call their father's rudeness, in receiving
the attentions of a couple of remarkably agreeable young men.

"Pray, Mr. Francis, when do you preach for us?" asked Mr. Haughton; "I'm
very anxious to hear you hold forth from the pulpit, where I have so often
heard your father with pleasure: I doubt not you will prove orthodox, or
you will be the only man, I believe, in the congregation, the rector has
left in ignorance of the theory of our religion, at least."

The doctor bowed to the compliment, as he replied to the question for his
son, that on the next Sunday they were to have the pleasure of hearing
Frank, who had promised to assist him on that day.

"Any prospects of a living soon?" continued Mr. Haughton, helping himself
bountifully to a piece of plum pudding as he spoke. John Moseley laughed
aloud, and Clara blushed to the eyes, while the doctor, turning to Sir
Edward, observed with an air of interest, "Sir Edward, the living of
Bolton is vacant, and I should like exceedingly to obtain it for my son.
The advowson belongs to the Earl, who will dispose of it only to great
interest, I am afraid."

Clara was certainly, too busily occupied in picking raisins from her
pudding to hear this remark, but accidentally stole, from under her long
eyelashes, a timid glance at her father as he replied:

"I am sorry, my friend, I have not sufficient interest with his lordship
to apply on my own account; but he is so seldom here, we are barely
acquainted;" and the good baronet looked really concerned.

"Clara," said Francis Ives in a low and affectionate tone, "have you read
the books I sent you?"

Clara answered him with a smile in the negative, but promised amendment as
soon as she had leisure.

"Do you ride much, on horseback, Mr. Moseley?" abruptly asked Miss Sarah,
turning her back on the young divine, and facing the gentleman she
addressed. John, who was now hemmed in between the sisters, replied with a
rueful expression that brought a smile into the face of Emily, who was
placed opposite to him--

"Yes, ma'am, and sometimes I am ridden."

"Ridden, sir, what do you mean by that?"

"Oh! only my aunt there occasionally gives me a lecture."

"I understand," said the lady, pointing slily with her finger at her own
father.

"Does it feel good?" John inquired, with a look of, great sympathy. But
the lady, who now felt awkwardly, without knowing exactly why, shook her
head in silence, and forced a faint laugh.

"Whom have we here?" cried Captain Jarvis, who was looking out at a window
which commanded a view of the approach to the house--"the apothecary and
his attendant judging from the equipage."

The rector threw an inquiring look on a servant, who told his master they
were strangers to him.

"Have them shown up, doctor," cried the benevolent baronet, who loved to
see every one as happy as himself, "and give them some of your excellent
pasty, for the sake of hospitality and the credit of your cook, I beg of
you."

As this request was politely seconded by others of the party, the rector
ordered his servants to show in the strangers.

On opening the parlor door, a gentleman, apparently sixty years of age,
appeared, leaning on the arm of a youth of five-and-twenty. There was
sufficient resemblance between the two for the most indifferent observer
to pronounce them father and son; but the helpless debility and emaciated
figure of the former, were finely contrasted by the vigorous health and
manly beauty of the latter, who supported his venerable parent into the
room with a grace and tenderness that struck most of the beholders with a
sensation of pleasure. The doctor and Mrs. Ives rose from their seats
involuntarily, and each stood for a moment, lost in an astonishment that
was mingled with grief. Recollecting himself, the rector grasped the
extended hand of the senior in both his own, and endeavored to utter
something, but in vain. The tears followed each other down his cheeks, as
he looked on the faded and careworn figure which stood before him; while
his wife, unable to control her feelings, sank back into a chair and wept
aloud.

Throwing open the door of an adjoining room, and retaining the hand of the
invalid, the doctor gently led the way, followed by his wife and son. The
former, having recovered from the first burst of her sorrow, and
regardless of everything else, now anxiously watched the enfeebled step of
the stranger. On reaching the door, they both turned and bowed to the
company in a manner of so much dignity, mingled with sweetness, that all,
not excepting Mr. Benfield, rose from their seats to return the
salutation. On passing from the dining parlor, the door was closed,
leaving the company standing round the table in mute astonishment and
commiseration. Not a word had been spoken, and the rector's family had
left them without apology or explanation. Francis, however soon returned,
and was followed in a few minutes by his mother, who, slightly apologizing
for her absence, turned the discourse on the approaching Sunday, and the
intention of Francis to preach on that day. The Moseleys were too well
bred to make any inquiries, and the deanery family was afraid. Sir Edward
retired at a very early hour, and was followed by the remainder of the
party.

"Well," cried Mrs. Jarvis, as they drove from the door, "this may be good
breeding, but, for my part, I think both the doctor and Mrs. Ives behaved
very rudely, with the crying and sobbing."

"They are nobody of much consequence," cried her eldest daughter, casting
a contemptuous glance on a plain travelling chaise which stood before the
rector's stables.

"'Twas sickening," said Miss Sarah, with a shrug; while her father,
turning his eyes on each speaker in succession, very deliberately helped
himself to a pinch of snuff, his ordinary recourse against a family
quarrel. The curiosity of the ladies was, however, more lively than they
chose to avow and Mrs. Jarvis bade her maid go over to the rectory that
evening, with her compliments to Mrs. Ives; she had lost a lace veil,
which her maid knew, and she thought it might have been left at the
rectory.

"And, Jones, when you are there, you can inquire of the servants; mind, of
the servants--I would not distress Mrs. Ives for the world; how
Mr.--Mr.--what's his name--Oh!--I have forgotten his name; just bring me
his name too. Jones; and, as it may make some difference in our party,
just find out how long they stay; and--and--- any other little thing,
Jones, which can be of use, you know."

Off went Jones, and within an hour she had returned. With an important
look, she commenced her narrative, the daughters being accidentally
present, and it might be on purpose.

"Why, ma'am, I went across the fields, and William was good enough to go
with me; so when we got there, I rang, and they showed us into the
servants' room, and I gave my message, and the veil was not there. Why,
ma'am, there's the veil now, on the back o' that chair."

"Very well, very well, Jones, never mind the veil," cried the impatient
mistress.

"So, ma'am, while they were looking for the veil, I just asked one of the
maids, what company had arrived, but"--(here Jones looked very suspicious,
and shook her head ominously:) "would you think it, ma'am, not a soul of
them knew! But, ma'am, there was the doctor and his son, praying and
reading with the old gentleman the whole time--and"--

"And what, Jones?"

"Why, ma'am, I expect he has been a great sinner, or he wouldn't want so
much praying just as he is about to die."

"Die!" cried all three at once: "will he die?"

"O yes," continued Jones, "they all agree he must die; but this praying so
much, is just like the criminals. I'm sure no honest person needs so much
praying, ma'am."

"No, indeed," said the mother. "No, indeed," responded the daughters, as
they retired to their several rooms for the night.




Chapter V.



There is something in the season of Spring which peculiarly excites the
feelings of devotion. The dreariness of winter has passed, and with it,
the deadened affections of our nature. New life, new vigor, arises within
us, as we walk abroad and feel the genial gales of April breathe upon us;
and our hopes, our wishes, awaken with the revival of the vegetable world.
It is then that the heart, which has been impressed with the goodness of
the Creator, feels that goodness brought, as it were, into very contact
with the senses. The eye loves to wander over the bountiful provisions
nature is throwing forth in every direction for our comfort, and fixes its
gaze on the clouds, which, having lost the chilling thinness of winter,
roll in rich volumes, amidst the clear and softened fields of azure so
peculiar to the season, leading the mind insensibly, to dwell on the
things of another and a better world. It was on such a day, that the
inhabitants of B---- thronged toward the village church, for the double
purpose of pouring out their thanksgivings, and of hearing the first
efforts of their rector's son in the duties of his sacred calling.

Amongst the crowd whom curiosity or a better feeling had drawn forth, were
to be seen the flaring equipage of the Jarvises, and the handsome
carriages of Sir Edward Moseley and his sister. All the members of the
latter family felt a lively anxiety for the success of the young divine.
But knowing, as they well did, the strength of his native talents, the
excellence of his education, and the fervor of his piety, it was an
anxiety that partook more of hope than of fear. There was one heart,
however, amongst them, that palpitated with an emotion that hardly
admitted of control, as they approached the sacred edifice, for it had
identified itself completely with the welfare of the rector's son. There
never was a softer, truer heart, than that which now almost audibly beat
within the bosom of Clara Moseley; and she had given it to the young
divine with all its purity and truth.

The entrance of a congregation into the sanctuary will at all times
furnish, to an attentive observer, food for much useful speculation, if it
be chastened with a proper charity for the weaknesses of others; and most
people are ignorant of the insight they are giving into their characters
and dispositions, by such an apparently trivial circumstance as their
weekly approach to the tabernacles of the Lord. Christianity, while it
chastens and amends the heart, leaves the natural powers unaltered; and it
cannot be doubted that its operation is, or ought to be, proportionate to
the abilities and opportunities of the subject of its holy
impression--"Unto whomsoever much is given, much will be required." While
we acknowledge, that the thoughts might be better employed in preparing
for those humiliations, of the spirit and thanksgiving of the heart which
are required of all, and are so necessary to all, we must be indulged in a
hasty view of some of the personages of our history, as they entered the
church of B----.

On the countenance of the baronet, was the dignity and composure of a mind
at peace with itself and mankind. His step was rather more deliberate than
common; his eye rested on the pavement, and on turning into his pew, as he
prepared to kneel, in the first humble petition of our beautiful service,
he raised it towards the altar with an expression of benevolence and
reverence, that spoke contentment, not unmixed with faith.

In the demeanor of Lady Moseley, all was graceful and decent, while
nothing could be properly said to be studied. She followed her husband
with a step of equal deliberation, though it was slightly varied by a
manner which, while it appeared natural to herself, might have been
artificial in another: a cambric handkerchief concealed her face as she
sank composedly by the side of Sir Edward, in a style which showed, that
while she remembered her Maker, she had not entirely forgotten herself.

The walk of Mrs. Wilson was quicker than that of her sister. Her eye,
directed before her, was fixed, as if in settled gaze, on that eternity
which she was approaching. The lines of her contemplative face were
unaltered, unless there might be traced a deeper shade of humility than
was ordinarily seen on her pale, but expressive countenance: her petition
was long; and on rising from her humble posture, the person was indeed to
be seen, but the soul appeared absorbed in contemplations beyond the
limits of this sphere.

There was a restlessness and varying of color, in the ordinarily placid
Clara, which prevented a display of her usual manner; while Jane walked
gracefully, and with a tincture of her mother's manner, by her side. She
stole one hastily withdrawn glance to the deanery pew ere she kneeled, and
then, on rising, handed her smelling-bottle affectionately to her elder
sister.

Emily glided behind her companions with a face beaming with a look of
innocence and love. As she sank in the act of supplication, the rich glow
of her healthful cheek lost some of its brilliancy; but, on rising, it
beamed with a renewed lustre, that plainly indicated a heart touched with
the sanctity of its situation.

In the composed and sedate manner of Mr. Jarvis, as he steadily pursued
his way to the pew of Sir William Harris, you might have been justified
in expecting the entrance of another Sir Edward Moseley in substance, if
not in externals. But the deliberate separation of the flaps of his coat,
as he comfortably seated himself, when you thought him about to kneel,
followed by a pinch of snuff as he threw his eye around the building, led
you at once to conjecture, that what at first had been mistaken for
reverence, was the abstraction of some earthly calculation; and that his
attendance was in compliance with custom, and not a little depended upon
the thickness of his cushions, and the room he found for the disposition
of two rather unwieldy legs.

The ladies of the family followed, in garments carefully selected for the
advantageous display of their persons. As they sailed into their seats,
where it would seem the improvidence of Sir William's steward had
neglected some important accommodation (some time being spent in
preparation to be seated), the old lady, whose size and flesh really put
kneeling out of the question, bent forward for a moment at an angle of
eighty with the horizon, while her daughters prettily bowed their heads,
with all proper precaution for the safety of their superb millinery.

At length the rector, accompanied by his son, appeared from the vestry.
There was a dignity and solemnity in the manner in which this pious divine
entered on the duties of his profession, which disposed the heart to
listen with reverence and humility to precepts that were accompanied with
so impressive an exterior. The stillness of expectation pervaded the
church, when the pew opener led the way to the same interesting father and
son whose entrance had interrupted the guests the preceding day, at the
rectory. Every eye was turned on the emaciated parent, bending into the
grave, and, as it were, kept from it by the supporting tenderness of his
child. Hastily throwing open the door of her own pew, Mrs. Ives buried
her face in her handkerchief; and her husband had proceeded far in the
morning service before she raised it again to the view of the
congregation. In the voice of the rector, there was an unusual softness
and tremor that his people attributed to the feelings of a father about to
witness the first efforts of an only child, but which in reality were
owing to another and a deeper cause.

Prayers were ended, and the younger Ives ascended the pulpit. For a moment
he paused; when, casting an anxious glance to the pew of the baronet, he
commenced his sermon. He had chosen for his discourse the necessity of
placing our dependence on divine grace. After having learnedly, but in the
most unaffected manner, displayed the necessity of this dependence, as
derived from revelation, he proceeded to paint the hope, the resignation,
the felicity of a Christian's death-bed. Warmed by the subject, his
animation soon lent a heightened interest to his language; and at a moment
when all around him were entranced by the eloquence of the youthful
divine, a sudden and deep-drawn sigh drew every eye to the rector's pew.
The younger stranger sat motionless as a statue, holding in his arms the
lifeless body of his parent, who had fallen that moment a corpse by his
side. All was now confusion: the almost insensible young man was relieved
from his burden; and, led by the rector, they left the church. The
congregation dispersed in silence, or assembled in little groups, to
converse on the awful event they had witnessed. None knew the deceased; he
was the rector's friend, and to his residence the body was removed. The
young man was evidently his child; but here all information ended. They
had arrived in a private chaise, but with post horses, and without
attendants. Their arrival at the parsonage was detailed by the Jarvis
ladies with a few exaggerations that gave additional interest to the whole
event, and which, by creating an impression with some whom gentler
feelings would not have restrained, that there was something of mystery
about them, prevented many distressing questions to the Ives's, that the
baronet's family forbore putting, on the score of delicacy. The body left
B---- at the close of the week, accompanied by Francis Ives and the
unweariedly attentive and interesting son. The doctor and his wife went
into deep mourning, and Clara received a short note from her lover, on the
morning of their departure, acquainting her with his intended absence for
a month, but throwing no light upon the affair. The London papers,
however, contained the following obituary notice, and which, as it could
refer to no other person, as a matter of course, was supposed to allude to
the rector's friend.

"Died, suddenly, at B----, on the 20th instant, George Denbigh, Esq., aged
63."




Chapter VI.



During the week of mourning, the intercourse between Moseley Hall and the
rectory was confined to messages and notes of inquiry after each other's
welfare: but the visit of the Moseleys to the deanery had been returned;
and the day after the appearance of the obituary paragraph, the family of
the latter dined by invitation at the Hall. Colonel Egerton had recovered
the use of his leg, and was included in the party. Between this gentleman
and Mr. Benfield there appeared, from the first moment of their
introduction, a repugnance which was rather increased by time, and which
the old gentleman manifested by a demeanor loaded with the overstrained
ceremony of the day, and which, in the colonel, only showed itself by
avoiding, when possible, all intercourse with the object of his aversion.
Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley, on the contrary, were not slow in
manifesting their favorable impressions in behalf of the gentleman. The
latter, in particular, having ascertained to her satisfaction that he was
the undoubted heir to the title, and most probably to the estates of his
uncle, Sir Edgar Egerton, felt herself strongly disposed to encourage an
acquaintance she found so agreeable, and to which she could see no
reasonable objection. Captain Jarvis, who was extremely offensive to her,
from his vulgar familiarity, she barely tolerated, from the necessity of
being civil, and keeping up sociability in the neighborhood. It is true,
she could not help being surprised that a gentleman, as polished, as the
colonel, could find any pleasure in an associate like his friend, or even
in the hardly more softened females of his family; then again, the
flattering suggestion would present itself, that possibly he might have
seen Emily at Bath, or Jane elsewhere, and availed himself of the
acquaintance of young Jarvis to get into their neighborhood. Lady Moseley
had never been vain, or much interested about the disposal of her own
person, previously to her attachment to her husband: but her daughters
called forth not a little of her natural pride--we had almost said of her
selfishness.

The attentions of the colonel were of the most delicate and insinuating
kind; and Mrs. Wilson several times turned away in displeasure at herself,
for listening with too much satisfaction to nothings, uttered in an
agreeable manner, or, what was worse, false sentiments supported with the
gloss of language and a fascinating deportment. The anxiety of this lady
on behalf of Emily kept her ever on the alert, when chance, or any chain
of circumstances, threw her in the way of forming new connexions of any
kind; and of late, as her charge approached the period of life her sex
were apt to make that choice from which there is no retreat, her
solicitude to examine the characters of the men who approached her was
really painful. As to Lady Moseley, her wishes disposed her to be easily
satisfied, and her mind naturally shrank from an investigation to which
she felt herself unequal; while Mrs. Wilson was governed by the
convictions of a sound discretion, matured by long and deep reasoning, all
acting on a temper at all times ardent, and a watchfulness calculated to
endure to the end.

"Pray, my lady," said Mrs. Jarvis, with a look of something like
importance, "have you made any discovery about this Mr. Denbigh, who died
in the church lately?"

"I did not know, ma'am," replied Lady Moseley, "there was any discovery to
be made."

"You know, Lady Moseley," said Colonel Egerton, "that in town, all the
little accompaniments of such a melancholy death would have found their
way into the prints; and I suppose this is what Mrs. Jarvis alludes to."

"Oh yes," cried Mrs. Jarvis, "the colonel is right." But the colonel was
always right with that lady.

Lady Moseley bowed her head with dignity, and the colonel had too much
tact to pursue the conversation; but the captain, whom nothing had ever
yet abashed, exclaimed,

"These Denbighs could not be people of much importance--I have never heard
the name before."

"It is the family name of the Duke of Derwent, I believe," dryly remarked
Sir Edward.

"Oh, I am sure neither the old man nor his son looked much like a duke, or
so much as an officer either," exclaimed Mrs. Jarvis, who thought the
latter rank the dignity in degree next below nobility.

"There sat, in the parliament of this realm, when I was a member, a
General Denbigh," said Mr. Benfield, with his usual deliberation; "he was
always on the same side with Lord Gosford and myself. He and his friend,
Sir Peter Howell, who was the admiral that took the French squadron, in
the glorious administration of Billy Pitt, and afterwards took an island
with this same General Denbigh: aye, the old admiral was a hearty blade; a
good deal such a looking man as my Hector would make."

Hector was Mr. Benfield's bull dog.

"Mercy," whispered John to Clara, "that's your grandfather that is to be
uncle Benfield is speaking of."

Clara smiled, as she ventured to say, "Sir Peter was Mrs. Ives's father,
sir."

"Indeed!" said the old gentleman, with a look of surprise, "I never knew
that before; I cannot say they resemble each other much."

"Pray, uncle, does Frank look much like the family?" asked John, with an
air of unconquerable gravity.

"But, sir," interrupted Emily, "were General Denbigh and Admiral Ho well
related?"

"Not that I ever knew, Emmy dear. Sir Frederick Denbigh did not look much
like the admiral; he rather resembled (gathering himself up into an air of
formality, and bowing stiffly to Colonel Egerton) this gentleman, here."

"I have not the honor of the connexion," observed the colonel, withdrawing
behind the chair of Jane.

Mrs. Wilson changed the conversation to one more general; but the little
that had fallen from Mr. Benfield gave reason for believing a connexion,
in some way of which they were ignorant, existed between the descendants
of the two veterans, and which explained the interest they felt in each
other.

During dinner, Colonel Egerton placed himself next to Emily, and Miss
Jarvis took, the chair on the other side. He spoke of the gay world, of
watering-places, novels, plays, and still finding his companion reserved,
and either unwilling or unable to talk freely, he tried his favorite
sentiment. He had read poetry, and a remark of his lighted up a spark of
intelligence in the beautiful face of his companion that for a moment
deceived him; but as he went on to point out his favorite beauties, it
gave place to a settled composure, which at last led him to imagine the
casket contained no gem equal to the promise of its brilliant exterior.
After resting from one of his most labored displays of feeling and
imagery, he accidentally caught the eyes of Jane fastened on him with an
expression of no dubious import, and the soldier changed his battery. In
Jane he found a more willing auditor; poetry was the food she lived on,
and in works of the imagination she found her greatest delight. An
animated discussion of the merits of their favorite authors now took
place; to renew which, the colonel early left the dining-room for the
society of the ladies; John, who disliked drinking excessively, being
happy of an excuse to attend him.

The younger ladies had clustered together round a window and even Emily in
her heart rejoiced that the gentlemen had come to relieve herself and
sisters from the arduous task of entertaining women who appeared not to
possess a single taste or opinion in common with themselves.

"You were saying, Miss Moseley," observed the colonel in his most
agreeable manner, as he approached them, "you thought Campbell the most
musical poet we have; I hope you will unite with me in excepting Moore."

Jane colored, as with some awkwardness she replied, "Moore was certainly
very poetical."

"Has Moore written much?" innocently asked Emily.

"Not half as much as he ought," cried Miss Jarvis. "Oh! I could live on
his beautiful lines."

Jane turned away in disgust; and that evening, while alone with Clara, she
took a volume of Moore's songs, and very coolly consigned them to the
flames. Her sister naturally asked an explanation of so extraordinary a
procedure.

"Oh!" cried Jane, "I can't abide the book, since that vulgar Miss Jarvis
speaks of it with so much interest. I really believe aunt Wilson is right
in not suffering Emily to read such things." And Jane, who had often
devoured the treacherous lines with ardor, shrank with fastidious delicacy
from the indulgence of a perverted taste, when it became exposed, coupled
with the vulgarity of unblushing audacity.

Colonel Egerton immediately changed the subject to one less objectionable,
and spoke of a campaign he had made in Spain. He possessed the happy
faculty of giving an interest to all he advanced, whether true or not; and
as he never contradicted, or even opposed unless to yield gracefully, when
a lady was his opponent, his conversation insensibly attracted, by
putting the sex in good humor with themselves. Such a man, aided by the
powerful assistants of person and manners, and no inconsiderable
colloquial talents, Mrs. Wilson knew to be extremely dangerous as a
companion to a youthful female heart; and as his visit was to extend to a
couple of months, she resolved to reconnoitre the state of her pupil's
opinion forthwith in reference to his merits. She had taken too much pains
in forming the mind of Emily to apprehend she would fall a victim to the
eye; but she also knew that personal grace sweetened a benevolent
expression, and added force even to the oracles of wisdom. She labored a
little herself under the disadvantage of what John called a didactic
manner, and which, although she had not the ability, or rather taste, to
amend, she had yet the sense to discern. It was the great error of Mrs.
Wilson to attempt to convince, where she might have influenced; but her
ardor of temperament, and great love of truth, kept her, as it were,
tilting with the vices of mankind, and consequently sometimes in
unprofitable combat. With her charge, however, this could never be said to
be the case, Emily knew her heart, felt her love, and revered her
principles too deeply, to throw away an admonition, or disregard a
precept, that fell from lips she knew never spoke idly or without
consideration.

John had felt tempted to push the conversation with Miss Jarvis, and he
was about to utter something rapturous respecting the melodious poison of
Little's poems, as the blue eye of Emily rested on him in the fulness of
sisterly affection and checking his love of the ridiculous, he quietly
yielded to his respect for the innocence of his sisters; and, as if eager
to draw the attention of all from the hateful subject, he put question
after question to Egerton concerning the Spaniards and their customs.

"Did you ever meet Lord Pendennyss in Spain, Colonel Egerton?" inquired
Mrs. Wilson, with interest.

"Never, madam," he replied. "I have much reason to regret that our service
lay in different parts of the country: his lordship was much with the
duke, and I made the campaign under Marshal Beresford."

Emily left the group at the window, and taking a seat on the sofa by the
side of her aunt, insensibly led her to forget the gloomy thoughts which
had begun to steal over her; which the colonel, approaching where they
sat, continued, by asking--

"Are you acquainted with the earl, madam?"

"Not in person, but by character," said Mrs. Wilson, in a melancholy
manner.

"His character as a soldier was very high. He had no superior of his years
in Spain, I am told."

No reply was made to this remark, and Emily endeavored anxiously to draw
the mind of her aunt to reflections of a more agreeable nature. The
colonel, whose vigilance to please was ever on the alert, kindly aided
her, and they soon succeeded.

The merchant withdrew, with his family and guest, in proper season: and
Mrs. Wilson, heedful of her duty, took the opportunity of a quarter of an
hour's privacy in her own dressing-room in the evening, to touch gently on
the subject of the gentlemen they had seen that day.

"How are you pleased, Emily, with your new acquaintances?" familiarly
commenced Mrs. Wilson.

"Oh! aunt, don't ask me; as John says, they are _net_ indeed."

"I am not sorry," continued the aunt, "to have you observe more closely
than you have been used to the manners of such women as the Jarvises; they
are too abrupt and unpleasant to create a dread of any imitation; but the
gentlemen are heroes in very different styles."

"Different from each other, indeed."

"To which do you give the preference, my dear?"

"Preference, aunt!" said her niece, with a look of astonishment;
"preference is a strong word for either; but I rather think the captain
the most eligible companion of the two. I do believe you see the worst of
him; and although I acknowledge it to be bad enough, he might amend; but
the colonel"--

"Go on," said Mrs. Wilson.

"Why, everything about the colonel seems so seated, so ingrafted in his
nature, so--so very self-satisfied, that I am afraid it would be a
difficult task to take the first step in amendment--to convince him of its
necessity?

"And is it then so necessary?"

Emily looked up from arranging some laces, with an expression of surprise,
as he replied:

"Did you not hear him talk of those poems, and attempt to point out the
beauties of several works? I thought everything he uttered was referred to
taste, and that not a very natural one; at least," she added with a laugh,
"it differed greatly from mine. He seemed to forget altogether there was
such a thing as principle: and then he spoke of some woman to Jane, who
had left her father for her lover, with so much admiration of her
feelings, to take up with poverty and love, as he called it, in place of
condemning her want of filial piety--I am sure, aunt, if you had heard
that, you would not admire him so much."

"I do not admire him at all, child; I only want to know your sentiments,
and I am happy to find them so correct. It is as you think; Colonel
Egerton appears to refer nothing to principle: even the more generous
feelings I am afraid are corrupted in him, from too low intercourse with
the surface of society. There is by far too much pliability about him for
principle of any kind, unless indeed it be a principle to please, no
matter how. No one, who has deeply seated opinions of right and wrong,
will ever abandon them, even in the courtesies of polite intercourse: they
may be silent but never acquiescent: in short, my dear, the dread of
offending our Maker ought to be so superior to that of offending our
fellow creatures, that we should endeavor, I believe, to be even more
unbending to the follies of the world than we are."

"And yet the colonel is what they call a good companion--I mean a pleasant
one."

"In the ordinary meaning of the words, he is certainly, my dear; yet you
soon tire of sentiments which will not stand the test of examination, and
of a manner you cannot but see is artificial. He may do very well for a
companion, but very ill for a friend; in short, Colonel Egerton has
neither been satisfied to yield to his natural impressions, nor to obtain
new ones from a proper source; he has copied from bad models, and his work
must necessarily be imperfect."

Kissing her niece, Mrs. Wilson then retired into her own room, with the
happy assurance that she had not labored in vain; but that, with divine
aid, she had implanted a guide in the bosom of her charge that could not
fail, with ordinary care, to lead her straight through the devious path of
female duties.




Chapter VII.



A Month now passed in the ordinary occupations and amusements of a country
life, during which both Lady Moseley and Jane manifested a desire to keep
up the deanery acquaintance, that surprised Emily a little, who had ever
seen her mother shrink from communications with those whose breeding
subjected her own delicacy, to the little shocks she could but ill
conceal. In Jane this desire was still more inexplicable; for Jane had, in
a decided way very common to her, avowed her disgust of the manners of
their new associates at the commencement of the acquaintance; and yet Jane
would now even quit her own society for that of Miss Jarvis, especially if
Colonel Egerton happened to be of the party The innocence of Emily
prevented her scanning the motives for the conduct of her sister; and she
set seriously about an examination into her own deportment to find the
latent cause, in order, wherever an opportunity should offer, to evince
her regret, had it been her misfortune, to have erred by the tenderness of
her own manner.

For a short time the colonel seemed at a loss where to make his choice;
but a few days determined him, and Jane was evidently the favorite. It is
true, that in the presence of the Jarvis ladies he was more guarded and
general in his attentions; but as John, from a motive of charity, had
taken the direction of the captain's sports into his own hands; and as
they were in the frequent habit of meeting at the Hall preparatory to
their morning excursion, the colonel suddenly became a sportsman. The
ladies would often accompany them in their morning excursions; and as
John would certainly be a baronet, and the colonel might not if his uncle
married, he had the comfort of being sometimes ridden, as well as of
riding.

One morning, having all prepared for an excursion on horseback, as they
stood at the door ready to mount, Francis Ives drove up in his father's
gig, and for a moment arrested the party. Francis was a favorite with the
whole Moseley family, and their greetings were warm and sincere. He found
they meant to take the rectory in their ride, and insisted that they
should proceed. "Clara would take a seat with him." As he spoke, the cast
of his countenance brought the color into the cheeks of his intended; she
suffered herself, however, to be handed into the vacant seat in the gig,
and they moved on. John, who was at the bottom good-natured, and loved
both Francis and Clara very sincerely, soon set Captain Jarvis and his
sister what he called "scrub racing," and necessity, in some measure,
compelled the rest of the equestrians to hard riding, in order to keep up
with the sports.

"That will do, that will do," cried John, casting his eye back, and
perceiving they had lost sight of the gig, and nearly so of Colonel
Egerton and Jane, "why you carry it off like a jockey, captain; better
than any amateur I have ever seen, unless indeed it be your sister."

The lady encouraged by his commendations, whipped on, followed by her
brother and sister at half speed.

"There, Emily," said John, quietly dropping by her side "I see no reason
you and I should break our necks, to show the blood of our horses. Now do
you know I think we are going to have a wedding in the family soon?"

Emily looked at him in amazement.

"Frank has got a living; I saw it the moment he drove up. He came in like
somebody. Yes, I dare say he has calculated the tithes already a dozen
times."

John was right. The Earl of Bolton had, unsolicited, given him the desired
living of his own parish; and Francis was at the moment pressing the
blushing Clara to fix the day that was to put a period to his long
probation. Clara, who had not a particle of coquetry about her, promised
to be his as soon as he was inducted, an event that was to take place the
following week; and then followed those delightful little arrangements and
plans with which youthful hope is so fond of filling up the void of life.

"Doctor," said John, as he came out of the rectory to assist Clara from
the gig, "the parson here is a careful driver; see, he has not turned a
hair."

He kissed the burning cheek of his sister as she touched the ground, and
whispered significantly.

"You need tell me nothing, my dear--I know all--I consent."

Mrs. Ives folded her future daughter to her bosom; and the benevolent
smile of the good rector, together with the kind and affectionate manner
of her sisters, assured Clara the approaching nuptials were anticipated,
as a matter of course. Colonel Egerton offered his compliments to Francis
on his preferment to the living, with the polish of high breeding, and not
without an appearance of interest; and Emily thought him for the first
time as handsome as he was generally reputed to be. The ladies undertook
to say something civil in their turn, and John put the captain, by a hint,
on the same track.

"You are quite lucky, sir," said the captain, "in getting so good a living
with so little trouble; I wish you joy of it with all my heart: Mr.
Moseley tells me it is a capital thing now for a gentleman of your
profession. For my part. I prefer a scarlet coat to a black one, but
there must be parsons you know, or how should we get married or say
grace?"

Francis thanked him for his good wishes, and Egerton paid a handsome
compliment to the liberality of the earl; "he doubted not he found that
gratification which always attends a disinterested act;" and Jane
applauded the sentiment with a smile.

The baronet, when he was made acquainted with the situation of affairs,
promised Francis that no unnecessary delay should intervene, and the
marriage was happily arranged for the following week. Lady Moseley, when
she retired to the drawing-room after dinner, commenced a recital of the
ceremony and company to be invited on the occasion. Etiquette and the
decencies of life were not only the forte, but the fault of this lady; and
she had gone on to the enumeration of about the fortieth personage in the
ceremonials, before Clara found courage to say, that "Mr. Ives and myself
both wish to be married at the altar, and to proceed to Bolton Rectory
immediately after the ceremony." To this her mother warmly objected; and
argument and respectful remonstrance had followed each other for some
time, before Clara submitted in silence, with difficulty restraining her
tears. This appeal to the better feelings of the mother triumphed; and the
love of parade yielded to love of her offspring. Clara, with a lightened
heart, kissed and thanked her, and accompanied by Emily left the room;
Jane had risen to follow them, but catching a glimpse of the tilbury of
Colonel Egerton she reseated herself.

He had merely driven over at the earnest entreaties of the ladies to beg
Miss Jane would accept a seat back with him; "they had some little project
on foot, and could not proceed without her assistance."

Mrs. Wilson looked gravely at her sister, as she smiled acquiescence to
his wishes; and the daughter, who but the minute before had forgotten
there was any other person in the world but Clara, flew for her hat and
shawl, in order, as he said to herself, that the politeness of Colonel
Egerton might not keep him waiting. Lady Moseley resumed her seat by the
side of her sister with an air of great complacency, as she returned from
the window, after having seen her daughter off. For some time each was
occupied quietly with her needle, when Mrs. Wilson suddenly broke the
silence by saying:

"Who is Colonel Egerton?"

Lady Moseley looked up for a moment in amazement, but recollecting
herself, answered,

"The nephew and heir of Sir Edgar Egerton, sister."

This was spoken in a rather positive way, as if it were unanswerable; yet
as there was nothing harsh in the reply, Mrs. Wilson continued,

"Do you not think him attentive to Jane?"

Pleasure sparkled in the still brilliant eyes of Lady Moseley, as she
exclaimed--

"Do you think so?"

"I do; and you will pardon me if I say improperly so. I think you were
wrong in suffering Jane to go with him this afternoon."

"Why improperly, Charlotte? If Colonel Egerton is polite enough to show
Jane such attentions, should I not be wrong in rudely rejecting them?"

"The rudeness of refusing a request that is improper to grant is a very
venial offence. I confess I think it improper to allow any attentions to
be forced on us that may subject us to disagreeable consequences; but the
attentions of Colonel Egerton are becoming marked, Anne."

"Do you for a moment doubt their being honorable, or that he dares to
trifle with a daughter of Sir Edward Moseley?"

"I should hope not, certainly, although it may be well to guard even
against such a misfortune. But I am of opinion it is quite as important to
know whether he is _worthy_ to be her husband as it is to know that he is
in a situation to become so."

"On what points, Charlotte, would you wish to be more assured? You know
his birth and probable fortune--you see his manners and disposition; but
these latter are things for Jane to decide on; _she_ is to live with him,
and it is proper she should be suited in these respects."

"I do not deny his fortune or his disposition, but I complain that we give
him credit for the last, and for still more important requisites, without
evidence of his possessing any of them. His principles, his habits, his
very character, what do we know of them? I say we, for you know, Anne,
your children are as dear to me as my own would have been."

"I believe you sincerely, but the things you mention are points for Jane
to decide on. If she be pleased, I have no right to complain. I am
determined never to control the affections of my children."

"Had you said, never _to force_ the affections of your children, you would
have said enough, Anne; but to control, or rather to guide the affections
of a child, especially a daughter, is, in some cases, a duty as imperative
as it would be to avert any other impending calamity. Surely the proper
time to do this is before the affections of the child are likely to
endanger her peace of mind."

"I have seldom seen much good result from the interference of parents,"
said Lady Moseley, a little pertinaciously.

"True; for to be of use, unless in extraordinary cases, it should not be
seen. You will pardon me, Anne, but I have often thought parents are too
often in extremes--determined to make the election for their children, or
leaving them entirely to their own vanity and inexperience, to govern not
only their own lives, but, I may say, to leave an impression on future
generations. And, after all, what is this love? In nineteen cases in
twenty of what we call affairs of the heart, it would be better to term
them affairs of the _imagination."_

"And is there not a great deal of imagination in all love?" inquired Lady
Moseley, smiling.

"Undoubtedly, there is some; but there is one important difference: in
affairs of the imagination, the admired object is gifted with all those
qualities we esteem, as a matter of course, and there is a certain set of
females who are ever ready to bestow this admiration on any applicant for
their favors who may not be strikingly objectionable. The necessity of
being courted makes our sex rather too much disposed to admire improper
suitors."

"But how do you distinguish affairs of the heart, Charlotte, from those of
the fancy?"

"When the heart takes the lead, it is not difficult to detect it. Such
sentiments generally follow long intercourse, and opportunities of judging
the real character. They are the only attachments that are likely to stand
the test of worldly trials."

"Suppose Emily to be the object of Colonel Egerton's pursuit, then,
sister, in what manner would you proceed to destroy the influence I
acknowledge he is gaining over Jane?"

"I cannot suppose such a case," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely; and then,
observing that her sister looked as if she required an explanation, she
continued--

"My attention has been directed to the forming of such principles, and
such a taste, if I may use the expression, under those principles, that I
feel no apprehension Emily will ever allow her affections to be ensnared
by a man of the opinions and views of Colonel Egerton. I am impressed with
a twofold duty in watching the feelings of my charge. She has so much
singleness of heart, such real strength of native feeling, that, should an
improper man gain possession of her affections, the struggle between her
duty and her love would be weighty indeed; and should it proceed so far as
to make it her duty to love an unworthy object, I am sure she would sink
under it. Emily would die in the same, circumstances under which Jane
would only awake from a dream, and be wretched."

"I thought you entertained a better opinion of Jane, sister," said Lady
Moseley, reproachfully.

"I think her admirably calculated to make an invaluable wife and mother;
but she is so much under the influence of her fancy, that she seldom gives
her heart an opportunity of displaying its excellences; and again, she
dwells so much upon imaginary perfections, that adulation has become
necessary to her. The man who flatters her delicately will be sure to win
her esteem; and every woman might love the being possessed of the
qualities she will not fail to endow him with."

"I do not know that I rightly understand how you would avert all these sad
consequences of improvident affections?" said Lady Moseley.

"Prevention is better than cure--I would first implant such opinions as
would lessen the danger of intercourse; and as for particular attentions
from improper objects, it should be my care to prevent them, by
prohibiting, or rather impeding, the intimacy which might give rise to
them. And least of all," said Mrs. Wilson, with a friendly smile, as she
rose to leave the room, "would I suffer a fear of being impolite to
endanger the happiness of a young woman intrusted to my care."




Chapter VIII.



Francis, who labored with the ardor of a lover, soon completed the
necessary arrangements and alterations in his new parsonage. The living
was a good one, and as the rector was enabled to make a very considerable
annual allowance from the private fortune his wife had brought him, and as
Sir Edward had twenty thousand pounds in the funds for each of his
daughters, one portion of which was immediately settled on Clara, the
youthful couple had not only a sufficient, but an abundant provision for
their station in life; and they entered on their matrimonial duties with
as good a prospect of happiness as the ills of this world can give to
health, affection, and competency. Their union had been deferred by Dr.
Ives until his son was established, with a view to keep him under his own
direction during the critical period of his first impressions in the
priesthood; and as no objection now remained, or rather, the only one he
ever felt was removed by the proximity of Bolton to his own parish, he now
joyfully united the lovers at the altar of the village church, in the
presence of his wife and Clara's immediate relatives. On leaving the
church Francis handed his bride into his own carriage, which conveyed them
to their new residence, amidst the good wishes of his parishioners, and
the prayers of their relatives and friends. Dr. and Mrs. Ives retired to
the rectory, to the sober enjoyment of the felicity of their only child;
while the baronet and his lady felt a gloom that belied all the wishes of
the latter for the establishment of her daughters. Jane and Emily acted as
bridesmaids to their sister, and as both the former and her mother had
insisted there should be two groomsmen as a counterpoise, John was
empowered with a carte-blanche to make a provision accordingly. At first
he intimated his intention of calling on Mr. Benfield, but he finally
settled down, to the no small mortification of the before-mentioned
ladies, into writing a note to his kinsman, Lord Chatterton, whose
residence was then in London, and who in reply, after expressing his
sincere regret that an accident would prevent his having the pleasure of
attending, stated the intention of his mother and two sisters to pay them
an early visit of congratulation, as soon as his own health would allow of
his travelling. This answer arrived only the day preceding that fixed for
the wedding, and at the very moment they were expecting his lordship in
proper person.

"There," cried Jane, in triumph, "I told you it was silly to send so far
on so sudden an occasion; now, after all, what is to be done--it will be
so awkward when Clara's friends call to see her--Oh! John, John, you are a
Marplot."

"Jenny, Jenny, you are a make-plot," said John, coolly taking up his hat
to leave the room.

"Which way, my son?" said the baronet, who met him at the door.

"To the deanery, sir, to try to get Captain Jarvis to act as bridesmaid--I
beg his pardon, groomsman, to-morrow--Chatterton has been thrown from a
horse and can't come.''

"John!"

"Jenny!"

"I am sure," said Jane, indignation glowing in her pretty face, "that if
Captain Jarvis is to be an attendant, Clara must excuse my acting. I do
not choose to be associated with Captain Jarvis."

"John," said his mother, with dignity, "your trifling is unseasonable;
certainly Colonel Egerton is a more fitting person on every account, and I
desire, under present circumstances, that you ask the colonel."

"Your ladyship's wishes are orders to me," said John, gaily kissing his
hand as he left the room.

