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Title: Precaution: A Novel

Author: James Fenimore Cooper

Author of introduction, etc.: William Cullen Bryant

Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #10365]
                Most recently updated: December 19, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Distributed Proofreaders


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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 chargé 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 Révue 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 think 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 Wallingfordits 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, speaking 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 daughter'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 Howell
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 provision 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 lady 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, the 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 had 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. Clara, 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 Cæsar," 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 on 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 brandy 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 six 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. It 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 instance, 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 tête-à-têtes.
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 some 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 will 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 handed 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 were 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 tête-à-têtes, 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 hall, 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 had 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 day 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 seen 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 seen 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 not 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 said 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 too 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's 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 ran 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 Daniel's 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 hastily 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 conducted 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 the 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 the 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
Señora 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 by 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. £7,000; in the bank, £5,000. 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--£10,000!"--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 loveliest vales of Caernarvonshire,
as a travelling chaise and six swept up to the door of a princely
mansion, so situated as to command a prospect of the fertile and
extensive domains, the rental of which filled the coffers of its rich
owner, having a beautiful view of the Irish channel in the distance.

Everything around this stately edifice bespoke the magnificence of its
ancient possessors and the taste of its present master. It was
irregular, but built of the best materials, and in the tastes of the
different ages in which its various parts had been erected; and now in
the nineteenth century it preserved the baronial grandeur of the
thirteenth, mingled with the comforts of this later period.

The lofty turrets of its towers were tipt with the golden light of the
sun, and the neighboring peasantry had commenced their daily labors, as
the different attendants of the equipage we have mentioned collected
around it at the great entrance to the building. The beautiful black
horses, with coats as shining as the polished leather with which they
were caparisoned, the elegant and fashionable finish of the vehicle,
with its numerous grooms, postillions, and footmen, all wearing the
livery of one master, gave evidence of wealth and rank.

In attendance there were four outriders, walking leisurely about,
awaiting the appearance of those for whose comforts and pleasures they
were kept to contribute; while a fifth, who, like the others, was
equipped with a horse, appeared to bear a doubtful station. The form of
the latter was athletic, and apparently drilled into a severer
submission than could be seen in the movements of the liveried
attendants: his dress was peculiar, being neither quite menial nor quite
military, but partaking of both characters. His horse was heavier and
better managed than those of the others, and by its side was a charger,
that was prepared for the use of no common equestrian. Both were coal-
black, as were all the others of the cavalcade; but the pistols of the
two latter, and housings of their saddles, bore the aspect of use and
elegance united.

The postillions were mounted, listlessly waiting the pleasure of their
superiors; when the laughs and jokes of the menials were instantly
succeeded by a respectful and profound silence, as a gentleman and lady
appeared on the portico of the building. The former was a young man of
commanding stature and genteel appearance; and his air, although that of
one used to command, was softened by a character of benevolence and
gentleness, that might be rightly supposed to give birth to the willing
alacrity with which all his requests or orders were attended to.

The lady was also young, and resembled her companion both in features
and expression, for both were noble, both were handsome. The former was
attired for the road; the latter had thrown a shawl around her elegant
form, and by her morning dress showed that a separation of the two was
about to happen. Taking the hand of the gentleman with both her own, as
she pressed it with fingers interlocked, the lady said, in a voice of
music, and with great affection, "Then, my dear brother, I shall
certainly hear from you within the week, and see you next?"

"Certainly," replied the gentleman, as he tenderly paid his adieus; then
throwing himself into the chaise, it dashed from the door, like the
passage of a meteor. The horsemen followed; the unridden charger,
obedient to the orders of his keeper, wheeled gracefully into his
station; and in an instant they were all lost amidst the wood, through
which the road to the park gates conducted.

After lingering without until the last of her brother's followers had
receded from her sight, the lady retired through ranks of liveried
footmen and maids, whom curiosity or respect had collected.

The young traveller wore a gloom on his expressive features, amidst the
pageantry that surrounded him, which showed the insufficiency of wealth
and honors to fill the sum of human happiness. As his carriage rolled
proudly up an eminence ere he had reached the confines of his extensive
park, his eye rested, for a moment, on a scene in which meadows,
forests, fields waving with golden corn, comfortable farm-houses
surrounded with innumerable cottages, were seen, in almost endless
variety. All these owned him for their lord, and one quiet smile of
satisfaction beamed on his face as he gazed on the unlimited view. Could
the heart of that youth have been read, it would at that moment have
told a story very different from the feelings such a scene is apt to
excite; it would have spoken the consciousness of well applied wealth,
the gratification of contemplating meritorious deeds, and a heartfelt
gratitude to the Being which had enabled him to become the dispenser of
happiness to so many of his fellow-creatures.

"Which way, my lord, so early?" cried a gentleman in a phaeton, as he
drew up, on his way to a watering place, to pay his own parting
compliments.

"To Eltringham, Sir Owen, to attend the marriage of my kinsman, Mr.
Denbigh, to one of the sisters of the marquess."

A few more questions and answers, and the gentlemen, exchanging friendly
adieus, pursued each his own course; Sir Owen Ap Rice pushing forward
for Cheltenham, and the Earl of Pendennyss proceeding to act as
groomsman to his cousin.

The gates of Eltringham were open to the admission of many an equipage
on the following day, and the heart of the Lady Laura beat quick, as the
sound of wheels, at different times, reached her ears. At last an
unusual movement in the house drew her to a window of her dressing-room,
and the blood rushed to her heart as she beheld the equipages which were
rapidly approaching, and through the mist which stole over her eyes she
saw alight from the first, the Duke of Derwent and the bridegroom. The
next contained Lord Pendennyss, and the last the Bishop of----. Lady
Laura waited to see no more, but with a heart filled with terror, hope,
joy, and uneasiness, she threw herself into the arms of one of her
sisters.

"Ah!" exclaimed Lord Henry Stapleton, about a week after the wedding of
his sister, seizing John suddenly by the arm, while the latter was
taking his morning walk to the residence of the dowager Lady Chatterton,
"Moseley, you dissipated youth, in town yet: you told me you should stay
but a day, and here I find you at the end of a fortnight."

John blushed a little at the consciousness of his reason for sending a
written, instead of carrying a verbal report, of the result of his
journey, but replied,

"Yes, my friend Chatterton unexpectedly arrived, and so--and so--"

"And so you did not go, I presume you mean," cried Lord Henry, with a
laugh.

"Yes," said John, "and so I stayed--but where is Denbigh?"

"Where?--why with his wife, where every well-behaved man should be,
especially for the first month," rejoined the sailor, gaily.

"Wife!" echoed John, as soon as he felt able to give utterance to his
words--"wife! is he married?"

"Married," cried Lord Henry, imitating his manner, "are you yet to learn
that? why did you ask for him?"

"Ask for him!" said Moseley, yet lost in astonishment; "but when--how--
where did he marry--my lord?"

Lord Henry looked at him for a moment with a surprise little short of
his own, as he answered more gravely:

"When?--last Tuesday; how? by special license, and the Bishop of----;
where?--at Eltringham:--yes, my dear fellow," continued he, with his
former gaiety, "George is my brother now--and a fine fellow he is."

"I really wish your lordship much joy," said John, struggling to command
his feelings.

"Thank you--thank you," replied the sailor; "a jolly time we had of it,
Moseley. I wish, with all my heart, you had been there; no bolting or
running away as soon as spliced, but a regularly constructed, old-
fashioned wedding; all my doings. I wrote Laura that time was scarce,
and I had none to throw away on fooleries; so dear, good soul, she
consented to let me have everything my own way. We had Derwent and
Pendennyss, the marquess, Lord William, and myself, for groomsmen, and
my three sisters--ah, that was bad, but there was no helping it--Lady
Harriet Denbigh, and an old maid, a cousin of ours, for bridesmaids;
could not help the old maid either, upon my honor, or be quite certain I
would."

How much of what he said Moseley heard, we cannot say; for had he talked
an hour longer he would have been uninterrupted. Lord Henry was too much
engaged with his description to notice his companion's taciturnity or
surprise, and after walking a square or two together they parted; the
sailor being on the wing for his frigate at Yarmouth.

John continued his course, musing on the intelligence he had just heard.
That Denbigh could forget Emily so soon, he would not believe, and he
greatly feared he had been driven into a step, from despair, that he
might hereafter repent of. The avoiding of himself was now fully
explained; but would Lady Laura Stapleton accept a man for a husband at
so short a notice? and for the first time a suspicion that something in
the character of Denbigh was wrong, mingled in his reflections on his
sister's refusal of his offers.

Lord and Lady Herriefield were on the eve of their departure for the
continent (for Catherine had been led to the altar the preceding week),
a southern climate having been prescribed as necessary to the
bridegroom's constitution; and the dowager and Grace were about to
proceed to a seat of the baron's within a couple of miles of Bath.
Chatterton himself had his own engagements, but he promised to be there
in company with his friend Derwent within a fortnight; the former visit
having been postponed by the marriages in their respective families.

John had been assiduous in his attentions during the season of forced
gaiety which followed the nuptials of Kate; and as the dowager's time
was monopolized with the ceremonials of that event, Grace had risen
greatly in his estimation. If Grace Chatterton was not more miserable
than usual, at what she thought was the destruction of her sister's
happiness, it was owing to the presence and unconcealed affection of
John Moseley.

The carriage of Lord Herriefield was in waiting when John rang for
admittance. On opening the door and entering the drawing-room, he saw
the bride and bridegroom, with their mother and sister, accoutred for an
excursion amongst the shops of Bond street: for Kate was dying to find a
vent for some of her surplus pin-money--her husband to show his handsome
wife in the face of the world--the mother to display the triumph of her
matrimonial schemes. And Grace was forced to obey her mother's commands,
in accompanying her sister as an attendant, not to be dispensed with at
all in her circumstances.

The entrance of John at that instant, though nothing more than what
occurred every day at that hour, deranged the whole plan: the dowager,
for a moment, forgot her resolution, and forgot the necessity of Grace's
appearance, exclaiming with evident satisfaction,

"Here is Mr. Moseley come to keep you company, Grace; so, after all, you
must consult your headache and stay at home. Indeed, my love, I never
can consent you should go out. I not only wish, but insist you remain
within this morning."

Lord Herriefield looked at his mother-in-law in some surprise, and threw
a suspicious glance on his own rib at the moment, which spoke as plainly
as looks can speak,

"Is it possible I have been taken in after all!"

Grace was unused to resist her mother's commands, and throwing off her
hat and shawl, reseated herself with more composure than she would
probably have done, had not the attentions of Moseley been more delicate
and pointed of late than formerly.

As they passed the porter, Lady Chatterton observed to him
significantly--"Nobody at home, Willis."--"Yes, my lady," was the
laconic reply, and Lord Herriefield, as he took his seat by the side of
his wife in the carriage, thought she was not as handsome as usual.

Lady Chatterton that morning unguardedly laid the foundation of years of
misery for her eldest daughter; or rather the foundations were already
laid in the ill-assorted, and heartless, unprincipled union she had
labored with success to effect. But she, had that morning stripped the
mask from her own character prematurely, and excited suspicions in the
breast of her son-in-law, which time only served to confirm, and memory
to brood over. Lord Herriefield had been too long in the world not to
understand all the ordinary arts of match-makers and match-hunters. Like
most of his own sex who have associated freely with the worst part of
the other, his opinions of female excellences were by no means
extravagant or romantic. Kate had pleased his eye; she was of a noble
family; young, and at that moment interestingly quiet, having nothing
particularly in view. She had a taste of her own, and Lord Herriefield
was by no means in conformity with it; consequently, she expended none
of those pretty little arts upon him which she occasionally practised,
and which his experience would immediately have detected. Her disgust he
had attributed to disinterestedness; and as Kate had fixed her eye on a
young officer lately returned from France, and her mother on a Duke who
was mourning the death of a third wife, devising means to console him
with a fourth--the Viscount had got a good deal enamored with the lady,
before either she or her mother took any particular notice that there
was such a being in existence. His title was not the most elevated, but
it was ancient. His paternal acres were not numerous, but his East-India
shares were. He was not very young, but he was not very old; and as the
Duke died of a fit of the gout in his stomach, and the officer ran away
with a girl in her teens from a boarding-school, the dowager and her
daughter, after thoroughly scanning the fashionable world, determined,
for want of a better, that he would do.

It is not to be supposed that the mother and child held any open
communications with each other to this effect. The delicacy and pride of
both would have been greatly injured by such a suspicion; yet they
arrived simultaneously at the same conclusion, as well as at another of
equal importance to the completion of their schemes on the Viscount. It
was simply to adhere to the same conduct which had made him a captive,
as most likely to insure the victory.

There was such a general understanding between the two it can excite no
surprise that they co-operated harmoniously as it were by signal.

For two people, correctly impressed with their duties and
responsibilities, to arrive at the same conclusion in the government of
their conduct, would be merely a matter of course; and so with those who
are more or less under the dominion of the world. They will pursue their
plans with a degree of concurrence amounting nearly to sympathy; and
thus had Kate and her mother, until this morning, kept up the masquerade
so well that the Viscount was as confiding as a country Corydon. When he
first witnessed the dowager's management with Grace and John, however,
and his wife's careless disregard of a thing which appeared too much a
matter of course to be quite agreeable, his newly awakened distrust
approached conviction.

Grace Chatterton both sang and played exquisitely; it was, however,
seldom she could sufficiently overcome her desire, when John was an
auditor, to appear to advantage.

As the party went down stairs, and Moseley had gone with them part of
the way, she threw herself unconsciously in a seat, and began a
beautiful song, that was fashionable at the time. Her feelings were in
consonance with the words, and Grace was very happy both in execution
and voice.

John had reached the back of her seat before she was at all sensible of
his return, and Grace lost her self-command immediately. She rose and
took a seat on a sofa, and the young man was immediately at her side.

"Ah, Grace," said John, the lady's heart beating high, "you certainly do
sing as you do everything, admirably."

"I am happy you think so, Mr. Moseley," returned Grace looking
everywhere but in his face.

John's eyes ran over her beauties, as with palpitating bosom and varying
color she sat confused at the unusual warmth of his language and manner.

Fortunately a remarkably striking likeness of the Dowager hung directly
over their heads, and John taking her unresisting hand, continued,

"Dear Grace, you resemble your brother very much in features, and what
is better still, in character."

"I could wish," said Grace, venturing to look up, "to resemble your
sister Emily in the latter."

"And why not to be her sister, dear Grace?" said he with ardor. "You are
worthy to become her sister. Tell me, Grace, dear Miss Chatterton--can
you--will you make me the happiest of men? may I present another
inestimable daughter to my parents?"

As John paused for an answer, Grace looked up, and he waited her reply
in evident anxiety; but she continued silent, now pale as death, and now
of the color of the rose, and he added:

"I hope I have not offended you, dearest Grace; you are all that is
desirable to me; my hopes, my happiness, are centred in you. Unless you
consent to become my wife, I must be very wretched."