The colonel was but too happy in having it in his power to be of service
in any manner to a gentleman he respected as much as Mr. Francis Ives. He
accepted the duty, and was the only person present at the ceremony who did
not stand within the bonds of consanguinity to the parties. He was invited
by the baronet to dine at the hall, as a matter of course, and
notwithstanding the repeated injunctions of Mrs. Jarvis and her daughters,
to return immediately with an account of the dress of the bride, and with
other important items of a similar nature, the invitation was accepted. On
reaching the hall, Emily retired immediately to her own room, and at her
reappearance when the dinner bell rang, the paleness of her cheeks and the
redness of her eyes afforded sufficient proof that the translation of a
companion from her own to another family was an event, however happy in
itself, not unmingled with grief. The day, however, passed off tolerably
well for people who are expected to be premeditatedly happy, and when, in
their hearts, they are really more disposed to weep than to laugh. Jane
and the colonel had most of the conversation to themselves during dinner:
even the joyous and thoughtless John wearing his gaiety in a less graceful
manner than usual. He was actually detected by his aunt in looking with
moistened eyes at the vacant chair a servant had, from habit, placed at
the table, in the spot where Clara had been accustomed to sit.

"This beef is not done, Saunders," said the baronet to his butler, "or my
appetite is not as good as usual to-day. Colonel Egerton, will you allow
me the pleasure of a glass of sherry?"

The wine was drunk, and the game succeeded the beef; but still Sir Edward
could not eat.

"How glad Clara will be to see us all the day after to-morrow," said Mrs.
Wilson; "your new housekeepers delight in their first efforts in
entertaining their friends."

Lady Moseley smiled through her tears, and turning to her husband said,
"We will go early, my dear, that we may see the improvements Francis has
been making before we dine." The baronet nodded assent, but his heart was
too full to speak; and apologizing to the colonel for his absence, on the
plea of some business with his people, he left the room.

All this time, the attentions of Colonel Egerton to both mother and
daughter were of the most delicate kind. He spoke of Clara as if his
office of groomsman entitled him to an interest in her welfare; with John
he was kind and sociable; and even Mrs. Wilson acknowledged, after he had
taken his leave, that he possessed a wonderful faculty of making himself
agreeable, and she began to think that, under all circumstances, he might
possibly prove as advantageous a connexion as Jane could expect to form.
Had any one, however, proposed him as a husband for Emily, affection would
have quickened her judgment in a way that would have urged her to a very
different decision.

Soon after the baronet left the room, a travelling carriage, with suitable
attendants, drove to the door; the sound of the wheels drew most of the
company to a window. "A baron's coronet!" cried Jane, catching a glimpse
of the ornaments of the harness.

"The Chattertons," echoed her brother, running out of the room to meet
them.

The mother of Sir Edward was a daughter of this family, and the sister of
the grandfather of the present lord. The connexion had always been kept up
with a show of cordiality between Sir Edward and his cousin, although
their manner of living and habits were very different. The baron was a
courtier and a placeman. His estates, which he could not alienate,
produced about ten thousand a year, but the income he could and did spend;
and the high perquisites of his situation under government, amounting to
as much more were melted away year after year, without making the pro
vision for his daughters that his duty and the observance of his promise
to his wife's father required at his hands. He had been dead about two
years, and his son found himself saddled with the support of an
unjointured mother and unportioned sisters. Money was not the idol the
young lord worshipped, nor even pleasure. He was affectionate to his
surviving parent, and his first act was to settle, during his own life,
two thousand a year on her, while he commenced setting aside as much more
for each of his sisters annually. This abridged him greatly in his own
expenditures; yet, as they made but one family, and the dowager was really
a _managing_ woman in more senses than one, they made a very tolerable
figure. The son was anxious to follow the example of Sir Edward Moseley,
and give up his town house, for at least a time; but his mother had
exclaimed, with something like horror, at the proposal:

"Chatterton, would you give it up at the moment it can be of the most use
to us?" and she threw a glance at her daughters that would have discovered
her motive to Mrs Wilson, which was lost on her son; he, poor soul,
thinking she found it convenient to support the interest he had been
making for the place held by his father one of more emolument than
service, or even honor. The contending parties were so equally matched,
that this situation was kept, as it were, in abeyance, waiting the arrival
of some acquisition of interest to one or other of the claimants. The
interest of the peer, however, had begun to lose ground at the period of
which we speak, and his careful mother saw new motives for activity in
providing for her children. Mrs. Wilson herself could not be more vigilant
in examining the candidates for Emily's favors than was the dowager Lady
Chatterton in behalf of her daughter. It is true, the task of the former
Jady was by far the most arduous, for it involved a study of character and
development of principle; while that of the latter would have ended with
the footing of a rent-roll, provided it contained five figures. Sir
Edward's was well known to contain that number, and two of them were not
ciphers. Mr. Benfield was rich, and John Moseley was a very agreeable
young man. Weddings are the season of love, thought the prudent dowager,
and Grace is extremely pretty. Chatterton, who never refused his mother
anything in his power to grant, and who was particularly dutiful when a
visit to Moseley Hall was in question, suffered himself to be persuaded
his shoulder was well, and they had left town the day before the wedding,
thinking to be in time for all the gaieties, if not for the ceremony
itself.

There existed but little similarity between the persons and manners of
this young nobleman and the baronet's heir. The beauty of Chatterton was
almost feminine; his skin, his color, his eyes, his teeth, were such as
many a belle had sighed after; and his manners were bashful and retiring.
Yet an intimacy had commenced between the boys at school, which ripened
into friendship between the young men at college, and had been maintained
ever since, probably as much from the contrarieties of character as from
any other cause. With the baron, John was more sedate than ordinary; with
John, Chatterton found unusual animation. But a secret charm which John
held over the young peer was his profound respect and unvarying affection
for his youngest sister, Emily. This was common ground; and no dreams of
future happiness, no visions of dawning wealth, crossed the imagination of
Chatterton in which Emily was not the fairy to give birth to the one, or
the benevolent dispenser of the hoards of the other.

The arrival of this family was a happy relief from the oppression which
hung on the spirits of the Moseleys, and their reception marked with the
mild benevolence which belonged to the nature of the baronet, and that
_impressement_ which so eminently distinguished the manners of his wife.

The honorable Misses Chatterton were both handsome; but the younger was,
if possible, a softened picture of her brother. There was the same
retiring bashfulness and the same sweetness of temper as distinguished the
baron, and Grace was the peculiar favorite of Emily Moseley. Nothing of
the strained or sentimental nature which so often characterize what is
called female friendships, however, had crept into the communications
between these young women. Emily loved her sisters too well to go out of
her own family for a repository of her griefs or a partaker in her joys.
Had her life been chequered with such passions, her own sisters were too
near her own age to suffer her to think of a confidence in which the holy
ties of natural affection did not give a claim to a participation. Mrs.
Wilson had found it necessary to give her charge very different views on
many subjects from those which Jane and Clara had been suffered to imbibe
of themselves; but in no degree had she impaired the obligations of filial
piety or family concord. Emily was, if anything, more respectful to her
parents, more affectionate to her friends, than any of her connexions; for
in her the warmth of natural feeling was heightened by an unvarying sense
of duty.

In Grace Chatterton she found, in many respects, a temper and taste
resembling her own. She therefore loved her better than others who had
equally general claims on her partiality, and as such a friend she now
received her with cordial and sincere affection.

Jane, who had not felt satisfied with the ordering of Providence for the
disposal of her sympathies, and had long felt a restlessness that prompted
her to look abroad for a confiding spirit to whom to communicate
her--secrets she had none that delicacy would suffer her to reveal--but to
communicate her crude opinions and reflections, she had early selected
Catherine for this person. Catherine, however, had not stood the test of
trial. For a short time the love of heraldry kept them together; but Jane,
finding her companion's gusto limited to the charms of the coronet and
supporters chiefly, abandoned the attempt in despair, and was actually on
the look-out for a new candidate for the vacant station as Colonel Egerton
came into the neighborhood. A really delicate female mind shrinks from the
exposure of its love to the other sex, and Jane began to be less anxious
to form a connexion which would either violate the sensibility of her
nature, or lead to treachery to her friend.

"I regret extremely, Lady Moseley," said the dowager, as they entered the
drawing-room, "that the accident which befel Chatterton should have kept
us until it was too late for the ceremony: we made it a point to hasten
with our congratulations, however, as soon as Astley Cooper thought it
safe for him to travel."

"I feel indebted for your kindness," replied the smiling hostess. "We are
always happy to have our friends around us, and none more than yourself
and family. We were fortunate in finding a friend to supply your son's
place, in order that the young people might go to the altar in a proper
manner. Lady Chatterton, allow me to present our friend, Colonel
Egerton"--adding, in a low tone, and with a little emphasis,--"heir to Sir
Edgar."

The colonel bowed gracefully, and the dowager dropped a hasty courtesy at
the commencement of the speech; but lower bend followed the closing
remark, and a glance of the eye was thrown in quest of her daughters, as
if she instinctively wished to bring them into what the sailors term "the
line of battle."




Chapter IX.



The following morning, Emily and Grace, declining the invitation to join
the colonel and John in their usual rides, walked to the rectory,
accompanied by Mrs. Wilson and Chatterton. The ladies felt a desire to
witness the happiness that they so well knew reigned in the rectory, for
Francis had promised his father to drive Clara over in the course of the
day. Emily longed to see Clara, from whom it appeared that she had been
already separated a month. Her impatience as they approached the house
hurried her ahead of her companions, who waited the more sober gait of
Mrs. Wilson. She entered the parlor at the rectory without meeting any
one, glowing with exercise, her hair falling over her shoulders, released
from the confinement of the hat she had thrown down hastily as she reached
the door. In the room there stood a gentleman in deep black, with his back
towards the entrance, intent on a book, and she naturally concluded it was
Francis.

"Where is dear Clara, Frank?" cried the beautiful girl, faying her hand
affectionately on his shoulder.

The gentleman turned suddenly, and presented to her astonished gaze the
well remembered countenance of the young man whose parent's death was not
likely to be forgotten at B----.

"I thought, sir," said Emily, almost sinking with confusion, "that Mr.
Francis Ives--"

"Your brother 'has not yet arrived, Miss Moseley," simply replied the
stranger, who felt for her embarrassment. "But I will immediately
acquaint Mrs. Ives with your visit." Bowing, he delicately left the room.

Emily, who felt greatly relieved by his manner, immediately confined her
hair in its proper bounds, and had recovered her composure by the time her
aunt and friends joined her. She had not time to mention the incident, and
laughed at her own precipitation, when the rector's wife came into the
room.

Chatterton and his sister were both known to Mrs. Ives, and both were
favorites. She was pleased to see them, and after reproaching the brother
with compelling her son to ask a favor of a comparative stranger, she
turned to Emily, and smilingly said--

"You found the parlor occupied, I believe?"

"Yes," said Emily, laughing and blushing, "I suppose Mr. Denbigh told you
of my heedlessness."

"He told me of your attention in calling so soon to inquire after Clara,
but said nothing more"--a servant just then telling her Francis wished to
see her, she excused herself and withdrew. In the door she met Mr.
Denbigh, who made way for her, saying, "your son has arrived, ma'am," and
in an easy but respectful manner he took his place with the guests, no
introduction passing, and none seeming necessary. His misfortunes appeared
to have made him acquainted with Mrs. Wilson, and his strikingly ingenuous
manner won insensibly on the confidence of those who heard him. Everything
was natural, yet everything was softened by education; and the little
party in the rector's parlor in fifteen minutes felt as if they had known
him for years. The doctor and his son now joined them. Clara had not come,
but she was looking forward in delightful expectation of to-morrow, and
wished greatly for Emily as a guest at the new abode. This pleasure Mrs.
Wilson promised she should have as soon as they had got over the hurry of
their visit; "our friends," she added, turning to Grace, "will overlook
the nicer punctilios of ceremony, where sisterly regard calls for the
discharge of more important duties. Clara needs the society of Emily just
now."

"Certainly," said Grace, mildly; "I hope no useless ceremony on the part
of Emily would prevent her manifesting natural attachment to her sister--I
should feel hurt at her not entertaining a better opinion of us than to
suppose so for a moment."

"This, young ladies, is the real feeling to keep alive esteem," cried the
doctor, gaily: "go on, and say and do nothing of which either can
disapprove, when tried by the standard of duty, and you need never be
afraid of losing a friend that is worth keeping."

It was three o'clock before the carriage of Mrs. Wilson arrived at the
rectory; and the time stole away insensibly in free and friendly
communications. Denbigh had joined modestly, and with the degree of
interest a stranger might be supposed to feel, in the occurrences of a
circle to which he was nearly a stranger; there was at times a slight
display of awkwardness, however, about both him and Mrs. Ives, for which
Mrs. Wilson easily accounted by recollections of his recent loss and the
scene they had all witnessed in that very room. This embarrassment escaped
the notice of the rest of the party. On the arrival of the carriage, Mrs.
Wilson took her leave.

"I like this Mr. Denbigh greatly," said Lord Chatterton, as they drove
from the door; "there is something strikingly natural and winning in his
manner."

"In his matter too, judging of the little we have seen of him," replied
Mrs. Wilson.

"Who is he, ma'am?"

"I rather suspect he is someway related to Mrs. Ives; her staying from
Bolton to-day must be owing to Mr. Denbigh, and as the doctor has just
gone he must be near enough to them to be neither wholly neglected nor yet
a tax upon their politeness. I rather wonder he did not go with them."

"I heard him tell Francis," remarked Emily, "that he could not think of
intruding, and he insisted on Mrs. Ives's going, but she had employments
to keep her at home."

The carriage soon reached an angle in the road where the highways between
Bolton Castle and Moseley Hall intersected each other, at a point on the
estate of the former. Mrs. Wilson stopped a moment to inquire after an
aged pensioner, who had lately met with a loss in business, which she was
fearful must have greatly distressed him. In crossing a ford in the little
river between his cottage and the market-town, the stream, which had been
swollen unexpectedly higher than usual by heavy rains, had swept away his
horse and cart loaded with the entire produce of his small field, and with
much difficulty he had saved even his own life. Mrs. Wilson had not had it
in her power until this moment to inquire particularly into the affair, or
to offer the relief she was ever ready to bestow on proper objects.
Contrary to her expectations, she found Humphreys in high spirits, showing
his delighted grand-children a new cart and horse which stood at the door,
and exultingly pointing out the excellent qualities of both. He ceased
talking on the approach of the party, and at the request of his ancient
benefactress he gave a particular account of the affair.

"And where did you get this new cart and horse, Humphreys?" inquired Mrs.
Wilson, when he had ended.

"Oh, madam, I went up to the castle to see the steward, and Mr. Martin
just mentioned my loss to Lord Pendennyss, ma'am, and my lord ordered me
this cart, ma'am, and this noble horse, and twenty golden guineas into
the bargain to put me on my legs again--God bless him for it, for ever!"

"It was very kind of his lordship, indeed," said Mrs. Wilson,
thoughtfully: "I did not know he was at the castle."

"He's gone, already, madam; the servants told me that he just called to
see the earl, on his way to Lon'on; but finding he'd went a few days agone
to Ireland my lord went for Lon'on, without stopping the night even. Ah!
madam," continued the old man, who stood leaning on a stick, with his hat
in his hand, "he's a great blessing to the poor; his servants say he gives
thousands every year to the poor who are in want--he is main rich, too;
some people say, much richer and more great like than the earl himself.
I'm sure I have need to bless him every day of my life."

Mrs. Wilson smiled mournfully as she wished Humphreys good day and put up
her purse, finding the old man so well provided for; a display or
competition in charity never entering into her system of benevolence.

"His lordship is munificent in his bounty," said Emily, as they drove from
the door.

"Does it not savor of thoughtlessness to bestow so much where he can know
so little?" Lord Chatterton ventured to inquire.

"He is," replied Mrs. Wilson, "as old Humphrey says, main rich; but the
son of the old man and the father of these children is a soldier in the
----th dragoons, of which the earl is colonel, and that accounts to me for
his liberality," recollecting, with a sigh, the feelings which had drawn
her out of the usual circle of her charities in the case of the same man.

"Did you ever see Lord Pendennyss, aunt?"

"Never, my dear; he has been much abroad, but my letters were filled with
his praises, and I confess my disappointment is great in not seeing him
on this visit to Lord Bolton who is his relation; but," fixing her eyes
thoughtfully on her niece, "we shall meet in London this winter, I trust."

As she spoke a cloud passed over her features, and she continued much
absorbed in thought for the remainder of their drive.

General Wilson had been a cavalry officer, and he commanded the very
regiment now held by Lord Pendennyss. In an excursion near the British
camp he had been rescued from captivity, if not from death, by a gallant
and timely interference of this young nobleman, then in command of a troop
in the same corps. He had mentioned the occurrence to his wife in his
letters, and from that day his correspondence was filled with the praises
of the bravery and goodness to the soldiery of his young comrade. When he
fell he had been supported from the field by, and he actually died in the
arms of the young peer. A letter announcing his death had been received by
his widow from the earl himself, and the tender and affectionate manner in
which he spoke of her husband had taken a deep hold on her affections. All
the circumstances together threw an interest around him that had made Mrs.
Wilson almost entertain the romantic wish he might be found worthy and
disposed to solicit the hand of Emily. Her anxious inquiries into his
character had been attended with such answers as flattered her wishes; but
the military duties of the earl or his private affairs had never allowed a
meeting; and she was now compelled to look forward to what John laughingly
termed their winter campaign, as the only probable place where she could
be gratified with the sight of a young man to whom she owed so much, and
whose name was connected with some of the most tender though most
melancholy recollections of her life.

Colonel Egerton, who now appeared to be almost domesticated in the
family, was again of the party at dinner, to the no small satisfaction of
the dowager, who from proper inquiries in the course of the day had
learned that Sir Edgar's heir was likely to have the necessary number of
figures in the sum total of his rental. While sitting in the drawing-room
that afternoon she made an attempt to bring her eldest daughter and the
elegant soldier together over a chess-board; a game the young lady had
been required to learn because it was one at which a gentleman could be
kept longer than any other without having his attention drawn away by any
of those straggling charms which might be travelling a drawing-room
"seeking whom they may devour." It was also a game admirably suited to the
display of a beautiful hand and arm. But the mother had for a long time
been puzzled to discover a way of bringing in the foot also, the young
lady being particularly remarkable for the beauty of that portion of the
frame. In vain her daughter hinted at dancing, an amusement of which she
was passionately fond. The wary mother knew too well the effects of
concentrated force to listen to the suggestion: dancing might do for every
manager, but she prided herself in acting _en masse_, like Napoleon, whose
tactics consisted in overwhelming by uniting his forces on a given point.
After many experiments in her own person she endeavored to improve
Catharine's manner of sitting, and by dint of twisting and turning she
contrived that her pretty foot and ankle should be thrown forward in a way
that the eye dropping from the move, should unavoidably rest on this
beauteous object; giving, as it were, a Scylla and Charybdis to her
daughter's charms.

John Moseley was the first person on whom she undertook to try the effect
of her invention; and after comfortably seating the parties she withdrew
to a little distance to watch the effect.

"Check to your king, Miss Chatterton," cried John, early in the game--and
the young lady thrust out her foot. "Check to _your_ king, Mr. Moseley,"
echoed the damsel, and John's eyes wandered from hand to foot and foot to
hand. "Check king and queen, sir."--"Check-mate."--"Did you speak?" said
John. Looking up he caught the eye of the dowager fixed on him in
triumph--"Oh, ho," said the young man, internally, "Mother Chatterton, are
you playing too?" and, coolly taking up his hat, he walked off, nor could
they ever get him seated at the game again.

"You beat me too easily, Miss Chatterton," he would say when pressed to
play, "before I have time to look up it's check-mate--excuse me."

The dowager next settled down into a more covert attack through Grace; but
here she had two to contend with: her own forces rebelled, and the war had
been protracted to the present hour with varied success, and at least
without any material captures, on one side.

Colonel Egerton entered on the duties of his dangerous undertaking with
the indifference of foolhardiness. The game was played with tolerable
ability by both parties; but no emotions, no absence of mind could be
discovered on the part of the gentleman. Feet and hands were in motion;
still the colonel played as well as usual; he had answers for all Jane's
questions, and smiles for his partner; but no check-mate could she obtain,
until wilfully throwing away an advantage he suffered the lady to win the
game. The dowager was satisfied nothing could be done with the colonel.




Chapter X.



The first carriages that rolled over the lawn to Bolton parsonage, on the
succeeding day, were those of the baronet and his sister; the latter in
advance.

"There, Francis," cried Emily, who was impatiently waiting for him to
remove some slight obstruction to her alighting, "thank you, thank you;
that will do."

In the next moment she was in the extended arms of Clara. After pressing
each other to their bosoms for a few moments in silence, Emily looked up,
with a tear glistening in her eye, and first noticed the form of Denbigh,
who was modestly withdrawing, as if unwilling to intrude on such pure and
domestic feelings as the sisters were betraying, unconscious of the
presence of a witness. Mrs. Wilson and Jane, followed by Miss Chatterton,
now entered, and cordial salutes and greetings flowed upon Clara from her
various friends.

The baronet's coach reached the door; it contained himself and wife, Mr.
Benfield, and Lady Chatterton. Clara stood on the portico of the building,
ready to receive them; her face all smiles, and tears, and blushes, and
her arm locked in that of Emily.

"I wish you joy of your new abode, Mrs. Francis." Lady Moseley forgot her
form, and bursting into tears, she pressed her daughter with ardor to her
bosom.

"Clara, my love!" said the baronet, hastily wiping his eyes, and
succeeding his wife in the embrace of their child. He kissed her, and,
pressing Francis by the hand, walked into the house in silence.

"Well, well," cried the dowager, as she saluted her cousin, "all looks
comfortable and genteel here, upon my word, Mrs. Ives: grapery--
hot-houses--everything in good style too; and Sir Edward tells me the
living is worth a good five hundred a year."

"So, girl, I suppose you expect a kiss," said Mr. Benfield who ascended
the steps slowly, and with difficulty. "Kissing has gone much out of
fashion lately. I remember, on the marriage of my friend, Lord Gosford, in
the year fifty-eight, that all the maids and attendants were properly
saluted in order. The lady Juliana was quite young then; not more than
fifteen: it was there I got my first salute from her--but--so--kiss me."
After which he continued, as they went into the house, "Marrying in that
day was a serious business. You might visit a lady a dozen times before
you could get a sight of her naked hand. Who's that?" stopping short, and
looking earnestly at Denbigh, who now approached them.

"Mr. Denbigh, sir," said Clara, "my uncle, Mr. Benfield."

"Did you ever know, sir, a gentleman of your name, who sat in the
parliament of this realm in the year sixty?" Mr. Benfield abruptly asked,
as soon as the civilities of the introduction were exchanged. "You don't
look much like him."

"That was rather before my day, sir," said Denbigh, with a smile,
respectfully offering-to relieve Clara, who supported him on one side,
while Emily held his arm on the other.

The old gentleman was particularly averse to strangers, and Emily was in
terror lest he should say something rude; but, after examining Denbigh
again from head to foot, he took the offered arm, and coolly replied--

"True; very true; that was sixty years ago; you can hardly recollect as
long. Ah! Mr. Denbigh, times are sadly altered since my youth. People who
were then glad to ride on a pillion now drive their coaches; men who
thought ale a luxury, drink their port; aye! and those who went barefoot
must have their shoes and stockings, too. Luxury, sir, and the love of
ease, will ruin this mighty empire. Corruption has taken hold of
everything; the ministry buy the members, he members buy the ministry;
everything is bought and sold. Now, sir, in the parliament in which I had
the honor of a seat, there was a knot of us, as upright as posts, sir. My
Lord Gosford was one, and General Denbigh was another, although I can't
say he was much a favorite with me. You do not look in the least like him.
How was he related to you, sir?"

"He was my grandfather," replied Denbigh, looking pleasantly at Emily, as
if to tell her he understood the character of her uncle.

Had the old man continued his speech an hour longer, Denbigh would not
have complained. They had stopped while talking, and he thus became
confronted with the beautiful figure that supported the other arm. Denbigh
contemplated in admiration the varying countenance which now blushed with
apprehension, and now smiled in affection, or even with an archer
expression, as her uncle proceeded in his harangue on the times. But all
felicity in this world has an end, as well as misery. Denbigh retained the
recollection of that speech long after Mr. Benfield was comfortably seated
in the parlor, though for his life he could not recollect a word he had
said.

The Haughtons, the Jarvises, and a few more of their intimate
acquaintances, arrived, and the parsonage had a busy air; but John, who
had undertaken to drive Grace Chatterton in his own phaeton, was yet
absent. Some little anxiety had begun to be manifested, when he appeared,
dashing through the gates at a great rate, and with the skill of a member
of the four-in-hand.

Lady Chatterton had begun to be seriously uneasy, and she was about to
speak to her son to go in quest of them, as they came in sight; but now
her fears vanished, and she could only suppose that a desire to have Grace
alone could keep one who bad the reputation of a Jehu so much behind the
rest of the party. She met them in great spirits, crying,

"Upon my word, Mr. Moseley, I began to think you had taken the road to
Scotland, you stayed so long."

"Your daughter, my Lady Chatterton," said John, pithily, "would go to
Scotland neither with me nor any other man, or I am greatly deceived in
her character. Glara, my sister, how do you do?" He saluted the bride with
great warmth and affection.

"But what detained you, Moseley?" inquired the mother.

"One of the horses was restive, and he broke the harness. We merely
stopped in the village while it was mended."

"And how did Grace behave?" asked Emily, laughing.

"Oh, a thousand times better than you would, sister; as she always does,
and like an angel."

The only point in dispute between Emily and her brother was her want of
faith in his driving; while poor Grace, naturally timid, and unwilling to
oppose any one, particularly the gentleman who then held the reins, had
governed herself sufficiently to be silent and motionless. Indeed, she
could hardly do otherwise had she wished it, so great was his impetuosity
of character; and John felt flattered to a degree of which he was himself
unconscious. Self-complacency, aided by the merit, the beauty, and the
delicacy of the young lady herself, might have led to the very results her
mother so anxiously wished to produce, had that mother been satisfied with
letting things take their course. But managers very generally overdo their
work.

"Grace _is_ a good girl," said her gratified mother; "and you found her
very valiant, Mr. Moseley?"

"Oh, as brave as Caesar," answered John, carelessly, in a way that was not
quite free from irony.

Grace, whose burning cheek showed but too plainly that praise from John
Moseley was an incense too powerful for her resistance, now sank back
behind some of the company, endeavoring to conceal the tears that almost
gushed from her eyes. Denbigh was a silent spectator of the whole scene,
and he now considerately observed, that he had lately seen an improvement
which would obviate the difficulty Mr. Moseley had experienced. John
turned to the speaker, and they were soon engaged in the discussion of
curbs and buckles, when the tilbury of Colonel Egerton drove to the door,
containing himself and his friend the captain.

The bride undoubtedly received congratulations that day more sincere than
those which were now offered, but none were delivered in a more graceful
and insinuating manner than the compliments which fell from Colonel
Egerton. He passed round the room, speaking to his acquaintances, until he
arrived at the chair of Jane, who was seated next her aunt. Here he
stopped, and glancing his eye round, and saluting with bows and smiles the
remainder of the party, he appeared fixed at the centre of all attraction.

"There is a gentleman I think I have never seen before," he observed, to
Mrs. Wilson, casting his eyes on Denbigh, whose back was towards him in
discourse with Mr. Benfield.

"It is Mr. Denbigh, of whom you heard us speak," replied Mrs. Wilson.
While she spoke, Denbigh faced them. Egerton started as he caught a view
of his face, and seemed to gaze on the countenance which was open to his
inspection with an earnestness that showed an interest of some kind, but
of a nature that was inexplicable to Mrs. Wilson, who was the only
observer of this singular recognition; for such it evidently was. All was
now natural in the colonel for the moment; his color sensibly changed, and
there was an expression of doubt in his face. It might be fear, it might
be horror, it might be a strong aversion; it clearly was not love. Emily
sat by her aunt, and Denbigh approached them, making a cheerful remark. It
was impossible for the colonel to avoid him had he wished it, and he kept
his ground. Mrs. Wilson thought she would try the experiment of an
introduction.

"Colonel Egerton--Mr. Denbigh."

Both gentlemen bowed, but nothing striking was seen in the deportment of
either. The colonel, who was not exactly at ease, said hastily--

"Mr. Denbigh is, or has been in the army, I believe."

Denbigh was now taken by surprise in his turn: he cast a look on Egerton
of fixed and settled meaning; then carelessly observed, but still as if
requiring an answer:

"I am yet; but I do not recollect having had the pleasure of meeting with
Colonel Egerton on service."

"Your countenance is familiar, sir," replied the colonel, coldly; "but at
this moment I cannot tax my memory with the place of-our meeting, though
one sees so many strange faces in a campaign, that they come and go like
shadows."

He then changed the conversation. It was some time, however, before either
gentleman entirely recovered his ease--and many days elapsed ere anything
like intercourse passed between them. The colonel attached himself during
this visit to Jane, with occasional notices of the Misses Jarvis, who
began to manifest symptoms of uneasiness at the decided preference he
showed to a lady they now chose to look upon, in some measure, as a rival.

Mrs. Wilson and her charge, on the other hand, were entertained by the
conversation of Chatterton and Denbigh, relieved by occasional sallies
from the lively John. There was something in the person and manners of
Denbigh that insensibly attracted those whom chance threw in his way. His
face was not strikingly handsome, but it was noble; and when he smiled, or
was much animated, it invariably communicated a spark of his own
enthusiasm to the beholder. His figure was faultless; his air and manner,
if less easy than those of Colonel Egerton, were more sincere and
ingenuous; his breeding was clearly higher; his respect for others rather
bordering on the old school. But in his voice there existed a charm which
would make him, when he spoke, to a female ear, almost resistless: it was
soft, deep, melodious, and winning.

"Baronet," said the rector, looking with a smile towards his son and
daughter, "I love to see my children happy, and Mrs. Ives threatens a
divorce if I go on in the manner I have commenced. She says I desert her
for Bolton."

"Why, doctor, if our wives conspire against us, and prevent our enjoying a
comfortable dish of tea with Clara, or a glass of wine with Frank, we must
call in the higher authorities as umpires. What say you, sister? Is a
parent to desert his child in any case?"

"My opinion is," said Mrs. Wilson, with a smile, yet speaking with
emphasis, "that a parent is _not_ to desert a child, in any case or in any
manner."

"Do you hear that, my Lady Moseley?" cried the good-humored baronet.

"Do you hear that, my Lady Chatterton?" echoed John, who had just taken a
seat by Grace, when her mother approached them.

"I hear it, but do not see the application, Mr. Moseley."

"No, my lady! Why, there is the honorable Miss Chatterton almost dying to
play a game of her favorite chess with Mr. Denbigh. She has beaten us all
but him, and her triumph will not be complete until she has him too at her
feet."

And as Denbigh politely offered to meet the challenge, the board was
produced, and the parties were seated. Lady Chatterton stood leaning over
her daughter's chair, with a view, however, to prevent any of those
consequences she was generally fond of seeing result from this amusement;
every measure taken by this prudent mother being literally governed by
judicious calculation.

"Umph," thought John, as he viewed the players, while listening with
pleasure to the opinions of Grace, who had recovered her composure and
spirits; "Kate, after all, has played one game without using her feet."




Chapter XI.



Ten days or a fortnight flew swiftly by, during which Mrs. Wilson suffered
Emily to give Clara a week, having first ascertained that Denbigh was a
settled resident at the rectory, and thereby not likely to be oftener at
the House of Francis than at the hall, where he was a frequent and welcome
guest, both oh his own account and as a friend of Doctor Ives. Emily had
returned, and she brought the bride and groom with her; when one evening
as they were pleasantly seated at their various amusements, with the ease
of old acquaintances, Mr. Haughton entered. It was at an hour rather
unusual for his visits; and throwing down his hat, after making the usual
inquiries, he began without preface--

"I know, good people, you are all wondering what has brought me out this
time of night, but the truth is, Lucy has coaxed her mother to persuade me
into a ball in honor of the times; so, my lady, I have consented, and my
wife and daughter have been buying up all the finery in B----, by the way,
I suppose, of anticipating their friends. There is a regiment of foot come
into barracks within fifteen miles of us, and to-morrow I must beat up for
recruits among the officers--girls are never wanting on such occasions."

"Why," cried the baronet, "you are growing young again, my friend."

"No, Sir Edward, but my daughter is young, and life has so many cares that
I am willing she should get rid of as many as she can at my expense."

"Surely you would not wish her to dance them away," said Mrs. Wilson;
"such relief I am afraid will prove temporary."

"Do you disapprove of dancing, ma'am?" said Mr. Haughton, who held her
opinions in great respect as well as a little dread.

"I neither approve nor disapprove of it--jumping up and down is innocent
enough in itself, and if it must be done it is well it were done
gracefully; as for the accompaniments of dancing I say nothing--what do
you say, Doctor Ives?"

"To what, my dear madam?"

"To dancing."

"Oh let the girls dance if they enjoy it."

"I am glad you think so, doctor," cried the delighted Mr. Haughton; I was
afraid I recollected your advising your son never to dance nor to play at
games of chance."

"You thought right, my friend," said the doctor, laying down his
newspaper; "I did give that advice to Frank, whom you will please to
remember is now rector of Bolton. I do not object to dancing as not
innocent in itself or as an elegant exercise; but it is like drinking,
generally carried to excess: now as a Christian I am opposed to all
excesses; the music and company lead to intemperance in the recreation,
and they often induce neglect of duties--but so may anything else."

"I like a game of whist, doctor, greatly," said Mr. Haughton; "but
observing that you never play, and recollecting your advice to Mr.
Francis, I have forbidden cards when you are my guest"

"I thank you for the compliment, good sir," replied the doctor, with a
smile; "still I would much rather see you play cards than hear you talk
scandal, as you sometimes do."

"Scandal!" echoed Mr. Haughton.

"Ay, scandal," said the doctor, coolly, "such as the remark you made the
last time, which was only yesterday, I called to see you. You accused Sir
Edward of being wrong in letting that poacher off so easily; the baronet,
you said, did not shoot himself, and did not know how to prize game as he
ought."

"Scandal, Doctor--do you call that scandal? why I told Sir Edward so
himself, two or three times."

"I know you did, and that was rude."

"Rude! I hope sincerely Sir Edward has put no such construction on it?"

The baronet smiled kindly, and shook his head.

"Because the baronet chooses to forgive your offences, it does not alter
their nature," said the doctor, gravely: "no, you must repent and amend;
you impeached his motives for doing a benevolent act, and that I call
scandal."

"Why, doctor, I was angry the fellow should be let loose; he is a pest to
all the game in the county, and every sportsman will tell you so--here,
Mr. Moseley, you know Jackson, the poacher."

"Oh! a poacher is an intolerable wretch!" cried Captain Jarvis.

"Oh! a poacher," echoed John, looking drolly at Emily, "hang all
poachers."

"Poacher or no poacher, does not alter the scandal," said the doctor; "now
let me tell you, good sir, I would rather play at fifty games of whist
than make one such speech, unless indeed it interfered with my duties;
now, sir, with your leave I'll explain myself as to my son. There is an
artificial levity about dancing that adds to the dignity of no man: from
some it may detract: a clergyman for instance is supposed to have other
things to do, and it might hurt him in the opinions of those with whom his
influence is necessary, and impair his usefulness; therefore a clergyman
should never dance. In the same way with cards; they are the common
instruments of gambling, and an odium is attached to them on that account;
women and clergymen must respect the prejudices of mankind in some cases,
or lose their influence in society."

"I did hope to have the pleasure of your company, doctor, said Mr.
Haughton, hesitatingly.

"And if it will give you pleasure," cried the rector, "you shall have it
with all my heart, good sir; it would be a greater evil to wound the
feelings of such a neighbor as Mr. Haughton, than to show my face once at
a ball," and rising, he laid his hand on the shoulder of the other kindly.
"Both your scandal and rudeness are easily forgiven; but I wished to show
you the common error of the world which has attached odium to certain
things, while it charitably overlooks others of a more heinous nature."

Mr. Haughton, who had at first been a little staggered with the attack of
the doctor, recovered himself, and laying a handful of notes on the table,
hoped he should have the pleasure of seeing every body. The invitation was
generally accepted, and the worthy man departed, happy if his friends did
but come, and were pleased.

"Do you dance, Miss Moseley?" inquired Denbigh of Emily, as he sat
watching her graceful movements in netting a purse for her father.

"Oh, yes! the doctor said nothing of us girls, you know I suppose he
thinks we have no dignity to lose."

"Admonitions are generally thrown away on young ladies when pleasure is in
the question," said the doctor, with a look of almost paternal affection.

"I hope you do not seriously disapprove of it in moderation," said Mrs.
Wilson.

"That depends, madam, upon circumstances; if it is to be made subsidiary
to envy, malice, coquetry, vanity, or any other such little lady-like
accomplishment, it certainly had better be let alone. But in moderation,
and with the feelings of my little pet here, I should be cynical, indeed,
to object."

Denbigh appeared lost in his own ruminations during this dialogue; and as
the doctor ended, he turned to the captain, who was overlooking a game of
chess between the colonel and Jane, of which the latter had become
remarkably fond of late, playing with her hands and eyes instead of her
feet--and inquired the name of the corps in barracks at F----.

"The ----th foot, sir," replied the captain, haughtily, who neither
respected him, owing to his want of consequence, nor loved him, from the
manner in which Emily listened to his conversation.

"Will Miss Moseley forgive a bold request," said Denbigh, with some
hesitation.

Emily looked up from her work in silence, but with some little flutterings
at the heart.

"The honor of her hand for the first dance," continued Denbigh, observing
she was in expectation that he would proceed.

Emily laughingly said, "Certainly, Mr. Denbigh, if you can submit to the
degradation."

The London papers now came in, and most of the gentlemen sat down to their
perusal. The colonel, however, replaced the men for a second game, and
Denbigh still kept his place beside Mrs. Wilson and her niece. The
manners, the sentiments, the whole exterior of this gentleman were such as
both the taste and judgment of the aunt approved of; his qualities were
those which insensibly gained on the heart, and yet Mrs. Wilson noticed,
with a slight uneasiness, the very evident satisfaction her niece took in
his society. In Dr. Ives she had great confidence, yet Dr. Ives was a
friend, and probably judged him favorably; and again, Dr. Ives was not to
suppose he was introducing a candidate for the hand of Emily in every
gentleman he brought to the hall. Mrs. Wilson had seen too often the ill
consequences of trusting to impressions received from inferences of
companionship, not to know the only safe way was to judge for ourselves:
the opinions of others might be partial--might be prejudiced--and many an
improper connexion had been formed by listening to the sentiments of those
who spoke without interest, and consequently without examination. Not a
few matches are made by this idle commendation of others, uttered by those
who are respected, and which are probably suggested more by a desire to
please than by reflection or even knowledge. In short Mrs. Wilson knew
that as our happiness chiefly interests ourselves, so it was to ourselves,
or to those few whose interest was equal to our own, we could only trust
those important inquiries necessary to establish a permanent opinion of
character. With Doctor Ives her communications on subjects of duty were
frequent and confiding, and although she sometimes thought his benevolence
disposed him to be rather too lenient to the faults of mankind, she
entertained a profound respect for his judgment. It had great influence
with her, if it were not always conclusive; she determined, therefore, to
have an early conversation with him on the subject so near her heart, and
be in a great measure regulated by his answers in the steps to be
immediately taken. Every day gave her what he thought melancholy proof of
the ill consequences of neglecting a duty, in the increasing intimacy of
Colonel Egerton and Jane.

"Here, aunt," cried John, as he ran over a paper, "is a paragraph relating
to your favorite youth, our trusty and well beloved cousin the Earl of
Pendennyss."

"Read it," said Mrs. Wilson, with an interest his name never failed to
excite.

"We noticed to-day the equipage of the gallant Lord Pendennyss before the
gates of Annandale-house, and understand the noble earl is last from
Bolton castle, Northamptonshire."

"A very important fact," said Captain Jarvis, sarcastically; "Colonel
Egerton and myself got as far as the village, to pay our respects to him,
when we heard he had gone on to town."

"The earl's character, both as a man and a soldier," observed the colonel,
"gives him a claim to our attentions that his rank would not: on that
account we would have called."

"Brother," said Mrs. Wilson, "you would oblige me greatly by asking his
lordship to waive ceremony; his visits to Bolton castle will probably be
frequent, now we have peace; and the owner is so much from home that we
may never see him without some such invitation."

"Do you want him as a husband for Emily?" cried John, as he gaily seated
himself by the side of his sister.

Mrs. Wilson smiled at an observation which reminded her of one of her
romantic wishes; and as she raised her head to reply in the same tone, met
the eye of Denbigh fixed on her with an expression that kept her silent.
This is really an incomprehensible young man in some respects, thought the
cautious widow, his startling looks on the introduction to the colonel
crossing her mind at the same time; and observing the doctor opening the
door that led to the baronet's library, Mrs. Wilson, who generally acted
as soon as she had decided, followed him. As their conversations were
known often to relate to the little offices of charity in which they both
delighted, the movement excited no surprise, and she entered the library
with the doctor uninterrupted.

"Doctor," said Mrs. Wilson, impatient to proceed to the point, "you know
my maxim, prevention is better than cure, This young friend of yours is
very interesting."

"Do you feel yourself in danger?" said the rector, smiling.

"Not very imminent," replied the lady, laughing good-naturedly. Seating
herself, she continued, "Who is he? and who was his father, if I may ask?"

"George Denbigh, madam, both father and son," said the doctor, gravely.

"Ah, doctor, I am almost tempted to wish Frank had been a girl. You know
what I wish to learn."

"Put your questions in order, dear madam," said the doctor, in a kind
manner, "and they shall be answered."

"His principles?"

"So far as I can learn, they are good. His acts, as they have come to my
notice, are highly meritorious, and I hope they originated in proper
motives. I have seen but little of him of late years, however, and on this
head you are nearly as good a judge as myself. His filial piety," said the
doctor, dashing a tear from his eye, and speaking with fervor, "was
lovely."

"His temper--his disposition?"

"His temper is under great command, although naturally ardent; his
disposition eminently benevolent towards his fellow-creatures."

"His connexions?"

"Suitable," said the doctor, gravely.

His fortune was of but little moment. Emily would be amply provided, for
all the customary necessaries of her station; and, thanking the divine,
Mrs. Wilson returned to the parlor, easy in mind, and determined to let
things take their own course for a time, but in no degree to relax the
vigilance of her observation.