Grace burst into a flood of tears, as her lover, interested deeply in
their cause, gently drew her towards him. Her head sank on his shoulder,
as she faintly whispered something that was inaudible, but which he did
not fail to interpret into everything he most wished to hear. John was
in ecstasies. Every unpleasant feeling of suspicion had left him. Of
Grace's innocence of manoeuvring he never doubted, but John did not
relish the idea of being entrapped into anything, even a step which he
desired. An uninterrupted communication followed; it was as confiding as
their affections: and the return of the dowager and her children first
recalled them to the recollection of other people.

One glance of the eye was enough for Lady Chatterton. She saw the traces
of tears on the cheeks and in the eyes of Grace, and the dowager was
satisfied; she knew his friends would not object; and as Grace attended
her to her dressing-room, she cried on entering it, "Well, child, when
is the wedding to be? You will wear me out with so much gaiety."

Grace was shocked, but did not as formerly weep over her mother's
interference in agony and dread. John had opened his whole soul to her,
observing the greatest delicacy towards her mother, and she now felt her
happiness placed in the keeping of a man whose honor she believed much
exceeded that of any other human being.



Chapter XXXII.

The seniors of the party at Benfield Lodge were all assembled one
morning in a parlor, when its master and the baronet were occupied in
the perusal of the London papers. Clara had persuaded her sisters to
accompany her and Francis in an excursion as far as the village.

Jane yet continued reserved and distant to most of her friends; while
Emily's conduct would have escaped unnoticed, did not her blanched cheek
and wandering looks at times speak a language not to be misunderstood.
With all her relatives she maintained the affectionate intercourse she
had always supported; though not even to her aunt did the name of
Denbigh pass her lips. But in her most private and humble petitions to
God, she never forgot to mingle with her requests for spiritual
blessings on herself, fervent prayers for the conversion of the
preserver of her life.

Mrs. Wilson, as she sat by the side of her sister at their needles,
first discovered an unusual uneasiness in their venerable host, while he
turned his paper over and over, as if unwilling or unable to comprehend
some part of its contents, until he rang the bell violently, and bid the
servant to send Johnson to him without a moment's delay.

"Peter," said Mr. Benfield doubtingly, "read that--your eyes are young,
Peter; read that."

Peter took the paper, and after having adjusted his spectacles to his
satisfaction, he proceeded to obey his master's injunctions; but the
same defect of vision as suddenly seized the steward as it had affected
his master. He turned the paper sideways, and appeared to be spelling
the matter of the paragraph to himself. Peter would have given his three
hundred a year to have had the impatient John Moseley at hand, to
relieve him from his task; but the anxiety of Mr. Benfield overcoming
his fear of the worst, he inquired in tremulous tone--

"Peter? hem! Peter, what do you think?"

"Why, your honor," replied the steward, stealing a look at his master,
"it does seem so indeed."

"I remember," said the master, "when Lord Gosford saw the marriage of
the countess announced he--"

Here the old gentleman was obliged to stop, and rising with dignity, and
leaning on the arm of his faithful servant, he left the room.

Mrs. Wilson immediately took up the paper, and her eye catching the
paragraph at a glance, she read aloud as follows to her expecting
friends:

"Married by special license, at the seat of the Most Noble the Marquess
of Eltringham, in Devonshire, by the Right Rev. Lord Bishop of ----,
George Denbigh Esq., Lieutenant Colonel of his Majesty's ---- regiment
of dragoons, to the Right Honorable Lady Laura Stapleton, eldest sister
of the Marquess. Eltringham was honored on the present happy occasion
with the presence of his grace of Derwent, and the gallant Lord
Pendennyss, kinsmen of the bridegroom, and Captain Lord Henry Stapleton
of the Royal Navy. We understand that the happy couple proceed to
Denbigh Castle immediately after the honey-moon."

Although Mrs. Wilson had given up the expectation of ever seeing her
niece the wife of Denbigh, she felt an indescribable shock as she read
this paragraph. The strongest feeling was horror at the danger Emily had
been in of contracting an alliance with such a man. His avoiding the
ball, at which he knew Lord Henry was expected, was explained to her by
this marriage; for with John, she could not believe a woman like Lady
Laura Stapleton was to be won in the short space of one fortnight, or
indeed less. There was too evidently a mystery yet to be developed, and
she felt certain one that would not elevate his character in her
opinion.

Neither Sir Edward nor Lady Moseley had given up the expectation of
seeing Denbigh again, as a suitor for Emily's hand, and to both of them
this certainty of his loss was a heavy blow. The baronet took up the
paper, and after perusing the article, he muttered in a low tone, as he
wiped the tears from his eyes, "Heaven bless him: I sincerely hope she
is worthy of him." Worthy of him, thought Mrs. Wilson, with a feeling of
indignation, as, taking up the paper, she retired to her own room,
whither Emily, at that moment returned from her walk, had proceeded. As
her niece must hear this news, she thought the sooner the better. The
exercise, and the unreserved conversation of Francis and Clara, had
restored in some degree the bloom to the cheek of Emily; and Mrs. Wilson
felt it necessary to struggle with herself, before she could summon
sufficient resolution to invade the returning peace of her charge.
However, having already decided on her course, she proceeded to the
discharge of what she thought to be a duty.

"Emily, my child," she whispered, pressing her affectionately to her
bosom, "you have been all I could wish, and more than I expected, under
your arduous struggles. But one more pang, and I trust your
recollections on this painful subject will be done away."

Emily looked at her aunt in anxious expectation of what was coming, and
quietly taking the paper, followed the direction of Mrs. Wilson's finger
to the article on the marriage of Denbigh.

There was a momentary struggle in Emily for self-command. She was
obliged to find support in a chair. The returning richness of color,
excited by her walk, vanished; but recovering herself, she pressed the
hand of her anxious guardian, and, gently waving her back, proceeded to
her own room.

On her return to the company, the same control of her feelings which had
distinguished her conduct of late, was again visible; and, although her
aunt most narrowly watched her movements, looks, and speeches, she could
discern no visible alteration by this confirmation of misconduct. The
truth was, that in Emily Moseley the obligations of duty were so
imperative, her sense of her dependence on Providence so humbling and
yet so confiding, that, as soon as she was taught to believe her lover
unworthy of her esteem, that moment an insuperable barrier separated
them. His marriage could add nothing to the distance between them. It
was impossible they could be united; and although a secret lingering of
the affections over his fallen character might and did exist, it existed
without any romantic expectations of miracles in his favor, or vain
wishes of reformation, in which self was the prominent feeling. She
might be said to be keenly alive to all that concerned his welfare or
movements, if she did not harbor the passion of love; but it showed
itself in prayers for his amendment of life, and the most ardent
petitions for his future and eternal happiness. She had set about,
seriously and with much energy, the task of erasing from her heart
sentiments which, however delightful she had found it to entertain in
times past, were now in direct variance with her duty. She knew that a
weak indulgence of such passions would tend to draw her mind from, and
disqualify her to discharge, those various calls on her time and her
exertions, which could alone enable her to assist others, or effect in
her own person the great purposes of her creation. It was never lost
sight of by Emily Moseley, that her existence here was preparatory to an
immensely more important state hereafter. She was consequently in
charity with all mankind; and if grown a little more distrustful of the
intentions of her fellow-creatures, it was a mistrust bottomed in a
clear view of the frailties of our nature; and self-examination was
amongst the not unfrequent speculations she made on this hasty marriage
of her former lover.

Mrs. Wilson saw all this, and was soon made acquainted by her niece in
terms, with her views of her own condition; and although she had to, and
did, deeply regret, that all her caution had not been able to guard
against deception, where it was most important for her to guide aright,
yet she was cheered with the reflection that her previous care, with the
blessings of Providence, had admirably fitted her charge to combat and
overcome the consequences of their mistaken confidence.

The gloom which this little paragraph excited, extended to every
individual in the family; for all had placed Denbigh by the side of
John, in their affections, ever since his weighty services to Emily.

A letter from John announcing his intention of meeting them at Bath, as
well as his new relation with Grace, relieved in some measure this
general depression of spirit. Mr. Benfield alone found no consolation in
the approaching nuptials. John he regarded as his nephew, and Grace he
thought a very good sort of young woman; but neither of them were beings
of the same genus with Emily and Denbigh.

"Peter," said he one day, after they had both been expending their
ingenuity in vain efforts to discover the cause of this so-much-desired
marriage's being so unexpectedly frustrated, "have I not often told you,
that fate governed these things, in order that men might be humble in
this life? Now, Peter, had the Lady Juliana wedded with a mind congenial
to her own, she might have been mistress of Benfield Lodge to this very
hour."

"Yes, your honor--but there's Miss Emmy's legacy."

And Peter withdrew, thinking what would have been the consequences had
Patty Steele been more willing, when he wished to make her Mrs. Peter
Johnson--an association by no means uncommon in the mind of the steward;
for if Patty had ever a rival in his affections, it was in the person of
Emily Moseley, though, indeed, with very different degrees and coloring
of esteem.

The excursions to the cottage had been continued by Mrs. Wilson and
Emily, and as no gentleman was now in the family to interfere with their
communications, a general visit to the young widow had been made by the
Moseleys, including Sir Edward and Mr. Ives.

The Jarvises had gone to London to receive their children, now penitent
in more senses than one; and Sir Edward learnt with pleasure that
Egerton and his wife had been admitted into the family of the merchant.

Sir Edgar had died suddenly, and the entailed estates had fallen to his
successor the colonel, now Sir Harry; but the bulk of his wealth, being
in convertible property, he had given by will to his other nephew, a
young clergyman, and a son of a younger brother. Mary, as well as her
mother, were greatly disappointed, by this deprivation, of what they
considered their lawful splendor; but they found great consolation in
the new dignity of Lady Egerton, whose greatest wish now was to meet the
Moseleys, in order that she might precede them in or out of some place
where such ceremonials are observed. The sound of "Lady Egerton's
carriage stops the way," was delightful, and it never failed to be used
on all occasions, although her ladyship was mistress of only a hired
vehicle.

A slight insight into the situation of things amongst them may be found
in the following narrative of their views, as revealed in a discussion
which took place about a fortnight after the reunion of the family under
one roof.

Mrs. Jarvis was mistress of a very handsome coach, the gift of her
husband for her own private use. After having satisfied herself the
baronet (a dignity he had enjoyed just twenty-four hours) did not
possess the ability to furnish his lady, as she termed her daughter,
with such a luxury, she magnanimously determined to relinquish her own,
in support of the new-found elevation of her daughter. Accordingly, a
consultation on the alterations which were necessary took place between
the ladies--"The arms must be altered, of course," Lady Egerton
observed, "and Sir Harry's, with the bloody hand and six quarterings,
put in their place; then the liveries, they must be changed."

"Oh, mercy! my lady, if the arms are altered, Mr. Jarvis will be sure to
notice it, and he would never forgive me; and perhaps--"

"Perhaps what?" exclaimed the new-made lady, with a disdainful toss of
her head.

"Why," replied the mother, warmly, "not give me the hundred pounds he
promised, to have it new-lined and painted."

"Fiddlesticks with the painting, Mrs. Jarvis," cried the lady with
dignity: "no carriage shall be called mine that does not bear my arms
and the bloody hand."

"Why, your ladyship is unreasonable, indeed you are," said Mrs. Jarvis,
coaxingly; and then after a moment's thought she continued, "is it the
arms or the baronetcy you want, my dear?"

"Oh, I care nothing for the arms, but I am determined, now I am a
baronet's lady, Mrs. Jarvis, to have the proper emblem of my rank."

"Certainly, my lady, that's true dignity: well, then, we will put the
bloody hand on your father's arms, and he will never notice it, for he
never sees such things."

The arrangement was happily completed, and for a few days the coach of
Mr. Jarvis bore about the titled dame, until one unlucky day the
merchant, who still went on 'change when any great bargain in the stocks
was to be made, arrived at his own door suddenly, to procure a
calculation he had made on the leaf of his prayer-book the last Sunday
during sermon. This he obtained after some search. In his haste he drove
to his broker's in the carriage of his wife, to save time, it happening
to be in waiting at the moment, and the distance not great. Mr. Jarvis
forgot to order the man to return, and for an hour the vehicle stood in
one of the most public places in the city. The consequence was, that
when Mr. Jarvis undertook to examine into his gains, with the account
rendered of the transaction by his broker, he was astonished to read,
"Sir Timothy Jarvis, Bart., in account with John Smith, Dr." Sir Timothy
examined the account in as many different ways as Mr. Benfield had
examined the marriage of Denbigh, before he would believe his eyes; and
when assured of the fact, he immediately caught up his hat, and went to
find the man who had dared to insult him, as it were, in defiance of the
formality of business. He had not proceeded one square in the city
before he met a friend, who spoke to him by the title; an explanation of
the mistake followed, and the quasi baronet proceeded to his stables.
Here by actual examination he detected the fraud. An explanation with
his consort followed; and the painter's brush soon effaced the emblem of
dignity from the panels of the coach. All this was easy but with his
waggish companions on 'Change and in the city (where, notwithstanding
his wife's fashionable propensities, he loved to resort) he was Sir
Timothy still.

Mr. Jarvis, though a man of much modesty, was one of great decision, and
he determined to have the laugh on his side. A newly purchased borough
of his sent up an address flaming with patriotism, and it was presented
by his own hands. The merchant seldom kneeled to his Creator, but on
this occasion he humbled himself dutifully before his prince, and left
the presence with a legal right to the appellation which his old
companions had affixed to him sarcastically.

The rapture of Lady Jarvis may be more easily imagined than faithfully
described, the Christian name of her husband alone throwing any alloy
into the enjoyment of her elevation: but by a license of speech she
ordered, and addressed in her own practice, the softer and more familiar
appellation of Sir Timo. Two servants were discharged the first week,
because, unused to titles, they had addressed her as mistress; and her
son, the captain, then at a watering-place, was made acquainted by
express with the joyful intelligence.

All this time Sir Henry Egerton was but little seen amongst his new
relatives. He had his own engagements and haunts, and spent most of his
time at a fashionable gaming house in the West End. As, however, the
town was deserted, Lady Jarvis and her daughters, having condescended to
pay a round of city visits, to show off her airs and dignity to her old
friends, persuaded Sir Timo that the hour for their visit to Bath had
arrived, and they were soon comfortably settled in that city.

Lady Chatterton and her youngest daughter had arrived at the seat of her
son, and John Moseley, as happy as the certainty of love returned and
the approbation of his friends could make him, was in lodgings in the
town. Sir Edward notified his son of his approaching visit to Bath, and
John took proper accommodations for the family, which he occupied for a
few days by himself as locum tenens.