On her return to the room, Mrs. Wilson observed Denbigh approach Egerton,
and enter into conversation of a general nature. It was the first time
anything more than unavoidable courtesies had passed between them. The
colonel appeared slightly uneasy under his novel situation, while, on the
other hand, his companion showed an anxiety to be on a more friendly
footing than heretofore. There was something mysterious in the feelings
manifested by both these gentlemen that greatly puzzled the good lady; and
from its complexion, she feared one or the other was not entirely free
from censure. It could not have been a quarrel, or their names would have
been familiar, to each other. They had both served in Spain, she knew, and
excesses were often committed by gentlemen at a distance from home their
pride would have prevented where they were anxious to maintain a
character. Gambling, and a few other prominent vices, floated through her
imagination, until, wearied of conjectures where she had no data, and
supposing, after all, it might be only her imagination, the turned to more
pleasant reflections.




Chapter XII.



The bright eyes of Emily Moseley unconsciously wandered round the
brilliant assemblage at Mr. Haughton's, as she took her seat, in search of
her partner. The rooms were filled with scarlet coats, and belles from the
little town of F----; and if the company were not the most select
imaginable, it was disposed to enjoy the passing moment cheerfully and in
lightness of heart. Ere, however, she could make out to scan the
countenances of the men, young Jarvis, decked in the full robes of his
dignity, as captain in the ----th foot, approached and solicited the honor
of her hand. The colonel had already secured her sister, and it was by the
instigation of his friend, Jarvis had been thus early in his application.
Emily thanked him, and pleaded her engagement. The mortified youth, who
had thought dancing with the ladies a favor conferred on them, from the
anxiety his sister always manifested to get partners, stood for a few
moments in sullen silence; and then, as if to be revenged on the sex, he
determined not to dance the whole evening. Accordingly, he withdrew to a
room appropriated to the gentlemen, where he found a few of the military
beaux, keeping alive the stimulus they had brought with them from the
mess-table.

Clara had prudently decided to comport herself as became a clergyman's
wife, and she declined dancing altogether. Catherine Chatterton was
entitled to open the ball, as superior in years and rank to any who were
disposed to enjoy the amusement. The dowager, who in her heart loved to
show her airs upon such occasions, had chosen to be later than the rest
of the family; and Lucy had to entreat her father to have patience more
than once during the interregnum in their sports created by Lady
Chatterton's fashion. This lady at length appeared, attended by her son,
and followed by her daughters, ornamented in all the taste of the reigning
fashions Doctor Ives and his wife, who came late from choice, soon
appeared, accompanied by their guest, and the dancing commenced, Denbigh
had thrown aside his black for the evening, and as he approached to claim
her promised hand, Emily thought him, if not as handsome, much more
interesting than Colonel Egerton, who just then passed them while leading
her sister to the set. Emily danced beautifully, but perfectly like a
lady, as did Jane; but Denbigh, although graceful in his movements and in
time, knew but little of the art; and but for the assistance of his
partner, he would have more than once gone wrong in the figure. He very
gravely asked her opinion of his performance as he handed her to a chair,
and she laughingly told him his movements were but a better sort of march.
He was about to reply, when Jarvis approached. By the aid of a pint of
wine and his own reflections, the youth wrought himself into something of
a passion, especially as he saw Denbigh enter, after Emily had declined
dancing with himself. There was a gentleman in the corps who unfortunately
was addicted to the bottle, and he had fastened on Jarvis as a man at
leisure to keep him company. Wine openeth the heart, and the captain
having taken a peep at the dancers, and seen the disposition of affairs,
returned to his bottle companion, bursting with the indignity offered to
his person. He dropped a hint, and a question or two brought the whole
grievance forth.

There is a certain set of men in every service who imbibe extravagant
notions that are revolting to humanity, and which too often prove to be
fatal in their results. Their morals are never correct, and the little
they have set loosely about them. In their own cases, their appeals to
arms are not always so prompt; but in that of their friends, their
perceptions of honor are intuitively keen, and their inflexibility in
preserving it from reproach unbending; and such is the weakness of
mankind, their "tenderness on points where the nicer feelings of a soldier
are involved, that these machines of custom, these thermometers graduated
to the scale of false honor, usurp the place of reason and benevolence,
and become too often the arbiters of life and death to a whole corps.
Such, then, was the confidant to whom Jarvis communicated the cause of his
disgust, and the consequences may easily be imagined. As he passed Emily
and Denbigh, he threw a look of fierceness at the latter, which he meant
as an indication of his hostile intentions. It was lost on his rival, who
at that moment was filled with passions of a very different kind from
those which Captain Jarvis thought agitated his own bosom; for had his new
friend let him alone, the captain would have gone quietly home and gone to
sleep.

"Have you ever fought?" said Captain Digby coolly to his companion, as
they seated themselves in his father's parlor, whither they had retired to
make their arrangements for the following morning.

"Yes," said Jarvis, with a stupid look, "I fought once with Tom Halliday
at school."

"At school! My dear friend, you commenced young indeed," said Digby,
helping himself to another glass. "And how did it end?"

"Oh! Tom got the better, and so I cried enough," said Jarvis, surlily.

"Enough! I hope you did not flinch," eyeing him keenly "Where were you
hit?"

"He hit me all over."

"All over! The d---l! Did you use small shot? How did you fight?"

"With fists," said Jarvis, yawning.

His companion, seeing how matters were, rang for his servant to put him to
bed, remaining himself an hour longer to finish the bottle.

Soon after Jarvis had given Denbigh the look big with his intended
vengeance, Colonel Egerton approached Emily, asking permission to present
Sir Herbert Nicholson, the lieutenant-colonel of the regiment, and a
gentleman who was ambitious of the honor of her acquaintance; a particular
friend of his own. Emily gracefully bowed her assent. Soon after, turning
her eyes on Denbigh, who had been speaking to her at the moment, she saw
him looking intently on the two soldiers, who were making their way
through the crowd to the place where she sat. He stammered, said something
she could not understand, and precipitately withdrew; and although both
she and her aunt sought his figure in the gay throng that flitted around
them, he was seen no more that evening.

"Are you acquainted with Mr. Denbigh?" said Emily to her partner, after
looking in vain to find his person in the crowd.

"Denbigh! Denbigh! I have known one or two of that name" replied the
gentleman. "In the army there are several."

"Yes," said Emily, musing, "he is in the army;" and looking up, she saw
her companion reading her countenance with an expression that brought the
color to her cheeks with a glow that was painful. Sir Herbert smiled, and
observed that the room was warm. Emily acquiesced in the remark, for the
first time in her life conscious of a feeling she was ashamed to have
scrutinized, and glad of any excuse to hide her confusion.

"Grace Chatterton is really beautiful to-night," whispered John Moseley
to his sister Clara. "I have a mind to ask her to dance."

"Do, John." replied his sister, looking with pleasure on her beautiful
cousin, who, observing the movements of John as he drew near where she
sat, moved her face on each side rapidly, in search of some one who was
apparently not to be found. Her breathing became sensibly quicker, and
John was on the point of speaking to her as the dowager stepped in between
them. There is nothing so flattering to the vanity of a man as the
discovery of emotions in a young woman excited by himself, and which the
party evidently wishes to conceal; there is nothing so touching, so sure
to captivate; or, if it seem to be affected, so sure to disgust.

"Now, Mr. Moseley," cried the mother, "you shall not ask Grace to dance!
She can refuse you nothing, and she has been up the last two figures."

"Your wishes are irresistible, Lady Chatterton," said John, coolly turning
on his heel. On gaining the other side of the room, he turned to
reconnoitre the scene. The dowager was fanning herself as violently as if
_she_ had been up the last two figures instead of her daughter, while
Grace sat with her eyes fastened on the floor, paler than usual. "Grace,"
thought the young man, "would be very handsome--very sweet--very--very
everything that is agreeable, if--if it were not for Mother Chatterton."
He then led out one of the prettiest girls in the room.

Col. Egerton was peculiarly fitted to shine in a ball room. He danced
gracefully and with spirit; was perfectly at home with all the usages of
the best society, and was never neglectful of any of those little
courtesies which have their charm for the moment; and Jane Moseley, who
saw all those she loved around her, apparently as happy as herself, found
in her judgment or the convictions of her principles, no counterpoise
against the weight of such attractions, all centred as it were in one
effort to please herself. His flattery was deep for it was respectful--his
tastes were her tastes--his opinions her opinions. On the formation of
their acquaintance they differed on some trifling point of poetical
criticism, and for near a month the colonel had maintained his opinion
with a show of firmness; but opportunities not wanting for the discussion,
he had felt constrained to yield to her better judgment, her purer taste.
The conquest of Colonel Egerton was complete, and Jane who saw in his
attentions the submission of a devoted heart, began to look forward to the
moment with trembling that was to remove the thin barrier that existed
between the adulation of the eyes and the most delicate assiduity to
please, and the open confidence of declared love. Jane Moseley had a heart
to love, and to love strongly; her danger existed in her imagination: it
was brilliant, unchastened by her judgment, we had almost said unfettered
by her principles. Principles such as are found in every-day maxims and
rules of conduct sufficient to restrain her within the bounds of perfect
decorum she was furnished with in abundance; but to that principle which
was to teach her submission in opposition to her wishes, to that principle
that could alone afford her security against the treachery of her own
passions, she was an utter stranger.

The family of Sir Edward were, among the first to retire, and as the
Chattertons had their own carriage, Mrs. Wilson and her charge returned
alone in the coach of the former. Emily, who had been rather out of
spirits the latter-part of the evening, broke the silence by suddenly
observing,

"Colonel Egerton is, or soon will be, a perfect hero!"

Her aunt somewhat surprised, both with the abruptness and with the
strength of the remark, inquired her meaning.

"Oh, Jane will make him one, whether or not."

This was spoken with an air of vexation which she was unused to, and Mrs.
Wilson gravely corrected her for speaking in a disrespectful manner of her
sister, one whom neither her years nor-situation entitled her in any
measure to advise or control. There was an impropriety in judging so near
and dear a relation harshly, even in thought. Emily pressed the hand of
her aunt and tremulously acknowledged her error; but she added, that she
felt a momentary irritation at the idea of a man of Colonel Egerton's
character gaining the command over feelings such as her sister possessed.
Mrs. Wilson kissed the cheek of her niece, while she inwardly acknowledged
the probable truth of the very remark she had thought it her duty to
censure. That the imagination of Jane would supply her lover with those
qualities she most honored herself, she believed was taken as a matter of
course; and that when the veil she had helped to throw before her own eyes
was removed, she would cease to respect, and of course cease to love him,
when too late to remedy the evil, she greatly feared. But in the
approaching fate of Jane she saw new cause to call forth her own activity.

Emily Moseley had just completed her eighteenth year, and was gifted by
nature with a vivacity and ardency of feeling that gave a heightened zest
to the enjoyments of that happy age. She was artless but intelligent;
cheerful, with a deep conviction of the necessity of piety; and uniform in
her practice of all the important duties. The unwearied exertions of her
aunt, aided by her own quickness of perception, had made her familiar with
the attainments suitable to her sex and years. For music she had no taste,
and the time which would have been thrown away in endeavoring to cultivate
a talent she did not possess, was dedicated under the discreet guidance of
her aunt, to works which had a tendency both to qualify her for the
duties of this life, and fit her for that which comes hereafter. It might
be said Emily Moseley had never read a book that contained a sentiment or
inculcated an opinion improper for her sex or dangerous to her morals; and
it was not difficult for those who knew the fact, to fancy they could
perceive the consequences in her guileless countenance and innocent
deportment. Her looks--her actions--her thoughts, wore as much of nature
as the discipline of her well-regulated mind and softened manners could
admit. In person she was of the middle size, exquisitely formed, graceful
and elastic in her step, without, however, the least departure from her
natural movements; her eye was a dark blue, with an expression of joy and
intelligence; at times it seemed all soul, and again all heart; her color
was rather high, but it varied with every emotion of her bosom; her
feelings were strong, ardent, and devoted to those she loved. Her
preceptress had never found it necessary to repeat an admonition of any
kind, since her arrival at years to discriminate between the right and the
wrong.

"I wish," said Doctor Ives to his wife, the evening his son had asked
their permission to address Clara, "Francis had chosen my little Emily."

"Clara is a good girl," replied his wife; "she is so mild, so
affectionate, that I doubt not she will make him happy--Frank might have
done worse at the Hall."

"For himself he has done well, I hope," said the father, "a young woman of
Clara's heart may make any man happy but a union with purity, sense,
principles, like those of Emily would be more--it would be blissful."

Mrs. Ives smiled at her husband's animation. "You remind me more of the
romantic youth I once knew than of the grave divine. There is but one man
I know that I could wish to give Emily to; it is Lumley. If Lumley sees
her, he will woo her; and if he wooes, he will win her."

"And Lumley I believe to be worthy of her," cried the rector, now taking
up a candle to retire for the night.




Chapter XIII.



The following day brought a large party of the military _elegants_ to the
Hall, in acceptance of the baronet's hospitable invitation to dinner. Lady
Moseley was delighted; so long as her husband's or her children's interest
had demanded a sacrifice of her love of society it had been made without a
sigh, almost without a thought. The ties of affinity in her were sacred;
and to the happiness, the comfort of those in which she felt an interest,
there were few sacrifices of her own propensities she would not cheerfully
have made: it was this very love of her offspring that made her anxious to
dispose of her daughters in wedlock. Her own marriage had been so happy,
that she naturally concluded it the state most likely to ensure the
happiness of her children; and with Lady Moseley, as with thousands of
others, who averse or unequal to the labors of investigation, jump to
conclusions over the long line of connecting reasons, marriage was
marriage, a husband was a husband. It is true there were certain
indispensables, without which the formation of a connexion was a thing she
considered not within the bounds of nature. There must be fitness in
fortune, in condition, in education, and manners; there must be no glaring
evil, although she did not ask for positive good. A professor of religion
herself, had any one told her it was a duty of her calling to guard
against a connexion with any but a Christian for her girls, she would have
wondered at the ignorance that would embarrass the married state, with
feelings exclusively belonging to the individual. Had any one told her it
were possible to give her child to any but a gentleman, she would have
wondered at the want of feeling that could devote the softness of Jane or
Emily, to the association with rudeness or vulgarity. It was the
misfortune of Lady Moseley to limit her views of marriage to the scene of
this life, forgetful that every union gives existence to a long line of
immortal beings, whose future welfare depends greatly on the force of
early examples, or the strength of early impressions.

The necessity for restriction in their expenditures had ceased, and the
baronet and his wife greatly enjoyed the first opportunity their secluded
situation had given them, to draw around their board their
fellow-creatures of their own stamp. In the former, it was pure
philanthropy; the same feeling urged him to seek out and relieve distress
in humble life; while in the latter it was love of station and seemliness.
It was becoming the owner of Moseley Hall, and it was what the daughters
of the Benfield family had done since the conquest.

"I am extremely sorry," said the good baronet at dinner, "Mr. Denbigh
declined our invitation to-day; I hope he will yet ride over in the
evening."

Looks of a singular import were exchanged between Colonel Egerton and Sir
Herbert Nicholson, at the mention of Denbigh's name; which, as the latter
had just asked the favor of taking wine with Mrs. Wilson, did not escape
her notice. Emily had innocently mentioned his precipitate retreat the
night before; and he had, when reminded of his engagement to dine with
them that very day, and promised an introduction to Sir Herbert Nicholson
by John, in her presence, suddenly excused himself and withdrawn. With an
indefinite suspicion of something wrong, she ventured, therefore, to
address Sir Herbert Nicholson.

"Did you know Mr. Denbigh, in Spain?"

"I told Miss Emily Moseley, I believe, last evening, that I knew some of
the name," replied the gentleman evasively; then pausing a moment, he
added with great emphasis, "there is a circumstance connected with _one_
of that name, I shall ever remember."

"It was creditable, no doubt, Sir Herbert," cried young Jarvis,
sarcastically. The soldier affected not to hear the question, and asked
Jane to take wine with him. Lord Chatterton, however, putting his knife
and fork down gravely, and with a glow of animation, observed with unusual
spirit,

"I have no doubt it was, sir."

Jarvis in his turn, affected not to hear this speech, and nothing farther
was said, as Sir Edward saw that the name of Mr. Denbigh excited a
sensation amongst his guests for which he was unable to account, and which
he soon forgot himself.

After the company had retired, Lord Chatterton, however, related to the
astonished and indignant family of the baronet the substance of the
following scene, of which he had been a witness that morning, while on a
visit to Denbigh at the rectory. They had been sitting in the parlor by
themselves, over their breakfast, when a Captain Digby was announced.

"I have the honor of waiting upon you, Mr. Denbigh," said the soldier,
with the stiff formality of a professed duellist, "on behalf of Captain
Jarvis, but will postpone my business until you are at leisure," glancing
his eye on Chatterton.

"I know of no business with Captain Jarvis," said Denbigh, politely
handing the stranger a chair, "to which Lord Chatterton cannot be privy;
if he will excuse the interruption. The nobleman bowed, and Captain Digby,
a little awed by the rank of Denbigh's friend, proceeded in a more
measured manner.

"Captain Jarvis has empowered me, sir, to make any arrangement with
yourself or friend, previously to your meeting, which he hopes may be as
soon as possible, if convenient to yourself," replied the soldier, coolly.

Denbigh viewed him for a moment with astonishment, in silence; when
recollecting himself, he said mildly, and without the least agitation, "I
cannot affect, sir, not to understand your meaning, but am at a loss to
imagine what act of mine can have made Mr. Jarvis wish to make such an
appeal."

"Surely Mr. Denbigh cannot think a man of Captain Jarvis's spirit can
quietly submit to the indignity put upon him last evening, by your dancing
with Miss Moseley, after she had declined the honor to himself," said the
captain, affecting an incredulous smile. "My Lord Chatterton and myself
can easily settle the preliminaries, as Captain Jarvis is much disposed to
consult your wishes, sir, in this affair."

"If he consults my wishes," said Denbigh, smiling, "he will think no more
about it."

"At what time, sir, will it be convenient to give him the meeting?" then,
speaking with a kind of bravado gentlemen of his cast are fond of
assuming, "my friend would not hurry any settlement of your affairs."

"I can never meet Captain Jarvis with hostile intentions," replied
Denbigh, calmly.

"Sir!"

"I decline the combat, sir," said Denbigh, with more firmness.

"Your reasons, sir, if you please?" asked Captain Digby compressing his
lips, and drawing up with an air of personal interest.

"Surely," cried Chatterton, who had with difficulty estrained his
feelings, "surely Mr. Denbigh could never so far forget himself as
cruelly' to expose Miss Moseley by accepting this invitation."

"Your reason, my lord," said Denbigh, with interest, "would at all times
have its weight; but I wish not to qualify an act of what I conceive to be
principle by any lesser consideration. I cannot meet Captain Jarvis, or
any other man, in private combat. There can exist no necessity for an
appeal to arms in any society where the laws rule, and I am averse to
bloodshed."

"Very extraordinary," muttered Captain Digby, somewhat at a loss how to
act; but the calm and collected manner of Denbigh prevented a reply; and
after declining a cup of tea, a liquor he never drank, he withdrew, saying
he would acquaint his friend with Mr. Denbigh's singular notions.

Captain Digby had left Jarvis at an inn, about half a mile from the
rectory, for the convenience of receiving early information of the result
of his conference. The young man had walked up and down the room during
Digby's absence, in a train of reflections entirely new to him. He was the
only son of his aged father and mother, the protector of his sisters, and,
he might say, the sole hope of a rising family; and then, possibly,
Denbigh might not have meant to offend him--he might even have been
engaged before they came to the house; or if not, it might have been
inadvertence on the part of Miss Moseley. That Denbigh would offer some
explanation he believed, and he had fully made up his mind to accept it,
let it be what it might, as his fighting friend entered.

"Well," said Jarvis, in a tone that denoted anything but a consciousness
that all _was_ well.

"He says he will not meet you," dryly exclaimed his friend, throwing
himself into a chair, and ordering a glass of randy and water.

"Not meet me!" exclaimed Jarvis, in surprise. "Engaged, perhaps?"

"Engaged to his d--d conscience."

"To his conscience! I do not know whether I rightly understand you,
Captain Digby," said Jarvis, catching his breath, and raising his voice a
very little.

"Then, Captain Jarvis," said his friend, tossing off his brandy, and
speaking with great deliberation, "he says that nothing--understand
me--_nothing_ will ever make him fight a duel."

"He will not!" cried Jarvis, in a loud voice.

"No, he will not," said Digby, handing his glass to the waiter for a fresh
supply.

"He shall, by----!"

"I don't know how you will make him."

"Make him! I'll--I'll post him."

"Never do that," said the captain, turning to him, as he leaned his elbows
on the table. "It only makes both parties ridiculous. But I'll tell you
what you may do. There's a Lord Chatterton who takes the matter up with
warmth. If I were not afraid of his interests hurting my promotion, I
should have resented something that fell from him myself. He will fight, I
dare say, and I'll just return and require an explanation of his words on
your behalf."

"No, no," said Jarvis, rather hastily; "he--_he_ is related to the
Moseleys, and I have views there it might injure."

"Did you think to forward your views by making the young lady the subject
of a duel?" asked Captain Digby sarcastically, and eyeing his companion
with contempt.

"Yes, yes," said Jarvis; "it would certainly hurt my views."

"Here's to the health of His Majesty's gallant ---- regiment of foot!"
cried Captain Digby, in a tone of irony, when three-quarters drunk, at the
mess-table, that evening, "and to its champion, Captain Henry Jarvis!"

One of the corps was present accidentally as a guest; and the following
week, the inhabitants of F---- saw the regiment in their barracks,
marching to slow time after the body of Horace Digby.

Lord Chatterton, in relating the part of the foregoing circumstances which
fell under his observation, did ample justice to the conduct of Denbigh; a
degree of liberality which did him no little credit, as he plainly saw in
that gentleman he had, or soon would have, a rival in the dearest wish of
his heart; and the smiling approbation with which his cousin Emily
rewarded him for his candor almost sickened him with apprehension. The
ladies were not slow in expressing their disgust at the conduct of Jarvis,
or backward in their approval of Denbigh's forbearance. Lady Moseley
turned with horror from a picture in which she could see nothing but
murder and bloodshed; but both Mrs. Wilson and her niece secretly
applauded a sacrifice of worldly feelings on the altar of duty; the former
admiring the consistent refusal of admitting any collateral inducements,
in explanation of his decision: the latter, while she saw the act in its
true colors, could hardly help believing that a regard for _her_ feelings
had, in a trifling degree, its influence in inducing him to decline the
meeting. Mrs. Wilson saw at once what a hold such unusual conduct would
take on the feelings of her niece, and inwardly determined to increase, if
possible, the watchfulness she had invariably observed on all he said or
did, as likely to elucidate his real character, well knowing that the
requisites to bring or to keep happiness in the married state were
numerous and indispensable; and that the display of a particular
excellence, however good in itself, was by no means conclusive as to
character; in short, that we perhaps as often meet with a favorite
principle as with a besetting sin.




Chapter XIV.



Sir Edward Moseley had some difficulty in restraining the impetuosity of
his son, who was disposed to resent this impertinent interference of young
Jarvis with the conduct of his favorite sister; indeed, the young man only
yielded to his profound respect to his father's commands, aided by a
strong representation on the part of his sister of the disagreeable
consequences of connecting her name with such a quarrel. It was seldom the
good baronet felt himself called on to act as decidedly as on the present
occasion. He spoke to the merchant in warm, but gentleman-like terms, of
the consequences which might have resulted to his own child from the
intemperate act of his son; exculpated Emily entirely from censure, by
explaining her engagement to dance with Denbigh, previously to Captain
Jarvis's application; and hinted the necessity, if the affair was not
amicably terminated, of protecting the peace of mind of his daughters
against any similar exposures, by declining the acquaintance of a neighbor
he respected as much as Mr. Jarvis.

The merchant was a man of few words, but of great promptitude. He had made
his fortune, and more than once saved it, by his decision; and assuring
the baronet he should hear no more of it, he took his hat and hurried home
from the village, where the conversation passed. On arriving at his own
house, he found the family collected in the parlor for a morning ride, and
throwing himself into a chair, he broke out on the whole party with great
violence.

"So, Mrs. Jarvis," he cried, "you _would_ spoil a very tolerable
book-keeper, by wishing to have a soldier in your family; and there stands
the puppy who would have blown out the brains of a deserving young man, if
the good sense of Mr. Denbigh had not denied him the opportunity."

"Mercy!" cried the alarmed matron, on whom Newgate (for her early life had
been passed near its walls), with all its horrors, floated, and a
contemplation of its punishments had been her juvenile lessons of
morality--"Harry! Harry! would you commit murder?"

"Murder!" echoed her son, looking askance, as if dodging the bailiffs.
"No, mother; I wanted nothing but what was fair. Mr. Denbigh would have
had an equal chance to blow out my brains; I am sure everything would have
been fair."

"Equal chance!" muttered his father, who had cooled himself, in some
measure, by an extra pinch of snuff. "No, sir, you have no brains to lose.
But I have promised Sir Edward that you shall make proper apologies to
himself, to his daughter, and to Mr. Denbigh." This was rather exceeding
the truth, but the alderman prided himself on performing rather more than
he promised.

"Apology!" exclaimed the captain. "Why, sir, the apology is due to me. Ask
Colonel Egerton if he ever heard of apologies being made by the
challenger."

"No, sure," said the mother, who, having made out the truth of the matter,
thought it was likely enough to be creditable to her child; "Colonel
Egerton never heard of such a thing. Did you, colonel?"

"Why, madam," said the colonel, hesitatingly, and politely handing the
merchant his snuff-box, which, in his agitation, had fallen on the floor,
"circumstances sometimes justify a departure from ordinary measures. You
are certainly right as a rule; but not knowing the particulars in the
present case, it is difficult for me to decide. Miss Jarvis, the tilbury
is ready."

The colonel bowed respectfully to the merchant, kissed his hand to his
wife, and led their daughter to his carriage.

"Do you make the apologies?" asked Mr. Jarvis, as the door closed.

"No, sir," replied the captain, sullenly

"Then you must make your pay answer for the next sit months," cried the
father, taking a signed draft on his banker from his pocket, coolly
tearing it in two pieces, carefully putting the name in his mouth, and
chewing it into a ball.

"Why, alderman," said his wife (a name she never used unless she had
something to gain from her spouse, who loved to hear the appellation after
he had relinquished the office), "it appears to me that Harry has shown
nothing but a proper spirit. You are unkind--indeed you are."

"A proper spirit? In what way? Do you know anything of the matter?"

"It is a proper spirit for a soldier to fight, I suppose," said the wife,
a little at a loss to explain.

"Spirit, or no spirit, apology, or ten and sixpence."

"Harry," said his mother, holding up her finger in a menacing attitude, as
soon as her husband had left the room (for he had last spoken with the
door in his hand), "if you _do_ beg his pardon, you are no son of mine."

"No," cried Miss Sarah, "nor any brother of mine. I would be insufferably
mean."

"Who will pay my debts?" asked the son, looking up at the ceiling.

"Why, I would, my child, if--if--I had not spent my own allowance."

"I would," echoed the sister; "but if we go to Bath, you know, I shall
want all my money."

"Who will pay my debts?" repeated the son.

"Apology, indeed! Who is he, that you, a son of Alderman--of--Mr. Jarvis,
of the deanery, B----, North 'amptonshire, should beg his pardon--a
vagrant that nobody knows!"

"Who will pay my debts?" again inquired the captain drumming with his
foot."

"Harry," exclaimed the mother, "do you love money better than honor--a
soldier's honor?"

"No, mother; but I like good eating and drinking. Think mother; it's a
cool five hundred, and that's a famous deal of money."

"Harry," cried the mother, in a rage, "you are not fit for a soldier. I
wish I were in your place."

"I wish, with all my heart, you had been for an hour this morning,"
thought the son. After arguing for some time longer, they compromised, by
agreeing to leave it to the decision of Colonel Egerton, who, the mother
did not doubt, would applaud her maintaining; the Jarvis dignity, a family
in which he took quite as much interest as he felt for his own--so he had
told her fifty times. The captain, however, determined within himself to
touch the five hundred, let the colonel decide as he might; but the
colonel's decision obviated all difficulties. The question was put to him
by Mrs. Jarvis, on his return from the airing, with no doubt the decision
would be favorable to her opinion. The colonel and herself, she said,
never disagreed; and the lady was right--for wherever his interest made it
desirable to convert Mrs. Jarvis to his side of the question, Egerton had
a manner of doing it that never failed to succeed.

"Why, madam," said he, with one of his most agreeable smiles, "apologies
are different things, at different times. You are certainly right in your
sentiments, as relates to a proper spirit in a soldier; but no one can
doubt the spirit of the captain, after the stand he took in this affair;
if Mr. Denbigh would not meet him (a very extraordinary measure, in deed,
I confess), what can your son do more? He cannot _make_ a man fight
against his will, you know."

"True, true," cried the matron, impatiently, "I do not want him to fight;
heaven forbid! but why should he, the challenger, beg pardon? I am sure,
to have the thing regular, Mr. Denbigh is the one to ask forgiveness."

The colonel felt at a little loss how to reply, when Jarvis, in whom the
thoughts of the five hundred pounds had worked a revolution, exclaimed--

"You know, mother, I accused him--that is, I suspected him of dancing with
Miss Moseley against my right to her; now you find that it was all a
mistake, and so I had better act with dignity, and confess my error."

"Oh, by all means," cried the colonel, who saw the danger of an
embarrassing rupture between the families, otherwise: "delicacy to _your_
sex particularly requires that, ma'am, from your son;" and he accidentally
dropped a letter as he spoke.

"From Sir Edgar, colonel?" asked Mrs. Jarvis, as he stooped to pick it up.

"From Sir Edgar, ma'am, and he begs to be remembered to yourself and all
of your amiable family."

Mrs. Jarvis inclined her body, in what she intended for a graceful bend,
and sighed--a casual observer might have thought, with maternal anxiety
for the reputation of her child--but it was conjugal regret, that the
political obstinacy of the alderman had prevented his carrying up an
address, and thus becoming Sir Timothy. Sir Edgar's heir prevailed, and
the captain received permission to do what he had done several hours
before.

On leaving the room, after the first discussion, and before the appeal,
the captain had hastened to his father with his concessions. The old
gentleman knew too well the influence of five hundred pounds to doubt the
effect in the present in stance, and he had ordered his carriage for the
excursion It came, and to the hall they proceeded. The captain found his
intended antagonist, and in a rather uncouth manner, he made the required
concession. He was restored to his former favor--no great distinction--and
his visits to the hall were suffered, but with a dislike Emily could never
conquer, nor at all times conceal.

Denbigh was occupied with a book, when Jarvis commenced his speech to the
baronet and his daughter, and was apparently too much engaged with its
contents, to understand what was going on, as the captain blundered
through. It was necessary, the captain saw by a glance of his father's
eyes, to say something to that gentleman, who had delicately withdrawn to
a distant window. His speech was consequently made here too, and Mrs.
Wilson could not avoid stealing a look at them. Denbigh smiled, and bowed
in silence. It is enough, thought the widow; the offence was not against
him, it was against his Maker; he should not arrogate to himself, in any
manner, the right to forgive, or to require apologies--the whole is
consistent. The subject was never afterwards alluded to: Denbigh appeared
to have forgotten it; and Jane sighed gently, as she devoutly hoped the
colonel was not a duellist.

Several days passed before the deanery ladies could sufficiently forgive
the indignity their family had sustained, to resume the customary
intercourse. Like all other grievances, where the passions are chiefly
interested, it was forgotten in time, however, and things were put in some
measure on their former footing. The death of Digby served to increase the
horror of the Moseleys, and Jarvis himself felt rather uncomfortable, on
more accounts than one, at the fatal termination of the unpleasant
business.

Chatterton, who to his friends had not hesitated to avow his attachment to
his cousin, but who had never proposed for her, as his present views and
fortune were not, in his estimation, sufficient for her proper support,
had pushed every interest he possessed, and left no steps unattempted an
honorable man could resort to, to effect his object. The desire to provide
for his sisters had been backed by the ardor of a passion that had reached
its crisis; and the young peer who could not, in the present state of
things, abandon the field to a rival so formidable as Denbigh, even to
further his views to preferment, was waiting in anxious suspense the
decision on his application. A letter from his friend informed him, his
opponent was likely to succeed; that, in short, all hopes of success had
left him. Chatterton was in despair. On the following day, however, he
received a second letter from the same friend, unexpectedly announcing his
appointment. After mentioning the fact, he went on to say--"The cause of
this sudden revolution in your favor is unknown to me, and unless your
lordship has obtained interest I am ignorant of, it is one of the most
singular instances of ministerial caprice I have ever known." Chatterton
was as much at a loss as his friend, to understand the affair; but it
mattered not; he could now offer to Emily--it was a patent office of great
value, and a few years would amply portion his sisters. That very day,
therefore, he proposed, and was refused.

Emily had a difficult task to avoid self-reproach, in regulating her
deportment on this occasion. She was fond of Chatterton as a relation--as
her brother's friend--as the brother of Grace, and even on his own
account; but it was the fondness of a sister. His manner--his words,
which, although never addressed to herself, were sometimes overheard
unintentionally, and sometimes reached her through her sisters, had left
her in no doubt of his attachment; she was excessively grieved at the
discovery, and had innocently appealed to her aunt for directions how to
proceed. Of his intentions she had no doubt, but at the same time he had
not put her in a situation to dispel his hopes; as to encouragement, in
the usual meaning of the term, she gave none to him, nor to any one else.
There are no little attentions that lovers are fond of showing to their
mistresses, and which mistresses are fond of receiving, that Emily ever
permitted to any gentleman--no rides--no walks--no tete-a-tetes. Always
natural and unaffected, there was a simple dignity about her that forbade
the request, almost the thought, in the gentlemen of her acquaintance: she
had no amusements, no pleasures of any kind in which her sisters were not
her companions; and if anything was on the carpet that required an
attendant, John was ever ready. He was devoted to her; the decided
preference she gave him over every other man, upon such occasions,
flattered his affection; and he would, at any time, leave even Grace
Chatterton to attend his sister. All this too was without affectation, and
generally without notice. Emily so looked the delicacy and reserve she
acted with so little ostentation that not even her own sex had affixed to
her conduct the epithet of squeamish; it was difficult, therefore, for her
to do anything which would show Lord Chatterton her disinclination to his
suit, without assuming a dislike she did not feel, or giving him slights
that neither good breeding nor good nature could justify. At one time,
indeed, she had expressed a wish to return to Clara; but this Mrs. Wilson
thought would only protract the evil, and she was compelled to wait his
own time. The peer himself did not rejoice more in his ability to make the
offer, therefore, than Emily did to have it in her power to decline it.
Her rejection was firm and unqualified, but uttered with a grace and a
tenderness to his feelings, that bound her lover tighter than ever in her
chains, and he resolved on immediate flight as his only recourse.

"I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred to Lord Chatterton," said Denbigh,
with great interest, as he reached the spot where the young peer stood
leaning his head against a tree, on his way from the rectory to the hall.

Chatterton raised his face as he spoke: there were evident traces of tears
on it, and Denbigh, greatly shocked, was about to proceed as the other
caught his arm.

"Mr. Denbigh," said the young man, in a voice almost choked with emotion,
"may you never know the pain I have felt this morning. Emily--Emily
Moseley--is lost to me--for ever."

For a moment the blood rushed to the face of Denbigh, and his eyes flashed
with a look that Chatterton could not stand. He turned, as the voice of
Denbigh, in those remarkable tones which distinguished it from every other
voice he had ever heard, uttered--

"Chatterton, my lord, we are friends, I hope--I wish it; from my heart."

"Go, Mr. Denbigh--go. You were going to Miss Moseley--do not let me detain
you."

"I am going with _you_, Lord Chatterton, unless you forbid it," said
Denbigh, with emphasis, slipping his arm through that of the peer.

For two hours they walked together in the park; and when they appeared at
dinner, Emily wondered why Mr. Denbigh had taken a seat next to her
mother, instead of his usual place between herself and her aunt. In the
evening, he announced his intention of leaving B---- for a short time
with Lord Chatterton. They were going to London together; but he hoped to
return within ten days. This sudden determination caused some surprise;
but, as the dowager supposed it was to secure the new situation, and the
remainder of their friends thought it might be business, it was soon
forgotten, though much regretted for the time. The gentlemen left the hall
that night to proceed to an inn, from which they could obtain a chaise and
horses; and the following morning, when the baronet's family assembled
around their social breakfast, they were many miles on the road to the
metropolis.




Chapter XV.



Lady Chatterton, finding that little was to be expected in her present
situation, excepting what she looked forward to from the varying
admiration of John Moseley to her youngest daughter, determined to accept
an invitation of Borne standing to a nobleman's seat about fifty miles
from the hall, and, in order to keep things in their proper places, to
leave Grace with her friends, who had expressed a wish to that effect.
Accordingly, the day succeeding the departure of her son, she proceeded on
her expedition, accompanied by her willing assistant in the matrimonial
speculations.

Grace Chatterton was by nature retiring and delicate; but her feelings
were acute, and on the subject of female propriety sensitive to a degree,
that the great want of it in a relation she loved as much as her mother
had possibly in some measure increased. Her affections were too single in
their objects to have left her long in doubt as to their nature with
respect to the baronet's son; and it was one of the most painful orders
she had ever received, that which compelled her to accept her cousin's
invitation. Her mother was peremptory, however, and Grace was obliged to
comply. Every delicate feeling she possessed revolted at the step: the
visit itself was unwished for on her part; but there did exist a reason
which had reconciled her to that--the wedding of Clara. But now to remain,
after all her family had gone, in the house where resided the man who had
as yet never solicited those affections she had been unable to withhold,
it was humiliating--it was degrading her in her own esteem, and she could
scarcely endure it.

It is said that women are fertile in inventions to further their schemes
of personal gratification, vanity, or even mischief. It may be it is true;
but the writer of these pages is a man--one who has seen much of the other
sex, and he is happy to have an opportunity of paying a tribute to female
purity and female truth. That there are hearts so disinterested as to lose
the considerations of self, in advancing the happiness of those they love;
that there are minds so pure as to recoil with disgust from the admission
of deception, indelicacy, or management, he knows; for he has seen it from
long and close examination. He regrets that the very artlessness of those
who are most pure in the one sex, subjects them to the suspicions of the
grosser-materials which compose the other He believes that innocency,
singleness of heart, ardency of feeling, and unalloyed, shrinking
delicacy, sometimes exist in the female bosom, to an extent that but few
men are happy enough to discover, and that most men believe incompatible
with the frailties of human nature. Grace Chatterton possessed no little
of what may almost be called this ethereal spirit and a visit to Bolton
parsonage was immediately proposed by her to Emily. The latter, too
innocent herself to suspect the motives of her cousin, was happy to be
allowed to devote a fortnight to Clara, uninterrupted by the noisy round
of visiting and congratulations which had attended her first week; and
Mrs. Wilson and the two girls left the hall the same day with the Dowager
Lady Chatterton. Francis and Clara were happy to receive them, and they
were immediately domesticated in their new abode. Doctor Ives and his wife
had postponed an annual visit to a relation of the former on account of
the marriage of their son, and they now availed themselves of this visit
to perform their own engagement. B---- appeared in some measure deserted,
and Egerton had the field almost to himself. Summer had arrived, and the
country bloomed in all its luxuriance of vegetation: everything was
propitious to the indulgence of the softer passions; and Lady Moseley,
ever a strict adherent to forms and decorum, admitted the intercourse
between Jane and her admirer to be carried to as great lengths as those
forms would justify. Still the colonel was not explicit; and Jane, whose
delicacy dreaded the exposure of feelings that was involved in his
declaration, gave or sought no marked opportunities for the avowal of his
passion. Yet they were seldom separate, and both Sir Edward and his wife
looked forward to their future union as a thing not to be doubted. Lady
Moseley had given up her youngest child so absolutely to the government of
her aunt, that she seldom thought of her future establishment. She had
that kind of reposing confidence in Mrs. Wilson's proceedings that feeble
minds ever bestow on those who are much superior to them; and she even
approved of a system in many respects which she could not endeavor to
imitate. Her affection for Emily was not, however, less than what she felt
for her other children: she was, in fact, her favorite, and, had the
discipline of Mrs. Wilson admitted of so weak an interference, might have
been injured as such.

John Moseley had been able to find out exactly the hour they breakfasted
at the deanery, the length of time it took Egerton's horses to go the
distance between that house and the hall; and on the sixth morning after
the departure of his aunt, John's bays were in his phaeton, and allowing
ten minutes for the mile and a half to the park gates, John had got
happily off his own territories, before he met the tilbury travelling
eastward. I am not to know which road the colonel may turn, thought John:
and after a few friendly, but rather hasty greetings, the bays were again
in full trot to the parsonage.

"John," said Emily, holding out her hand affectionately, and smiling a
little archly, as he approached the window where she stood, "you should
take a lesson in driving from Frank; you have turned more than one hair, I
believe."

"How is Clara?" cried John, hastily, taking the offered hand, with a kiss,
"aye, and aunt Wilson?"

"Both well, brother, and out walking this fine morning."

"How happens it you are not with them?" inquired the brother, throwing his
eyes round the room. "Have they left you alone?"

"No Grace has this moment left me."

"Well, Emily," said John, taking his seat very composedly, but keeping his
eyes on the door, "I have come to dine with you. I thought I owed Clara a
visit, and have managed nicely to give the colonel the go-by."

"Clara will be happy to see you, dear John, and so will aunt, and so am
I"--as she drew aside his fine hair with her fingers to cool his forehead.

"And why not Grace, too?" asked John, with a look of a little alarm.

"And Grace, too, I fancy--but here she is, to answer for herself."

Grace said little on her entrance, but her eyes were brighter than usual,
and she looked so contented and happy that Emily observed to her, in an
affectionate manner--

"I knew the eau-de-Cologne would do your head good."