Lord and Lady Herriefield had departed for the south of France; and
Kate, removed from the scenes of her earliest enjoyments and the bosom
of her own family, and under the protection of a man she neither loved
nor respected, began to feel the insufficiency of a name or of a fortune
to constitute felicity. Lord Herriefield was of a suspicious and harsh
temper, the first propensity being greatly increased by his former
associations, and the latter not being removed by the humility of his
eastern dependants. But the situation of her child gave no uneasiness to
the managing mother, who thought her in the high-road to happiness, and
was gratified at the result of her labors. Once or twice, indeed, her
habits had overcome her caution so much as to endeavor to promote, a day
or two sooner than had been arranged, the wedding of Grace; but her
imprudence was checked instantly by the recoiling of Moseley from her
insinuations in disgust; and the absence of the young man for twenty-
four hours gave her timely warning of the danger of such an interference
with one of such fastidious feelings. John punished himself as much as
the dowager on these occasions; but the smiling face of Grace, with her
hand frankly placed in his own at his return, never failed to do away
the unpleasant sensations created by her mother's care.

The Chatterton and Jarvis families met in the rooms, soon after the
arrival of the latter, when the lady of the knight, followed by both her
daughters, approached the dowager with a most friendly salute of
recognition. Lady Chatterton, really forgetful of the persons of her B--
-- acquaintance, and disliking the vulgarity of her air, drew up into an
appearance of great dignity, as she hoped the lady was well. The
merchant's wife felt the consciousness of rank too much to be repulsed
in this manner, and believing that the dowager had merely forgotten her
face, she added, with a simpering smile, in imitation of what she had
seen better bred people practise with success--

"Lady Jarvis--my lady--your ladyship don't remember me--Lady Jarvis of
the Deanery, B----, Northamptonshire, and my daughters, Lady Egerton and
Miss Jarvis." Lady Egerton bowed stiffly to the recognising smile the
dowager now condescended to bestow; but Sarah, remembering a certain
handsome lord in the family, was more urbane, determining at the moment
to make the promotion of her mother and sister stepping-stones to
greater elevation for herself.

"I hope my lord is well," continued the city lady. "I regret that Sir
Timo, and Sir Harry, and Captain Jarvis, are not here this morning to
pay their respects to your ladyship; but as we shall see naturally a
good deal of each other, it must be deferred to a more fitting
opportunity."

"Certainly, madam," replied the dowager, as, passing her compliments
with those of Grace, she drew back from so open a conversation with
creatures of such doubtful standing in the fashionable world.



Chapter
XXXIII.

On taking leave of Mrs. Fitzgerald, Emily and her aunt settled a plan of
correspondence; the deserted situation of this young woman having
created great interest in the breasts of her new friends. General
M'Carthy had returned to Spain without receding from his original
proposal, and his niece was left to mourn her early departure from one
of the most solemn duties of life.

Mr. Benfield, thwarted in one of his most favorite schemes of happiness
for the residue of his life, obstinately refused to make one of the
party at Bath; and Ives and Clara having returned to Bolton, the
remainder of the Moseleys arrived at the lodgings of John a very few
days after the interview of the preceding chapter, with hearts ill
qualified to enter into the gaieties of the place, though, in obedience
to the wishes of Lady Moseley, to see and to be seen once more on that
great theatre of fashionable amusement.

The friends of the family who had known them in times past were
numerous, and were glad to renew their acquaintance with those they had
always esteemed; so that they found themselves immediately surrounded by
a circle of smiling faces and dashing equipages.

Sir William Harris, the proprietor of the deanery, and a former
neighbor, with his showy daughter, were amongst the first to visit them.
Sir William was a man of handsome estate and unexceptionable character,
but entirely governed by the whims and desires of his only child.
Caroline Harris wanted neither sense nor beauty, but expecting a
fortune, she had placed her views too high. She at first aimed at the
peerage; and while she felt herself entitled to suit her taste as well
as her ambition, had failed of her object by ill-concealed efforts to
attain it. She had justly acquired the reputation of the reverse of a
coquette or yet of a prude; still she had never received an offer, and
at the age of twenty-six, had now begun to lower her thoughts to the
commonalty. Her fortune would have easily obtained her husband here, but
she was determined to pick amongst the lower supporters of the
aristocracy of the nation. With the Moseleys she had been early
acquainted, though some years their senior; a circumstance, however, to
which she took care never to allude unnecessarily.

The meeting between Grace and the Moseleys was tender and sincere.
John's countenance glowed with delight, as he saw his future wife folded
successively in the arms of those he loved, and Grace's tears and
blushes added twofold charms to her native beauty. Jane relaxed from her
reserve to receive her future sister, and determined with herself to
appear in the world, in order to show Sir Henry Egerton that she did not
feel the blow he had inflicted as severely as the truth might have
proved.

The Dowager found some little occupation, for a few days, in settling
with Lady Moseley the preliminaries of the wedding; but the latter had
suffered too much through her youngest daughters, to enter into these
formalities with her ancient spirit. All things were, however, happily
settled; and Ives making a journey for the express purpose, John and
Grace were united privately at the altar of one of the principal
churches in Bath. Chatterton had been summoned on the occasion; and the
same paper which announced the nuptials, contained, amongst the
fashionable arrivals, the names of the Duke of Derwent and his sister,
the Marquess of Eltringham and sisters, amongst whom was to be found
Lady Laura Denbigh. Lady Chatterton carelessly remarked, in presence of
her friends, the husband of the latter was summoned to the death-bed of
a relative, from whom he had great expectations. Emily's color did
certainly change as she listened to this news, but not allowing her
thoughts to dwell on the subject, she was soon enabled to recall her
serenity of appearance.

But Jane and Emily were delicately placed. The lover of the former, and
the wives of the lovers of both, were in the way of daily, if not hourly
rencounters; and it required all the energies of the young women to
appear with composure before them. The elder was supported by pride, the
younger by principle. The first was restless, haughty, distant, and
repulsive. The last mild, humble, reserved, but eminently attractive.
The one was suspected by all around her; the other was unnoticed by any,
but by her nearest and dearest friends.

The first rencounter with these dreaded guests occurred at the rooms one
evening, where the elder ladies had insisted on the bride's making her
appearance. The Jarvises were there before them, and at their entrance
caught the eyes of the group. Lady Jarvis approached immediately, filled
with exultation--her husband with respect. The latter was received with
cordiality--the former politely, but with distance. The young ladies and
Sir Henry bowed distantly, and the gentleman soon drew off into another
part of the room: his absence alone kept Jane from fainting. The
handsome figure of Egerton standing by the side of Mary Jarvis, as her
acknowledged husband, was near proving too much for her pride,
notwithstanding all her efforts; and he looked so like the imaginary
being she had set up as the object of her worship, that her heart was
also in danger of rebelling.

"Positively, Sir Edward and my lady, both Sir Timo and myself, and, I
dare say, Sir Harry and Lady Egerton too, are delighted to see you
comfortably at Bath among us. Mrs. Moseley, I wish you much happiness;
Lady Chatterton too. I suppose your ladyship recollects me now; I am
Lady Jarvis. Mr. Moseley, I regret, for your sake, that my son Captain
Jarvis is not here; you were so fond of each other, and both so loved
your guns."

"Positively, my Lady Jarvis," said Moseley, drily, "my feelings on the
occasion are as strong as your own; but I presume the captain is much
too good a shot for me by this time."

"Why, yes; he improves greatly in most things he undertakes," rejoined
the smiling dame, "and I hope he will soon learn, like you, to shoot
with the harrows of Cupid. I hope the Honorable Mrs. Moseley is well."

Grace bowed mildly, as she answered to the interrogatory, and smiled at
the thought of Jarvis put in competition with her husband in this
species of archery, when a voice immediately behind where they sat
caught the ears of the whole party; all it said was--

"Harriet, you forgot to show me Marian's letter."

"Yes, but I will to-morrow," was the reply.

It was the tone of Denbigh. Emily almost fell from her seat as it first
reached her, and the eyes of all but herself were immediately turned in
quest of the speaker. He had approached within a very few feet of them,
supporting a lady on each arm. A second look convinced the Moseleys that
they were mistaken. It was not Denbigh, but a young man whose figure,
face, and air resembled him strongly, and whose voice possessed the same
soft melodious tones which had distinguished that of Denbigh. This party
seated themselves within a very short distance of the Moseleys, and they
continued their conversation.

"You heard from the Colonel to-day, too, I believe," continued the
gentleman, turning to the lady who sat next to Emily.

"Yes, he is a very punctual correspondent; I hear every other day."

"How is his uncle, Laura?" inquired her female companion.

"Rather better; but I will thank your grace to find the Marquess and
Miss Howard."

"Bring them to us," rejoined the other.

"Yes," said the former lady, with a laugh, "and Eltringham will thank
you too, I dare say."

In an instant the duke returned, accompanied by a gentleman of thirty
and an elderly lady, who might have been safely taken for fifty without
offence to anybody but herself.

During these speeches their auditors had listened with almost breathless
interest. Emily had stolen a glance which satisfied her it was not
Denbigh himself and it greatly relieved her; but was startled at
discovering that she was actually seated by the side of his young and
lovely wife. When an opportunity offered, she dwelt on the amiable,
frank countenance of her rival with melancholy satisfaction: at least,
she thought, he may yet be happy, and I hope penitent.

It was a mixture of love and gratitude which prompted this wish, both
sentiments not easily got rid of when once ingrafted in our better
feelings. John eyed the strangers with a displeasure for which he could
not account at once, and saw, in the ancient lady, the bridesmaid Lord
Henry had so unwillingly admitted to that distinction.

Lady Jarvis was astounded with her vicinity to so much nobility, and she
drew back to her family to study its movements to advantage; while Lady
Chatterton sighed heavily, as she contemplated the fine figures of an
unmarried Duke and Marquess, and she without a single child to dispose
of. The remainder of the party continued to view them with curiosity,
and listened with interest to what they said.

Two or three young ladies had now joined the strangers, attended by a
couple of gentlemen, and the conversation became general. The ladies
declined dancing entirely, but appeared willing to throw away an hour in
comments on their neighbors.

"William," said one of the young ladies, "there is your old messmate,
Col. Egerton."

"Yes, I observe him," replied her brother, "I see him;" but, smiling
significantly, he continued, "we are messmates no longer."

"He is a sad character," said the Marquess, with a shrug. "William, I
would advise you to be cautious of his acquaintance."

"I thank you," replied Lord William, "but I believe I understand him
thoroughly."

Jane manifested strong emotion during these remarks, while Sir Edward
and his wife averted their faces from a simultaneous feeling of self-
reproach. Their eyes met, and mutual concessions were contained in the
glance; yet their feelings were unnoticed by their companions, for over
the fulfilment of her often repeated forewarnings of neglect and duty to
our children, Mrs. Wilson had mourned in sincerity, but she had
forgotten to triumph.

"When are we to see Pendennyss?" inquired the Marquess; "I hope he will
be here with George--I have a mind to beat up his quarters in Wales this
season--what say you, Derwent?"

"I intend it, if I can persuade Lady Harriet to quit the gaieties of
Bath so soon--what say you, sister--will you be in readiness to attend
me so early?"

This question was asked in an arch tone, and drew the eyes of her
friends on the person to whom it was addressed.

"I am ready now, Frederick, if you wish it," answered the sister
hastily, and coloring excessively as she spoke.

"But where is Chatterton? I thought he was here--he had a sister married
here last week," inquired Lord William Stapleton, addressing no one in
particular.

A slight movement in their neighbors attracted the attention of the
party.

"What a lovely young woman," whispered the duke to Lady Laura, "your
neighbor is!"

The lady smiled her assent, and as Emily overheard it, she rose with
glowing cheeks, and proposed a walk round the room.

Chatterton soon after entered. The young peer had acknowledged to Emily
that, deprived of hope as he had been by her firm refusal of his hand,
his efforts had been directed to the suppression of a passion which
could never be successful; but his esteem, his respect, remained in full
force. He did not touch at all on the subject of Denbigh, and she
supposed that he thought his marriage was a step that required
justification.

The Moseleys had commenced their promenade round the room as Chatterton
came in. He paid his compliments to them as soon as he entered, and
walked with their party. The noble visitors followed their example, and
the two parties met. Chatterton was delighted to see them, the Duke was
particularly fond of him; and, had one been present of sufficient
observation, the agitation of his sister, the Lady Harriet Denbigh,
would have accounted for the doubts of her brother as respects her
willingness to leave Bath.

A few words of explanation passed; the duke and his friends appeared to
urge something on Chatterton, who acted as their ambassador, and the
consequence was, an introduction of the two parties to each other. This
was conducted with the ease of the present fashion--it was general, and
occurred, as it were incidentally, in the course of the evening.

Both Lady Harriet and Lady Laura Denbigh were particularly attentive to
Emily. They took their seats by her, and manifested a preference for her
conversation that struck Mrs. Wilson as remarkable. Could it be that the
really attractive manners and beauty of her niece had caught the fancy
of these ladies, or was there a deeper seated cause for the desire to
draw Emily out, that both of them evinced? Mrs. Wilson had heard a rumor
that Chatterton was thought attentive to Lady Harriet, and the other was
the wife of Denbigh; was it possible the quondam suitors of her niece
had related to their present favorites the situation they had stood in
as regarded Emily? It was odd, to say no more; and the widow dwelt on
the innocent countenance of the bride with pity and admiration. Emily
herself was not a little abashed at the notice of her new acquaintances,
especially Lady Laura's; but as their admiration appeared sincere, as
well as their desire to be on terms of intimacy with the Moseleys, they
parted, on the whole, mutually pleased.

The conversation several times was embarrassing to the baronet's family,
and at moments distressingly so to their daughters.

At the close of the evening they all formed one group at a little
distance from the rest of the company, and in a situation to command a
view of it.

"Who is that vulgar-looking woman," said Lady Sarah Stapleton, "seated
next to Sir Henry Egerton, brother?"

"No less a personage than my Lady Jarvis," replied the marquess,
gravely, "and the mother-in-law of Sir Harry, and the wife to Sir Timo--
;" this was said, with a look of drollery that showed the marquess was a
bit of a quiz.

"Married!" cried Lord William, "mercy on the woman who is Egerton's
wife. He is the greatest latitudinarian amongst the ladies, of any man
in England--nothing--no, nothing would tempt me to let such a man marry
a sister of mine!"

Ah, thought Mrs. Wilson, how we may be deceived in character, with the
best intentions, after all! In what are the open vices of Egerton worse
than the more hidden ones of Denbigh?

These freely expressed opinions on the character of Sir Henry were
excessively awkward to some of the listeners, to whom they were
connected with unpleasant recollections of duties neglected, and
affections thrown away.

Sir Edward Moseley was not disposed to judge his fellow-creatures
harshly; and it was as much owing to his philanthropy as to his
indolence, that he had been so remiss in his attention to the associates
of his daughters. But the veil once removed, and the consequences
brought home to him through his child, no man was more alive to the
necessity of caution on this important particular; and Sir Edward formed
many salutary resolutions for the government of his future conduct in
relation to those whom an experience nearly fatal in its results had now
greatly qualified to take care of themselves. But to resume our
narrative--Lady Laura had maintained with Emily a conversation, which
was enlivened by occasional remarks from the rest of the party, in the
course of which the nerves as well as the principles of Emily were put
to a severe trial.