"Is Miss Chatterton unwell?" asked John, with a look of interest.

"A slight headache," said Grace, faintly, "but I feel much better."

"Want of air and exercise: my horses are at the door; phaeton will hold
three easily; run, sister, for your hat," almost pushing Emily out of the
room as he spoke. In a few; minutes the horses might have been suffering
for air, but surely not for exercise.

"I wish," cried John, with impatience, when at the distance of a couple of
miles from the parsonage, "that gentleman had driven his gig out of the
road."

There was a small group on one side of the road, consisting of a man, a
woman, and several children. The owner of the gig had alighted, and was in
the act of speaking to them, as the phaeton approached at a great rate.

"John," cried Emily, in terror, "You never can pass--you upset us."

"There is no danger, dear Grace," said the brother, endeavoring to check
his horses; he succeeded in part, but not so as to prevent his passing at
a spot where the road was very narrow; a wheel hit violently against a
stone, and some of his works gave way. The gentleman immediately hastened
to his assistance--it was Denbigh.

"Miss Moseley!" cried he, in a voice of the tenderest interest "you are
not hurt in the least, I hope."

"No," said Emily, recovering her breath, "only frightened;" and taking his
hand, she sprang from the carriage.

Miss Chatterton found courage to wait quietly for the care of John. His
"dear Grace," had thrilled on every nerve, and she afterwards often
laughed at Emily for her terror when there was so little danger. The
horses were not in the least frightened, and after a little mending, John
declared all was safe. To ask Emily to enter, the carriage again, was to
exact no little sacrifice of her feelings to her reason; and she stood in
a suspense that too plainly showed that, the terror she had been in had
not left her.

"If," said Denbigh, modestly, "if Mr. Moseley will take the ladies in my
gig, I will drive the phaeton to the hall, as it is rather unsafe for so
heavy a load."

"No, no, Denbigh," said John, coolly, "you are not used to such mettled
nags as mine--it would be indiscreet for you to drive them: if, however,
you will be good enough to take Emily into your gig--Grace Chatterton, I
am sure, is not afraid to trust my driving, and we might all get back as
well as ever."

Grace gave her hand almost unconsciously to John, and he handed her into
the phaeton, as Denbigh stood willing to execute his part of the
arrangement, but too diffident to speak. It was not a moment for
affectation, if Emily had been capable of it, and blushing with the
novelty of her situation, she took her place in the gig. Denbigh stopped
and turned his eyes on the little group with which he had been talking,
and at that moment they caught the attention of John also. The latter
inquired after their situation. The tale was a piteous one, the distress
evidently real. The husband had been gardener to a gentleman in a
neighboring county, and he had been lately discharged, to make way, in the
difficulty of the times, for a relation of the steward, who was in want of
the place. Suddenly thrown on the world, with a wife and four children,
with but the wages of a week for his and their support, they had travelled
thus far on the way to a neighboring parish, where he said he had a right
to, and must seek, public assistance. The children were crying for hunger,
and the mother, who was a nurse, had been unable to walk further than
where she sat, but had sunk on the ground overcome with fatigue, and weak
from the want of nourishment. Neither Emily nor Grace could refrain from
tears at the recital of these heavy woes; the want of sustenance was
something so shocking in itself, and brought, as it were, immediately
before their eyes, the appeal was irresistible. John forgot his
bays--forgot even Grace, as he listened to the affecting story related by
the woman, who was much revived by some nutriment Denbigh had obtained
from a cottage near them, and to which they were about to proceed by his
directions, as Moseley interrupted them. His hand shook, his eyes
glistened as he took his purse from his pocket, and gave several guineas
from it to the mendicant. Grace thought John had never appeared so
handsome as the moment, he banded the money to the gardener; his face
glowed with unusual excitement, and his symmetry had lost the only charm
he wanted in common, softness. Denbigh, after waiting patiently until
Moseley had bestowed his alms, gravely repeated his directions for their
proceeding to the cottage, when the carriages moved on.

Emily revolved, in her mind, during their short ride, the horrid distress
she had witnessed. It had taken a strong hold on her feelings. Like her
brother, she was warm-hearted and compassionate, if we may use the term,
to excess; and had she been prepared with the means, the gardener would
have reaped a double harvest of donations. It struck her, at the moment,
unpleasantly, that Denbigh had been so backward in his liberality. The man
had rather sullenly displayed half a crown as his gift, in contrast with
the golden shower of John's generosity. It had been even somewhat
offensive in its exhibition, and urged her brother to a more hasty
departure than, under other circumstances, he would just at the moment
have felt disposed to make. Denbigh, however, had taken no notice of the
indignity, and continued his directions in the same mild and benevolent
manner he had used during the whole interview. Half a crown was but
little, thought Emily, for a family that was starving; and, unwilling to
judge harshly of one she had begun to value so highly, she came to the
painful conclusion, her companion was not as rich as he deserved to be.
Emily had not yet to learn that charity was in proportion to the means of
the donor, and a gentle wish insensibly stole over her that Denbigh might
in some way become more richly endowed with the good things of this world.
Until this moment her thoughts had never turned to his temporal condition.
She knew he was an officer in the army, but of what rank, or even of what
regiment, she was ignorant. He had frequently touched in his conversations
on the customs of the different countries he had seen. He had served in
Italy, in the north of Europe, in the West Indies, in Spain. Of the
manners of the people, of their characters, he not unfrequently spoke, and
with a degree of intelligence, a liberality, a justness of discrimination,
that had charmed his auditors; but on the point of personal service he had
maintained a silence that was inflexible, and not a little
surprising--more particularly of that part of his history which related to
the latter country; from all which she was rather inclined to think his
military rank was not as high as she thought he merited, and that possibly
he felt an awkwardness of putting it in contrast with the more elevated
station of Colonel Egerton. The same idea had struck the whole family, and
prevented any inquiries which might be painful. He was so connected with
the mournful event of his father's death, that no questions could be put
with propriety to the doctor's family; and if Francis had been more
communicative to Clara, she was too good a wife to mention it, and her own
family was possessed of too just a sense of propriety to touch upon points
that might bring her conjugal fidelity in question.

Though Denbigh appeared a little abstracted during the ride, his questions
concerning Sir Edward and her friends kind and affectionate. As they
approached the house he suffered his horse to walk, and, after some
hesitation, he took a letter from his pocket, and handing it to her,
said--

"I hope Miss Moseley will not think me impertinent in becoming the bearer
of a letter 'from her cousin, Lord Chatterton. He requested it so
earnestly, that I could not refuse taking what I am sensible is a great
liberty; for it would be deception did I affect to be ignorant of his
admiration, or of his generous treatment of a passion she cannot return.
Chatterton," and he smiled mournfully, "is yet too true to cease his
commendations."

Emily blushed painfully, but she took the letter in silence; and as
Denbigh pursued the topic no further, the little distance they had to go
was ridden in silence. On entering the gates, however, he said,
inquiringly, and with much interest--

"I sincerely hope I have not given offence to your delicacy, Miss Moseley.
Lord Chatterton has made me an unwilling confidant. I need not say the
secret is sacred, on more accounts than one."

"Surely not, Mr. Denbigh," replied Emily, in a low tone; and the gig
stopping, she hastened to accept the assistance of her brother to alight.

"Well, sister," cried John, laughing, "Denbigh is a disciple to Frank's
system of horse-flesh. Hairs smooth enough here, I see. Grace and I
thought you would never get home." Now, John fibbed a little, for neither
Grace nor he had thought in the least about them, or anything else but
each other, from the moment they separated until the gig arrived.

Emily made no reply to this speech, and as the gentlemen were engaged in
giving directions concerning their horses, she seized an opportunity to
read Chatterton's letter.

"I avail myself of the return of my friend Mr. Denbigh to that happy
family from which reason requires my self-banishment to assure my amiable
cousin, of my continued respect for her character, and to convince her of
my gratitude for the tenderness she has manifested to feelings she cannot
return. I may even venture to tell her what few women would be pleased to
hear, but what I know Emily Moseley too well to doubt, for a moment, will
give her unalloyed pleasure--that owing to the kind, the benevolent, the
brotherly attentions of my true friend, Mr. Denbigh, I have already gained
a peace of mind and resignation I once thought was lost to me for ever.
Ah! Emily, my beloved cousin, in Denbigh you will find, I doubt not, a
mind, principles, congenial to your own. It is impossible that he could
see you without wishing to possess such a treasure; and, if I have a wish
that is now uppermost in my heart, it is, that you may learn to esteem
each other as you ought, when, I doubt not, you will become as happy as
you both deserve to be. What greater earthly blessing can I implore upon
you!

"Chatterton."

Emily, while reading this epistle, felt a confusion but little inferior to
that which would have oppressed her had Denbigh himself been at her feet,
soliciting that love Chatterton thought him so worthy of possessing; and
when they met, she could hardly look in the face a man who, it would seem,
had been so openly selected by another, as the fittest to be her partner
for life. The unaltered manner of Denbigh himself, however, soon convinced
her that he was entirely ignorant of the contents of the note, and it
greatly relieved her from the awkwardness his presence at first
occasioned.

Francis soon returned, accompanied by his wife and aunt, and was overjoyed
to find the guest who had so unexpectedly arrived. His parents had not yet
returned from their visit, and Denbigh, of course, would remain at his
present quarters. John promised to continue with them for a couple of
days: and everything was soon settled to the perfect satisfaction of the
whole party. Mrs. Wilson knew the great danger of suffering young people
to be inmates of the same house too well, wantonly to incur the penalties,
but her visit had nearly expired, and it might give her a better
opportunity of judging Denbigh's character; and Grace Chatterton, though
too delicate to follow herself, was well contented to be followed,
especially when John Moseley was the pursuer.




Chapter XVI.



"I am sorry, aunt, Mr. Denbigh is not rich," said Emily to Mrs, Wilson,
after they had retired in the evening, almost unconscious of what she
uttered. The latter looked at her niece in surprise, at a remark so
abrupt, and one so very different from the ordinary train of Emily's
reflections, as she required an explanation. Emily, slightly coloring at
the channel her thoughts had insensibly strayed into, gave her aunt an
account of their adventure in the course of the morning's drive, and
touched lightly on the difference in the amount of the alms of her brother
and those of Mr. Denbigh.

"The bestowal of money is not always an act of charity," observed Mrs.
Wilson, gravely, and the subject was dropped: though neither ceased to
dwell on it in her thoughts, until sleep closed the eyes of both.

The following day Mrs. Wilson invited Grace and Emily to accompany her in
a walk; the gentlemen having preceded them in pursuit of their different
avocations. Francis had his regular visits of spiritual consolation; John
had gone to the hall for his pointers and fowling-piece, the season for
woodcock having arrived; and Denbigh had proceeded no one knew whither. On
gaining the high-road, Mrs. Wilson desired her companions to lead the way
to the cottage where the family of the mendicant gardener had been lodged,
and thither they soon arrived. On knocking at the door, they were
immediately admitted to an outer room; in which they found the wife of the
laborer who inhabited the building, engaged in her customary morning
employments. They explained the motives of the visit, and were told that
the family they sought were in an adjoining room, but she rather thought
at that moment engaged with a clergyman who had called a quarter of an
hour before. "I expect, my lady, it's the new rector, who everybody says
is so good to the poor and needy; but I have not found time yet to go to
church to hear his reverence preach, ma'am," courtseying and handing the
fresh dusted chairs to her unexpected visitors. The ladies seated
themselves, too delicate to interrupt Francis in his sacred duties, and
were silently waiting his appearance, when a voice was distinctly heard
through the thin partition, the first note of which undeceived them as to
the character of the gardener's visitor.

"It appears then, Davis, by your own confession," said Denbigh, mildly,
but in a tone of reproof, "that your frequent acts of intemperance have at
least given ground for the steward's procuring your discharge if it has
not justified him in doing that which his duty to your common employer
required."

"It is hard, sir," replied the man sullenly, "to be thrown on the world
with a family like mine, to make way for a younger man with but one
child."

"It may be unfortunate for your wife and children," said Denbigh, "but
just, as respects yourself. I have already convinced you, that my
interference or reproof is not an empty one: carry the letter to the
person to whom it is directed, and I pledge you, you shall have a new
trial; and should you conduct yourself soberly, and with propriety,
continued and ample support; the second letter will gain you children
immediate admission to the school I mentioned; and I now leave you, with
an earnest injunction to remember that habits of intemperance not only
disqualify you to support those who have such great claims on your
protection, but inevitably lead to a loss of those powers which are
necessary to insure your own eternal welfare."

"May Heaven bless your honor," cried the woman, with fervor, and evidently
in tears, "both for what you have said, and what you have done. Thomas
only wants to be taken from temptation, to become a sober man again--an
honest one he has ever been, I am sure."

"I have selected a place for him," replied Denbigh "where there is no
exposure through improper companions, and everything now depends upon
himself, under Providence."

Mrs. Wilson had risen from her chair on the first intimation given by
Denbigh of his intention to go, but had paused at the door to listen to
this last speech; when beckoning her companions, she hastily withdrew,
having first made a small present to the woman of the cottage, and
requested her not to mention their having called.

"What becomes now of the comparative charity of your brother and Mr.
Denbigh, Emily?" asked Mrs. Wilson, as they gained the road on their
return homewards. Emily was not accustomed to hear any act of John
slightly spoken of without at least manifesting some emotion, which
betrayed her sisterly regard; but on the present occasion she chose to be
silent; while Grace, after waiting in expectation that her cousin would
speak, ventured to say timidly--

"I am sure, dear madam, Mr. Moseley was very liberal and the tears were in
his eyes while he gave the money. I was looking directly at them the whole
time."

"John is compassionate by nature," continued Mrs. Wilson with an almost
imperceptible smile. "I have no doubt his sympathies were warmly enlisted
in behalf of this family and possessing much, he gave liberally. I have no
doubt he would have undergone personal privation to have relieved their
distress, and endured both pain and labor, with such an excitement before
him. But what is all that to the charity of Mr. Denbigh?"

Grace was unused to contend, and, least of all, with Mrs. Wilson; but,
unwilling to abandon John to such censure, with increased animation, she
said--

"If bestowing freely, and feeling for the distress you relieve, be not
commendable, madam, I am sure I am ignorant what is."

"That compassion for the woes of others is beautiful in itself, and the
want of it an invariable evidence of corruption from too much, and an
ill-governed, intercourse with the world, I am willing to acknowledge, my
dear Grace," said Mrs. Wilson, kindly; "but the relief of misery, where
the heart has not undergone this hardening ordeal, is only a relief to our
own feelings: this is compassion; but Christian charity is a higher order
of duty: it enters into every sensation of the heart; disposes us to
judge, as well as to act, favorably to our fellow creatures; is deeply
seated in the sense of our own unworthiness; keeps a single eye, in its
dispensations of temporal benefits, to the everlasting happiness of the
objects of its bounty; is consistent, well regulated; in short,"--and Mrs.
Wilson's pale cheek glowed with an unusual richness of color--"it is an
humble attempt to copy after the heavenly example of our Redeemer, in
sacrificing ourselves to the welfare of others, and does and must proceed
from a love of his person, and an obedience to his mandates."

"And Mr. Denbigh, aunt," exclaimed Emily, the blood mantling to her cheeks
with a sympathetic glow, while she lost all consideration for John in the
strength of her feelings, "his charity you think to be of this
description?"

"So far, my child, as we can understand motives from the nature of the
conduct, such appears to have been the charity of Mr. Denbigh."

Grace was silenced, if not convinced; and the ladies continued their walk,
lost in their own reflections, until they reached a bend in the road which
hid the cottage from view. Emily involuntarily turned her head as they
arrived at the spot, and saw that Denbigh had approached within a few
paces of them. On joining them, he commenced his complimentary address in
such a way as convinced them the cottager had been true to the injunction
given by Mrs. Wilson. No mention was made of the gardener, and Denbigh
began a lively description of some foreign scenery, of which their present
situation reminded him. The discourse was maintained with great interest
by himself and Mrs. Wilson for the remainder of their walk.

It was yet early when they reached the parsonage, where they found John,
who had driven to the hall to breakfast, and who, instead of pursuing his
favorite amusement of shooting, laid down his gun as they entered,
observing, "It is rather soon yet for the woodcocks, and I believe I will
listen to your entertaining conversation, ladies, for the remainder of the
morning." He threw himself upon a sofa at no great distance from Grace,
and in such a position as enabled him, without rudeness, to study the
features of her lovely face, while Denbigh read aloud to the ladies
Campbell's beautiful description of wedded love, in Gertrude of Wyoming.

There was a chastened correctness in the ordinary manner of Denbigh which
wore the appearance of the influence of his reason, and a subjection of
the passions, that, if anything, gave him less interest with Emily than
had it been marked by an evidence of stronger feeling. But on the present
occasion, this objection was removed: his reading was impressive; he
dwelt on those passages which most pleased him with a warmth of eulogium
fully equal to her own undisguised sensations. In the hour occupied in the
reading this exquisite little poem, and in commenting on its merits and
sentiments, Denbigh gained more on her imagination than in all their
former intercourse. His ideas were as pure, as chastened, and almost as
vivid as those of the poet; and Emily listened to his periods with intense
attention, as they flowed from him in language as glowing as his ideas.
The poem had been first read to her by her brother, and she was surprised
to discover how she had overlooked its beauties on that occasion. Even
John acknowledged that it certainly appeared a different thing now from
what he had then thought it; but Emily had taxed his declamatory power in
the height of the pheasant season, and, somehow or other, John now
imagined that Gertrude was just such a delicate, feminine, warm-hearted
domestic girl as Grace Chatterton. As Denbigh closed the book, and entered
into a general conversation with Clara and her sister, John followed Grace
to a window, and speaking in a tone of unusual softness for him, he said--

"Do you know, Miss Chatterton, I have accepted your brother's invitation
to go into Suffolk this summer, and that you are to be plagued with me and
my pointers again?"

"Plagued, Mr. Moseley!" said Grace, in a voice even softer than his own.
"I am sure--I am sure, we none of us think you or your dogs in the least a
plague."

"Ah! Grace," and John was about to become what he had never been
before--sentimental--- when he saw the carriage of Chatterton, containing
the dowager and Catherine entering the parsonage gates.

Pshaw! _thought_ John, there comes Mother Chatterton "Ah! Grace," said
John, "there are your mother and sister returned already."

"Already!" said the young lady, and, for the first time in her life, she
felt rather unlike a dutiful child. Five minutes could have made no great
difference to her mother, and she would greatly have liked to hear what
John Moseley meant to have said; for the alteration in his manner
convinced her that his first "ah! Grace" was to have been continued in a
somewhat different language from that in which the second "ah! Grace" was
ended.

Young Moseley and her daughter, standing together at the open window,
caught the attention of Lady Chatterton the moment she got a view of the
house, and she entered with a good humor she had not felt since the
disappointment in her late expedition in behalf of Catherine; for the
gentleman she had had in view in this excursion had been taken up by
another rover, acting on her own account, and backed by a little more wit
and a good deal more money than what Kate could be fairly thought to
possess. Nothing further in that quarter offering in the way of her
occupation, she turned her horses' heads towards London, that great
theatre on which there never was a loss for actors. The salutations had
hardly passed before, turning to John, she exclaimed, with what she
intended for a most motherly smile, "What! not shooting this fine day, Mr.
Moseley? I thought you never missed a day in the season."

"It is rather early yet, my lady," said John, coolly, a little alarmed by
the expression of her countenance.

"Oh!" continued the dowager, in the same strain, "I see how it is; the
ladies have too many attractions for so gallant a young man as yourself."
Now, as Grace, her own daughter, was the only lady of the party who could
reasonably be supposed to have much influence over John's movements--a
young gentleman seldom caring as much for his own as for other people's
sisters, this may be fairly set down as a pretty broad hint of the
opinion the dowager entertained of the real state of things; and John saw
it, and Grace saw it. The former coolly replied, "Why, upon the whole, if
you will excuse the neglect, I will try a shot this fine day," In five
minutes, Carlo and Rover were both delighted. Grace kept her place at the
window, from a feeling she could not define, and of which perhaps she was
unconscious, until the gate closed, and the shrubbery hid the sportsman
from her sight, and then she withdrew to her room to weep.

Had Grace Chatterton been a particle less delicate--less retiring--blessed
with a managing mother, as she was, John Moseley would not have thought
another moment about her. But, on every occasion when the dowager made any
of her open attacks, Grace discovered so much distress, so much
unwillingness to second them, that a suspicion of a confederacy never
entered his brain. It is not to be supposed that Lady Chattelton's
manoeuvres were limited to the direct and palpable schemes we have
mentioned; no--these were the effervescence, the exuberance of her zeal;
but as is generally the case, they sufficiently proved the ground-work of
all her other machinations; none of the little artifices of such as
placing--of leaving alone--of showing similarity of tastes:--of
compliments to the gentlemen, were neglected.--This latter business she
had contrived to get Catherine to take off her hands; but Grace could
never pay a compliment in her life, unless changing of color, trembling,
undulations of the bosom, and such natural movements can be so called; but
she loved dearly to receive them from John Moseley.

"Well, my child," said the mother, as she seated herself by the side of
her daughter, who hastily endeavored to conceal her tears, "when are we to
have another wedding? I trust everything is settled between you and Mr.
Moseley, by this time."

"Mother! Mother!" said Grace, nearly gasping for breath, "Mother, you
will break my heart, indeed you will." She hid her face in the clothes of
the bed by which she sat, and wept with a feeling of despair.

"Tut, my dear," replied the dowager, not noticing her anguish, or
mistaking it for a girlish shame, "you young people are fools in these
matters, but Sir Edward and myself will arrange everything as it should
be."

The daughter now not only looked up, but sprang from her seat, her hands
clasped together, her eyes fixed in horror, her cheek pale as death; but
the mother had retired, and Grace sank back into her chair with a
sensation of disgrace, of despair, which could not have been surpassed,
had she really merited the obloquy and shame which she thought were about
to be heaped upon her.




Chapter XVII.



The succeeding morning, the whole party, with, the exception of Denbigh,
returned to the hall. Nothing had occurred out of the ordinary course of
the colonel's assiduities; and Jane, whose sense of propriety forbad the
indulgence of premeditated tete-a-tetes, and such little accompaniments of
every-day attachments, was rejoiced to see a sister she loved, and an aunt
she respected, once more in the bosom of her family.

The dowager impatiently waited an opportunity to effect, what she intended
for a master-stroke of policy in the disposal of Grace. Like all other
managers, she thought no one equal to herself in devising ways and means,
and was unwilling to leave anything to nature. Grace had invariably
thwarted all her schemes by her obstinacy; and as she thought young
Moseley really attached to her, she determined by a bold stroke to remove
the impediments of false shame, and the dread of repulse, which she
believed alone kept the youth from an avowal of his wishes, and get rid at
once of a plague that had annoyed her not a little--her daughter's
delicacy.

Sir Edward spent an hour every morning in his library, overlooking his
accounts, and in other necessary employments of a similar nature, and it
was here she determined to have the conference.

"My Lady Chatterton, you do me honor," said the baronet, handing her a
chair on her entrance.

"Upon my word, cousin," cried the dowager, "you have a very convenient
apartment here," looking around her in affected admiration of all she saw.

The baronet replied, and a short discourse on the arrangements of the
whole house insensibly led to some remarks on the taste of his mother, the
Honorable Lady Moseley (a Chatterton), until, having warmed the feelings
of the old gentleman by some well-timed compliments of that nature, she
ventured on the principal object of her visit.

"I am happy to find, Sir Edward, you are so well pleased with the family
as to wish to make another selection from it. I sincerely hope it may
prove as judicious as the former one."

Sir Edward was a little at a loss to understand her meaning, although he
thought it might allude to his son, who he had some time suspected had
views on Grace Chatterton; and willing to know the truth, and rather
pleased to find John had selected a young woman he loved in his heart, he
observed--

"I am not sure I rightly understand your ladyship, though I hope I do."

"No!" cried the dowager, in well-counterfeited affectation of surprise.
"Perhaps, after all, maternal anxiety has deceived me, then. Mr. Moseley
could hardly have ventured to proceed without your approbation."

"I have ever declined influencing any of my children, Lady Chatterton,"
said the baronet, "and John is not ignorant of my sentiments. I sincerely
hope, however, you allude to an attachment to Grace?"

"I did certainly, Sir Edward," said the lady, hesitatingly "I may be
deceived; but you must understand the feelings of a mother, and a young
woman ought not to be trifled with."

"My son is incapable of trifling, I hope," cried Sir Edward; with
animation, "and, least of all, with Grace Chatterton No; you are quite
right. If he has made his choice, he should not be ashamed to avow it."

"I would not wish, on any account, to hurry matters," said the dowager;
"but the report which is abroad will prevent other young men from putting
in their claims, Sir Edward" (sighing). "I have a mother's feelings: if I
have been hasty, your goodness will overlook it." And Lady Chatterton
placed her handkerchief to her eyes, to conceal the tears that did not
flow.

Sir Edward thought all this very natural, and as it should be, and he
sought an early conference with his son.

"John," said the father, taking his hand kindly, "you have no reason to
doubt my affection or my compliance to your wishes. Fortune is a thing out
of the question-with a young man of your expectations." And Sir Edward, in
his eagerness to smoothe the way, went on: "You can live here, or occupy
my small seat in Wiltshire. I can allow you five thousand a year, with
much ease to myself. Indeed, your mother and myself would both straighten
ourselves, to add to your comforts; but it is unnecessary--we have enough,
and you have enough."

Sir Edward, in a few moments, would have settled everything to the
dowager's perfect satisfaction, had not John interrupted him by the
exclamation of--

"To what do you allude, father?"

"Allude?" said Sir Edward, simply. "Why, Grace Chatterton, my son."

"Grace Chatterton! Sir Edward. What have I to do with Grace Chatterton?"

"Her mother has made me acquainted with your proposals, and"--

"Proposals!"

"Attentions, I ought to have said; and you have no reason to apprehend
anything from me, my child."

"Attentions!" said John, haughtily. "I hope Lady Chatterton does not
accuse me of improper attentions to her daughter?"

"No, not improper, my son," said his father: "on the contrary, she is much
pleased with them."

"She is, is she? But I am displeased that she should undertake to put
constructions on my acts that no attention or words of mine will justify."

It was now Sir Edward's turn to be surprised. He had thought he was doing
his son a kindness, when he had only been forwarding the dowager's
schemes; but averse from contention, and wondering at his cousin's
mistake, which he at once attributed to her anxiety in behalf of a
favorite daughter, he told John he was sorry there had been any
misapprehension, and left him.

"No, no," said Moseley, internally, as he paced up and down his father's
library, "my lady dowager, you are not going to force a wife down my
throat. If you do, I am mistaken; and Grace, if Grace"--John softened and
began to feel unhappy a little, but anger prevailed.

From the moment Grace Chatterton conceived a dread of her mother's saying
anything to Sir Edward, her whole conduct was altered. She could hardly
look any of the family in the face, and it was her most ardent wish that
they might depart. John she avoided as she would an adder, although it
nearly broke her heart to do so.

Mr. Benfield had stayed longer than usual, and he now wished to return.
John Moseley eagerly profited by this opportunity, and the very day after
the conversation in the library he went to Benfield Lodge as a dutiful
nephew, to see his venerable uncle safely restored once more to the abode
of his ancestors.

Lady Chatterton now perceived, when too late, that she had overshot her
mark, while, at the same time, she wondered at the reason of a result so
strange from such well-digested and well-conducted plans. She determined,
however, never again to interfere between her daughter and the baronet's
heir; concluding, with a nearer approach to the truth than always
accompanied her deductions, that they resembled ordinary lovers in neither
their temperaments nor opinions.

Perceiving no further use in remaining any longer at the hail, she took
her leave, and, accompanied by both her daughters, proceeded to the
capital, where she expected to meet her son.

Dr. Ives and his wife returned to the rectory on the same day, and Denbigh
immediately resumed his abode under their roof. The intercourse between
the rector's family and Sir Edward's was renewed with all its former
friendly confidence.

Colonel Egerton began to speak of his departure also, but hinted at
intentions of visiting L---- at the period of the baronet's visit to his
uncle, before he proceeded to town in the winter.

L---- was a small village on the coast, within a mile of Benfield Lodge;
and from its natural convenience, it had long been resorted to by the
neighboring gentry for the benefit of sea bathing. The baronet had
promised Mr. Benfield his visit should be made at an earlier day than
usual, in order to gratify Jane with a visit to Bath, before they went to
London, at which town they were promised by Mrs. Jarvis the pleasure of
her society, and that of her son and daughters.

Precaution is a word of simple meaning in itself, but various are the
ways adopted by different individuals in this life to enforce its import;
and not a few are the evils which it is thought necessary to guard
against. To provide in season against the dangers of want; personal
injury, loss of character, and a great many other such acknowledged
misfortunes, has become a kind of instinctive process of our natures. The
few exceptions which exist only go to prove the rule: in addition to
these, almost every man has some ruling propensity to gratify, to advance
which his ingenuity is ever on the alert, or some apprehended evil to
avert, which calls all his prudence into activity. Yet how seldom is it
exerted, in order to give a rational ground to expect permanent happiness
in wedlock.

Marriage is called a lottery, and it is thought, like all other,
lotteries, there are more blanks than prizes; yet is it not made more
precarious than it ought to be, by our neglect of that degree of
precaution which we would be ridiculed for omitting in conducting our
every-day concerns? Is not the standard of matrimonial felicity placed too
low? Ought we not to look more to the possession of principles than to the
possession of wealth? Or is it at all justifiable in a Christian to commit
a child, a daughter, to the keeping of a man who wants the very essential
they acknowledge most necessary to constitute a perfect character? Most
men revolt at infidelity in a woman, and most men, however licentious
themselves, look for, at least, the exterior of religion in their wives.
The education of their children is a serious responsibility; and although
seldom conducted on such rules as will stand the test of reason, it is not
to be entirely shaken off: they choose their early impressions should be
correct, their infant conduct at least blameless. And are not-one half
mankind of the male sex? Are precepts in religion, in morals, only for
females? Are we to reverse the theory of the Mahommedans, and though we
do not believe it, act as if _men_ had no souls. Is not the example of the
father as important to the son as that of the mother to the daughter? In
short, is there any security against the commission of enormities, but an
humble and devout dependence on the assistance of that Almighty Power,
which alone is able to hold us up against temptation?

Uniformity of taste is no doubt necessary to what we call love, but is not
taste acquired? Would our daughters admire a handsome deist, if properly
impressed with a horror of his doctrines, sooner than they now would
admire a handsome Mahommedan? We would refuse our children to a pious
dissenter, to give them to impious members of the establishment: we make
the substance less than the shadow.

Our principal characters are possessed of these diversified views of the
evils to be averted. Mrs. Wilson considers Christianity an indispensable
requisite in the husband to be _permitted_ to her charge, and watches
against the _possibility_ of any other than a Christian's gaining the
affections of Emily. Lady Chatterton considers the want of an
establishment as the unpardonable sin, and directs her energies to prevent
this evil; while John Moseley looks upon a free will as the birthright of
an Englishman, and is, at the present moment, anxiously alive to prevent
the dowager's making him the husband of Grace, the thing of all others he
most strenuously desires.




Chapter XVIII.



John Moseley returned from L---- within a week, and appeared as if his
whole delight consisted in knocking over the inoffensive birds. His
restlessness induced him to make Jarvis his companion; for although he
abhorred the captain's style of pursuing the sport, being in his opinion
both out of rule and without taste, yet he was a constitutional fidget,
and suited his own moving propensities at the moment. Egerton and Denbigh
were both frequently at the hall, but generally gave their time to the
ladies, neither being much inclined to the favorite amusement of John.

There was a little arbor within the walls of the park, which for years had
been a retreat from the summer heats to the ladies of the Moseley family;
even so long as the youth of Mrs. Wilson it had been in vogue, and she
loved it with a kind of melancholy pleasure, as the spot where she had
first listened to the language of love from the lips of her late husband.
Into this arbor the ladies had one day retired, during the warmth of a
noon-day sun, with the exception of Lady Moseley, who had her own
engagement in the house. Between Egerton and Denbigh there was maintained
a kind of courtly intercourse, which prevented any disagreeable collision
from their evident dislike. Mrs. Wilson thought, on the part of Denbigh,
it was the forbearance of a principled indulgence to another's weakness;
while the colonel's otherwise uniform good breeding was hardly able to
conceal a something amounting to very near repugnance. Egerton had taken
his seat on the ground, near the feet of Jane; and Denbigh was stationed
on a bench placed without the arbor but so near as to have the full
benefit of the shade of the noble oak, branches of which had been trained
so as to compose its principal covering. It might have been accident, that
gave each his particular situation; but it is certain they were so placed
as not to be in sight of each other, and so placed that the colonel was
ready to hand Jane her scissors, or any other little implement that she
occasionally dropped, and that Denbigh could read every lineament of the
animated countenance of Emily as she listened to his description of the
curiosities of Egypt, a country in which he had spent a few months while
attached to the army in Sicily. In this situation we will leave them for
an hour, happy in the society of each other, while we trace the route of
John Moseley and his companion, in their pursuit of woodcock, on the same
day.

"Do you know, Moseley," said Jarvis, who began to think he was a favorite
with John, now that he was admitted to his _menus plaisirs_, "that I have
taken it into my head this Mr. Denbigh was very happy to plead his morals
for not meeting me. He is a soldier, but I cannot find out what battles he
has been in."

"Captain Jarvis," said John, coolly, "the less you say about that business
the better. Call in Rover."

Now, another of Jarvis's recommendations was a set of lungs that might
have been heard half a mile with great ease on a still morning.

"Why," said Jarvis, rather humbly, "I am sensible, Mr Moseley, I was very
wrong as regards your sister; but don't you think it a little odd in a
soldier not to fight when properly called upon?"

"I suppose Mr. Denbigh did not think himself properly called upon, or
perhaps he had heard what a great shot you were."

Six months before his appearance in B----, Captain Jarvis had been a
clerk in the counting-room of Jarvis, Baxter & Co., and had never held
fire-arms of any kind in his hand, with the exception of an old
blunderbuss, which had been a kind of sentinel over the iron chest for
years. On mounting the cockade, he hail taken up shooting as a martial
exercise, inasmuch as the burning of gunpowder was an attendant of the
recreation. He had never killed but one bird in his life, and that, was an
owl, of which he took the advantage of daylight and his stocking feet to
knock off a tree in the deanery grounds, very early after his arrival. In
his trials with John, he sometimes pulled trigger at the same moment with
his companion; and as the bird generally fell, he thought he had an equal
claim to the honor. He was fond of warring with crows and birds of the
larger sort, and invariably went provided with small balls fitted to the
bore of his fowling-piece for such accidental rencontres. He had another
habit, which was not a little annoying to John, who had several times
tried in vain to break him of it--that of shooting at marks. If birds were
not plenty, he would throw up a chip, and sometimes his hat, by way of
shooting on the wing.

As the clay was excessively hot, and the game kept close, John felt
willing to return from such unprofitable labor. The captain now commenced
his chip firing, which in a few minutes was succeeded by his hat.

"See, Moseley, see; I have hit the band," cried the captain, delighted to
find he had at last wounded his old antagonist. "I don't think you can
beat that yourself."

"I am not sure I can," said John, slipping a handful of gravel in the
muzzle of his piece slily, "but I can do, as you did--try."

"Do," cried the captain, pleased to get his companion down to his own
level of amusements. "Are you ready?"

"Yes; throw."

Jarvis threw, and John fired: the hat fairly bounced.

"Have I hit it?" asked John, while reloading the barrel he had discharged.

"Hit it!" said the captain, looking ruefully at his hat. "It looks like a
cullender; but, Moseley, your gun don't scatter well: a dozen shot have
gone through in the same place."

"It does look rather like a cullender," said John, as he overlooked his
companion's beaver, "and, by the _size_ of some of the holes, one that has
been a good deal used."

The reports of the fowling-pieces announced to the party in the arbor the
return of the sportsmen, it being an invariable practice with John Moseley
to discharge his gun before he came in; and Jarvis had imitated him, from
a wish to be what he called in rule.

"Mr. Denbigh," said John, as he put down his gun, "Captain Jarvis has got
the better of his hat at last."

Denbigh smiled without speaking; and the captain, unwilling to have
anything to say to a gentleman to whom be had been obliged to apologize,
went into the arbor to show the mangled condition of his head-piece to the
colonel, on whose sympathies he felt a kind of claim, being of the same
corps. John complained of thirst, and went to a little run of water but a
short distance from them, in order to satisfy it. The interruption of
Jarvis was particularly unseasonable. Jane was relating, in a manner
peculiar to herself, in which was mingled that undefinable exchange of
looks lovers are so fond of, some incident of her early life to the
colonel that greatly interested him. Knowing the captain's foibles, he
pointed, therefore, with his finger, as he said--

"There is one of your old enemies, a hawk."

Jarvis threw down his hat, and ran with boyish eagerness to drive away the
intruder. In his haste, he caught up the gun of John Moseley, and loading
it rapidly/threw in a ball from his usual stock; but whether the hawk saw
and knew him, or whether it saw something else it liked better, it made a
dart for the baronet's poultry-yard at no great distance, and was out of
sight in a minute. Seeing that his foe had vanished, the captain laid the
piece where he had found it, and, recovering his old train of ideas,
picked up his hat again.

"John," said Emily, as she approached him affectionately, "you were too
warm to drink."

"Stand off, sis," cried John, playfully, taking up the gun from against
the body of the tree, and dropping it towards her.

Jarvis had endeavored to make an appeal to the commiseration of Emily in
favor of the neglected beaver, and was within a few feet of them. At this
moment, recoiling from the muzzle of the gun, he exclaimed, "It is
loaded!" "Hold," cried Denbigh, in a voice of horror, as he sprang between
John and his sister. Both were too late; the piece was discharged.
Denbigh, turning to Emily, and smiling mournfully, gazed for a moment at
her with an expression of tenderness, of pleasure, of sorrow, so blended
that she retained the recollection of it for life, and fell at her feet.

The gun dropped from the nerveless grasp of young Moseley. Emily sank in
insensibility by the side of her preserver. Mrs. Wilson and Jane stood
speechless and aghast. The colonel alone retained the presence of mind
necessary to devise the steps to be immediately taken. He sprang to the
examination of Denbigh; the eyes of the wounded man were open, and his
recollection perfect: the first were fixed in intense observation on the
inanimate body which lay at his side.

"Leave me, Colonel Egerton," he said, speaking with difficulty, and
pointing in the direction of the little run of water, "assist Miss
Moseley--your hat--your hat will answer."

Accustomed to scenes of blood, and not ignorant that time and care were
the remedies to be applied to the wounded man, Egerton flew to the stream,
and returning immediately, by the help of her sister and Mrs. Wilson, soon
restored Emily to life. The ladies and John had now begun to act. The
tenderest assiduities of Jane were devoted to her sister; while Mrs.
Wilson observing her niece to be uninjured by anything but the shock,
assisted John in supporting the wounded man.

Denbigh spoke, requesting to be carried to the house; and Jarvis was
despatched for help. Within half an hour, Denbigh was placed on a couch in
the house of Sir Edward, and was quietly waiting for that professional aid
which could only decide on his probable fate. The group assembled in the
room were in fearful expectation of the arrival of the surgeons, in
pursuit of whom messengers had been sent both to the barracks in F---- and
to the town itself. Sir Edward sat by the side of the sufferer, holding
one of his hands in his own, now turning his tearful eyes on that daughter
who had so lately been rescued as it were from the certainty of death, in
mute gratitude and thanksgiving; and now dwelling on the countenance of
him, who, by bravely interposing his bosom to the blow, had incurred in
his own person the imminent danger of a similar fate, with a painful sense
of his perilous situation, and devout and earnest prayers for his safety.
Emily was with her father, as with the rest of his family, a decided
favorite; and no reward would have been sufficient, no gratitude lively
enough, in the estimation of the baronet, to compensate the protector of
such a child. She sat between her mother and Jane, with a hand held by
each, pale and oppressed with a load of gratitude, of thanksgiving, of
woe, that almost bowed her to the earth. Lady Moseley and Jane were both
sensibly touched with the deliverance of Emily, and manifested the
interest they took in her by the tenderest caresses, while Mrs. Wilson sat
calmly collected within herself, occasionally giving those few directions
which were necessary under the circumstances, and offering up her silent
petitions in behalf of the sufferer. John had taken horse immediately for
F----, and Jarvis had volunteered to go to the rectory and Bolton. Denbigh
inquired frequently and with much anxiety for Dr. Ives; but the rector was
absent from home on a visit to a sick parishioner, and it was late in the
evening before he arrived. Within three hours of the accident, however,
Dr. Black, the surgeon of the ----th, reached the hall, and immediately
proceeded to examine the wound. The ball had penetrated the right breast,
and gone directly through the body; it was extracted with very little
difficulty, and his attendant acquainted the anxious friends of Denbigh
that the heart certainly, and he hoped the lungs, had escaped uninjured.
The ball was a very small one, and the principal danger to be apprehended
was from fever: he had taken the usual precautions against that, and
should it not set in with a violence greater than he apprehended at
present, the patient might be abroad within the month.

"But," continued the surgeon, with the hardened indifference of his
profession, "the gentleman has had a narrow chance in the passage of the
ball itself; half an inch would have settled his accounts with this
world."

This information greatly relieved the family, and orders were given to
preserve a silence in the house that would favor the patient's disposition
to quiet, or, if possible, sleep.

Dr. Ives now reached the hall. Mrs. Wilson had never Been the rector in
the agitation, or with the want of self-command he was in, as she met him
at the entrance of the house.

"Is he alive?--is there hope?--where is George?"--cried the doctor, as he
caught the extended hand of Mrs. Wilson. She briefly acquainted him with
the surgeon's report, and the reasonable ground there was to expect
Denbigh would survive the injury.

"May God be praised," said the rector, in a suppressed voice, and he
hastily withdrew into another room. Mrs. Wilson followed him slowly and in
silence; but was checked on opening the door with the sight of the rector
on his knees, the tears stealing down his venerable cheeks in quick
succession. "Surely," thought the widow, as she drew back unnoticed, "a
youth capable of exciting such affection in a man like Dr. Ives, cannot be
unworthy."