"My brother Henry," said Lady Laura, "who is a captain in the navy, once
had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Moseley, and in some measure made
me acquainted with you before we met."

"I dined with Lord Henry at L----, and was much indebted to his polite
attentions in an excursion on the water," replied Emily, simply.

"Oh, I am sure his attentions were exclusive," cried the sister;
"indeed, he told us that nothing but want of time prevented his being
deeply in love--he had even the audacity to tell Denbigh it was
fortunate for me he had never seen you, or I should have been left to
lead apes."

"And I suppose you believe him now," cried Lord William, laughing, as he
bowed to Emily.

His sister laughed in her turn, but shook her head, in the confidence of
conjugal affection.

"It is all conjecture, for the Colonel said he had never enjoyed the
pleasure of meeting Miss Moseley, so I will not boast of what my powers
might have done; Miss Moseley," continued Lady Laura, blushing slightly
at her inclination to talk of an absent husband, so lately her lover, "I
hope to have the pleasure of presenting Colonel Denbigh to you soon."

"I think," said Emily, with a strong horror of deception, and a mighty
struggle to suppress her feelings, "Colonel Denbigh was mistaken in
saying that we had never met; he was of material service to me once, and
I owe him a debt of gratitude that I only wish I could properly repay."

Lady Laura listened in surprise; but as Emily paused, she could not
delicately, as his wife, remind her further of the obligation, by asking
what the service was, and hesitating a moment, continued--

"Henry quite made you the subject of conversation amongst us; Lord
Chatterton too, who visited us for a day, was equally warm in his
eulogiums. I really thought they created a curiosity in the Duke and
Pendennyss to behold their idol."

"A curiosity that would be ill rewarded in its indulgence," said Emily,
abashed by the personality of the discourse.

"So says the modesty of Miss Moseley," said the Duke of Derwent, in the
peculiar tone which distinguished the softer keys of Denbigh's voice.
Emily's heart beat quick as she heard them, and she was afterwards vexed
to remember with how much pleasure she had listened to this opinion of
the duke. Was it the sentiment, or was it the voice? She, however,
gathered strength to answer, with a dignity that repressed further
praises:--

"Your grace is willing to divest me of what little I possess."

"Pendennyss is a man of a thousand," continued Lady Laura, with the
privilege of a married woman. "I do wish he would join us at Bath--is
there no hope, duke?"

"I am afraid not," replied his grace: "he keeps himself immured in Wales
with his sister, who is as much of a hermit as he is himself."

"There was a story of an inamorata in private somewhere," cried the
marquess; "why at one time it was even said he was privately married to
her."

"Scandal, my lord," said the duke, gravely: "Pendennyss is of
unexceptionable morals, and the lady you mean is the widow of Major
Fitzgerald, whom you knew. Pendennyss never sees her, though by accident
he was once of very great service to her."

Mrs. Wilson breathed freely again, as she heard this explanation, and
thought if the Marquess knew all, how differently would he judge
Pendennyss, as well as others.

"Oh! I have the highest opinion of Lord Pendennyss," cried the Marquess.

The Moseleys were not sorry that the usual hour of retiring put an end
to the conversation and their embarrassment.



Chapter XXXIV.

During the succeeding fortnight, the intercourse between the Moseleys
and their new acquaintances increased daily. It was rather awkward at
first on the part of Emily; and her beating pulse and changing color too
often showed the alarm of feelings not yet overcome, when any allusions
were made to the absent husband of one of the ladies. Still, as her
parents encouraged the acquaintance, and her aunt thought the best way
to get rid of the remaining weakness with respect to Denbigh was not to
shrink from even an interview with the gentleman himself, Emily
succeeded in conquering her reluctance; and as the high opinion
entertained by Lady Laura of her husband was expressed in a thousand
artless ways, an interest was created in her that promised in time to
weaken if not destroy the impression that had been made by Denbigh
himself.

On the other hand, Egerton carefully avoided all collision with the
Moseleys. Once, indeed, he endeavored to renew his acquaintance with
John, but a haughty repulse almost produced a quarrel.

What representations Egerton had thought proper to make to his wife, we
are unable to say; but she appeared to resent something, as she never
approached the dwelling or persons of her quondam associates, although
in her heart she was dying to be on terms of intimacy with their titled
friends. Her incorrigible mother was restrained by no such or any other
consideration, and contrived to fasten on the Dowager and Lady Harriet a
kind of bowing acquaintance, which she made great use of at the rooms.

The Duke sought out the society of Emily wherever he could obtain it;
and Mrs. Wilson thought her niece admitted his approaches with less
reluctance than that of any other of the gentlemen around her. At first
she was surprised, but a closer observation betrayed to her the latent
cause.

Derwent resembled Denbigh greatly in person and voice, although there
were distinctions easily to be made on an acquaintance. The Duke had an
air of command and hauteur that was never to be seen in his cousin. But
his admiration of Emily he did not attempt to conceal; and, as he ever
addressed her in the respectful language and identical voice of Denbigh,
the observant widow easily perceived, that it was the remains of her
attachment to the one that induced her niece to listen, with such
evident pleasure, to the conversation of the other.

The Duke of Derwent wanted many of the indispensable requisites of a
husband, in the eyes of Mrs. Wilson; yet, as she thought Emily out of
all danger at the present of any new attachment, she admitted the
association, under no other restraint than the uniform propriety of all
that Emily said or did.

"Your niece will one day be a Duchess, Mrs. Wilson," whispered Lady
Laura, as Derwent and Emily were running over a new poem one morning, in
the lodgings of Sir Edward; the former reading a fine extract aloud so
strikingly in the air and voice of Denbigh, as to call all the animation
of the unconscious Emily into her expressive face.

Mrs. Wilson sighed, as she reflected on the strength of those feelings
which even principles and testimony had not been able wholly to subdue,
as she answered--

"Not of Derwent, I believe. But how wonderfully the Duke resembles your
husband at times," she added, entirely thrown off her guard.

Lady Laura was evidently surprised.

"Yes, at times he does; they are brothers' children, you know: the voice
in all that connexion is remarkable. Pendennyss, though a degree further
off in blood, possesses it; and Lady Harriet, you perceive, has the same
characteristic; there has been some syren in the family, in days past."

Sir Edward and Lady Moseley saw the attention of the Duke with the
greatest pleasure. Though not slaves to the ambition of wealth and rank,
they were certainly no objections in their eyes; and a proper suitor
Lady Moseley thought the most probable means of driving the recollection
of Denbigh from the mind of her daughter. The latter consideration had
great weight in inducing her to cultivate an acquaintance so
embarrassing on many accounts.

The Colonel, however, wrote to his wife the impossibility of his
quitting his uncle while he continued so unwell, and it was settled that
the bride should join him, under the escort of Lord William.

The same tenderness distinguished Denbigh on this occasion that had
appeared so lovely when exercised to his dying father. Yet, thought Mrs.
Wilson, how insufficient are good feelings to effect what can only be
the result of good principles.