Denbigh, hearing of the arrival of his friend, desired to see him alone.
Their conference was short, and the rector returned from it with increased
hopes of the termination of this dreadful accident. He immediately left
the hall for his own house, with a promise of returning early on the
following morning.

During the night, however, the symptoms became unfavorable; and before the
return of Dr. Ives, Denbigh was in a state of delirium from the height of
his fever, and the apprehensions of his friends were renewed with
additional force.

"What, what, my good sir, do you think of him?" said the baronet to the
family physician, with an emotion that the danger of his dearest child
would not have exceeded, and within hearing of most of his children, who
were collected in the ante-chamber of the room in which Denbigh was
placed.

"It is impossible to say, Sir Edward," replied the physician: "he refuses
all medicines, and unless this fever abates, there is but little hope of
recovery."

Emily stood during this question and answer, motionless, pale as death,
and with her hands clasped together, betraying by the workings of her
fingers in a kind of convulsive motion, the intensity of her interest. She
had seen the draught prepared which it was so desirable that Denbigh
should take, and it now stood rejected on a table, where it could be seen
through the open door of his room. Almost breathless, she glided in, and
taking the draught in her hand, she approached the bed, by which sat John
alone, listening with a feeling of despair to the wanderings of the sick
man. Emily hesitated once or twice, as she drew near Denbigh; her face had
lost the paleness of anxiety, and glowed with another emotion.

"Mr. Denbigh--dear Denbigh." said Emily, with energy, unconsciously
dropping her voice into the softest notes of persuasion, "will you refuse
_me?--me_, Emily Moseley, whose life you have saved?"

"Emily Moseley!" repeated Denbigh, and in those tones so remarkable to his
natural voice. "Is she safe? I thought she was killed--dead." Then, as if
recollecting himself, he gazed intently on her countenance--his eye became
less fiery--his muscles relaxed--he smiled, and took, with the docility of
a well-trained child, the prescribed medicines from her hand. His ideas
still wandered, but his physician, profiting by the command Emily
possessed over his patient, increased his care, and by night the fever had
abated, and before morning the wounded man was in a profound sleep. During
the whole day, it was thought necessary to keep Emily by the side of his
bed; but at times it was no trifling tax on her feelings to remain there.
He spoke of her by name in the tenderest manner, although incoherently,
and in terms that restored to the blanched cheeks of the distressed girl
more than the richness of their native color. His thoughts were not
confined to Emily, however: he talked of his father, of his mother, and
frequently spoke of his poor deserted Marian. The latter name he dwelt on
in the language of the warmest affection, condemned his own desertion of
her, and, taking Emily for her, would beg her forgiveness, tell her her
sufferings had been enough, and that he would return, and never leave her
again. At such moments his nurse would sometimes show, by the paleness of
her cheeks, her anxiety for his health; and then, as he addressed her by
her proper appellation, all her emotions appeared absorbed in the sense of
shame at the praises with which he overwhelmed her. Mrs. Wilson succeeded
her in the charge of the patient, and she retired to seek that repose she
so greatly needed.

On the second morning after receiving the wound, Denbigh dropped into a
deep sleep, from which he awoke refreshed and perfectly collected in mind.
The fever had left him, and his attendants pronounced, with the usual
cautions to prevent a relapse, his recovery certain. It were impossible to
have communicated any intelligence more grateful to all the members of the
Moseley family; for Jane had even lost sight of her own lover, in sympathy
for the fate of a man who had sacrificed himself to save her beloved
sister.




Chapter XIX.



The recovery of Denbigh was as rapid as the most sanguine expectation of
his friends could hope for, and in ten days he left his bed, and would sit
an hour or two at a time in his dressing-room, where Mrs. Wilson,
accompanied by Jane or Emily, came and read to him; and it was a remark of
Sir Edward's gamekeeper, that the woodcocks had become so tame during the
time Mr. Moseley was shut up in attendance on his friend, that Captain
Jarvis was at last actually seen to bag one honestly.

As Jarvis felt something like a consciousness that but for his folly the
accident would not have happened, and also something very like shame for
the manner he had shrunk from the danger Denbigh had so nobly met, he
pretended a recall to his regiment, then on duty near London, and left the
deanery. He went off as he came in--in the colonel's tilbury, and
accompanied by his friend and his pointers, John, who saw them pass from
the windows of Denbigh's dressing-room, fervently prayed he might never
come back again--the chip-shooting poacher!

Colonel Egerton had taken leave of Jane the evening preceding, with many
assurances of the anxiety with which he should look forward to the moment
of their meeting at L----, whither he intended repairing as soon as his
corps had gone through its annual review. Jane had followed the bent of
her natural feelings too much, during the period of Denbigh's uncertain
fate, to think much of her lover, or anything else but her rescued sister
and her preserver; but now the former was pronounced in safety, and the
latter, by the very reaction of her grief, was, if possible, happier than
ever, Jane dwelt in melancholy sadness on the perfections of the man who
had taken with him the best affections (as she thought) of her heart. With
him all was perfect: his morals were unexceptionable; his manners showed
it; his tenderness of disposition manifest, for they had wept together
over the distresses of more than one fictitious heroine; his temper, how
amiable! he was never angry--she had never Been it; his opinions, his
tastes, how correct! they were her own; his form, his face, how
agreeable!--her eyes had seen it, and her heart acknowledged it; besides,
his eyes confessed the power of her own charms; he was brave, for he was a
soldier;--in short, as Emily had predicted, he was a hero--for he was
Colonel Egerton.

Had Jane been possessed of less exuberance of fancy, she might have been a
little at a loss to identify all these good properties with her hero: or
had she possessed a matured or well-regulated judgment to control that
fancy, they might possibly have assumed a different appearance. No
explanation had taken place between-them, however. Jane knew, both by her
own feelings and by all the legends of love from its earliest days, that
the moment of parting was generally a crisis in affairs of the heart, and,
with a backwardness occasioned by her modesty, had rather avoided than
sought an opportunity to favor the colonel's wishes. Egerton had no been
over anxious to come to the point, and everything was left as heretofore:
neither, however, appeared to doubt in the least the state of the other's'
affections; and there might be said to exist between them one of those not
unusual engagements by implication which it would have been, in their own
estimation, a breach of faith to recede from, but which, like all other
bargains that are loosely made, are sometimes violated when convenient.
Man is a creature that, as experience has sufficiently proved, it is
necessary to keep in his proper place in society by wholesome
restrictions; and we have often thought it a matter of regret that some
well understood regulations did not exist by which it became not only
customary, but incumbent on him, to proceed in his road to the temple of
Hymen. We know that it is ungenerous, ignoble, almost unprecedented, to
doubt the faith, the constancy, of a male paragon; yet, somehow, as the
papers occasionally give us a sample of such infidelity; as we have
sometimes seen a solitary female brooding over her woes in silence, and,
with the seemliness of feminine decorum shrinking from the discovery of
its cause, or which the grave has revealed for the first time, we cannot
but wish that either the watchfulness of the parent, or a sense of
self-preservation in the daughter, would, for the want of a better, cause
them to adhere to those old conventional forms of courtship which require
a man to speak to be understood, and a woman to answer to be committed.

There was a little parlor in the house of Sir Edward Moseley, that was the
privileged retreat of none but the members of his own family. Here the
ladies were accustomed to withdraw into the bosom of their domestic
quietude, when occasional visitors had disturbed their ordinary
intercourse; and many were the hasty and unreserved communications it had
witnessed between the sisters, in their stolen flights from the graver
scenes of the principal apartments. It might be aid to be sacred to the
pious feelings of the domestic affections. Sir Edward would retire to it
when fatigued with his occupations, certain of finding some one of those
he loved to draw his thoughts off from the cares of life to the little
incidents of his children's happiness; and Lady Moseley, even in the
proudest hours of her reviving splendor, seldom passed the door without
looking in, with a smile, on the faces she might find there. It was, in
fact, the room in the large mansion of the baronet, expressly devoted, by
long usage and common consent, to the purest feelings of human nature.
Into this apartment Denbigh had gained admission, as the one nearest to
his own room and requiring the least effort of his returning strength to
reach; and, perhaps, by an undefinable feeling of the Moseleys which had
begun to connect him with themselves, partly from his winning manners, and
partly by the sense of the obligation he had laid them under.

One warm day, John and his friend had sought this retreat, in expectation
of meeting his sisters, who they found, however, on inquiry, had walked to
the arbor. After remaining conversing for an hour by themselves, John was
called away to attend to a pointer that had been taken ill, and Denbigh
throwing a handkerchief over his head to guard against the danger of cold,
quietly composed himself on one of the comfortable sofas of the room, with
a disposition to sleep. Before he had entirely lost his consciousness, a
light step moving near him, caught his ear; believing it to be a servant
unwilling to disturb him, he endeavored to continue in his present mood,
until the quick but stifled breathing of some one nearer than before
roused his curiosity. He commanded himself, however, sufficiently, to
remain quiet; a blind of a window near him was carefully closed; a screen
drawn from a corner and placed so as sensibly to destroy the slight
draught of air in which he laid himself; and other arrangements were
making, but with a care to avoid disturbing him that rendered them hardly
audible. Presently the step approached him again, the breathing was
quicker, though gentle, the handkerchief was moved, but the hand was with
drawn hastily as if afraid of itself. Another effort was successful, and
Denbigh stole a glance through his dark lashes, on the figure of Emily as
she-stood over him in the fulness of her charms, and with a face in which
glowed an interest he had never witnessed in it before. It undoubtedly was
_gratitude_. For a moment she gazed on him, as her color increased in
richness. His hand was carelessly thrown over an arm of the sofa; she
stooped towards it with her face gently, but with an air of modesty that
shone in her very figure. Denbigh felt the warmth of her breath, but her
lips did not touch it. Had he been inclined to judge the actions of Emily
Moseley harshly, it were impossible to mistake the movement for anything
but the impulse of natural feeling. There was a pledge of innocence, of
modesty in her countenance, that would have prevented any misconstruction;
and he continued quietly awaiting what the preparations on her little
mahogany secretary were intended for.

Mrs. Wilson entertained a great abhorrence of what is commonly called
accomplishments in a woman; she knew that too much of that precious time
which could never be recalled, was thrown away in endeavoring to acquire a
smattering in what, if known, could never be of use to the party, and what
can never be well known but to a few, whom nature and long practice have
enabled to conquer. Yet as her niece had early manifested a taste for
painting, and a vivid perception of the beauties of nature, her
inclination had been indulged, and Emily Moseley sketched with neatness
and accuracy, and with great readiness. It would have been no subject of
surprise, had admiration, or some more powerful feeling, betrayed to the
artist, on this occasion, the deception the young man was practising. She
had entered the room from her walk, warm and careless; her hair, than
which none was more beautiful, had strayed on her shoulders, freed, from
the confinement of the comb, and a lock was finely contrasted to the rich
color of a cheek that almost burnt with the exercise and the excitement.
Her dress, white as the first snow of the winter; her looks, as she now
turned them on the face of the sleeper, and betrayed by their animation
the success of her art; formed a picture in itself, that Denbigh would
have been content to gaze on for ever. Her back was to a window that threw
its strong light on the paper--the figures of which were reflected, as she
occasionally held it up to study its effect, in a large mirror so placed
that Denbigh caught a view of her subject. He knew it at a glance--the
arbor--the gun--himself, all were there; it appeared to have been drawn
before--it must have been, from its perfect state, and Emily had seized a
favorable moment to complete his own resemblance. Her touches were light
and finishing, and as the picture was frequently held up for
consideration, he had some time allowed for studying it. His own
resemblance was strong; his eyes were turned on herself, to whom Denbigh
thought she had not done ample justice, but the man who held the gun bore
no likeness to John Moseley, except in dress. A slight movement of the
muscles of the sleeper's mouth might have betrayed his consciousness, had
not Emily been too intent on the picture, as she turned it in such a way
that a strong light fell on the recoiling figure of Captain Jarvis. The
resemblance was wonderful. Denbigh thought he would have known it, had he
seen it in the Academy itself. The noise of some one approaching closed
the portfolio; it was only a servant, yet Emily did not resume her pencil.
Denbigh watched her motions, as she put the picture carefully in a private
drawer of the secretary, reopened the blind, replaced the screen, and laid
the handkerchief, the last thing on his face, with a movement almost
imperceptible to himself.

"It is later than I thought," said Denbigh, looking at his watch; "I owe
an apology, Miss Moseley, for making so free with your parlor; but I was
too lazy to move."

"Apology! Mr. Denbigh," cried Emily, with a color varying with every word
she spoke, and trembling at what she thought the nearness of detection,
"you have no apology to make for your present debility; and surely,
surely, least of all to me!"

"I understand from Mr. Moseley," continued Denbigh, with a smile, "that
our obligation is at least mutual; to your, perseverance and care, Miss
Moseley, after the physicians had given me up, I believe I am, under
Providence, indebted for my recovery."

Emily was not vain, and least of all addicted to a display of any of her
acquirements; very few even of her friends knew she ever held a pencil in
her hand; yet did she now unaccountably throw open her portfolio, and
offer its contents to the examination of her companion. It was done almost
instantaneously, and with great freedom, though not without certain
flushings of the face and heavings of the bosom, that would have eclipsed
Grace Chatterton in her happiest moments of natural flattery. Whatever
might have been the wishes of Mr. Denbigh to pursue a subject which had
begun to grow extremely interesting, both from its import and the
feelings' of the parties, it would have been rude to decline viewing the
contents of a lady's portfolio. The drawings were, many of them,
interesting, and the exhibitor of them now appeared as anxious to remove
them in haste, as she had but the moment before been to direct his
attention to her performances. Denbigh would have given much to dare to
ask for the paper so carefully secreted in the private drawer; but neither
the principal agency he had himself in the scene, nor delicacy to his
companion's wish for concealment, would allow of the request.

"Doctor Ives! how happy I am to see you," said Emily, hastily closing her
portfolio, and before Denbigh had gone half through its contents; "you
have become almost a stranger to us since Clara left us."

"No, no, my little friend, never a stranger, I hope, at Moseley Hall,"
cried the doctor, pleasantly; "George, I am happy to see you look so
well--you have even a color--there is a letter for you, from Marian."

Denbigh took the letter eagerly, and retired to a window to peruse it. His
hand shook as he broke the seal, and his interest in the writer, or its
contents, could not have escaped the notice of any observer, however
indifferent.

"Now, Miss Emily, if you will have the goodness to order me a glass of
wine and water after my ride, believe me, you will do a very charitable
act," cried the doctor, as he took his seat on the sofa.

Emily was standing by the little table, deeply musing on the contents of
her portfolio; for her eyes were intently fixed on the outside, as if she
expected to see through the leather covering their merits and faults.

"Miss Emily Moseley," continued the doctor, gravely, "am I to die of
thirst or not, this warm day?"

"Do you wish anything, Doctor Ives?"

"A servant to get me a glass of wine and water."

"Why did you not ask me, my dear sir?" said Emily, as she threw open a
cellaret, and handed him what he wanted.

"There, my dear, there is a great plenty," said the doctor, with an arch
expression; "I really thought I had asked you thrice--but I believe you
were studying something in that portfolio."

Emily blushed, and endeavored to laugh at her own absence of mind; but she
would have given the world to know who Marian was.




Chapter XX.



As a month had elapsed since he received his wound, Denbigh took an
opportunity, one morning at breakfast, where he was well enough now to
meet his friends, to announce his intention of trespassing no longer on
their kindness, but of returning that day to the rectory. The
communication distressed the whole family, and the baronet turned to him
in the most cordial manner, as he took one of his hands; and said with an
air of solemnity--

"Mr. Denbigh, I could wish you to make this house your home; Dr. Ives may
have known you longer, and may have the claim of relationship on you, but
I am certain he cannot love you better; and are not the ties of gratitude
as binding as those of blood?"

Denbigh was affected by the kindness of Sir Edward's manner.

"The regiment I belong to, Sir Edward, will be reviewed next week, and it
has become my duty to leave here; there is one it is proper I should
visit, a near connexion, who is acquainted with the escape I have met
with, and wishes naturally to see me; besides, my dear Sir Edward, she has
many causes of sorrow, and it is a debt I owe her affection to endeavor to
relieve them."

It was the first time he had ever spoken of his family, or hardly of
himself, and the silence which prevailed plainly showed the interest his
listeners took in the little he uttered.

That connexion, thought Emily--I wonder if her name be Marian? But nothing
further passed, excepting the affectionate regrets of her father, and the
promises of Denbigh to visit them again before he left B----, and of
joining them at L---- immediately after the review of which he had spoken.
As soon as he had breakfasted, John drove him in his phaeton to the
rectory.

Mrs. Wilson, like the rest of the baronet's family, had been too deeply
impressed with the debt they owed this young man to interfere with her
favorite system of caution against too great an intimacy between her niece
and her preserver. Close observation and the opinion of Dr. Ives had
prepared her to give him her esteem; but the gallantry, the self-devotion
he had displayed to Emily was an act calculated to remove heavier
objections than she could imagine as likely to exist to his becoming her
husband. That he meant it, was evident from his whole deportment of late.
Since the morning the portfolio was produced, Denbigh had given a more
decided preference to her niece. The nice discrimination of Mrs, Wilson
would not have said his feelings had become stronger, but that he labored
less to conceal them. That he loved her niece she suspected from the first
fortnight of their acquaintance, and it had given additional stimulus to
her investigation into his character; but to doubt it, after stepping
between her and death, would have been to have mistaken human nature.
There was one qualification she would have wished to have been certain he
possessed: before this accident, she would have made it an indispensable
one; but the gratitude, the affections of Emily, she believed now to be
tab deeply engaged to make the strict inquiry she otherwise would have
done; and she had the best of reasons for believing that if Denbigh were
not a true Christian, he was at least a strictly moral man, and assuredly
one who well understood the beauties of a religion she almost conceived it
impossible for any impartial and intelligent man long to resist. Perhaps
Mrs. Wilson, having in some measure interfered with her system, like
others, had, on finding it impossible to conduct so that reason would
justify all she did, began to find reasons for what she thought best to be
done under the circumstances. Denbigh, however, both by his acts and his
opinions, had created such an estimate of his worth in the breast of Mrs.
Wilson, that there would have been but little danger of a repulse had no
fortuitous accident helped him in his way to her favor.

"Who have we here?" said Lady Moseley. "A landaulet and four--the Earl of
Bolton, I declare!"

Lady Moseley turned from the window with that collected grace she so well
loved, and so well knew how to assume, to receive her noble visitor. Lord
Bolton was a bachelor of sixty-five, who had long been attached to the
court, and retained much of the manners of the old school. His principal
estate was in Ireland, and most of that time which his duty at Windsor did
not require he gave to the improvement of his Irish property. Thus,
although on perfectly good terms with the baronet's family, they seldom
met. With General Wilson he had been at college, and to his widow he
always showed much of that regard he had invariably professed for her
husband, The obligation he had conferred, unasked, on Francis Ives, was
one conferred on all his friends, and his reception was now warmer than
usual.

"My Lady Moseley," said the earl, bowing formally on her hand, "your looks
do ample justice to the air of Northamptonshire. I hope you enjoy your
usual health."

Then, waiting her equally courteous answer, he paid his compliments, in
succession, to all the members of the family; a mode undoubtedly well
adapted to discover their several conditions, but not a little tedious in
its operations, and somewhat tiresome to the legs.

"We are under a debt of gratitude to your lordship," said Sir Edward, in
his simple and warm-hearted way, "that I am sorry it is not in our power
to repay more amply than by our thanks."

The earl was, or affected to be, surprised, as he required an explanation.

"The living at Bolton," said Lady Moseley, with dignity.

"Yes," continued her husband; "in giving the living to Frank you did me a
favor, equal to what you would have done had he been my own child; and
unsolicited, too, my lord, it was an additional compliment."

The earl sat rather uneasy during this speech, but the love of truth
prevailed; for he had been too much round the person of our beloved
sovereign not to retain all the impressions of his youth; and after a
little struggle with his self-love, he answered--

"Not unsolicited, Sir Edward. I have no doubt, had nay better fortune
allowed me the acquaintance of my present rector, his own merit would have
obtained what a sense of justice requires I should say was granted to an
applicant to whom the ear of royalty itself would not have been deaf."

It was the turn of the Moseleys now to look surprised, and Sir Edward
ventured to ask an explanation.

"It was my cousin, the Earl of Pendennyss, who applied for it, as a favor
done to himself; and Pendennyss is a man not to be refused anything."

"Lord Pendennyss!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, with animation; "and in what way
came we to be under this obligation to Lord Pendennyss?"

"He did me the honor of a call during my visit to Ireland, madam," replied
the earl; "and on inquiring of my steward after his old friend, Doctor
Stevens, learnt his death, and the claims of Mr. Ives; but the reason he
gave _me_ was his interest in the widow of General Wilson," bowing with
much solemnity to the lady as he spoke.

"I am gratified to find the earl yet remembers us," said Mrs. Wilson,
struggling to restrain her tears. "Are we to have the pleasure of seeing
him soon?"

"I received a letter from him yesterday, saying he should be here in all
next week, madam." And turning pleasantly to Jane and her sister, he
continued, "Sir Edward, you have here rewards fit for heavier services,
and the earl is a great admirer of female charms."

"Is he not married, my lord?" asked the baronet, with great simplicity.

"No, baronet, nor engaged; but how long he will remain so after his
hardihood in venturing into this neighborhood, will, I trust, depend on
one of these young ladies."

Jane looked grave--for trifling on love was heresy, in her estimation; but
Emily laughed, with an expression in which a skilful physiognomist might
have read--if he means me, he is mistaken.

"Your cousin, Lord Chatterton, has found interest, Sir Edward," continued
the peer, "to obtain his father's situation; and if reports speak truth,
he wishes to become more nearly related to you, baronet."

"I do not well see how that can happen," said Sir Edward with a smile, and
who had not art enough to conceal his thoughts, "unless he takes my sister
here."

The cheeks of both the young ladies now vied with the rose; and the peer,
observing he had touched on forbidden ground, added, "Chatterton was
fortunate to find friends able to bear up against the powerful interest of
Lord Haverford."

"To whom was he indebted for the place, my lord?" asked Mis. Wilson.

"It was whispered at court, madam," said the earl, sensibly lowering his
voice, and speaking with an air of mystery "and a lord of the bed-chamber
is fonder of discoveries than a lord of the council--that His Grace of
Derwent threw the whole of his parliamentary interest into the scale on
the baron's side, but you are not to suppose," raising his hand
gracefully, with a wave of rejection, "that I speak from authority; only a
surmise, Sir Edward, only a surmise, my lady."

"Is not the name of the Duke of Derwent, Denbigh?" inquired Mrs. Wilson,
with a thoughtful manner.

"Certainly, madam, Denbigh," replied the earl, with a gravity with which
he always spoke of dignities; "one of our most ancient names, and
descended on the female side from the Plantagenets and Tudors."

He now rose to take his leave, and on bowing to the younger ladies,
laughingly repeated his intention of bringing his cousin (an epithet he
never omitted), Pendennyss, to their feet.

"Do you think, sister," said Lady Moseley, after the earl had retired,
"that Mr. Denbigh is of the house of Derwent?"

"I cannot say," replied Mrs. Wilson, musing, "yet it is odd, Chatterton
told me of his acquaintance with Lady Harriet Denbigh, but not with the
Duke."

As this was spoken in the manner of a soliloquy, it received no answer,
and was in fact but little attended to by any of the party, excepting
Emily, who glanced her eye once or twice at her aunt as she was speaking,
with an interest the name of Denbigh never failed to excite. Harriet was,
she thought, a pretty name, but Marian was a prettier; if, thought Emily,
I could know a Marian Denbigh, I am sure I could love her, and her name
too.

The Moseleys now began to make their preparations for their departure to
L----, and the end of the succeeding week was fixed for the period at
which they were to go. Mrs. Wilson urged a delay of two or three days, in
order to give her an opportunity of meeting with the Earl of Pendennyss, a
young man in whom, although she had relinquished her former romantic wish
of uniting him to Emily, in favor of Denbigh, she yet felt a deep
interest, growing out of his connexion with the last moments of her
husband, and, his uniformly high character.

Sir Edward accordingly acquainted his uncle, that on the following
Saturday he might expect to receive himself and family, intending to leave
the hall in the afternoon of the preceding day, and reach Benfield lodge
to dinner. This arrangement once made, and Mr. Benfield notified of it,
was unalterable, the old man holding a variation from an engagement a
deadly sin. The week succeeding the accident which had nearly proved so
fatal to Denbigh, the inhabitants of the hall were surprised with the
approach of a being, as singular in his manners and dress as the equipage
which conveyed him to the door of the house. The latter consisted of a
high-backed, old-fashioned sulky, loaded with leather and large-headed
brass nails; wheels at least a quarter larger in circumference than those
of the present day, and wings on each side large enough to have supported
a full grown roc in the highest regions of the upper air. It was drawn by
a horse, once white, but whose milky hue was tarnished through age with
large and numerous red spots, and whose mane and tail did not appear to
have suffered by the shears during the present reign. The being who
alighted from this antiquated vehicle was tall and excessively thin, wore
his own hair drawn over his almost naked head into a long thin queue,
which reached half way down his back, closely cased in numerous windings
of leather, or the skin of some fish. His drab coat was in shape between a
frock and a close-body--close-body, indeed, it was; for the buttons, which
were in size about equal to an old-fashioned China saucer, were buttoned
to the very throat, thereby setting off his shape to peculiar advantage;
his breeches were buckskin, and much soiled; his stockings blue yarn,
although it was midsummer; and his shoes were provided with buckles of
dimensions proportionate to the aforesaid buttons; his age might have been
seventy, but his walk was quick, and the movements of his whole system
showed great activity both of mind and body. He was ushered into the room
where the gentlemen were sitting, and having made a low and extremely
modest bow, he deliberately put on his spectacles, thrust his hand into an
outside pocket of his coat, and produced from under its huge flaps a black
leathern pocket-book about as large as a good-sized octavo volume; after
examining the multitude of papers it contained carefully, he selected a
letter, and having returned the pocket-book to its ample apartment, read
aloud,

"For Sir Edward Moseley, bart. of Moseley Hall, B----,
Northamptonshire--with care and speed, by the hands of Mr. Peter Johnson,
steward of Benfield Lodge, Norfolk;" and dropping his sharp voice, he
stalked up to the baronet, and presented the epistle, with another
reverence.

"Ah, my good friend, Johnson," said Sir Edward as soon as he delivered his
errand (for until he saw the contents of the letter, he had thought some
accident had occurred to his uncle), "this is the first visit you have
ever honored me with; come, take a glass of wine before you go to your
dinner; let us drink, that it may not be the last."

"Sir Edward Moseley, and you, honorable gentlemen, will pardon me,"
replied the steward, in his own solemn key, "this is the first time I was
ever out of his majesty's county of Norfolk, and I devoutly wish it may
prove the last--Gentlemen, I drink your honorable healths."

This was the only real speech the old man made during his visit, unless an
occasional monosyllabic reply to a question could be thought so. He
remained, by Sir Edward' positive order, until the following day; for
having delivered his message, and receiving its answer, he was about to
take his departure that evening, thinking he might get a good piece on his
road homewards, as it wanted half an hour to sunset. On the following
morning, with the sun, he was on his way to the house in which he had been
born, and which he had never left for twenty-four hours at a time in his
life. In the evening, as he was ushered in by John (who had known him from
his own childhood, and loved to show him attention) to the room in which
he was to sleep, he broke what the young man called his inveterate
silence, with, "Young Mr. Moseley--young gentleman--might I presume--to
ask--to see the gentleman?"

"What gentleman?" cried John, astonished at the request, and at his
speaking so much.

"That saved Miss Emmy's life, sir."

John now fully comprehended him, and led the way to Denbigh's room; he was
asleep, but they were admitted to his bed-side. The steward stood for ten
minutes gazing on the sleeper in silence; and John observed, as he blew
his nose on regaining his own apartment, that his little grey eyes
twinkled with a lustre which could not be taken for anything but a tear.

As the letter was as characteristic of the writer as its bearer was of his
vocation, we may be excused giving it at length.

_"Dear Sir Edward and Nephew_,

"Your letter reached the lodge too late to be answered that evening, as I
was about to step into my bed; but I hasten to write my congratulations,
remembering the often repeated maxim of my kinsman Lord Gosford, that
letters should be answered immediately; indeed, a neglect of it had very
nigh brought about an affair of honor between the earl and Sir Stephens
Hallett. Sir Stephens was always opposed to us in the House of Commons of
this realm; and I have often thought something might have passed in the
debate itself, which commenced the correspondence, as the earl certainly
told him as much as if he were a traitor to his King and country.

"But it seems that your daughter Emily has been rescued from death by the
grandson of General Denbigh, who sat with us in the house. Now I always
had a good opinion of this young Denbigh, who reminds me, every time I
look at him, of my late brother, your father-in-law that was; and I send
my steward, Peter Johnson, express to the hall in order that he may see
the sick man, and bring me back a true account how he fares: for should he
be wanting for anything within the gift of Roderic Benfield, he has only
to speak to have it; not that I suppose, nephew, you will willingly allow
him to suffer for anything, but Peter is a man of close observation,
although he is of few words, and may suggest something beneficial, that
might escape younger heads. I pray for--that is, I hope, the young man
will recover, as your letter gives great hopes; and if he should want any
little matter to help him along in the army, as I take it he is not over
wealthy, you have now a good opportunity to offer your assistance
handsomely; and that it may not interfere with your arrangements for this
winter, your draft on me for five thousand pounds will be paid at sight;
for fear he may be proud, and not choose to accept your assistance, I have
this morning detained Peter, while he has put a codicil to my will,
leaving him ten thousand pounds. You may tell Emily she is a naughty
child, or she would have written me the whole story; but, poor dear, I
suppose she has other things on her mind just now. God bless Mr. ---- that
is, God bless, you all, and try if you cannot get a lieutenant-colonelcy
at once--the brother of Lady Juliana's friend was made a
lieutenant-colonel at the first step.

"RODERIC BENFIELD."


The result of Peter's reconnoitering expedition has never reached our
knowledge, unless the arrival of a servant some days after he took his
leave, with a pair of enormous-goggles, and which the old gentleman
assured his nephew in a note, both Peter and himself had found useful to
weak eyes in their occasional sickness, might have been owing to the
prudent forecast of the sagacious steward.




Chapter XXI.



The morning on which Denbigh-left B---- was a melancholy one to all the
members of the little circle, in which he had been so distinguished for
his modesty, his intelligence, and his disinterested intrepidity. Sir
Edward took an opportunity solemnly to express his gratitude for the
services he had rendered him, and having retired to his library,
delicately and earnestly pressed his availing himself of the liberal offer
of Mr. Benfield to advance his interest in the army.

"Look upon me, my dear Mr. Denbigh," said the good baronet, pressing him
by the hand, while the tears stood in his eyes, "as a father, to supply
the place of the one you have so recently lost. You _are_ my child; I feel
as a parent to you, and must be suffered to act as one."

To this affectionate offer of Sir Edward, Denbigh replied with an emotion
equal to that of the baronet, though he declined, with respectful
language, his offered assistance as unnecessary. He had friends powerful
enough to advance his interests, without resorting to the use of money;
and on taking Sir Edward's hand, as he left the apartment, he added with
great warmth, "yet, my dear Sir, the day will come, I hope, when I shall
ask a boon from your hands, that no act of mine or a life of service could
entitle me to receive."

The baronet smiled his assent to a request he already understood, and
Denbigh withdrew.

John Moseley insisted on putting the bays in requisition to carry Denbigh
for the first stage, and they now stood caparisoned for the jaunt, with
their master in a less joyous mood than common, waiting the appearance of
his companion.

Emily delighted in their annual excursion to Benfield Lodge. She was
beloved so warmly, and returned the affection of its owner so sincerely,
that the arrival of the day never failed to excite that flow of spirits
which generally accompanies anticipated pleasures, ere experience has
proved how trifling are the greatest enjoyments the scenes of this life
bestow. Yet as the day of their departure drew near, her spirits sunk in
proportion; and on the morning of Denbigh's leave-taking, Emily seemed
anything but excessively happy. There was a tremor in her voice and a
redness about her eyes that alarmed Lady Moseley; but as the paleness of
her cheeks was immediately succeeded by as fine a color as the heart could
wish, the anxious mother allowed herself to be persuaded by Mrs. Wilson
there was no danger, and she accompanied her sister to her own room for
some purpose of domestic economy. It was at this moment Denbigh entered:
he had paid his adieus to the matrons at the door, and been directed by
them to the little parlor in quest of Emily.

"I have come to make my parting compliments, Miss Moseley," he said, in a
tremulous voice, as he ventured to hold forth his hand. "May heaven
preserve you," he continued, holding it in fervor to his bosom: then
dropping it, he hastily retired, as if unwilling to trust himself any
longer to utter all he felt. Emily stood a few moments, pale and almost
inanimate, as the tears flowed rapidly from her eyes; and then she sought
a shelter in a seat of the window. Lady Moseley, on returning, was alarmed
lest the draught would increase her indisposition; but her sister,
observing that the window commanded a view of the road, thought the air
too mild to do her injury.

The personages who composed the society at B---- had now, in a great
measure, separated, in pursuit of their duties or their pleasures. The
merchant and his family left the deanery for a watering-place. Francis and
Clara had gone on a little tour of pleasure in the northern counties, to
take L---- in their return homeward; and the morning arrived for the
commencement of the baronet's journey to the same place. The carriages had
been ordered, and servants were running in various ways, busily employed
in their several occupations, when Mrs. Wilson, accompanied by John and
his sisters, returned from a walk they had taken to avoid the bustle of
the house. A short distance from the park gates, an equipage was observed
approaching, creating by its numerous horses and attendants a dust which
drove the pedestrians to one side of the road. An uncommonly elegant and
admirably fitted travelling barouche and six rolled by, with the graceful
steadiness of an English equipage: several servants on horseback were in
attendance; and our little party were struck with the beauty of the whole
_establishment_.

"Can it be possible Lord Bolton drives such elegant horses?" cried John,
with the ardor of a connoisseur in that noble animal. "They are the finest
set in the kingdom."

Jane's eye had seen, through the clouds of dust, the armorial bearings,
which seemed to float in the dark glossy panels of the carriage, and she
observed, "It is an earl's coronet, but they are not the Bolton arms."
Mrs. Wilson and Emily had noticed a gentleman reclining at his ease, as
the owner of the gallant show; but its passage was too rapid to enable
them to distinguish the features of the courteous old earl; indeed, Mrs.
Wilson remarked, she thought him a younger man than her friend.

"Pray, sir," said John to a tardy groom, as he civilly walked his horse
by the ladies, "who has passed in the barouche?"

"My Lord Pendennyss, sir."

"Pendennyss!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, with a tone of regret, "how
unfortunate!"

She had seen the day named for his visit pass without his arrival, and
now, as it was too late to profit by the opportunity, he had come for the
second time into her neighborhood Emily had learnt, by the solicitude of
her aunt, to take an interest in the young peer's movements, and desired
John to ask a question or two of the groom.

"Where does your lord stop to-night?"

"At Bolton Castle, sir; and I heard my lord tell his valet that he
intended staying one day hereabouts, and the day after to-morrow he goes
to Wales, your honor."

"I thank you, friend," said John; when the man spurred his horse after the
cavalcade. The carriages were at the door, and Sir Edward had been
hurrying Jane to enter, as a servant, in a rich livery and well mounted,
galloped up and delivered a letter for Mrs. Wilson, who, on opening it,
read the following:


"The Earl of Pendennyss begs leave to present his most respectful
compliments to Mrs. Wilson and the family of Sir Edward Moseley. Lord
Pendennyss will have the honor of paying his respects in person at any
moment that the widow of his late invaluable friend, Lieutenant-General
Wilson, will please to appoint.

"Bolton Castle, Friday evening."


To this note Mrs. Wilson, bitterly regretting the necessity which
compelled her to forego the pleasure of meeting her paragon, wrote in
reply a short letter, disliking the formality of a note.


"My LORD,

"I sincerely regret that an engagement which cannot be postponed compels
us to leave Moseley Hall within the hour, and must, in consequence,
deprive us of the pleasure of your intended visit. But as circumstances
have connected your Lordship with some of the dearest, although the most
melancholy events of my life, I earnestly beg you will no longer consider
us as strangers to your person, as we have long ceased to be to your
character. It will afford me the greatest pleasure to hear that there will
be a prospect of our meeting in town next winter, where I may find a more
fitting opportunity of expressing those grateful feelings so long due to
your lordship from your sincere friend,

"CHARLOTTE WILSON.

"Moseley Hall, Friday morning."


With this answer the servant was despatched, and the carriages moved on.
John had induced Emily to trust herself once more to the bays and his
skill; but on perceiving the melancholy of her aunt, she insisted on
exchanging seats with Jane, who had accepted a place in the carriage of
Mrs. Wilson. No objection being made, Mrs. Wilson and her niece rode the
first afternoon together in her travelling chaise. The road run within a
quarter of a mile of Bolton Castle, and the ladies endeavored in vain to
get a glimpse of the person of the young nobleman. Emily was willing to
gratify her aunt's propensity to dwell on the character and history of her
favorite; and hoping to withdraw her attention gradually from more
unpleasant recollections, asked several trifling questions relating to
those points.

"The earl must be very rich, aunt, from the style he maintains."

"Very, my dear; his family I am unacquainted with, but I understand his
title is an extremely ancient one; and some one, I believe Lord Bolton,
mentioned that his estates in Wales alone, exceeded fifty thousand a
year."

"Much good might be done," said Emily, thoughtfully, "with such a
fortune."

"Much good _is_ done," cried her aunt, with fervor. "I am told by every
one who knows him, his donations are large and frequent. Sir Herbert
Nicholson said he was extremely simple in his habits, and it leaves large
sums at his disposal every year."

"The bestowal of money is not always charity," said Emily, with an arch
smile and a slight color.

Mrs. Wilson smiled in her turn as she answered, "not always, but it is
charity to hope for the best."

"Sir Herbert knew him, then?" said Emily.

"Perfectly well; they were associated together in the service for several
years, and he spoke of him with a fervor equal to my warmest
expectations."

The Moseley arms in F---- was kept by an old butler of the family, and Sir
Edward every year, in going to or coming from L----, spent a night under
its roof. He was received by its master with a respect that none who ever
knew the baronet well, could withhold from his goodness of heart and many
virtues.

"Well, Jackson," said the baronet, kindly, as he was seated at the supper
table, "how does custom increase with you--I hope you and the master of
the Dun Cow are more amicable than formerly."

"Why, Sir Edward," replied the host, who had lost a little of the
deference of the servant in the landlord, but none of his real respect,
"Mr. Daniels and I are more upon a footing of late than we was, when your
goodness enabled me to take the house; then he got all the great
travellers, and for more than a twelvemonth I had not a title in my house
but yourself and a great London doctor, that was called here to see a sick
person in the town. He had the impudence to call me the knight
barrow-knight, your honor, and we had a quarrel upon that account."

"I am glad, however, to find you are gaining in the rank of your
customers, and trust, as the occasion has ceased, you will be more
inclined to be good-natured to each other."

"Why, as to good-nature, Sir Edward, I lived with your honor ten years,
and you must know somewhat of my temper," said Jackson, with the
self-satisfaction of an approving conscience; "but Sam Daniels is a man
who is never easy unless he is left quietly at the top of the ladder;
however," continued the host, with a chuckle, "I have given him a dose
lately."

"How so, Jackson?" inquired the baronet, willing to gratify the man's wish
to relate his triumphs.

"Your honor must have heard mention made of a great lord, the Duke of
Derwent; well, Sir Edward, about six weeks agone he passed through with my
Lord Chatterton."

"Chatterton!" exclaimed John, interrupting him, "has he been so near us
again, and so lately?"

"Yes, Mr. Moseley," replied Jackson with a look of importance: "they
dashed into my yard with their chaise and four, with five servants, and
would you think it, Sir Edward, they hadn't been in the house ten minutes,
before Daniels son was fishing from the servants, who they were; I told
him, Sir Edward--dukes don't come every day."

"How came you to get his grace away from the Dun Cow--chance?"

"No, your honor," said the host, pointing to his sign, and bowing
reverently to his old master, "the Moseley Arms did it. Mr. Daniels used
to taunt me with having worn a livery, and has said more than once he
could milk his cow, but that your honor's arms would never lift me into a
comfortable seat for life; so I just sent him a message by the way of
letting him know my good fortune, your honor."

"And what was it?"

"Only that your honor's arms had shoved a duke and a baron into my
house--that's all."

"And I suppose Daniels' legs shoved your messenger out of his," said John,
laughing.

"No, Mr. Moseley; Daniels would hardly dare do that but yesterday, your
honor, yesterday evening, beat everything. Daniels was seated before his
door, and I was taking a pipe at mine, Sir Edward, as a coach and six,
with servants upon servants, drove down the street; it got near us, and
the boys were reining the horses into the yard of the Dun Cow, as the
gentleman in the coach saw my sign: he sent a groom to inquire who kept
the house; I got up, your honor, and told him my name, sir. 'Mr. Jackson,'
said his lordship, 'my respect for the family of Sir Edward Moseley is too
great not to give my custom to an old servant of his family.'"

"Indeed," said the baronet; "pray who was my lord?"

"The Earl of Pendennyss, your honor. Oh, he is a sweet gentleman, and he
asked all about my living with your honor, and about Madam Wilson."

"Did his lordship stay the night?" inquired Mrs. Wilson, excessively
gratified at a discovery of the disposition manifested by the earl towards
her.

"Yes, madam, he left here after breakfast."

"What message did you send the Dun Cow this time, Jackson?" cried John.

Jackson looked a little foolish, but the question being repeated, he
answered--"Why, sir, I was a little crowded for room, and so your honor,
so I just sent Tom across the street, to know if Mr. Daniels couldn't keep
a couple of the grooms."

"And Tom got his head broke."

"No, Mr. John, the tankard missed him; but if--"

"Very well," said the baronet, willing to change the conversation, "you
have been so fortunate of late, you can afford to be generous; and I
advise you to cultivate harmony with your neighbor, or I may take my arms
down, and you may lose your noble visiters--see my room prepared."

"Yes, your honor," said the host, and bowing respectfully he withdrew.

"At least, aunt," cried John, pleasantly, "we have the pleasure of supping
in the same room with the puissant earl, albeit there be twenty-four
hours' difference in the time."

"I sincerely wish there had not been that difference," observed his
father, taking his sister kindly by the hand.

"Such an equipage must have been a harvest indeed to Jackson," remarked
the mother; as they broke up for the evening.

The whole establishment at Benfield Lodge, were drawn up to receive them
on the following day in the great hall, and in the centre was fixed the
upright and lank figure of its master, with his companion in leanness,
honest Peter Johnson, on his right.

"I have made out, Sir Edward and my Lady Moseley, to get as far as my
entrance, to receive the favor you are conferring upon me. It was a rule
in my day, and one invariably practised by all the great nobility, such as
Lord Gosford--and--and--his sister, the lady Juliana Dayton, always to
receive and quit their guests in the country at the great entrance; and in
conformity--ah, Emmy dear," cried the old gentleman, folding her in his
arms as the tears rolled down his cheeks, forgetting his speech in the
warmth of his feeling, "You are saved to us again; God be praised--there,
that will do, let me breathe--let me breathe;" and then by the way of
getting rid of his softer feelings, he turned upon John; "so, youngster,
you would be playing with edge tools, and put the life of your sister in
danger. No gentleman held a gun in my day; that is, no gentleman about the
court. My Lord Gosford had never killed a bird in his life, or drove his
horse; no sir, gentlemen then were not coachmen. Peter how old was I
before I took the reins of the chaise, in driving round the estate--the
time you broke your arm? it was--"

Peter, who stood a little behind his master, in modest retirement, and who
had only thought his elegant form brought thither to embellish the show,
when called upon, advanced a step, made a low bow, and answered in his
sharp key:

"In the year 1798, your honor, and the 38th of his present majesty, and
the 64th year of your life, sir, June the 12th, about meridian."

Peter dropped back as he finished; but recollecting himself, regained his
place with a bow, as he added, "new style."

"How are you, old style?" cried John, with a slap on the back, that made
the steward jump again.

"Mr. John Moseley--young gentleman"--a term Peter had left off using to
the baronet within the last ten years, "did you think--to bring home--the
goggles?"

"Oh yes," said John, gravely, producing them from his pocket. Most of the
party having entered the parlor, he put them carefully on the bald head of
the steward--"There, Mr Peter Johnson, you have your property again, safe
and sound."

"And Mr. Denbigh said he felt much indebted to your consideration in
sending them," said Emily, soothingly, as she took them off with her
beautiful hands.

"Ah, Miss Emmy," said the steward, with one of his best bows, "that was--a
noble act; God bless him!" then holding up his finger significantly, "the
fourteenth codicil--to master's will," and Peter laid his finger alongside
his nose, as he nodded his head in silence.

"I hope the thirteenth contains the name of honest Peter Johnson," said
the young lady, who felt herself uncommonly well pleased with the
steward's conversation.

"As witness, Miss Emmy--witness to all--but God forbid," said the steward
with solemnity, "I should ever live to see the proving of them: no, Miss
Emmy, master has done for me what he intended, while I had youth to enjoy
it. I am rich, Miss Emmy--good three hundred a year." Emily, who had
seldom heard so long a speech as the old man's gratitude drew from him,
expressed her pleasure at hearing it, and shaking him kindly by the hand,
left him for the parlor.

"Niece," said Mr. Benfield, having scanned the party closely with his
eyes, "where is Colonel Denbigh?"

"Colonel Egerton, you mean, sir," interrupted Lady Moseley.

"No, my Lady Moseley," replied her uncle, with great formality, "I mean
Colonel Denbigh. I take it he is a colonel by this time," looking
expressively at the baronet; "and who is fitter to be a colonel or a
general, than a man who is not afraid of gunpowder?"

"Colonels must have been scarce in your youth, sir," cried John, who had
rather a mischievous propensity to start the old man on his hobby.

"No, jackanapes, gentlemen killed one another then, although they did not
torment the innocent birds: honor was as dear to a gentleman of George
the Second's court, as to those of his grandson's, and honesty too,
sirrah--ay, honesty. I remember when we were in, there was not a man of
doubtful integrity in the ministry, or on our side even; and then again,
when we went out, the opposition benches were filled with sterling
characters, making a parliament that was correct throughout. Can you show
me such a thing at this day?"




Chapter XXII.



A Few days after the arrival of the Moseleys at the lodge John drove his
sisters to the little village of L----, which at that time was thronged
with an unusual number of visiters. It had, among other fashionable
arrangements for the accommodation of its guests, one of those circulators
of good and evil, a public library. Books are, in a great measure, the
instruments of controlling the opinions of a nation like ours. They are an
engine, alike powerful to save or to destroy. It cannot be denied, that
our libraries contain as many volumes of the latter, as the former
description; for we rank amongst the latter that long catalogue of idle
productions, which, if they produce no other evil, lead to the misspending
of time, _our own_ perhaps included. But we cannot refrain expressing our
regret, that such formidable weapons in the cause of morality, should be
suffered to be wielded by any indifferent or mercenary dealer, who
undoubtedly will consult rather the public tastes than the private good:
the evil may be remediless, yet we love to express our sentiments, though
we should suggest nothing new or even profitable. Into one of these haunts
of the idle, then, John Moseley entered with a lovely sister leaning on
either arm. Books were the entertainers of Jane, and instructors of Emily.
Sir Edward was fond of reading of a certain sort--that which required no
great depth of thought, or labor of research; and, like most others who
are averse to contention, and disposed to be easily satisfied, the baronet
sometimes found he had harbored opinions on things not exactly
reconcileable with the truth, or even with each other. It is quite as
dangerous to give up your faculties to the guidance of the author you are
perusing, as it is unprofitable to be captiously scrutinizing every
syllable he may happen to advance; and Sir Edward was, if anything, a
little inclined to the dangerous propensity. Unpleasant, Sir Edward
Moseley never was. Lady Moseley very seldom took a book in her hand: her
opinions were established to her own satisfaction on all important points,
and on the minor ones, she made it a rule to coincide with the popular
feeling. Jane had a mind more active than her father, and more brilliant
than her mother; and if she had not imbibed injurious impressions from the
unlicensed and indiscriminate reading she practised, it was more owing to
the fortunate circumstance, that the baronet's library contained nothing
extremely offensive to a pure taste, nor dangerous to good morals, than to
any precaution of her parents against the deadly, the irretrievable injury
to be sustained from ungoverned liberty in this respect to a female mind.
On the other hand, Mrs. Wilson had inculcated the necessity of restraint,
in selecting the books for her perusal, so strenuously on her niece, that
what at first had been the effects of obedience and submission, had now
settled into taste and habit; and Emily seldom opened a book, unless in
search of information; or if it were the indulgence of a less commendable
spirit, it was an indulgence chastened by a taste and judgment that
lessened the danger, if it did not entirely remove it.

The room was filled with gentlemen and ladies; and while John was
exchanging his greetings with several of the neighboring gentry of his
acquaintance, his sisters were running nastily over a catalogue of the
books kept for circulation, as an elderly lady, of foreign accent and
dress, entered; and depositing a couple of religious works on the counter,
she inquired for the remainder of the set. The peculiarity of her idiom
and her proximity to the sisters caused them both to look up at the
moment, and, to the surprise of Jane, her sister uttered a slight
exclamation of pleasure. The foreigner was attracted by the sound, and
after a moment's hesitation, she respectfully curtsied. Emily, advancing,
kindly offered her hand, and the usual inquiries after each other's
welfare succeeded. To the questions asked after the friend of the matron
Emily learnt, with some surprise, and no less satisfaction, that she
resided in a retired cottage, about five miles from L----, where they had
been for the last six months, and where they expected to remain for some
time, "until she could prevail on Mrs. Fitzgerald to return to Spain; a
thing, now there was peace, of which she did not despair." After asking
leave to call on them in their retreat, and exchanging good wishes, the
Spanish lady withdrew, and, as Jane had made her selection, was followed
immediately by John Moseley and his sisters. Emily, in their walk home,
acquainted her brother that the companion of their Bath incognita had been
at the library, and that for the first time she had learnt that their
young acquaintance was, or had been, married, and her name. John listened
to his sister with the interest which the beautiful Spaniard had excited
at the time they first met, and laughingly told her he could not believe
their unknown friend had ever been a wife. To satisfy this doubt, and to
gratify a wish they both had to renew their acquaintance with the
foreigner, they agreed to drive to the cottage the following morning,
accompanied by Mrs. Wilson and Jane, if she would go; but the next day was
the one appointed by Egerton for his arrival at L----, and Jane, under a
pretence of writing letters, declined the excursion. She had carefully
examined the papers since his departure; had seen his name included in the
arrivals at London; and at a later day, had read an account of the review
by the commander-in-chief of the regiment to which he belonged. He had
never written to any of her friends; but, judging from her own feelings,
she did not in the least doubt he would be as punctual as love could make
him. Mrs. Wilson listened to her niece's account of the unexpected
interview in the library with pleasure, and cheerfully promised to
accompany them in their morning's excursion, as she had both a wish to
alleviate sorrow, and a desire to better understand the character of this
accidental acquaintance of Emily's.

Mr. Benfield and the baronet had a long conversation in relation to
Denbigh's fortune the morning after their arrival; and the old man was
loud in his expression of dissatisfaction at the youngster's pride. As the
baronet, however, in the fulness of his affection and simplicity, betrayed
to his uncle his expectation of a union between Denbigh and his daughter,
Mr. Benfield became contented with this reward; one fit, he thought, for
any services. On the whole, "it was best, as he was to marry Emmy, he
should sell out of the army; and as there would be an election soon, he
would bring him into parliament--yes--- yes--it did a man so much good to
sit one term in the parliament of this realm--to study human nature. All
his own knowledge in that way was raised on the foundations laid in the
House." To this Sir Edward cordially assented, and the gentlemen
separated, happy in their arrangements to advance the welfare of two
beings they so sincerely loved.

Although the care and wisdom of Mrs. Wilson had prohibited the admission
of any romantic or enthusiastic expectations of happiness into the
day-dreams of her charge, yet the buoyancy of health, of hope, of youth,
of innocence, had elevated Emily to a height of enjoyment hitherto unknown
to her usually placid and disciplined pleasures. Denbigh certainly
mingled in most of her thoughts, both of the past and the future, and she
stood on the threshold of that fantastic edifice in which Jane ordinarily
resided. Emily was in the situation perhaps the most dangerous to a young
female Christian: her heart, her affections, were given to a man, to
appearance, every way worthy of possessing them, it is true but she had
admitted a rival in her love to her Maker; and to keep those feelings
distinct, to bend the passions in due submission to the more powerful
considerations of endless duty, of unbounded gratitude, is one of the most
trying struggles of Christian fortitude. We are much more apt to forget
our God in prosperity than adversity. The weakness of human nature drives
us to seek assistance in distress; but vanity and worldly-mindedness often
induce us to imagine we control the happiness we only enjoy.

Sir Edward and Lady Moseley could see nothing in the prospect of the
future but lives of peace and contentment for their children. Clara was
happily settled, and her sisters were on the eve of making connexions with
men of family, condition, and certain character. What more could be done
for them? They must, like other people, take their chances in the lottery
of life; they could only hope and pray for their prosperity, and this they
did with great sincerity. Not so Mrs. Wilson: she had guarded the
invaluable charge intrusted to her keeping with too much assiduity, too
keen an interest, too just a sense of the awful responsibility she had
undertaken, to desert her post at the moment watchfulness was most
required. By a temperate, but firm and well-chosen conversation she kept
alive the sense of her real condition in her niece, and labored hard to
prevent the blandishments of life from supplanting the lively hope of
enjoying another existence. She endeavored, by her pious example, her
prayers, and her Judicious allusions, to keep the passion of love in the
breast of Emily secondary to the more important object of her creation;
and, by the aid of a kind and Almighty Providence, her labors, though
arduous, were crowned with success.

As the family were seated round the table after dinner, on the day of
their walk to the library, John Moseley, awakening from a reverie,
exclaimed suddenly,

"Which do you think the handsomest, Emily, Grace Chatterton or Miss
Fitzgerald?"

Emily laughed, as she answered, "Grace, certainly; do you not think so,
brother?"

"Yes, on the whole; but don't you think Grace looks like her mother at
times?"

"Oh no, she is the image of Chatterton."

"She is very like yourself, Emmy dear," said Mr. Benfield, who was
listening to their conversation.

"Me, dear uncle; I have never heard it remarked before."

"Yes, yes, she is as much like you as she can stare. I never saw as great
a resemblance, excepting between you and Lady Juliana--Lady Juliana, Emmy,
was a beauty in her day; very like her uncle, old Admiral Griffin--you
can't remember the admiral--he lost an eye in a battle with the Dutch, and
part of his cheek in a frigate, when a young man fighting the Dons. Oh, he
was a pleasant old gentleman; many a guinea has he given me when I was a
boy at school."

"And he looked like Grace Chatterton, uncle, did he?" asked John,
innocently.

"No, sir, he did not; who said he looked like Grace Chatterton,
jackanapes?"

"Why, I thought you made it out, sir: but perhaps it was the description
that deceived me--his eye and cheek, uncle."

"Did Lord Gosford leave children, uncle?" inquired Emily, throwing a look
of reproach at John.

"No, Emmy dear; his only child, a son, died at school. I shall never
forget the grief of poor Lady Juliana. She postponed a visit to Bath three
weeks on account of it. A gentleman who was paying his addresses to her at
the time, offered then, and was refused--indeed, her self-denial raised
such an admiration of her in the men, that immediately after the death of
young Lord Dayton, no less than seven gentlemen offered, and were refused
in one week. I heard Lady Juliana say, that what between lawyers and
suitors, she had not a moment's peace."

"Lawyers?" cried Sir Edward: "what had she to do with lawyers?"

"Why, Sir Edward, six thousand a year fell to her by the death of her
nephew; and there were trustees and deeds to be made out--poor young
woman, she was so affected, Emmy, I don't think she went out for a
week--all the time at home reading papers, and attending to her important
concerns. Oh! she was a woman of taste; her mourning, and liveries, and
new carriage, were more admired than those of any one about the court.
Yes, yes, the title is extinct; I know of none of the name now. The Earl
did not survive his loss but six years, and the countess died
broken-hearted, about a twelvemonth before him."

"And Lady Juliana, uncle," inquired John, "what became of her, did she
marry?"

The old man helped himself to a glass of wine, and looked over his
shoulder to see if Peter was at hand. Peter, who had been originally
butler, and had made it a condition of his preferment, that whenever there
was company, he should be allowed to preside at the sideboard, was now at
his station. Mr. Benfield, seeing his old friend near him, ventured to
talk on a subject he seldom trusted himself with in company.

"Why, yes--yes--she _did_ marry, it's true, although she did tell me she
intended to die a maid; but--hem--I suppose--hem--it was compassion for
the old viscount, who often said he could not live without her; and then
it gave her the power of doing so much good, a jointure of five thousand a
year added to her own income: yet--hem--I do confess I did not think she
would have chosen such an old and infirm man--- but, Peter, give me a
glass of claret." Peter handed the claret, and the old man
proceeded:--"They say he was very cross to her, and that, no doubt, must
have made her unhappy, she was so very tender-hearted."

How much longer the old gentleman would have continued in this strain, it
is impossible to say; but he was interrupted by the opening of the parlor
door, and the sudden appearance on its threshold of Denbigh. Every
countenance glowed with pleasure at this unexpected return of their
favorite; and but for the prudent caution of Mrs. Wilson, in handing a
glass of water to her niece, the surprise might have proved too much for
her. The salutations of Denbigh were returned by the different members of
the family with a cordiality that must have told him how much he was
valued by all its branches; and after briefly informing them that his
review was over, and that he had thrown himself into a chaise and
travelled post until he had rejoined them, he took his seat by Mr.
Benfield, who received him with a marked preference, exceeding that which
he had shown to any man who had ever entered his doors, Lord Gosford
himself not excepted. Peter removed from his station behind his master's
chair to one where he could face the new comer; and after wiping his eyes
until they filled so rapidly with water, that at last he was noticed by
the delighted John to put on the identical goggles which his care had
provided for Denbigh in his illness. His laugh drew the attention of the
rest to the honest steward, and when Denbigh was told this was Mr.
Benfield's ambassador to the hall, he rose from his chair, and taking the
old man by the hand, kindly thanked him for his thoughtful consideration
for his weak eyes.

Peter took the offered hand in both his own, and after making one or two
unsuccessful efforts to speak, he uttered, "Thank you, thank you; may
Heaven bless you," and burst into tears. This stopped the laugh, and John
followed the steward from the room, while his master exclaimed, wiping his
eyes, "Kind and condescending; just such another as my old friend, the
Earl of Gosford."




Chapter XXIII.



At the appointed hour, the carriage of Mrs. Wilson was ready to convey
herself and niece to the cottage of Mrs. Fitzgerald. John was left behind,
under the pretence of keeping Denbigh company in his morning avocations,
but really because Mrs. Wilson doubted the propriety of his becoming a
visiting acquaintance at the house, tenanted as the cottage was
represented to be. John was too fond of his friend to make any serious
objections, and was satisfied for the present, by sending his compliments,
and requesting his sister to ask permission for him to call in one of his
morning excursions, in order to pay his personal respects.

They found the cottage a beautiful and genteel, though a very small and
retired dwelling, almost hid by the trees and shrubs which surrounded it,
and its mistress in its little veranda, expecting the arrival of Emily.
Mrs. Fitzgerald was a Spaniard, under twenty, of a melancholy, yet highly
interesting countenance; her manners were soft and retiring, but evidently
bore the impression of good company, if not of high life. She was
extremely pleased with this renewal of attention on the part of Emily, and
expressed her gratitude to both ladies for their kindness in seeking her
out in her solitude. She presented her more matronly companion to them, by
the name of Donna Lorenza; and as nothing but good feeling prevailed, and
useless ceremony was banished, the little party were soon on terms of
friendly intercourse. The young widow (for such her dress indicated her to
be), did the honors of her house with graceful ease, and conduct ed her
visiters into her little grounds, which; together the cottage, gave
evident proofs of the taste and elegance of its occupant. The
establishment she supported she represented as very small; two women and
an aged man servant, with occasionally a laborer for her garden and
shrubbery. They never visited; it was a resolution she had made on fixing
her residence here, but if Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley would forgive the
rudeness of not returning their call, nothing would give her more
satisfaction than a frequent renewal of their visits. Mrs. Wilson took so
deep an interest in the misfortunes of this young female, and was so much
pleased with the modest resignation of her manner, that it required little
persuasion on the part of the recluse to obtain a promise of soon
repeating her visit. Emily mentioned the request of John, and Mrs.
Fitzgerald received it with a mournful smile, as she replied that Mr.
Moseley had laid her under such an obligation in their first interview,
she could not deny herself the pleasure of again thanking him for it; but
she must be excused if she desired they would limit their attendants to
him, as there was but one gentleman in England whose visits she admitted,
and it was seldom indeed he called; he had seen her but once since she had
resided in Norfolk.

After giving a promise not to suffer any one else to accompany them, and
promising an early call again, our ladies returned to Benfield Lodge in
season to dress for dinner. On entering the drawing-room, they found the
elegant person of Colonel Egerton leaning on the back of Jane's chair. He
had arrived during their absence, and immediately sought the baronet's
family. His reception, if not as warm as that given to Denbigh, was
cordial from all but the master of the house; and even he was in such
spirits by the company around him, and the prospects of Emily's marriage
(which he considered as settled), that he forced himself to an appearance
of good will he did not feel. Colonel Egerton was either deceived by his
manner, or too much a man of the world to discover his suspicion, and
everything in consequence was very harmoniously, if not sincerely
conducted between them.

Lady Moseley was completely happy. If she had the least doubts before, as
to the intentions of Egerton, they were now removed. His journey to that
unfashionable watering-place, was owing to his passion; and however she
might at times have doubted as to Sir Edgar's heir, Denbigh she thought a
man of too little consequence in the world, to make it possible he would
neglect to profit by his situation in the family of Sir Edward Moseley.
She was satisfied with both connexions. Mr. Benfield had told her General
Sir Frederic Denbigh was nearly allied to the Duke of Derwent, and Denbigh
had said the general was his grandfather. Wealth, she knew Emily would
possess from both her uncle and aunt; and the services of the gentleman
had their due weight upon the feelings of the affectionate mother. The
greatest of her maternal anxieties was removed, and she looked forward to
the peaceful enjoyment of the remnant of her days in the bosom of her
descendants. John, the heir of a baronetcy, and 15,000 pounds a year,
might suit himself; and Grace Chatterton, she thought, would be likely to
prove the future Lady Moseley. Sir Edward, without entering so deeply into
anticipations of the future as his wife, experienced an equal degree of
contentment; and it would have been a difficult task to discover in the
island a roof, under which there resided at the moment more happy
countenances than at Benfield Lodge; for as its master had insisted on
Denbigh becoming an inmate, he was obliged to extend his hospitality in an
equal degree to Colonel Egerton: indeed, the subject had been fully
canvassed between him and Peter the morning of his arrival, and was near
being decided against his admission, when the steward, who had picked up
all the incidents of the arbor scene from the servants (and of course with
many exaggerations), mentioned to his master that the colonel was very
active, and that he even contrived to bring water to revive Miss Emmy, a
great distance, in the hat of Captain Jarvis, which was full of holes, Mr.
John having blown it off the head of the captain without hurting a hair,
in firing at a woodcock. This mollified the master a little, and he agreed
to suspend his decision for further observation. At dinner, the colonel
happening to admire the really handsome face of Lord Gosford, as
delineated by Sir Joshua Reynolds, which graced the dining-room of
Benfield Lodge, its master, in a moment of unusual kindness, gave the
invitation; it was politely accepted, and the colonel at once
domesticated.

The face of John Moseley alone, at times, exhibited evidences of care and
thought, and at such moments it might be a subject of doubt whether he
thought the most of Grace Chatterton or her mother: if the latter, the
former was sure to lose ground in his estimation; a serious misfortune to
John, not to be able to love Grace without alloy. His letters from her
brother mentioned his being still at Denbigh castle, in Westmoreland, the
seat of his friend the Duke of Derwent; and John thought one or two of his
encomiums on Lady Harriet Denbigh, the sister of his grace, augured that
the unkindness of Emily might in time be forgotten. The dowager and her
daughters were at the seat of a maiden aunt in Yorkshire, where as John
knew no male animal was allowed admittance, he was tolerably easy at the
disposition of things. Nothing but legacy-hunting he knew would induce the
dowager to submit to such a banishment from the other sex; but that was
so preferable to husband-hunting he was satisfied. "I wish," said John
mentally, as he finished the perusal of his letter, "mother Chatterton
would get married herself, and she might let Kate and Grace manage for
themselves. Kate would do very well, I dare say, and how would Grace make
out!" John sighed, and whistled for Dido and Rover.

In the manners of Colonel Egerton there was the same general disposition
to please, and the same unremitted attention to the wishes and amusements
of Jane. They had renewed their poetical investigations, and Jane eagerly
encouraged a taste which afforded her delicacy some little coloring for
the indulgence of an association different from the real truth, and which,
in her estimation, was necessary to her happiness. Mrs. Wilson thought the
distance between the two suitors for the favor of her nieces was, if
anything, increased by their short separation, and particularly noticed on
the part of the colonel an aversion to Denbigh that at times painfully
alarmed, by exciting apprehensions for the future happiness of the
precious treasure she had prepared herself to yield to his solicitations,
whenever properly proffered. In the intercourse between Emily and her
preserver, as there was nothing to condemn, so there was much to admire.
The attentions of Denbigh were pointed, although less exclusive than those
of the colonel; and the aunt was pleased to observe that if the manners of
Egerton had more of the gloss of life, those of Denbigh were certainly
distinguished by a more finished delicacy and propriety. The one appeared
the influence of custom and association, with a tincture of artifice; the
other, benevolence, with a just perception of what was due to others, and
with an air of sincerity, when speaking of sentiments and principles, that
was particularly pleasing to the watchful widow. At times, however, she
could not but observe an air of restraint, if not of awkwardness, about
him that was a little surprising. It was most observable in mixed society,
and once or twice her imagination pictured his sensations into something
like alarm. These unpleasant interruptions to her admiration were soon
forgotten in her just appreciation of the more solid parts of his
character, which appeared literally to be unexceptionable; and when
momentary uneasiness would steal over her, the remembrance of the opinion
of Dr. Ives, his behavior with Jarvis, his charity, and chiefly his
devotion to her niece, would not fail to drive the disagreeable thoughts
from her mind. Emily herself moved about, the image of joy and innocence.
If Denbigh were near her, she was happy; if absent, she suffered no
uneasiness. Her feelings were so ardent, and yet so pure, that jealousy
had no admission. Perhaps no circumstances existed to excite this usual
attendant of the passion; but as the heart of Emily was more enchained
than her imagination, her affections were not of the restless nature of
ordinary attachments, though more dangerous to her peace of mind in the
event of an unfortunate issue. With Denbigh she never walked or rode
alone. He had never made the request, and her delicacy would have shrunk
from such an open manifestation of her preference; but he read to her and
her aunt; he accompanied them in their little excursions; and once or
twice John noticed that she took the offered hand of Denbigh to assist her
over any little impediment in their course, instead of her usual
unobtrusive custom of taking his arm on such occasions. "Well, Miss
Emily," thought John, "you appear to have chosen another favorite," on her
doing this three times in succession in one of their walks. "How strange
it is women will quit their natural friends for a face they have hardly
seen." John forgot his own--"There is no danger, dear Grace," when his
sister was almost dead with apprehension. But John loved Emily too well
to witness her preference of another with satisfaction, even though
Denbigh was the favorite; a feeling which soon wore away, however, by dint
of custom and reflection. Mr. Benfield had taken it into his head that if
the wedding of Emily could be solemnized while the family was at the
lodge, it would render him the happiest of men; and how to compass this
object, was the occupation of a whole morning's contemplation. Happily for
Emily's blushes, the old gentleman harbored the most fastidious notions of
female delicacy, and never in conversation made the most distant allusion
to the expected connexion. He, therefore, in conformity with these
feelings, could do nothing openly; all must be the effect of management;
and as he thought Peter one of the best contrivers in the world, to his
ingenuity he determined to refer the arrangement.

The bell rang--"Send Johnson to me, David."

In a few minutes, the drab coat and blue yarn stockings entered his
dressing-room with the body of Mr. Peter Johnson snugly cased within them.

"Peter," commenced Mr. Benfield, pointing kindly to a chair, which the
steward respectfully declined, "I suppose you know that Mr. Denbigh, the
grandson of General Denbigh, who was in parliament with me, is about to
marry my little Emmy?"

Peter smiled, as he bowed an assent.

"Now, Peter, a wedding would, of all things, make me most happy; that is,
to have it here in the lodge. It would remind me so much of the marriage
of Lord Gosford, and the bridemaids. I wish your opinion how to bring it
about before they leave us. Sir Edward and Anne decline interfering, and
Mrs. Wilson I am afraid to speak to on the subject."

Peter was not a little alarmed by this sudden requisition on his
inventive faculties, especially as a lady was in the case; but, as he
prided himself on serving his master, and loved the hilarity of a wedding
in his heart, he cogitated for some time in silence, when, having thought
a preliminary question or two necessary, he broke it with saying--

"Everything, I suppose, master, is settled between the young people?"

"Everything, I take it, Peter."

"And Sir Edward and my lady?"

"Willing; perfectly willing."

"And Madam Wilson, sir?"

"Willing, Peter, willing."

"And Mr. John and Miss Jane?"

"All willing; the whole family is willing, to the best of my belief.'"

"There is the Rev. Mr. Ives and Mrs. Ives, master?"

"They wish it, I know. Don't you think they wish others as happy as
themselves, Peter?"

"No doubt they do, master. Well, then, as everybody is willing, and the
young people agreeable, the only thing to be done, sir, is."

"Is what, Peter?" exclaimed his impatient master observing him to
hesitate.

"Why, sir, to send for the priest, I take it."

"Pshaw! Peter Johnson, I know that myself," replied the dissatisfied old
man. "Cannot you help me to a better plan?"

"Why, master," said Peter, "I would have done as well for Miss Emmy and
your honor as I would have done for myself. Now, sir, when I courted Patty
Steele, your honor, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and
sixty-five, I should have been married but for one difficulty, which your
honor says is removed in the case of Miss Emmy."

"What was that, Peter?" asked his master, in a tender tone.

"She wasn't willing, sir."

"Very well, poor Peter," replied Mr. Benfield, mildly "you may go." And
the steward, bowing low, withdrew.

The similarity of their fortunes in love was a strong link in the
sympathies which bound the master and man together and the former never
failed to be softened by an allusion to Patty. The want of tact in the
man, on the present occasion, after much reflection, was attributed by his
master to the fact that Peter had never sat in parliament.




Chapter XXIV.



Mrs. Wilson and Emily, in the fortnight they had been at Benfield Lodge,
paid frequent and long visits to the cottage: and each succeeding
interview left a more favorable impression of the character of its
mistress, and a greater certainty that she was unfortunate. The latter,
however, alluded very slightly to her situation or former life; she was a
Protestant, to the great surprise of Mrs. Wilson; and one that misery had
made nearly acquainted with the religion she professed. Their
conversations chiefly turned on the customs of her own, as contrasted with
those of her adopted country, or in a pleasant exchange of opinions, which
the ladies possessed in complete unison. One morning John had accompanied
them and been admitted; Mrs. Fitzgerald receiving him with the frankness
of an old acquaintance, though with the reserve of a Spanish lady. His
visits were permitted under the direction of his aunt, but no others of
the gentlemen were included amongst her guests. Mrs. Wilson had casually
mentioned, in the absence of her niece, the interposition of Denbigh
between her and death; and Mrs. Fitzgerald was so much pleased at the
noble conduct of the gentleman, as to express a desire to see him; but the
impressions of the moment appeared to have died away, a nothing more was
said by either lady on the subject, and it was apparently forgotten. Mrs.
Fitzgerald was found one morning, weeping over a letter she held in her
hand, and the Donna Lorenza was endeavoring to console her. The situation
of this latter lady was somewhat doubtful; she appeared neither wholly a
friend nor a menial. In the manners of the two there was a striking
difference; although the Donna was not vulgar, she was far from possessing
the polish of her more juvenile friend, and Mrs. Wilson considered her to
be in a station between that of a housekeeper and that of a companion.
After hoping that no unpleasant intelligence occasioned the distress they
witnessed, the ladies were delicately about to take their leave, when Mrs.
Fitzgerald entreated them to remain.

"Your kind attention to me, dear madam, and the goodness of Miss Moseley,
give you a claim to know more of the unfortunate being your sympathy has
so greatly assisted to attain her peace of mind. This letter is from the
gentleman of whom you have heard me speak, as once visiting me, and though
it has struck me with unusual force, it contains no more than I expected
to hear, perhaps no more than I deserve to hear."

"I hope your friend has not been unnecessarily harsh: severity is not the
best way, always, of effecting repentance, and I feel certain that you, my
young friend, can have been guilty of no offence that does not rather
require gentle than stern reproof," said Mrs. Wilson.

"I thank you, dear madam, for your indulgent opinion of me, but although I
have suffered much, I am willing to confess it is a merited punishment;
you are, however, mistaken as to the source of my present sorrow. Lord
Pendennyss is the cause of grief, I believe, to no one, much less to me."

"Lord Pendennyss!" exclaimed Emily, in surprise, unconsciously looking at
her aunt.

"Pendennyss!" reiterated Mrs. Wilson, with animation "and is he your
friend, too?"

"Yes, madam; to his lordship I owe
everything--honor--comfort--religion--and even life itself."

Mrs. Wilson's cheek glowed with an unusual color, at this discovery of
another act of benevolence and virtue, in a young nobleman whose character
she had so long admired, and whose person she had in vain wished to meet.

"You know the earl, then?" inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.

"By reputation, only, my dear," said Mrs. Wilson; "but that is enough to
convince me a friend of his must be a worthy character, if anything were
wanting to make us your friends."

The conversation was continued for some time, and Mrs. Fitzgerald saying
she did not feel equal just then to the undertaking, but the next day, if
they would honor her with another call, she would make them acquainted
with the incidents of her life, and the reasons she had for speaking in
such terms of Lord Pendennyss. The promise to see her was cheerfully made
by Mrs. Wilson, and her confidence accepted; not from a desire to gratify
an idle curiosity, but a belief that it was necessary to probe a wound to
cure it; and a correct opinion, that she would be a better adviser for a
young and lovely woman, than even Pendennyss; for the Donna Lorenza she
could hardly consider in a capacity to offer advice, much less dictation.
They then took their leave, and Emily, during their ride, broke the
silence with exclaiming,--

"Wherever we hear of Lord Pendennyss, aunt, we hear of him favorably."

"A certain sign, my dear, he is deserving of it. There is hardly any man
who has not his enemies, and those are seldom just; but we have met with
none of the earl's yet."

"Fifty thousand a year will make many friends," observed Emily, shaking
her head.

"Doubtless, my love, or as many enemies; but honor, life, and religion, my
child, are debts not owing to money--in this country at least."

To this remark Emily assented; and after expressing her own admiration of
the character of the young nobleman, she dropped into a reverie. How many
of his virtues she identified with the person of Mr. Denbigh, it is not,
just now, our task to enumerate; but judges of human nature may easily
determine, and that too without having sat in the parliament of this
realm.

The morning this conversation occurred at the cottage, Mr. and Mrs.
Jarvis, with their daughters, made their unexpected appearance at L----.
The arrival of a post-chaise and four with a gig, was an event soon
circulated through the little village, and the names of its owners reached
the lodge just as Jane had allowed herself to be persuaded by the colonel
to take her first walk with him unaccompanied by a third person. Walking
is much more propitious to declarations than riding; and whether it was
premeditated on the part of the colonel or not, or whether he was afraid
that Mrs. Jarvis or some one else would interfere, he availed himself of
this opportunity, and had hardly got out of hearing of her brother and
Denbigh, before he made Jane an explicit offer of his hand. The surprise
was so great, that some time elapsed before the distressed girl could
reply. This she, however, at length did, but incoherently: she referred
him to her parents, as the arbiters of her fate, well knowing that her
wishes had long been those of her father and mother. With this the colonel
was obliged to be satisfied for the present. But their walk had not ended,
before he gradually drew from the confiding girl an acknowledgment that,
should her parents decline his offer, she would be very little less
miserable than himself; indeed, the most tenacious lover might have been
content with the proofs of regard that Jane, unused to control her
feelings, allowed herself to manifest on this occasion. Egerton was in
raptures; a life devoted to her would never half repay her condescension;
and as their confidence increased with their walk, Jane re-entered the
lodge with a degree of happiness in her heart she had never before
experienced. The much dreaded declaration--her own distressing
acknowledgements, were made, and nothing farther remained but to live and
be happy. She flew into the arms of her mother, and; hiding her blushes in
her bosom, acquainted her with the colonel's offer and her own wishes.
Lady Moseley, who was prepared for such a communication, and had rather
wondered at its tardiness, kissed her daughter affectionately, as she
promised to speak to her father, and to obtain his approbation.

"But," she added, with a degree of formality and caution which had better
preceded than have followed the courtship, "we must make the usual
inquiries, my child, into the fitness of Colonel Egerton as a husband for
our daughter. Once assured of that, you have nothing to fear."

The baronet was requested to grant an audience to Colonel Egerton, who now
appeared as determined to expedite things, as he had been dilatory before.
On meeting Sir Edward, he made known his pretensions and hopes. The
father, who had been previously notified by his wife of what was
forthcoming, gave a general answer, similar to the speech of the mother,
and the colonel bowed in acquiescence.

In the evening, the Jarvis family favored the inhabitants of the lodge
with a visit, and Mrs. Wilson was struck with the singularity of their
reception of the colonel. Miss Jarvis, especially, was rude to both him
and Jane, and it struck all who witnessed it as a burst of jealous feeling
for disappointed hopes; but to no one, excepting Mrs. Wilson, did it occur
that the conduct of the gentleman could be at all implicated in the
transaction. Mr. Benfield was happy to see under his roof again the best
of the trio of Jarvises he had known, and something like sociability
prevailed. There was to be a ball, Miss Jarvis remarked, at L----, the
following day, which would help to enliven the scene a little, especially
as there were a couple of frigates at anchor, a few miles off, and the
officers were expected to join the party. This intelligence had but little
effect on the ladies of the Moseley family; yet, as their uncle desired
that, out of respect to his neighbors, if invited, they would go, they
cheerfully assented. During the evening, Mrs. Wilson observed Egerton in
familiar conversation with Miss Jarvis; and as she had been notified of
his situation with respect to Jane, she determined to watch narrowly into
the causes of so singular a change of deportment in the young lady. Mrs.
Jarvis retained her respect for the colonel in full force; and called out
to him across the room, a few minutes before she departed--

"Well, colonel, I am happy to tell you I have heard very lately from your
uncle, Sir Edgar."

"Indeed, madam!" replied the colonel, starting. "He was well, I hope."

"Very well, the day before yesterday. His neighbor, old, Mr. Holt, is a
lodger in the same house with us at L----; and as I thought you would like
to hear, I made particular inquiries about the baronet." The word baronet
was pronounced with emphasis and a look of triumph, as if it would say,
you see _we_ have baronets as well as you. As no answer was made by
Egerton, excepting an acknowledging bow, the merchant and his family
departed.

"Well, John," cried Emily, with a smile, "we have heard more good to-day
of our trusty and well-beloved cousin, the Earl of Pendennyss."

"Indeed!" exclaimed her brother. "You must keep Emily for his lordship,
positively, aunt: she is almost as great an admirer of him as yourself."

"I apprehend it is necessary she should be quite as much so, to become
his wife," said Mrs. Wilson.

"Really," said Emily, more gravely, "if all one hears of him be true, or
even half, it would be no difficult task to admire him."

Denbigh was standing leaning on the back of a chair, in situation where he
could view the animated countenance of Emily as she spoke, and Mrs. Wilson
noticed an uneasiness and a changing of color in him that appeared
uncommon from so trifling a cause. Is it possible, she thought, Denbigh
can harbor so mean a passion as envy? He walked away, as if unwilling to
hear more, and appeared much engrossed with his own reflections for the
remainder of the evening. There were moments of doubting which crossed the
mind of Mrs. Wilson with a keenness of apprehension proportionate to her
deep interest in Emily, with respect to certain traits in the character of
Denbigh; and this, what she thought a display of unworthy feeling, was one
of them. In the course of the evening, the cards for the expected ball
arrived, and were accepted. As this new arrangement for the morrow
interfered with their intended visit to Mrs. Fitzgerald, a servant was
sent with a note of explanation in the morning and a request that on the
following day the promised communication might be made. To this
arrangement the recluse assented, and Emily prepared for the ball with a
melancholy recollection of the consequences which grew out of the last she
had attended--melancholy at the fate of Digby, and pleasure at the
principles manifested by Denbigh, on the occasion. The latter, however,
with a smile, excused himself from being of the party, telling Emily he
was so awkward that he feared some unpleasant consequences to himself or
his friends would arise from his inadvertencies, did he venture again with
her into such an assembly.

Emily sighed gently, as she entered the carriage of her aunt early in the
afternoon, leaving Denbigh in the door of the lodge, and Egerton absent on
the execution of some business; the former to amuse himself as he could
until the following morning, and the latter to join them in the dance in
the evening.

The arrangement included an excursion on the water, attended by the bands
from the frigates, a collation, and in the evening a ball. One of the
vessels was commanded by a Lord Henry Stapleton, a fine young man, who,
struck with the beauty and appearance of the sisters, sought an
introduction to the baronet's family, and engaged the hand of Emily for
the first dance. His frank and gentleman-like deportment was pleasing to
his new acquaintances; the more so, as it was peculiarly suited to their
situation at the moment. Mrs. Wilson was in unusual spirits, and
maintained an animated conversation with the young sailor, in the course
of which, he spoke of his cruising on the coast of Spain, and by accident
he mentioned his having carried out to that country, upon one occasion,
Lord Pendennyss. This was common ground between them, and Lord Henry was
as enthusiastic in his praises of the earl, as Mrs. Wilson's partiality
could desire. He also knew Colonel Egerton slightly, and expressed his
pleasure, in polite terms, when they met in the evening in the ball-room,
at being able to renew his acquaintance. The evening passed off as such
evenings generally do--in gaiety, listlessness, dancing, gaping, and
heartburnings, according to the dispositions and good or ill fortune of
the several individuals who compose the assembly. Mrs. Wilson, while her
nieces were dancing, moved her seat to be near a window, and found herself
in the vicinity of two elderly gentlemen, who were commenting on the
company. After making several common-place remarks, one of them inquired
of the other--"Who is that military gentleman amongst the naval beaux,
Holt?"

"That is the hopeful nephew of my friend and neighbor, Sir Edgar Egerton;
he is here dancing, and misspending his time and money, when I know Sir
Edgar gave him a thousand pounds six months ago, on express condition, he
should not leave the regiment or take a card in his hand for twelvemonth."

"He plays, then?"

"Sadly; he is, on the whole, a very bad young man."

As they changed their topic, Mrs. Wilson joined her sister, dreadfully
shocked at this intimation of the vices of a man so near an alliance with
her brother's child. She was thankful it was not too late to avert part of
the evil, and determined to acquaint Sir Edward, at once, with what she
had heard, in order that an investigation might establish the colonel's
innocence or guilt.




Chapter XXV.



They returned to the lodge at an early hour, and Mrs Wilson, after
meditating upon the course she ought to take, resolved to have a
conversation with her brother that evening after supper. Accordingly, as
they were among the last to retire, she mentioned her wish to detain him,
and when left by themselves, the baronet taking his seat by her on a sofa,
she commenced as follows, willing to avoid her unpleasant information
until the last moment.

"I wished to say something to you, brother, relating to my charge: you
have, no doubt, observed the attentions of Mr. Denbigh to Emily?"

"Certainly, sister, and with great pleasure; you must not suppose I wish
to interfere with the authority I have so freely relinquished to you,
Charlotte, when I inquire if Emily favors his views or not?"

"Neither Emily nor I, my dear brother, wish ever to question your right,
not only to inquire into, but to control the conduct of your child;--she
is yours, Edward, by a tie nothing can break, and we both love you too
much to wish it. There is nothing you may be more certain of, than that,
without the approbation of her parents, Emily would accept of no offer,
however splendid or agreeable to her own wishes."

"Nay, sister, I would not wish unduly to influence my child in an affair
of so much importance to herself; but my interest in Denbigh is little
short of that I feel for my daughter."

"I trust," continued Mrs. Wilson, "Emily is too deeply impressed with her
duty to forget the impressive mandate, 'to honor her father and mother:'
yes, Sir Edward, I am mistaken if she would not relinquish the dearest
object of her affections, at your request; and at the same time, I am
persuaded she would, under no circumstances, approach the altar with a man
she did not both love and esteem."

The baronet did not appear exactly to understand his sister's distinction,
as he observed, "I am not sure I rightly comprehend the difference you
make, Charlotte."

"Only, brother, that she would feel that a promise made at the altar to
love a man she felt averse to, or honor one she could not esteem, as a
breach of a duty, paramount to all earthly considerations," replied his
sister; "but to answer your question--Denbigh has never offered, and when
he does, I do not think he will be refused."

"Refused!" cried the baronet, "I sincerely hope not; I wish, with all my
heart, they were married already."

"Emily is very young," said Mrs. Wilson, "and need not hurry: I was in
hopes she would remain single a few years longer."

"Well," said the baronet, "you and Lady Moseley, sister, have different
notions on the subject of marrying the girls."

Mrs. Wilson replied, with a good-humored smile, "you have made Anne so
good a husband, Ned, that she forgets there are any bad ones in the world;
_my_ greatest anxiety is, that the husband of my niece may be a Christian;
indeed, I know not how I can reconcile it to my conscience, as a Christian
myself, to omit this important qualification,"

"I am sure, Charlotte, both Denbigh and Egerton appear to have a great
respect for religion; they are punctual at church, and very attentive to
the service:" Mrs, Wilson smiled as he proceeded, "but religion may come
after marriage, you know."

"Yes, brother, and I know it may not come at all; no really pious woman
can be happy, without her husband is in what she deems the road to future
happiness himself; and it is idle--it is worse--it is almost impious to
marry with a view to reform a husband: indeed, she greatly endangers her
own safety thereby; for few of us, I believe, but find the temptation to
err as much as we can contend with, without calling in the aid of example
against us, in an object we love; indeed it appears to me, the life of
such a woman must be a struggle between conflicting duties."

"Why," said the baronet, "if your plan were generally adopted, I am afraid
it would give a deadly blow to matrimony."

"I have nothing to do with generals, brother, I am acting for individual
happiness, and discharging individual duties: at the same time I cannot
agree with you in its effects on the community. I think no man who
dispassionately examines the subject, will be other than a Christian; and
rather than remain bachelors, they would take even that trouble; if the
strife in our sex were less for a husband, wives would increase in value."

"But how is it, Charlotte," said the baronet, pleasantly, "your sex do not
use your power and reform the age?"

"The work of reformation, Sir Edward," replied his sister, gravely, "is an
arduous one indeed, and I despair of seeing it general, in my day; but
much, very much, might be done towards it, if those who have the guidance
of youth would take that trouble with their pupils that good faith
requires of them, to discharge the minor duties of life."

"Women ought to marry," observed the baronet, musing.

"Marriage is certainly the natural and most desirable state for a woman,"
but how few are there who, having entered it, know how to discharge its
duties; more particularly those of a mother! On the subject of marrying
our daughters, for instance, instead of qualifying them to make a proper
choice, they are generally left to pick up such principles and opinions as
they may come at, as it were by chance. It is true, if the parent be a
Christian in name, certain of the externals of religion are observed; but
what are these, if not enforced by a consistent example in the
instructor?"

"Useful precepts are seldom lost, I believe, sister," said Sir Edward,
with confidence.

"Always useful, my dear brother; but young people are more observant than
we are apt to imagine, and are wonderfully ingenious in devising excuses
to themselves for their conduct. I have often heard it offered as an
apology, that father or mother knew it, or perhaps did it, and therefore
it could not be wrong: association is all-important to a child."

"I believe no family of consequence admits of improper associates within
my knowledge," said the baronet.

Mrs. Wilson smiled as she answered, "I am sure I hope not, Edward; but are
the qualifications we require in companions for our daughters, always such
as are most reconcileable with our good sense or our consciences; a single
communication with an objectionable character is a precedent, if known and
unobserved, which will be offered to excuse acquaintances with worse
persons: with the other sex, especially, their acquaintance should be very
guarded and select."

"You would make many old maids, sister."

"I doubt it greatly, brother; it would rather bring female society in
demand. I often regret that selfishness, cupidity, and the kind of strife
which prevails in our sex, on the road to matrimony, have brought celibacy
into disrepute. For my part, I never see an old maid, but I am willing to
think she is so from choice or principle, and although not in her proper
place, serviceable, by keeping alive feelings necessary to exist, that
marriages may not become curses instead of blessings."

"A kind of Eddystone, to prevent matrimonial shipwrecks," said the
brother, gayly.

"Their lot may be solitary, baronet, and in some measure cheerless, but
infinitely preferable to a marriage that may lead them astray from their
duties, or give birth to a family which are to be turned on the
world--without any religion but form--without any morals but truisms--or
without even a conscience which has not been seared by indulgence. I hope
that Anne, in the performance of her system, will have no cause to regret
its failure."

"Clara chose for herself, and has done well, Charlotte; and so, I doubt
not, will Jane and Emily: and I confess I think their mother is right."

"It is true," said Mrs. Wilson, "Clara has done well, though under
circumstances of but little risk; she might have jumped into your
fish-pond, and escaped with life, but the chances are she would drown: nor
do I dispute the right of the girls to choose for themselves; but I say
the rights extend to requiring us to qualify them to make their choice. I
am sorry, Edward, to be the instigator of doubts in your breast of the
worth of any one, especially as it may give you pain." Here Mrs. Wilson
took her brother affectionately by the hand, and communicated what she had
overheard that evening. Although the impressions of the baronet were not
as vivid, or as deep as those of his sister, his parental love was too
great not to make him extremely uneasy under the intelligence and after
thanking her for her attention to his children's welfare, he kissed her,
and withdrew. In passing to his own room, he met Egerton, that moment
returned from escorting Jarvis ladies to their lodgings; a task he had
undertaken at the request of Jane, as they were without any male
attendant. Sir Edward's heart was too full not to seek immediate relief,
and as he had strong hopes of the innocence of the colonel, though he
could give no reason for his expectation, he returned with him to the
parlor, and in a few words acquainted him with the slanders which had been
circulated at his expense; begging him by all means to disprove them as
soon as possible. The colonel was struck with the circumstance at first,
but assured Sir Edward, it was entirely untrue. He never played, as he
might have noticed, and that Mr. Holt was an ancient enemy of his. He
would in She morning take measures to convince Sir Edward, that he stood
higher in the estimation of his uncle, than Mr. Holt had thought proper to
state. Much relieved by this explanation, the baronet, forgetting that
this heavy charge removed, he only stood where he did before he took time
for his inquiries, assured him, that if he could convince him, or rather
his sister, he did not gamble, he would receive him as a son-in-law with
pleasure. The gentlemen shook hands and parted.

Denbigh had retired to his room early, telling Mr. Benfield he did not
feel well, and thus missed the party at supper; and by twelve, silence
prevailed in the house.

As usual after a previous day of pleasure, the party were late in
assembling on the following, yet Denbigh was the last who made his
appearance. Mrs. Wilson thought he threw a look round the room as he
entered, which prevented his making his salutations in his usual easy and
polished manner. In a few minutes, however, his awkwardness was removed,
and they took their seats at the table. At that moment the door of the
room was thrown hastily open, and Mr. Jarvis entered abruptly, and with a
look bordering on wildness in his eye--"Is she not here?" exclaimed the
merchant scanning the company closely.

"Who?" inquired all in a breath.

"Polly--my daughter--my child," said the merchant, endeavoring to control
his feelings; "did she not come here this morning with Colonel Egerton?"

He was answered in the negative, and he briefly explained the cause of his
anxiety. The colonel had called very early, and sent her maid up to his
daughter who rose immediately. They had quitted the house together,
leaving word the Miss Moseleys had sent for the young lady to breakfast,
for some particular reason. Such was the latitude allowed by his wife,
that nothing was suspected until one of the servants of the house said he
had seen Colonel Egerton and a lady drive out of the village that morning
in a post-chaise and four.

Then the old gentleman first took the alarm, and he proceeded instantly to
the lodge in quest of his daughter. Of the elopement there now remained no
doubt, and an examination into the state of the colonel's room, who, it
had been thought, was not yet risen, gave assurance of it. Here was at
once sad confirmation that the opinion of Mr. Holt was a just one.
Although every heart felt for Jane during this dreadful explanation, no
eye was turned on her excepting the stolen, and anxious glances of her
sister; but when all was confirmed, and nothing remained but to reflect or
act upon the circumstances, she naturally engrossed the whole attention of
her fond parents. Jane had listened in indignation to the commencement of
the narrative of Mr. Jarvis, and so firmly was Egerton enshrined in purity
within her imagination, that not until it was ascertained that both his
servant and clothes were missing, would she admit a thought injurious to
his truth. Then indeed the feelings of Mr. Jarvis, his plain statement
corroborated by this testimony, struck her at once as true; and as she
rose to leave the room, she fell senseless into the arms of Emily who
observing her movement and loss of color had flown to her assistance.
Denbigh had drawn the merchant out in vain efforts to appease him, and
happily no one witnessed this effect of Jane's passion but her nearest
relatives. She was immediately removed to her own room, and in a short
time was in bed with a burning fever. The bursts of her grief were
uncontrolled and violent. At times she reproached herself--her
friends--Egerton; in short, she was guilty of all the inconsistent
sensations that disappointed hopes, accompanied by the consciousness of
weakness on our part seldom fail to give rise to; the presence of her
friends was irksome to her, and it was only to the soft and insinuating
blandishments of Emily's love that she would at all yield. Perseverance
and affection at length prevailed, and as Emily took the opportunity of
some refreshments to infuse a strong soporific, Jane lost her
consciousness of misery in a temporary repose. In the mean time a more
searching inquiry had been able to trace out the manner and direction of
the journey of the fugitives.

It appeared the colonel left the lodge immediately after his conversation
with Sir Edward; he slept at a tavern, and caused his servant to remove
his baggage at daylight; here he had ordered a chaise and horses, and then
proceeded, as mentioned, to the lodgings of Mr. Jarvis. What arguments he
used with Miss Jarvis to urge her to so sudden a flight, remained a
secret; but from the remarks of Mrs. Jarvis and Miss Sarah, there was
reason to believe that he had induced them to think from the commencement,
that his intentions were single, and Mary Jarvis their object. How he
contrived to gloss over his attentions to Jane in such a manner as to
deceive those ladies, caused no little surprise; but it was obvious it had
been done, and the Moseleys were not without hopes his situation with
Jane would not make the noise in the world such occurrences seldom fail to
excite. In the afternoon a letter was handed to Mr. Jarvis, and by him
immediately communicated to the baronet and Denbigh, both of whom he
considered as among his best friends. It was from Egerton, and written in
a respectful manner: he apologized for his elopement, and excused it on
the ground of a wish to avoid the delay of a license or the publishing of
bans, as he was in hourly expectation of a summons to his regiment, and
contained many promises of making an attentive husband, and an
affectionate son. The fugitives were on the road to Scotland, whence they
intended immediately to return to London and to wait the commands of their
parents. The baronet in a voice trembling with emotion at the sufferings
of his own child, congratulated the merchant that things were no worse;
while Denbigh curled his lips as he read the epistle, and thought
settlements were a greater inconvenience than the bans--for it was a well
known fact, a maiden aunt had left the Jarvises twenty thousand pounds
between them.




Chapter XXVI.



Although the affections of Jane had sustained a blow, her pride had
received a greater, and no persuasions of her mother or sister could
induce her to leave her room. She talked little, but once or twice she
yielded to the affectionate attentions of Emily, and poured out her
sorrows into the bosom of her sister. At such moments she would declare
her intention of never appearing in the world again. One of these
paroxysms of sorrow was witnessed by her mother, and, for the first time,
self-reproach mingled in the grief of the matron. Had she trusted less to
appearances and to the opinions of indifferent and ill-judging
acquaintances, her daughter might have been apprized in season of the
character of the man who had stolen her affections. To a direct exhibition
of misery Lady Moseley was always sensible, and, for the moment, she
became alive to its causes and consequences; but a timely and judicious
safeguard against future moral evils was a forecast neither her inactivity
of mind nor abilities were equal to.

We shall leave Jane to brood over her lover's misconduct, while we regret
she is without the consolation alone able to bear her up against the
misfortunes of life, and return to the other personages of our history.

The visit to Mrs. Fitzgerald had been postponed in consequence of Jane's
indisposition; but a week after the colonel's departure, Mrs. Wilson
thought, as Jane had consented to leave her room, and Emily really began
to look pale from her confinement by the side of a sick bed, she would
redeem the pledge she had given the recluse on the following morning. They
found the ladies at the cottage happy to see them, and anxious to hear of
the health of Jane, of whose illness they had been informed by note. After
offering her guests some refreshments, Mrs. Fitzgerald, who appeared
laboring under a greater melancholy than usual, proceeded to make them
acquainted with the incidents of her life.

The daughter of an English merchant at Lisbon had fled from the house of
her father to the protection of an Irish officer in the service of his
Catholic Majesty: they were united, and the colonel immediately took his
bride to Madrid. The offspring of this union were a son and daughter. The
former, at an early age, had entered into the service of his king, and
had, as usual, been bred in the faith of his ancestors; but the Senora
McCarthy had been educated, and yet remained a Protestant, and, contrary
to her faith to her husband, secretly instructed her daughter in the same
belief. At the age of seventeen, a principal grandee of the court of
Charles sought the hand of the general's child. The Conde d'Alzada was a
match not to be refused, and they were united in the heartless and formal
manner in which marriages are too often entered into, in countries where
the customs of society prevent an intercourse between the sexes. The Conde
never possessed the affections of his wife. Of a stern and unyielding
disposition, his harshness repelled her love; and as she naturally turned
her eyes to the home of her childhood, she cherished all those peculiar
sentiments she had imbibed from her mother. Thus, although she appeared to
the world a Catholic, she lived in secret a Protestant. Her parents had
always used the English language in their family, and she spoke it as
fluently as the Spanish. To encourage her recollections of this strong
feature, which distinguished the house of her father from the others she
entered, she perused closely and constantly those books which the death of
her mother placed at her disposal. These were principally Protestant works
on religious subjects, and the countess became a strong sectarian, without
becoming a Christian. As she was compelled to use the same books in
teaching her only child, the Donna Julia, English, the consequences of the
original false step of her grandmother were perpetuated in the person of
this young lady. In learning English, she also learned to secede from the
faith of her father, and entailed upon herself a life of either
persecution or hypocrisy. The countess was guilty of the unpardonable
error of complaining to their child of the treatment she received from her
husband; and as these conversations were held in English, and were
consecrated by the tears of the mother, they made an indelible impression
on the youthful mind of Julia, who grew up with the conviction that next
to being a Catholic herself, the greatest evil of life was to be the wife
of one.

On her attaining her fifteenth year, she had the misfortune (if it could
be termed one) to lose her mother, and within the year her father
presented to her a nobleman of the vicinity as her future husband. How
long the religious faith of Julia would have endured, unsupported by
example in others, and assailed by the passions soliciting in behalf of a
young and handsome cavalier, it might be difficult to pronounce; but as
suitor was neither very young, and the reverse of very handsome, it is
certain the more he wooed, the more confirmed she became in her heresy,
until, in a moment of desperation, and as an only refuge against his
solicitations, she candidly avowed her creed. The anger of her father was
violent and lasting: she was doomed to a convent, as both a penance for
her sins and a means of reformation. Physical resistance was not in her
power, but mentally she determined never to yield. Her body was immured,
but her mind continued unshaken and rather more settled in her belief, by
the aid of those passions which had been excited by injudicious harshness.
For two years she continued in her novitiate, obstinately refusing to take
the vows of the order, and at the end of that period the situation of her
country had called her father and uncle to the field as defenders of the
rights of their lawful prince. Perhaps to this it was owing that harsher
measures were not adopted in her case.

The war now raged around them in its greatest horrors, until at length a
general battle was fought in the neighborhood, and the dormitories of the
peaceful nuns were crowded with wounded British officers. Amongst others
of his nation was a Major Fitzgerald, a young man of strikingly handsome
countenance and pleasant manners. Chance threw him under the more
immediate charge of Julia: his recovery was slow, and for a time doubtful,
and as much owing to good nursing as science. The major was grateful, and
Julia unhappy as she was beautiful. That love should be the offspring of
this association, will excite no surprise. A brigade of British encamping
in the vicinity of the convent, the young couple sought its protection
from Spanish vengeance and Romish cruelty. They were married by the
chaplain of the brigade, and for a month they were happy.

As Napoleon was daily expected in person at the seat of war, his generals
were alive to their own interests, if not to that of their master. The
body of troops in which Fitzgerald had sought a refuge, being an advanced
party of the main army, were surprised and defeated with loss. After doing
his duty as a soldier at his post, the major, in endeavoring to secure the
retreat of Julia, was intercepted, and they both fell into the hands of
the enemy. They were kindly treated, and allowed every indulgence their
situation admitted, until a small escort of prisoners was sent to the
frontiers; in this they were included, and had proceeded to the
neighborhood of the Pyrenees, when, in their turn, the French were
assailed suddenly, and entirely routed; and the captive Spaniards, of
which the party, with the exception of our young couple, consisted,
released. As the French guard made a resistance until overpowered by
numbers, an unfortunate ball struck Major Fitzgerald to the earth--he
survived but an hour, and died where he fell, on the open field. An
English officer, the last of his retiring countrymen, was attracted by the
sight of a woman weeping over the body of a fallen man, and approached
them. In a few words Fitzgerald explained his situation to this gentleman,
and exacted a pledge from him to guard his Julia, in safety, to his mother
in England.

The stranger promised everything the dying husband required, and by the
time death had closed the eyes of Fitzgerald, he had procured from some
peasants a rude conveyance, into which the body, with its almost equally
lifeless widow, were placed. The party which intercepted the convoy of
prisoners, had been out from the British camp on other duty, but its
commander hearing of the escort, had pushed rapidly into a country covered
by the enemy to effect their rescue; and his service done, he was
compelled to make a hasty retreat to ensure his own security. To this was
owing the indifference, which left the major to the care of the Spanish
peasantry who had gathered to the spot, and the retreating troops had got
several miles on their return, before the widow and her protector
commenced their journey. It was impossible to overtake them, and the
inhabitants acquainting the gentleman that a body of French dragoons were
already harassing their rear, he was compelled to seek another route to
the camp. This, with some trouble and no little danger, he at last
effected; and the day following the skirmish, Julia found herself lodged
in a retired Spanish dwelling, several miles within the advanced posts of
the British army. The body of her husband was respectfully interred, and
Julia was left to mourn her irretrievable loss, uninterrupted by anything
but by the hasty visits of the officer in whose care she had been
left--visits which he stole from his more important duties as a soldier.

A month glided by in this melancholy manner, leaving to Mrs. Fitzgerald
the only consolation she would receive--her incessant visits to the grave
of her husband. The calls of her protector, however, became more frequent;
and at length he announced his intended departure for Lisbon, on his way
to England. A small covered vehicle, drawn by one horse, was to convey
them to the city, at which place he promised to procure her a female
attendant, and necessaries for the voyage home. It was no time or place
for delicate punctilio; and Julia quietly, but with a heart nearly broken,
prepared to submit to the wishes of her late husband. After leaving the
dwelling, the manners of her guide sensibly altered; he became
complimentary and assiduous to please, but in a way rather to offend than
conciliate; until his attentions became so irksome, that Julia actually
meditated stopping at some of the villages through which they passed, and
abandoning the attempt of visiting England entirely. But the desire to
comply with Fitzgerald's wish, that she would console his mother for the
loss of an only child, and the dread of the anger of her relatives,
determined her to persevere until they reached Lisbon, where she was
resolved to separate for ever from the disagreeable and unknown guardian
into whose keeping she had been thrown by chance.

The last day of their weary ride, while passing a wood, the officer so far
forgot his own character and Julia's misfortunes, as to offer personal
indignities. Grown desperate from her situation, Mrs. Fitzgerald sprang
from the vehicle, and by her cries attracted the notice of an officer who
was riding express on the same road with themselves. He advanced to her
assistance at speed, but as he arrived near them, a pistol fired from the
carriage brought his horse down, and the treacherous friend was enabled to
escape undetected. Julia endeavored to explain her situation to her
rescuer; and by her distress and appearance, satisfied him at once of its
truth. Within a short time, a strong escort of light dragoons came up, and
the officer despatched some for a conveyance, and others in pursuit of
that disgrace to the army, the villanous guide: the former was soon
obtained, but no tidings could be had of the latter. The carriage was
found at a short distance, without the horse and with the baggage of
Julia, but with no vestige of its owner. She never knew his name, and
either accident or art had so completely enveloped him in mystery, that
all efforts to unfold it then were fruitless, and had continued so ever
since.

On their arrival in Lisbon, every attention was shown to the disconsolate
widow the most refined delicacy could, dictate, and every comfort and
respect were procured for her which the princely fortune, high rank, and
higher character of the Earl of Pendennyss, could, command. It was this
nobleman, who, on his way from head-quarters with despatches for England,
had been the means of preserving Julia from a fate worse than death. A
packet was in waiting for the earl, and they proceeded in her for home.
The Donna Lorenza was the widow of a subaltern Spanish officer, who had
fallen under the orders and near Pendennyss, and the interest he took in
her brave husband had induced him to offer her, in the destruction of her
little fortune by the enemy, his protection: for near two years he had
maintained her at Lisbon and now, judging her a proper person, had
persuaded her to accompany Mrs. Fitzgerald to England.

On the passage, which was very tedious, the earl became more intimately
acquainted with the history and character of his young friend, and by a
course of gentle yet powerful expedients had drawn her mind gradually from
its gloomy contemplation of futurity, to a juster sense of good and evil
The peculiarity of her religious persuasion afforded an introduction to
frequent discussions of the real opinions of that church, to which Julia
had hitherto belonged, although ignorant of all its essential and vital
truths. These conversations, which were renewed repeatedly in their
intercourse while under the protection of his sister in London, laid the
foundations of a faith which left her nothing to hope for but the happy
termination of her earthly probation.

The mother of Fitzgerald was dead, and as he had no near relative left,
Julia found herself alone in the world. Her husband had taken the
precaution to make a will in season it was properly authenticated, and his
widow, by the powerful assistance of Pendennyss, was put in quiet
possession of a little independency. It was while waiting the decision of
this affair that Mrs. Fitzgerald resided for a short time near Bath. As
soon as it was terminated, the earl and his sister had seen her settled in
her present abode, and once since had they visited her; but delicacy had
kept him away from the cottage, although his attempts to serve her had
been constant, though not always successful. He had, on his return to
Spain, seen her father, and interceded with him on her behalf, but in
vain. The anger of the Spaniard remained unappeased, and for a season he
did not renew his efforts; out having heard that her father was
indisposed, Julia had employed the earl once more to make her peace with
him, without prevailing. The letter the ladies had found her weeping over
was from Pendennyss, informing her of his want of success on that
occasion.

The substance of the foregoing narrative was related by Mrs. Fitzgerald to
Mrs. Wilson, who repeated it to Emily in their ride home. The compassion
of both ladies was strongly moved in behalf of the young widow; yet Mrs.
Wilson did not fail to point out to her niece the consequences of
deception, and chiefly the misery which had followed from an abandonment
of some of the primary duties of life--obedience and respect to her parent
Emily, though keenly alive to all the principles inculcated by her aunt,
found so much to be pitied in the fate of her friend, that her failings
lost their proper appearance in her eyes, and for a while she could think
of nothing but Julia and her misfortunes. Previously to their leaving the
cottage, Mrs. Fitzgerald, with glowing cheeks and some hesitation,
informed Mrs. Wilson she had yet another important communication to make,
but would postpone it until her next visit, which Mrs. Wilson promised
should be on the succeeding day.




Chapter XXVII.



Emily threw a look of pleasure on Denbigh, as he handed her from the
carriage, which would have said, if looks could talk, "In the principles
you have displayed on more than one occasion, I have a pledge of _your_
worth." As he led her into the house, he laughingly informed her that he
had that morning received a letter which would make his absence from L----
necessary for a short time, and that he must remonstrate against these
long and repeated visits to a cottage where all attendants of the male sex
were excluded, as they encroached greatly on his pleasures and
improvements, bowing, as he spoke, to Mrs. Wilson. To this Emily replied,
gaily, that possibly, if he conducted himself to their satisfaction; they
would intercede for _his_ admission. Expressing his pleasure at this
promise, as Mrs. Wilson thought rather awkwardly, Denbigh changed the
conversation. At dinner he repeated to the family what he had mentioned to
Emily of his departure, and also his expectation of meeting with Lord
Chatterton during his journey.

"Have you heard from Chatterton lately, John?" inquired Sir Edward
Moseley.

"Yes, sir, to-day: he had left Denbigh Castle a fortnight since, and
writes he is to meet his friend, the duke, at Bath."

"Are you connected with his grace, Mr. Denbigh?" asked Lady Moseley.

A smile of indefinite meaning played on the expressive face of Denbigh, as
he answered slightly--

"On the side of my father, madam."

"He has a sister," continued Lady Moseley, willing to know more of
Chatterton's friends and Denbigh's relatives.

"He has," was the brief reply.

"Her name is Harriet," observed Mrs. Wilson. Denbigh bowed his assent in
silence, and Emily timidly added--

"Lady Harriet Denbigh?"

"Lady Harriet Denbigh--will you do me the favor to take wine?"

The manner of the gentleman during this dialogue had not been in the least
unpleasant, but it was peculiar; it prohibited anything further on the
subject; and Emily was obliged to be content without knowing who Marian
was, or whether her name was to be found in the Denbigh family or not.
Emily was not in the least jealous, but she wished to know all to whom her
lover was dear.

"Do the Dowager and the young ladies accompany Chatterton?" asked Sir
Edward, as he turned to John, who was eating his fruit in silence.

"Yes, sir--I hope--that is, I believe she will," was the answer.

"She! Who is she, my son?"

"Grace Chatterton," said John, starting from his meditations. "Did you not
ask me about Grace, Sir Edward?"

"Not particularly, I believe," said the baronet, dryly.

Denbigh again smiled: it was a smile different from any Mrs. Wilson had
ever seen on his countenance, and gave an entirely novel expression to his
face; it was full of meaning it was knowing--spoke more of the man of the
world than anything she had before noticed in him, and left on her mind
one of those vague impressions she was often troubled with, that there was
something about Denbigh in character or condition, or both, that was
mysterious.

The spirit of Jane was too great to leave her a pining or pensive maiden;
yet her feelings had sustained a shock that time alone could cure. She
appeared again amongst her friends; but the consciousness of her
expectations with respect to the colonel being known to them, threw around
her a hauteur and distance very foreign to her natural manner. Emily
alone, whose every movement sprang from the spontaneous feelings of her
heart, and whose words and actions were influenced by the finest and most
affectionate delicacy, such as she was not conscious of possessing
herself, won upon the better feelings of her sister so far, as to restore
between them the usual exchange of kindness and sympathy. But Jane
admitted no confidence; she found nothing consoling, nothing solid, to
justify her attachment to Egerton; nothing indeed, excepting such external
advantages as she was now ashamed to admit had ever the power over her
they in reality had possessed. The marriage of the fugitives in Scotland
had been announced; and as the impression that Egerton was to be connected
with the Moseleys was destroyed of course, their every-day acquaintances,
feeling the restraints removed that such an opinion had once imposed, were
free in their comments on his character. Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were
astonished to find how many things to his disadvantage were generally
known; that he gambled--intrigued--and was in debt--were no secrets
apparently to anybody, but to those who were most interested in knowing
the truth; while Mrs. Wilson saw in these facts additional reasons for
examining and judging for ourselves; the world uniformly concealing from
the party and his friends their honest opinions of his character. Some of
these insinuations reached the ears of Jane: her aunt having rightly
judged, that the surest way to destroy Egerton's power over the
imagination of her niece was to strip him of his fictitious qualities,
suggested this expedient to Lady Moseley; and some of their visitors had
though as the colonel had certainly been attentive to Miss Moseley, it
would give her pleasure to know that her rival had not made the most
eligible match in the kingdom. The project of Mrs. Wilson succeeded in a
great measure; but although Egerton fell, Jane did not find she rose in
Her own estimation; and her friends wisely concluded that time was the
only remedy that could restore her former serenity.

In the morning, Mrs. Wilson, unwilling to have Emily present at a
conversation she intended to hold with Denbigh, with a view to satisfy her
annoying doubts as to some minor points in his character, after excusing
herself to her niece, invited that gentleman to a morning drive. He
accepted her invitation cheerfully; and Mrs. Wilson saw, it was only as
they drove from the door without Emily, that he betrayed the faintest
reluctance to the jaunt. When they had got a short distance from the lodge
she acquainted him with her intention of presenting him to Mrs.
Fitzgerald, whither she had ordered the coachman to proceed. Denbigh
started as she mentioned the name, and after a few moments' silence,
desired Mrs. Wilson to allow him to stop the carriage; he was not very
well--was sorry to be so rude--but with her permission, he would alight
and return to the house. As he requested in an earnest manner that she
would proceed without him, and by no means disappoint her friend, Mrs.
Wilson complied; yet, somewhat at a loss to account for his sudden
illness, she turned her head to see how the sick man fared, a short time
after he had left her, and was not a little surprised to see him talking
very composedly with John who had met him on his way to the fields with
his gun. Lovesick--thought Mrs. Wilson with a smile; and as she rode on
she came to the conclusion, that as Denbigh was to leave them soon, Emily
would have an important communication to make on her return.

"Well," thought Mrs. Wilson with a sigh, "if it is to happen, it may as
well be done at once."

Mrs. Fitzgerald was expecting her, and appeared rather pleased than
otherwise that she had come alone. After some introductory conversation,
the ladies withdrew by themselves, and Julia acquainted Mrs. Wilson with a
new source of uneasiness. The day the ladies had promised to visit her,
but had been prevented by the arrangements for the ball, the Donna Lorenza
had driven to the village to make some purchases, attended as usual by
their only man-servant, and Mrs. Fitzgerald was sitting in the little
parlor in momentary expectation of her friends by herself. The sound of
footsteps drew her to the door, which she opened for the admission of the
wretch whose treachery to her dying husband's requests had given her so
much uneasiness. Horror--fear--surprise--altogether, prevented her from,
making any alarm at the moment, and she sank into a chair. He stood
between her and the door, as he endeavored to draw her into a
conversation; he assured her she had nothing to fear; that he loved her,
and her alone; that he was about to be married to a daughter of Sir Edward
Moseley, but would give her up, fortune, everything, if she would consent
to become his wife--that the views of her protector, he doubted not, were
dishonorable--that he himself was willing to atone for his former excess
of passion, by a life devoted to her.

How much longer he would have gone on, and what further he would have
offered, is unknown; for Mrs. Fitzgerald, having recovered herself a
little, darted to the bell on the other side of the room; he tried to
prevent her ringing it, but was too late; a short struggle followed, when
the sound of the footsteps of the maid compelled him to retreat
precipitately. Mrs. Fitzgerald added, that his assertion concerning Miss
Moseley had given her incredible uneasiness, and prevented her making the
communication yesterday; but she understood this morning through her maid,
that a Colonel Egerton, who had been supposed to be engaged to one of Sir
Edward's daughters, had eloped with another lady. That Egerton was her
persecutor, she did not now entertain a doubt; but that it was in the
power of Mrs. Wilson probably to make the discovery, as in the struggle
between them for the bell, a pocket-book had fallen from the breast-pocket
of his coat, and his retreat was too sudden to recover it.

As she put the book into the hands of Mrs. Wilson, she desired she would
take means to return it to its owner; its contents might be of value,
though she had not thought it correct to examine it. Mrs. Wilson took the
book, and as she dropped it into her work-bag, smiled at the Spanish
punctilio of her friend in not looking into her prize under the peculiar
circumstances.

A few questions as to the place and year of his first attempts, soon
convinced her it was Egerton whose unlicensed passions had given so much
trouble to Mrs. Fitzgerald. He had served but one campaign in Spain, and
in that year, and that division of the army; and surely _his principles_
were no restraint upon his conduct. Mrs. Fitzgerald begged the advice of
her more experienced friend as to the steps she ought to take; to which
the former asked if she had made Lord Pendennyss acquainted with the
occurrence. The young widow's cheek glowed as she answered, that, at the
same time she felt assured the base insinuation of Egerton was unfounded,
it had created a repugnance in her to troubling the earl any more than was
necessary in her affairs; and as she kissed the hand of Mrs. Wilson she
added--"besides, your goodness, my dear madam, renders any other adviser
unnecessary now." Mrs. Wilson pressed her hand affectionately, and assured
her of her good wishes and unaltered esteem. She commended her delicacy,
and plainly told the young widow, that how ever unexceptionable the
character of Pendennyss might be, a female friend was the only one a woman
in her situation could repose confidence in, without justly incurring the
sarcasms of the world.

As Egerton was now married, and would not probably offer, for the present
at least, any further molestation to Mrs. Fitzgerald, it was concluded to
be unnecessary to take any immediate measures of precaution; and Mrs.
Wilson thought the purse of Mr. Jarvis might be made the means of keeping
him within proper bounds in future. The merchant was prompt, and not
easily intimidated; and the slightest intimation of the truth would, she
knew, be sufficient to engage him on their side, heart and hand.

The ladies parted, with a promise of meeting soon again, and an additional
interest in each other by the communications of that and the preceding
day.

Mrs. Wilson had ridden half the distance between the cottage and the
lodge, before it occurred to her they had not absolutely ascertained, by
the best means in their possession, the identity of Colonel Egerton with
Julia's persecutor. She accordingly took the pocket-book from her bag, and
opened it for examination: a couple of letters fell from it into her lap,
and conceiving their direction would establish all she wished to know, as
they had been read, she turned to the superscription of one of them, and
saw--"George Denbigh, Esq." in the well known hand-writing of Dr.
Ives.--Mrs. Wilson felt herself overcome to a degree that compelled her
to lower a glass of the carriage for air. She sat gazing on the letters
until the characters swam before her eyes in undistinguished confusion;
and with difficulty she rallied her thoughts to the point necessary for
investigation. As soon as she found herself equal to the task, she
examined the letters with the closest scrutiny, and opened them both to be
sure there was no mistake. She saw the dates, the "dear George" at the
commencements, and the doctor's name subscribed, before she would believe
they were real; it was then the truth appeared to break upon her in a
flood of light. The aversion of Denbigh to speak of Spain, or of his
services in that country--his avoiding Sir Herbert Nicholson, and that
gentleman's observations respecting him--Colonel Egerton's and his own
manners--his absence from the ball, and startling looks on the following
morning, and at different times before and since--his displeasure at the
name of Pendennyss on various occasions--and his cheerful acceptance of
her invitation to ride until he knew her destination, and singular manner
of leaving her--were all accounted for by this dreadful discovery, and
Mrs. Wilson found the solution of her doubts rushing on her mind with a
force and rapidity that sickened her.

The misfortunes of Mrs. Fitzgerald, the unfortunate issue to the passion
of Jane, were trifles in the estimation of Mrs. Wilson, compared to the
discovery of Denbigh's unworthiness. She revolved in her mind his conduct
on various occasions, and wondered how one who could behave so well in
common, could thus yield to temptation on a particular occasion. His
recent attempts, his hypocrisy, however, proved that his villany was
systematic, and she was not weak enough to hide from herself the evidence
of his guilt, or of its enormity. His interposition between Emily and
death, she attributed now to natural courage, and perhaps in some measure
to chance; but his profound and unvarying reverence for holy things, his
consistent charity, his refusing to fight, to what were they owing? And
Mrs. Wilson mourned the weakness of human nature, while she acknowledged
to her self, there might be men, qualified by nature, and even disposed by
reason and grace, to prove ornaments to religion and the world, who fell
beneath the maddening influence of their besetting sins. The superficial
and interested vices of Egerton vanished before these awful and deeply
seated offences of Denbigh, and the correct widow saw at a glance, that he
was the last man to be intrusted with the happiness of her niece; but how
to break this heartrending discovery to Emily was a new source of
uneasiness to her, and the carriage stopped at the door of the lodge, ere
she had determined on the first step required of her by duty.

Her brother handed her out, and, filled with the dread that Denbigh had
availed himself of the opportunity of her absence to press his suit with
Emily, she eagerly inquired after him. She was rejoiced to hear he had
returned with John for a fowling-piece, and together they had gone in
pursuit of game, although she saw in it a convincing proof that a desire
to avoid Mrs. Fitzgerald, and not indisposition, had induced him to leave
her.--As a last alternative, she resolved to have the pocket-book returned
to him in her presence, in order to see if he acknowledged it to be his
property; and, accordingly, she instructed her own man to hand it to him
while at dinner, simply saying he had lost it.

The open and unsuspecting air with which her niece met Denbigh on his
return gave Mrs. Wilson an additional shock, and she could hardly command
herself sufficiently to extend the common courtesies of good breeding to
Mr. Benfield's guest.

While sitting at the dessert, her servant handed the pocket book, as
directed by his mistress, to its owner, saying, "Your pocket-book, I
believe, Mr. Denbigh." Denbigh took the book, and held it in his hand for
a moment in surprise, and then fixed his eye keenly on the man, as he
inquired where he found it, and how he knew it was his. These were
interrogatories Francis was not prepared to answer, and in his confusion
he naturally turned his eyes on his mistress. Denbigh followed their
direction with his own, and in encountering the looks of the lady, he
asked in a stammering manner, and with a face of scarlet,

"Am I indebted to you, madam, for my property?"

"No, sir; it was given me by one who found it, to restore to you," said
Mrs. Wilson, gravely, and the subject was dropped, both appearing willing
to say no more. Yet Denbigh was abstracted and absent during the remainder
of the repast, and Emily spoke to him once or twice without obtaining an
answer. Mrs. Wilson caught his eye several times fixed on her with an
inquiring and doubtful expression, that convinced her he was alarmed. If
any confirmation of his guilt had been wanting, the consciousness he
betrayed during this scene afforded it; and she set seriously about
considering the shortest and best method of interrupting his intercourse
with Emily, before he had drawn from her an acknowledgment of her love.




Chapter XXVIII.



On withdrawing to her dressing-room after dinner, Mrs. Wilson commenced
the disagreeable duty of removing the veil from the eyes of her niece, by
recounting to her the substance of Mrs. Fitzgerald's last communication.
To the innocence of Emily such persecution could excite no other
sensations than surprise and horror; and as her aunt omitted the part
concerning the daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, she naturally expressed her
wonder as to who the wretch could be.

"Possibly, aunt," she said with an involuntary shudder, "some of the many
gentlemen we have lately seen, and one who has had art enough to conceal
his real character from the world."

"Concealment, my love," replied Mrs. Wilson, "would be hardly necessary.
Such is the fashionable laxity of morals, that I doubt not many of his
associates would laugh at his misconduct, and that he would still continue
to pass with the world as an honorable man."

"And ready," cried her niece, "to sacrifice human life, in the defence of
any ridiculous punctilio."

"Or," added Mrs. Wilson, striving to draw nearer to her subject, "with a
closer veil of hypocrisy, wear even an affectation of principle and moral
feeling that would seem to forbid such a departure from duty in favor of
custom."

"Oh! no, dear aunt," exclaimed Emily, with glowing cheeks and eyes dancing
with pleasure, "he would hardly dare to be so very base. It would be
profanity."

Mrs. Wilson sighed heavily as she witnessed that confiding esteem which
would not permit her niece even to suspect that an act which in Denbigh
had been so warmly applauded, could, even in another, proceed from
unworthy motives; and she found it would be necessary to speak in the
plainest terms, to awaken her suspicions. Willing, however, to come
gradually to the distressing truth, she replied--

"And yet, my dear, men who pride themselves greatly on their morals, nay,
even some who wear the mask of religion, and perhaps deceive themselves,
admit and practise this very appeal to arms. Such inconsistencies are by
no means uncommon. And why, then, might there not, with equal probability,
be others who would revolt at murder, and yet not hesitate being guilty of
lesser enormities? This is, in some measure, the case of every man; and it
is only to consider killing in unlawful encounters as murder, to make it
one in point."

"Hypocrisy is so mean a vice, I should not think a brave man could stoop
to it," said Emily, "and Julia admits he was brave."

"And would not a brave man revolt at the cowardice of insulting an
unprotected woman? And your hero did that too," replied Mrs. Wilson,
bitterly, losing her self-command in indignation.

"Oh! do not call him my hero, I beg of you, dear aunt," said Emily,
starting, excited by so extraordinary an allusion, but instantly losing
the unpleasant sensation in the delightful consciousness of the
superiority of the man on whom she had bestowed her own admiration.

"In fact, my child," continued her aunt, "our natures are guilty of the
grossest inconsistencies. The vilest wretch has generally some property or
which he values himself, and the most perfect are too often frail on some
tender point. Long and tried friendships are those only which can be
trusted, and these oftentimes fail."

Emily looked at her aunt in surprise at hearing her utter such unusual
sentiments; for Mrs. Wilson, at the same time she had, by divine
assistance, deeply impressed her niece with the frailty of her nature, had
withheld the disgusting representation of human vices from her view, as
unnecessary to her situation and dangerous to her humility.

After a short pause, Mrs. Wilson continued, "Marriage is a fearful step in
a woman, and one she is compelled, in some measure, to adventure her
happiness on, without fitting opportunities of judging of the merit of the
man she confides in. Jane is an instance in point, but I devoutly hope you
are not to be another."

While speaking, Mrs. Wilson had taken the hand of Emily, and by her looks
and solemn manner she had succeeded in alarming her niece, although
Denbigh was yet furthest from the thoughts of Emily. The aunt reached her
a glass of water, and willing to get rid of the hateful subject she
continued, hurriedly, "Did you not notice the pocket-book Francis gave to
Mr. Denbigh?" Emily fixed her inquiring eyes on her aunt, as the other
added, "It was the one Mrs. Fitzgerald gave me to-day." Something like an
indefinite glimpse of the facts crossed the mind of Emily; and as it most
obviously involved a separation from Denbigh, she sank lifeless into the
extended arms of her aunt. This had been anticipated by Mrs. Wilson, and a
timely application of restoratives soon brought her back to a
consciousness of misery. Mrs. Wilson, unwilling any one but herself should
witness this first burst of grief, succeeded in getting her niece to her
own room and in bed. Emily made no lamentations--shed no tears--asked no
questions--her eye was fixed, and every faculty appeared oppressed with
the load on her heart. Mrs. Wilson knew her situation too well to intrude
with unseasonable consolation or useless reflections, but sat patiently by
her side, waiting anxiously for the moment she could be of service. At
length the uplifted eyes and clasped hands of Emily assured her she had
not forgotten herself or her duty, and she was rewarded for her labor and
forbearance by a flood of tears. Emily was now able to listen to a more
full statement of the reasons her aunt had for believing in the guilt of
Denbigh, and she felt as if her heart was frozen up for ever, as the
proofs followed each other until they amounted to demonstration. As there
was some indication of fever from her agitated state of mind, her aunt
required she should remain in her room until morning; and Emily, feeling
every way unequal to a meeting with Denbigh, gladly assented After ringing
for her maid to sit in the adjoining room, Mrs. Wilson went below, and
announced to the family the indisposition of her charge, and her desire to
obtain a little sleep. Denbigh looked anxious to inquire after the health
of Emily, but there was a restraint on all his actions, since the return
of his book, that persuaded Mrs. Wilson he apprehended that a detection of
his conduct had taken place. He did venture to ask when they were to have
the pleasure of seeing Miss Moseley again, hoping it would be that
evening, as he had fixed the morning for his departure; and when he learnt
that Emily had retired for the night, his anxiety was sensibly increased,
and he instantly withdrew. Mrs. Wilson was alone in the drawing-room, and
about to join her niece, as, Denbigh entered it with a letter in his hand:
he approached her with a diffident and constrained manner, and commenced
the following dialogue:

"My anxiety and situation will plead my apology for troubling Miss Moseley
at this time--may I ask you, madam, to deliver this letter--I hardly dare
ask you for your good offices."

Mrs. Wilson took the letter, and coldly replied,

"Certainly, sir; and I sincerely wish I could be of any real service to
you."

"I perceive, madam," said Denbigh, like one that was choking, "I have
forfeited your good opinion--that pocket book--"

"Has made a dreadful discovery," said Mrs. Wilson, shuddering.

"Will not one offence be pardoned, dear madam?" cried Denbigh, with
warmth; "if you knew my circumstances--the cruel reasons--why--why did I
neglect the paternal advice of Doctor Ives?"

"It is not yet too late, sir," said Mrs. Wilson, more mildly, "for your
own good; as for us, your deception--"

"Is unpardonable--I see it--I feel it," cried he, in the accent of
despair; "yet Emily--Emily may relent--you will at least give her my
letter--anything is better than this suspense."

"You shall have an answer from Emily this evening, and one entirely
unbiassed by me," said Mrs. Wilson. As she closed the door, she observed
Denbigh gazing on her retiring figure with a countenance of despair, that
caused a feeling of pity to mingle with her detestation of his vices.

On opening the door of Emily's room, Mrs. Wilson found her niece in tears,
and her anxiety for her health was alleviated. She knew or hoped, that if
she could once call in the assistance of her judgment and piety to lessen
her sorrows, Emily, however she might mourn, would become resigned to her
situation; and the first step to attain this was the exercise of those
faculties which had been, as it were, momentarily annihilated. Mrs. Wilson
kissed her niece with tenderness, as she placed the letter in her hand,
and told her she would call for her answer within an hour. Employment, and
the necessity of acting, would, she thought, be the surest means of
reviving her energies; nor was she disappointed. When the aunt returned
for the expected answer, she was informed by the maid in the ante-chamber,
that Miss Moseley was up, and had been writing. On entering, Mrs. Wilson
stood a moment in admiration of the picture before her. Emily was on her
knees, and by her side, on the carpet, lay the letter and its answer: her
face was hid by her hair, and her hands were closed in the fervent grasp
of petition. In a minute she rose, and approaching her aunt with an air of
profound resignation, but great steadiness, she handed her the letters,
her own unsealed:

"Read them, madam, and if you approve of mine, I will thank you to deliver
it."

Her aunt folded her in her arms, until Emily, finding herself yielding
under the effects of sympathy, begged to be left alone. On withdrawing to
her own room, Mrs. Wilson read the contents of the two letters.

"I rely greatly on the goodness of Miss Moseley to pardon the liberty I am
taking, at a moment she is so unfit for such a subject; but my
departure--my feelings--- must plead my apology. From the moment of my
first acquaintance with you, I have been a cheerful subject to your
loveliness and innocence. I feel--I know--I am not deserving of such a
blessing; but since knowing you, as I do, it is impossible not to strive
to win you. You have often thanked me as the preserver of your life, but
you little knew the deep interest I had in its safety. Without it my own
would be valueless. By accepting my offered hand, you will place me
amongst the happiest, or by rejecting it, the most wretched of men."

To this note, which was unsigned, and evidently written under great
agitation of mind, Emily had-penned the following reply:

"Sir--It is with much regret that I find myself reduced to the possibility
of giving uneasiness to one to whom I am under such heavy obligations. It
will never be in my power to accept the honor you have offered me; and I
beg you to receive my thanks for the compliment conveyed in your request,
as well as my good wishes for your happiness in future, and fervent
prayers that you may be ever found worthy of it--Your humble servant,

"EMILY MOSELEY."

Perfectly satisfied with this answer, Mrs. Wilson went below in order to
deliver it at once. She thought it probable, as Denbigh had already sent
his baggage to a tavern, preparatory to his intended journey, they would
not meet again; and as she felt a strong wish, both on account of Doctor
Ives, and out of respect to the services of the young man himself, to
conceal his conduct from the world entirely, she was in hopes that his
absence might make any disclosure unnecessary. He took the letter from her
with a trembling hand, and casting one of his very expressive looks at
her, as if to read her thoughts, he withdrew.

Emily had fallen asleep free from fever, and Mrs. Wilson had descended to
the supper-room, when Mr. Benfield was first struck with the absence of
his favorite. An inquiry after Denbigh was instituted, and while they were
waiting his appearance, a servant handed the old man a note.

"From whom?" cried Mr. Benfield, in surprise.

"Mr. Denbigh, sir," said the servant.

"Mr. Denbigh?" exclaimed Mr. Benfield: "no accident, I hope--I remember
when Lord Gosford--here, Peter, your eyes are young; read it for me, read
it aloud."

As all but Mrs. Wilson were anxiously waiting to know the meaning of this
message, and Peter had many preparations to go through before his youthful
eyes could make out the contents, John hastily caught the letter out of
his hand, saying he would save him the trouble, and, in obedience to his
uncle's wishes, he read aloud:

"Mr. Denbigh, being under the necessity of leaving L---- immediately, and
unable to endure the pain of taking leave, avails himself of this means of
tendering his warmest thanks to Mr. Benfield, for his hospitality, and to
his amiable guests for their many kindnesses. As he contemplates leaving
England, he desires to wish them all a long and an affectionate farewell."

"Farewell!" cried Mr. Benfield; "farewell--does he say farewell, John?
Here, Peter, run--no, you are too old--John, run--bring my hat; I'll go
myself to the village--some love-quarrel--Emmy sick--and Denbigh going
away--yes--yes, I did so myself--Lady Juliana, poor dear soul, she was a
long time before she could forget it--but Peter"--Peter had disappeared
the instant the letter was finished, and he was quickly followed by John.
Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were lost in amazement at this sudden and
unexpected movement of Denbigh, and the breast of each of the affectionate
parents was filled with a vague apprehension that the peace of mind of
another child was at stake. Jane felt a renewal of her woes, in the
anticipation of something similar for her sister--for the fancy of Jane
was yet active, and she did not cease to consider the defection of Egerton
a kind of unmerited misfortune and fatality, instead of a probable
consequence of want of principle. Like Mr. Benfield, she was in danger of
raising an ideal idol, and of spending the remainder of her days in
devotion to qualities, rarely if ever found identified with a person that
never had existed. The old gentleman was entirely engrossed by a different
object; and having in his own opinion decided there must have been one of
those misunderstandings which sometimes had occurred to himself and Lady
Juliana, he quietly composed himself to eat his salad at the supper table:
on turning his head, however, in quest of his first glass of wine, he
observed Peter standing quietly by the sideboard with the favorite goggles
over his eyes. Now Peter was troubled with two kinds of debility about his
organs of vision; one was age and natural weakness, while the other
proceeded more directly from the heart. His master knew of these facts,
and he took the alarm. Again the wine-glass dropped from his nerveless
hand, as he said in a trembling tone,

"Peter, I thought you went"--

"Yes, master," said Peter, laconically.

"You saw him, Peter--will he return?"

Peter was busily occupied at his glasses, although no one was dry.

"Peter," repeated Mr. Benfield, rising from his seat; "is he coming in
time for supper?"

Peter was obliged to reply, and deliberately uncasing his eyes and blowing
his nose, he was on the point of opening his mouth, as John came into the
room, and threw himself into a chair with an air of great vexation. Peter
pointed to the young gentleman in silence, and retired.

"John," cried Sir Edward, "where is Denbigh?"

"Gone, sir."

"Gone!"

"Yes, my dear father," said John, "gone without saying good-bye to one of
us--without telling us whither, or when to return. It was cruel in him---
unkind--I'll never forgive him"--and John, whose feelings were strong,
and unusually excited, hid his face between his hands on the table.--As he
raised his head to reply to a question of Mr. Benfield--of "how he knew he
had gone, for the coach did not go until daylight?" Mrs. Wilson saw
evident marks of tears. Such proofs of emotion in one like John Moseley
gave her the satisfaction of knowing that if she had been deceived, it was
by a concurrence of circumstances and a depth of hypocrisy almost
exceeding belief: self-reproach added less than common, therefore, to the
uneasiness of the moment.

"I saw the innkeeper, uncle," said John, "who told me that Denbigh left
there at eight o'clock in a post-chaise and four; but I will go to London
in the morning myself." This was no sooner said than it was corroborated
by acts, for the young man immediately commenced his preparations for the
journey. The family separated that evening with melancholy hearts; and the
host and his privy counsellor were closeted for half an hour ere they
retired to their night's repose. John took his leave of them, and left the
lodge for the inn, with his man, in order to be ready for the mail. Mrs,
Wilson looked in upon Emily before she withdrew herself, and found her
awake, but perfectly calm and composed: she said but little, appearing
desirous of avoiding all allusions to Denbigh; and after her aunt had
simply acquainted her with his departure, and her resolution to conceal
the cause, the subject was dropped. Mrs. Wilson, on entering her own room,
thought deeply on the discoveries of the day: they had interfered with her
favorite system of morals, baffled her ablest calculations upon causes and
effects, but in no degree had impaired her faith or reliance on
Providence. She knew one exception did not destroy a rule: she was certain
without principles there was no security for good conduct, and the case
of Denbigh proved it. To discover these principles, might be difficult;
but was a task imperiously required at her hands, as she believed, ere she
yielded the present and future happiness of her pupil to the power of any
man.




Chapter XXIX.


The day had not yet dawned, when John Moseley was summoned to take his
seat in the mail for London. Three of the places were already occupied,
and John was compelled to get a seat for his man on the outside. An
intercourse with strangers is particularly irksome to an Englishman, and
none appeared disposed, for a long time, to break the silence. The coach
had left the little village of L---- far behind it, before any of the
rational beings it contained thought it prudent or becoming to bend in the
least to the charities of our nature, in a communication with a fellow
creature of whose name or condition he happened to be ignorant. This
reserve is unquestionably characteristic of the nation; to what is it
owing!--modesty? Did not national and deep personal vanity appear at once
to refute the assertion, we might enter into an investigation of it. The
good opinion of himself in an Englishman is more deeply seated, though
less buoyant, than that of his neighbors; in them it is more of manner, in
us more of feeling; and the wound inflicted on the self-love of the two is
very different. The Frenchman wonders at its rudeness, but soon forgets
the charge; while an Englishmam broods over it in silence and
mortification. It is said this distinction in character is owing to the
different estimation of principles and morals in the two nations. The
solidity and purity of our ethics and religious creeds may have given a
superior tone to our moral feeling; but has that man a tenable ground to
value himself on either, whose respect to sacred things grows out of a
respect to himself: on the other hand, is not humility the very
foundation of the real Christian? For our part, we should be glad to see
this national reserve lessened, if not done entirely away; we believe it
is founded in pride and uncharitableness, and could wish to see men thrown
accidentally together on the roads of the country, mindful that they are
also travelling in company the highway of life, and that the goal of their
destination is equally attainable by all.

John Moseley was occupied with thoughts very different from those of any
of his fellow-travellers, as they proceeded rapidly on their route; and it
was only when roused from his meditations by accidentally coming in
contact with the hilt of a sword, that he looked up, and in the
glimmerings of the morning's light, recognised the person of Lord Henry
Stapleton: their eyes met, and--"My lord,"--"Mr. Moseley,"--were repeated
in mutual surprise. John was eminently a social being, and he was happy to
find recourse against his gloomy thoughts in the conversation of the
dashing young sailor. The frigate of the other had entered the bay the
night before, and he was going to town to the wedding of his sister; the
coach of his brother the marquis was to meet him about twenty miles from
town, and the ship was ordered round to Yarmouth, where he was to rejoin
her.

"But how are your lovely sisters, Moseley?" cried the young sailor in a
frank and careless manner. "I should have been half in love with one of
them if I had time--and money; both are necessary to marriage nowadays,
you know."

"As to time," said John with a laugh, "I believe that may be dispensed
with, though money is certainly a different thing."

"Oh, time too," replied his lordship. "I have never time enough to do
anything as it ought to be done--always hurried--I wish you could
recommend to me a lady who would take the trouble off my hands."

"It might be done," said John with a smile, and the image of Kate
Chatterton crossed his brain, but it was soon succeeded by that of her
more lovely sister. "But how do you manage on board your ship--hurried
there too?"

"Oh! never there," replied the captain gravely; "that's duty you know, and
everything must be regular of course on shore it is a different
thing--there I am only a passenger. L---- has a charming society, Mr.
Moseley--a week or ten days ago I was shooting, and came to a beautiful
cottage about five miles from the village, that was the abode of a much
more beautiful woman, a Spaniard, a Mrs. Fitzgerald--I am positively in
love with her: so soft, so polished, so modest----"

"How came you acquainted with her?" inquired Moseley, interrupting him in
a little surprise.

"Chance, my dear fellow, chance. I was thirsty, and approached for a drink
of water; she was sitting in the veranda, and being hurried for time, you
know, it saved the trouble of introduction. I fancy she is troubled with
the same complaint; for she managed to get rid of me in no time, and with
a great deal of politeness. I found out her name, however, at the next
house."

During this rattling talk, John had fixed his eyes on the face of one of
the passengers who sat opposite to him. The stranger appeared to be about
fifty years of age, strongly pock-marked, with a stiff military air, and
had the dress and exterior of a gentlemen. His face was much sun-burnt,
though naturally very fair; and his dark keen eye was intently fixed on
the sailor as he continued his remarks.

"Do you know such a lady, Moseley?"

"Yes," said John, "though very slightly; she is visited one of my
sisters, and--"

"Yourself," cried Lord Henry, with a laugh.

"Myself, once or twice, my lord, certainly," answered John, gravely; "but
a lady visited by Emily Moseley and Mrs. Wilson is a proper companion for
any one. Mrs. Fitzgerald is very retired in her manner of living, and
chance made us acquainted; but not being, like your lordship, in want of
time, we have endeavored to cultivate her society, as we have found it
very agreeable."

The countenance of the stranger underwent several changes during this
speech of John's, and at its close his eyes rested on him with a softer
expression than generally marked its rigid and compressed muscles. Willing
to change a discourse that was growing too particular for a mail-coach,
John addressed himself to the opposite passengers, while his eye yet dwelt
on the face of the military stranger.

"We are likely to have a fine day, gentlemen." The soldier bowed stiffly,
as he smiled his assent, and the other passenger humbly answered, "Very,
Mr. John," in the well known tones of honest Peter Johnson. Moseley
started, as he turned his face for the first time on the lank figure which
was modestly compressed into the smallest possible compass in the corner
of the coach, in a way not to come in contact with any of its neighbors.

"Johnson," exclaimed John, in astonishment, "you here! Where are you
going--to London?"

"To London, Mr. John," replied Peter, with a look of much importance; and
then, by way of silencing further interrogatories, he added, "On my
master's business, sir."

Both Moseley and Lord Henry examined him closely; the former wondering
what could take the steward, at the age of seventy, for the first time in
his life, into the vortex of the capital; and the latter in admiration at
this figure and equipments of the old man. Peter was in full costume, with
the exception of the goggles, and was in reality a subject to be gazed at;
but nothing relaxed the muscles or attracted the particular notice of the
soldier, who, having regained his set form of countenance, appeared drawn
up in himself, waiting patiently for the moment he was expected to act.
Nor did he utter more than as many words in the course of the first fifty
miles of their journey. His dialect was singular, and such as put his
hearers at a loss to determine his country. Lord Henry stared at him every
time he spoke, as if to say, what countryman are you? until at length he
suggested to John he was some officer whom the downfall of Bonaparte had
driven into retirement.

"Indeed, Moseley," he added, as they were about to resume their carriage
after a change of horses, "we must draw him out, and see what he thinks of
his master now--delicately, you know." The soldier was, however,
impervious to his lordship's attacks, until the project was finally
abandoned in despair. As Peter was much too modest to talk in the presence
of Mr. John Moseley and a lord, the young men had most of the discourse to
themselves. At a village fifteen miles from London, a fashionable carriage
and four, with the coronet of a marquis was in waiting for Lord Henry.
John refused his invitation to take a seat with him to town; for he had
traced Denbigh from stage to stage, and was fearful of losing sight of
him, unless he persevered in the manner he had commenced. Peter and he
accordingly were put down safely at an inn in the Strand, and Moseley
hastened to make his inquiries after the object of his pursuit. Such a
chaise had arrived an hour before, and the gentleman had ordered his trunk
to a neighboring hotel. After obtaining the address, and ordering a
hackney coach, he hastened to the house; but on inquiring for Mr.
Denbigh, to his great mortification was told they knew of no such
gentleman. John turned away from the person he was speaking to in visible
disappointment, when a servant respectfully inquired if the gentleman had
not come from L----, in Norfolk, that day. "He had," was the reply. "Then
follow me, sir, if you please." They knocked at a door of one of the
parlors, and the servant entered: he returned, and John was shown into a
room, where Denbigh was sitting with his head resting on his hand, and
apparently musing. On seeing who required admittance, he sprang from his
seat and exclaimed--

"Mr. Moseley! Do I see aright?"

"Denbigh," cried John, stretching out his hand to him, "was this kind--was
it like yourself--to leave us so unexpectedly, and for so long a time,
too, as your note mentioned?"

Denbigh waved his hand to the servant to retire, and handed a chair to his
friend.

"Mr. Moseley," said he, struggling with his feelings, "you appear ignorant
of my proposals to your sister."

"Perfectly," answered the amazed John.

"And her rejection of them."

"Is it possible!" cried the brother, pacing up and down the room. "I
acknowledge I did expect you to offer, but not to be refused."

Denbigh placed in the other hand the letter of Emily, which, having read,
John returned, with a sigh. "This, then, is the reason you left us," he
continued. "Emily is not capricious--it cannot be a sudden pique--she
means as she says."

"Yes, Mr. Moseley," said Denbigh, mournfully; "your sister is
faultless--but I am not worthy of her--my deception"--here the door again
opened to the admission of Peter Johnson. Both the gentlemen rose at this
sudden interruption, and the steward advancing to the table, once more
produced the formidable pocket-book, the spectacles, and a letter. He ran
over its direction--"For George Denbigh, Esquire, London, by the hands of
Peter Johnson, with care and speed." After the observance of these
preliminaries, he delivered the missive to its lawful owner, who opened
it, and rapidly perused its contents. Denbigh was much affected with
whatever the latter might be, and kindly took the steward by the hand, as
he thanked him for this renewed instance of the interest he took in him.
If he would tell him where a letter would find him in the morning, he
would send a reply to the one he had received. Peter gave his address, but
appeared unwilling to go, until assured again and again that the answer
would be infallibly sent. Taking a small account-book out of his pocket,
and referring to its contents, the steward said, "Master has with Coutts &
Co. L7,000; in the bank, L5,000. It can be easily done, sir, and never
felt by us." Denbigh smiled in reply, as he assured the steward he would
take proper notice of his master's offers in his own answer. The door
again opened, and the military stranger was admitted to their presence. He
bowed, appeared not a little surprised to find two of his mail-coach
companions there, and handed Denbigh a letter, in quite as formal,
although in a more silent manner than the steward. The soldier was invited
to be seated, and the letter was perused with an evident curiosity on the
part of Denbigh. As soon as the latter ended it, he addressed the stranger
in a language which John rightly judged to be Spanish, and Peter took to
be Greek. For a few minutes the conversation was maintained between them
with great earnestness, his fellow travellers marvelling much at the
garrulity of the soldier however, the stranger soon rose to retire, when
the door thrown open for the fourth time, and a voice cried out,

"Here I am, George, safe and sound--ready to kiss the bridesmaids, if
they will let me--and I can find time--- bless me, Moseley!--old
marling-spike!--general!--whew, where is the coachman and guard?"--it was
Lord Henry Stapleton. The Spaniard bowed again in silence and withdrew,
while Denbigh threw open the door of an adjoining room and excused
himself, as he desired Lord Henry to walk in there for a few minutes.

"Upon my word," cried the heedless sailor, as he complied, "we might as
well have stuck together, Moseley; we were bound to one port, it seems."

"You know Lord Henry?" said John, as he withdrew.

"Yes," said Denbigh, and he again required his address of Peter, which
having been given, the steward departed. The conversation between the two
friends did not return to the course it was taking when they were
interrupted, as Moseley felt a delicacy in making any allusion to the
probable cause of his sister's refusal. He had, however, begun to hope it
was not irremovable, and with the determination of renewing his visit in
the morning, he took his leave, to allow Denbigh to attend to his other
guest, Lord Henry Stapleton.

About twelve on the following morning, John and the steward met at the
door of the hotel where Denbigh lodged, in quest of the same person. The
latter held in his hand the answer to his master's letter, but wished
particularly to see its writer. On inquiring, to their mutual surprise
they were told, that the gentleman had left there early in the morning,
having discharged his lodgings, and that they were unable to say whither
he had gone. To hunt for a man without a clew, in the city of London, is
usually time misspent Of this Moseley was perfectly sensible, and
disregarding a proposition of Peter's, he returned to his own lodgings.
The proposal of the steward, if it did not do much credit to his
sagacity, was much in favor of his perseverance and enterprise. It was no
other than that John should take one side of the street, and he the other,
in order to inquire at every house in the place, until the fugitive was
discovered. "Sir," said Peter, with great simplicity, "when our neighbor
White lost his little girl, this was the way we found her, although we
went nearly through L---- before we succeeded, Mr. John." Peter was
obliged to abandon this expedient for want of an associate, and as no
message was left at the lodgings of Moseley, he started with a heavy heart
on his return to Benfield Lodge. But Moseley's zeal was too warm in the
cause of his friend, notwithstanding his unmerited desertion, to
discontinue the search for him. He sought out the town residence of the
Marquess of Eltringham, the brother of Lord Henry, and was told that both
the Marquess and his brother had left town early that morning for his seat
in Devonshire, to attend the wedding of their sister.

"Did they go alone?" asked John musing.

"There were two chaises, the Marquess's and his Grace's"

"Who was his Grace?" inquired John.

"Why the Duke of Derwent, to be sure."

"And the Duke?--was he alone?"

"There was a gentleman with his Grace, but they did not know his name."

As nothing further could be learnt, John withdrew. A good deal of
irritation mixed with the vexation of Moseley at his disappointment; for
Denbigh, he thought, too evidently wished to avoid him. That he was the
companion of his kinsman, the Duke of Derwent, he had now no doubt, and he
entirely relinquished all expectations of finding him in London or its
environs. While retracing his steps in no enviable state of mind to his
lodgings, with a resolution of returning immediately to L----, his arm was
suddenly taken by his friend Chatterton. If any man could have consoled
John at that moment, it was the Baron. Questions and answers were rapidly
exchanged between them; and with increased satisfaction, John learnt that
in the next square, he could have the pleasure of paying his respects to
his kinswoman, the Dowager Lady Chatterton, and her two daughters.
Chatterton inquired warmly after Emily, and in a particularly kind manner
concerning Mr. Denbigh, hearing with undisguised astonishment the absence
of the latter from the Moseley family.

Lady Chatterton had disciplined her feelings upon the subject of Grace and
John into such a state of subordination, that the fastidious jealousy of
the young man now found no ground of alarm in anything she said or did. It
cannot be denied the Dowager was delighted to see him again; and if it
were fair to draw any conclusions from coloring, palpitations, and other
such little accompaniments of female feeling, Grace was not excessively
sorry. It is true, it was the best possible opportunity to ascertain all
about her friend Emily and the rest of the family; and Grace was extremely
happy to have intelligence of their general welfare so direct as was
afforded by this visit of Mr. Moseley. Grace looked all she expressed, and
possibly a little more; and John thought he looked very beautiful.

There was present an elderly gentleman, of apparently indifferent health,
although his manners were extremely lively, and his dress particularly
studied. A few minutes observation convinced Moseley this gentleman was a
candidate for the favor of Kate; and a game of chess being soon
introduced, he also saw he was one thought worthy of peculiar care and
attention. He had been introduced to him as Lord Herriefield, and soon
discovered by his conversation that he was a peer who promised little
towards rendering the house of incurables more convalescent than it was
before his admission. Chatterton mentioned him as a distant connexion of
his mother; a gentleman who had lately returned from filling an official
situation in the East Indies, to take his seat among the lords by the
death of his brother. He was a bachelor, and reputed rich, much of his
wealth being personal property, acquired by himself abroad. The dutiful
son might have added, if respect and feeling had not kept him silent, that
his offers of settling a large jointure upon his elder sister had been
accepted, and that the following week was to make her the bride of the
emaciated debauchee who now sat by her side. He might also have said, that
when the proposition was made to himself and Grace, both had shrunk from
the alliance with disgust: and that both had united in humble though vain
remonstrances to their mother, against the sacrifice, and in petitions to
their sister, that she would not be accessary to her own misery. There was
no pecuniary sacrifice they would not make to her, to avert such a
connexion; but all was fruitless--Kate was resolved to be a viscountess,
and her mother was equally determined that she should be rich.




Chapter XXX.



A day elapsed between the departure of Denbigh and the reappearance of
Emily amongst her friends. An indifferent observer would have thought her
much graver and less animated than usual. A loss of the rich color which
ordinarily glowed on her healthful cheek might be noticed; but the placid
sweetness and graceful composure which regulated her former conduct
pervaded all she did or uttered. Not so with Jane: her pride had suffered
more than her feelings--her imagination had been more deceived than her
judgment--and although too well bred and soft by nature to become rude or
captious, she was changed from a communicative, to a reserved; from a
confiding, to a suspicious companion. Her parents noticed this alteration
with an uneasiness that was somewhat embittered by the consciousness of a
neglect of some of those duties that experience now seemed to indicate,
could never be forgotten with impunity.

Francis and Clara had arrived from their northern tour, so happy in each
other, and so contented with their lot, that it required some little
exercise of fortitude in both Lady Moseley and her daughters, to expel
unpleasant recollections while they contemplated it. Their relation of the
little incidents of their tour had, however, an effect to withdraw the
attention of their friends in some degree from late occurrences; and a
melancholy and sympathizing kind of association had taken place of the
unbounded confidence and gaiety; which so lately prevailed at Benfield
Lodge. Mr. Benfield mingled with his solemnity an air of mystery; and he
was frequently noticed by his relatives looking over old papers, and was
apparently employed in preparations that indicated movements of more than
usual importance.

The family were collected in one of the parlors on an extremely unpleasant
day, the fourth after the departure of John, when the thin person of
Johnson stalked in amongst them. All eyes were fixed on him in expectation
of what he had to communicate, and all apparently dreading to break the
silence, from an apprehension that his communication would be unpleasant.
In the meantime Peter, who had respectfully left his hat at the door,
proceeded to uncase his body from the multiplied defences he had taken
against the inclemency of the weather. His master stood erect, with an
outstretched hand, ready to receive the reply to his epistle; and Johnson
having liberated his body from thraldom, produced the black leathern
pocket-book, and from its contents a letter, when he read aloud--Roderic
Benfield, Esq., Benfield Lodge, Norfolk; favored by Mr.--here Peter's
modesty got the better of his method; he had never been called Mr. Johnson
by anybody, old or young; all knew him in that neighborhood as Peter
Johnson--and he had very nearly been guilty of the temerity of arrogating
to himself another title in the presence of those he most respected: a
degree of self-elevation from which he escaped with the loss of a small
piece of his tongue. Mr. Benfield took the letter with an eagerness that
plainly indicated the deep interest he took in its contents, while Emily,
with a tremulous voice and flushed cheek, approached the steward with a
glass of wine.

"Peter," she said, "take this; it will do you good."

"Thank you, Miss Emma," said Peter, casting his eyes from her to his
master, as the latter, having finished his letter, exclaimed, with a
strange mixture of consideration and disappointment--

"Johnson, you must change your clothes immediately, or you will take
cold: you look now like old Moses, the Jew beggar."

Peter sighed heavily at this comparison, and saw in it a confirmation of
his fears; for he well knew, that to his being the bearer of unpleasant
tidings was he indebted for a resemblance to anything unpleasant to his
master, and Moses was the old gentleman's aversion.

The baronet now followed his uncle from the room to his library, entering
it at the same moment with the steward, who had been summoned by his
master to an audience.

Pointing to a chair for his nephew, Mr. Benfield commenced the discourse
with saying,

"Peter, you saw Mr. Denbigh; how did he look?"

"As usual, master," said Peter, laconically, still piqued at being likened
to old Moses.

"And what did he say to the offer? did he not make any comments on it? He
was not offended at it, I hope," demanded Mr. Benfield.

"He said nothing but what he has written to your honor," replied the
steward, losing a little of his constrained manner in real good feeling to
his master.

"May I ask what the offer was?" inquired Sir Edward.

Mr. Benfield regarding him a moment in silence, said, "Certainly, you are
nearly concerned in his welfare; your daughter"--the old man stopped,
turned to his letter-book, and handed the baronet a copy of the epistle he
had sent to Denbigh. It read as follows:

DEAR FRIEND MR. DENBIGH,

"I have thought a great deal on the reason of your sudden departure from a
house I had begun to hope you thought your own; and by calling to mind my
own feelings when Lady Juliana became the heiress to her nephew's estate,
take it for granted you have been governed by the same sentiments; which I
know both by my own experience and that of the bearer, Peter Johnson, is a
never-failing accompaniment of pure affection. Yes, my dear Denbigh, I
honor your delicacy in not wishing to become indebted to a stranger, as it
were, for the money on which you subsist, and that stranger your wife--who
ought in reason to look up to you, instead of your looking up to her;
which was the true cause Lord Gosford would not marry the countess--on
account of her great wealth, as he assured me himself; notwithstanding,
envious people said it was because her ladyship loved Mr Chaworth better:
so in order to remove these impediments of delicacy, I have to make three
propositions, namely, that I bring you into parliament the next election
for my own borough--that you take possession of the lodge the day you
marry Emmy, while I will live, for the little time I have to stay here, in
the large cottage built by my uncle--and that I give you your legacy of
ten thousand pounds down, to prevent trouble hereafter.

"As I know nothing but delicacy has driven you away from us, I make no
doubt you will now find all objections removed, and that Peter will bring
back the joyful intelligence of your return to us, as soon as the business
you left us on, is completed.

"Your uncle, that is to be,

"RODERIC BENFIELD."

"N.B. As Johnson is a stranger to the ways of the town, I wish you to
advise his inexperience, particularly against the arts of designing women,
Peter being a man of considerable estate, and great modesty."


"There, nephew," cried Mr. Benfield, as the baronet finished reading the
letter aloud, "is it not unreasonable to refuse my offers? Now read his
answer."

"Words are wanting to express the sensations which have been excited by
Mr. Benfield's letter; but it would be impossible for any man to be so
base as to avail himself of such liberality: the recollection of it,
together with that of his many virtues, will long continue deeply
impressed on the heart of him, whom Mr. Benfield would, if within the
power of man, render the happiest amongst human beings."

The steward listened eagerly to this answer, but after it was done he was
as much at a loss to know its contents as before its perusal. He knew it
was unfavorable to their wishes, but could not comprehend its meaning or
expressions, and immediately attributed their ambiguity to the strange
conference he had witnessed between Denbigh and the military stranger.

"Master," exclaimed Peter, with something of the elation of a discoverer,
"I know the cause, it shows itself in the letter: there was a man talking
Greek to him while he was reading your letter."

"Greek!" exclaimed Sir Edward in astonishment.

"Greek!" said the uncle. "Lord Gosford read Greek; but I believe never
conversed in that language."

"Yes, Sir Edward--yes, your honor--pure wild Greek; it must have been
something of that kind," added Peter, with positiveness, "that would make
a man refuse such offers--Miss Emmy--the lodge--L10,000!"--and the steward
shook his head with much satisfaction at having discovered the cause.

Sir Edward smiled at the simplicity of Johnson, but disliking the idea
attached to the refusal of his daughter, said, "Perhaps, after all,
uncle, there has been some misunderstanding between Emily and Denbigh,
which may have driven him from us so suddenly."

Mr. Benfield and his steward exchanged looks, and a new idea broke upon
them at the instant. They had both suffered in that way; and after all it
might prove that Emily was the one whose taste or feelings had subverted
their schemes. The impression, once made, soon became strong, and the
party separated; the master thinking alternately on Lady Juliana and his
niece, while the man, after heaving one heavy sigh to the memory of Patty
Steele, proceeded to the usual occupations of his office.

Mrs. Wilson thinking a ride would be of service to Emily, and having the
fullest confidence in her self-command and resignation, availed herself of
a fine day to pay a visit to their friend in the cottage. Mrs. Fitzgerald
received them in her usual manner, but a single glance of her eye sufficed
to show the aunt that she noticed the altered appearance of Emily and her
manners, although without knowing its true reason, which she did not deem
it prudent to explain. Julia handed her friend a note which she said she
had received the day before, and desired their counsel how to proceed in
the present emergency. As Emily was to be made acquainted with its
contents, her aunt read it aloud as follows:

"MY DEAR NIECE,

"Your father and myself had been induced to think you were leading a
disgraceful life, with the officer your husband had consigned you to the
care of; for hearing of your captivity, I had arrived with a band of
Guerillas, on the spot where you were rescued, early the next morning, and
there learnt of the peasants your misfortunes and retreat. The enemy
pressed us too much to allow us to deviate from our route at the time;
but natural affection and the wishes of your father have led me to make a
journey to England, in order to satisfy our doubts as regards your
conduct. I have seen you, heard your character in the neighborhood, and
after much and long search have found out the officer, and am satisfied,
that so far as concerns your deportment, you are an injured woman. I have
therefore to propose to you, on my own behalf, and that of the Conde, that
you adopt the faith, of your country, and return with me to the arms of
your parent, whose heiress you will be, and whose life you may be the
means of prolonging. Direct your answer to me, to the care of our
ambassador; and as you decide, I am your mother's brother, LOUIS M'CARTHY
Y HARRISON."

"On what point do you wish my advice?" said Mrs. Wilson, kindly, after she
had finished reading the letter, "and when do you expect to see your
uncle?"

"Would you have me accept the offer of my father, dear madam, or am I to
remain separated from him for the short residue of his life?"

Mrs. Fitzgerald was affected to tears, as she asked this question, and
waited her answer, in silent dread of its nature.

"Is the condition of a change of religion, an immovable one?" inquired
Mrs. Wilson, in a thoughtful manner.

"Oh! doubtless," replied Julia, shuddering; "but I am deservedly punished
for my early disobedience, and bow in submission to the will of
Providence. I feel now all that horror of a change of my religion, I once
only affected; I must live and die a Protestant, madam."

"Certainly, I hope so, my dear," said Mrs. Wilson; "I am not a bigot, and
think it unfortunate you were not, in your circumstances, bred a pious
Catholic. It would have saved you much misery, and might have rendered
the close of your father's life more happy; but as your present creed
embraces doctrines too much at variance with the Romish church to renounce
the one or to adopt the other, with your views, it will be impossible to
change your church without committing a heavy offence against the opinions
and practices of every denomination of Christians. I should hope a proper
representation of this to your uncle would have its weight, or they might
be satisfied with your being a Christian, without becoming a Catholic."

"Ah! my dear madam," answered Mrs. Fitzgerald, despairingly, "you little
know the opinions of my countrymen on this subject."

"Surely, surely," cried Mrs. Wilson, "parental affection is a stronger
feeling than bigotry."

Mrs. Fitzgerald shook her head in a manner which bespoke both her
apprehensions and her filial regard.

"Julia ought not, must not, desert her father, dear aunt," said Emily, her
face glowing with the ardency of her feelings.

"And ought she to desert her heavenly Father, my child?" asked the aunt,
mildly.

"Are the duties conflicting, dearest aunt?"

"The Conde makes them so. Julia is, I trust, in sincerity a Christian, and
with what face can she offer up her daily petitions to her Creator, while
she wears a mask to her earthly father; or how can she profess to honor
doctrines that she herself believes to be false, or practise customs she
thinks improper?"

"Never, never," exclaimed Julia, with fervor; "the struggle is dreadful,
but I submit to the greater duty."

"And you decide rightly, my friend," said Mrs. Wilson, soothingly; "but
you need relax no efforts to convince the Conde of your wishes: truth and
nature will finally conquer."

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Fitzgerald, "the sad consequences of one false step in
early life!"

"Rather," added Mrs, Wilson, "the sad consequences of one false step in
generations gone by. Had your grandmother listened to the voice of
prudence and duty, she never would have deserted her parents for a
comparative stranger, and entailed upon her descendants a train of evils
which yet exist in your person."

"It will be a sad blow to my poor uncle too," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, "he
who once loved me so much."

"When do you expect to see him?" inquired Emily.

Julia informed them she expected him hourly; as, fearful a written
statement of her views would drive him from the country without paying her
a visit before he departed, she had earnestly entreated him to see her
without delay.

On taking their leave, the ladies promised to obey her summons whenever
called to meet the general, as Mrs. Wilson thought she might be better
able to give advice to a friend, by knowing more of the character of her
relatives, than she could do with her present information,

One day intervened, and it was spent in the united society of Lady Moseley
and her daughters, while Sir Edward and Francis rode to a neighboring town
on business; and on the succeeding, Mrs. Fitzgerald apprised them of the
arrival of General M'Carthy. Immediately after breakfast, Mrs. Wilson and
Emily drove to the cottage, the aunt both wishing the latter as a
companion in her ride, and believing the excitement would have a tendency
to prevent her niece from indulging in reflections, alike dangerous to her
peace of mind and at variance with her duties.

Our readers have probably anticipated, that the stage companion of John
Moseley was the Spanish general, who had just been making those inquiries
into the manner of his niece's living which terminated so happily in her
acquittal. With that part of her history which relates to the injurious
attempts on her before she arrived at Lisbon, he appears to have been
ignorant, or his interview with Denbigh might have terminated very
differently from the manner already related.

A description of the appearance of the gentleman presented to Mrs. Wilson
is unnecessary, as it has been given already; and the discerning matron
thought she read through the rigid and set features of the soldier, a
shade of kinder feelings, which might be wrought into an advantageous
intercession on behalf of Julia. The General was evidently endeavoring to
keep his feelings within due bounds, before the decision of his niece
might render it proper for him to indulge in that affection for her, which
his eye plainly showed existed under the cover of his assumed manner.

It was an effort of great fortitude on the part of Julia to acquaint her
uncle with her resolution; but as it must be done, she seized a moment
after Mrs. Wilson had at some length defended her adhering to her present
faith, until religiously impressed with its errors, to inform him such was
her unalterable resolution. He heard her patiently, and without anger, but
in visible surprise. He had construed her summons to her house into a
measure preparatory to accepting his conditions; yet he betrayed no
emotion, after the first expression of his wonder: he told her distinctly,
a renunciation of her heresy was the only condition on which her father
would own her either as his heiress or his child. Julia deeply regretted
the decision, but was firm; and her friends left her to enjoy
uninterruptedly for one day, the society of so near a relative. During
this day every doubt as to the propriety of her conduct, if any yet
remained, was removed by a relation of her little story to her uncle; and
after it was completed, he expressed great uneasiness to get to London
again, in order to meet a gentleman he had seen there, under a different
impression as to his merits, than what now appeared to be just. Who the
gentleman was, or what these impressions were, Julia was left to
conjecture, taciturnity being a favorite property in the general.




Chapter XXXI.



The sun had just risen on one of the lo