Caroline Harris was frequently of the parties of pleasure, walks, rides,
and dinners, which the Moseleys were compelled to join in; and as the
Marquess of Eltringham had given her one day some little encouragement,
she determined to make an expiring effort at the peerage, before she
condescended to enter into an examination of the qualities of Capt.
Jarvis, who, his mother had persuaded her, was an Apollo, that had great
hopes of being one day a Lord, as both the Captain and herself had
commenced laying up a certain sum quarterly for the purpose of buying a
title hereafter--an ingenious expedient of Jarvis's to get into his
hands a portion of the allowance of his mother.

Eltringham was strongly addicted to the ridiculous; and without
committing himself in the least, drew the lady out on divers occasions,
for the amusement of himself and the Duke--who enjoyed, without
practising, that species of joke.

The collisions between ill-concealed art and as ill-concealed irony had
been practised with impunity by the Marquess for a fortnight, and the
lady's imagination began to revel in the delights of a triumph, when a
really respectable offer was made to Miss Harris by a neighbor of her
father's in the country--one she would rejoice to have received a few
days before, but which, in consequence of hopes created by the following
occurrence, she haughtily rejected.

It was at the lodgings of the Baronet that Lady Laura exclaimed one
day,--

"Marriage is a lottery, certainly, and neither Sir Henry nor Lady
Egerton appears to have drawn a prize."

Here Jane stole from the room.

"Never, sister," cried the Marquess. "I will deny that. Any man can
select a prize from your sex, if he only knows his own taste."

"Taste is a poor criterion, I am afraid," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, "on
which to found matrimonial felicity."

"To what would you refer the decision, my dear madam?" inquired the Lady
Laura.

"Judgment."

Lady Laura shook her hear doubtingly.

"You remind me so much of Lord Pendennyss! Everything he wishes to bring
under the subjection of judgment and principles."

"And is he wrong, Lady Laura?" asked Mrs. Wilson, pleased to find such
correct views existed in one of whom she thought so highly.

"Not wrong, my dear madam, only impracticable. What do you think,
Marquess, of choosing a wife in conformity to your principles, and
without consulting your tastes?"

Mrs. Wilson shook her head with a laugh, and disclaimed any such
statement of the case; but the Marquess, who disliked one of John's
didactic conversations very much, gaily interrupted her by saying--

"Oh! taste is everything with me. The woman of my heart against the
world, if she suits my fancy, and satisfies my judgment."

"And what may this fancy of your Lordship be?" said Mrs. Wilson, willing
to gratify the trifling. "What kind of a woman do you mean to choose?
How tall for instance?"

"Why, madam," cried the Marquess, rather unprepared for such a
catechism, and looking around him until the outstretched neck and the
eager attention of Caroline Harris caught his eye, when he added with an
air of great simplicity--"about the height of Miss Harris."

"How old?" asked Mrs. Wilson with a smile.

"Not too young, ma'am, certainly. I am thirty-two--my wife must be five
or six and twenty. Am I old enough, do you think, Derwent?" he added in
a whisper to the Duke.

"Within ten years," was the reply.

Mrs. Wilson continued--

"She must read and write, I suppose?"

"Why, faith," said the Marquess, "I am not fond of a bookish sort of a
woman, and least of all a scholar."

"You had better take Miss Howard," whispered his brother. "She is old
enough--never reads--and is just the height."

"No, no, Will," rejoined the brother. "Rather too old that. Now, I
admire a woman who has confidence in herself. One that understands the
proprieties of life, and has, if possible, been at the head of an
establishment before she is to take charge of mine."

The delighted Caroline wriggled about in her chair, and, unable to
contain herself longer, inquired:--

"Noble blood of course, you would require, my Lord?"

"Why no! I rather think the best wives are to be found in a medium. I
would wish to elevate my wife myself. A Baronet's daughter for
instance."

Here Lady Jarvis, who had entered during the dialogue, and caught a clue
to the topic they were engaged in, drew near, and ventured to ask if he
thought a simple knight too low. The Marquess, who did not expect such
an attack, was a little at a loss for an answer; but recovering himself
answered gravely, under the apprehension of another design on his
person, that "he did think that would be forgetting his duty to his
descendants."

Lady Jarvis sighed, and fell back in disappointment; while Miss Harris,
turning to the nobleman, in a soft voice, desired him to ring for her
carriage. As he handed her down, she ventured to inquire if his lordship
had ever met with such a woman as he described.

"Oh, Miss Harris," he whispered, as he handed her into the coach, "how
can you ask me such a question? You are very cruel. Drive on, coachman."

"How, cruel, my Lord?" said Miss Harris eagerly. "Stop, John. How,
cruel, my Lord?" and she stretched her neck out of the window as the
Marquess, kissing his hand to her, ordered the man to proceed.

"Don't you hear your lady, sir?"

Lady Jarvis had followed them down, also with a view to catch anything
which might be said, having apologized for her hasty visit; and as the
Marquess handed her politely into her carriage, she also begged "he
would favor Sir Timo and Sir Henry with a call;" which being promised,
Eltringham returned to the room.

"When am I to salute a Marchioness of Eltringham?" cried Lady Laura to
her brother, "one on the new standard set up by your Lordship."

"Whenever Miss Harris can make up her mind to the sacrifice," replied
the brother very gravely. "Ah me! how very considerate some of your sex
are, for the modesty of ours."

"I wish you joy with all my heart, my Lord Marquess," exclaimed John
Moseley. "I was once favored with the notice of that same lady for a
week or two, but a viscount saved me from capture."

"I really think, Moseley," said the Duke innocently, but speaking with
animation, "an intriguing daughter worse than a managing mother."

John's gravity for a moment vanished, as he replied in a lowered key,

"Oh, much worse."

Grace's heart was in her throat, until, by stealing a glance at her
husband, she saw the cloud passing over his fine brow; and happening to
catch her affectionate smile; his face was at once lighted into a look
of pleasantry.

"I would advise caution, my Lord. Caroline Harris has the advantage of
experience in her trade, and was expert from the first."

"John--John," said Sir Edward with warmth, "Sir William is my friend,
and his daughter must be respected."

"Then, baronet," cried the Marquess, "she has one recommendation I was
ignorant of, and as such I am silent: but ought not Sir William to teach
his daughter to respect herself? I view these husband-hunting ladies as
pirates on the ocean of love, and lawful objects for any roving cruiser
like myself to fire at. At one time I was simple enough to retire as
they advanced, but you know, madam," turning to Mrs. Wilson with a droll
look, "flight only encourages pursuit, so I now give battle in self-
defence."

"And I hope successfully, my Lord," observed the Lady. "Miss Harris,
brother, does appear to have grown desperate in her attacks, which were
formerly much more masked than at present. I believe it is generally the
case, when a young worman throws aside the delicacy and feelings which
ought to be the characteristics of her sex, and which teach her
studiously to conceal her admiration, that she either becomes in time
cynical and disagreeable to all around her from disappointment, or
persevering in her efforts, as it were, runs a muck for a husband. Now
in justice to the gentlemen, I must say, baronet, there are strong
symptoms of the Malay about Caroline Harris."

"A muck, a muck," cried the marquess, as, in obedience to the signal of
his sister, he rose to withdraw.

Jane had retired to her own room in a mortification of spirit she could
ill conceal during this conversation, and she felt a degree of
humiliation which almost drove her to the desperate resolution of hiding
herself for ever from the world. The man she had so fondly enshrined in
her heart proving to be so notoriously unworthy as to be the subject of
unreserved censure in general company, was a reproach to her delicacy,
her observation, her judgment, that was the more severe, from being
true; and she wept in bitterness over her fallen happiness.

Emily had noticed the movement of Jane, and waited anxiously for the
departure of the visitors to hasten to her room. She knocked two or
three times before her sister replied to her request for admittance.

"Jane, my dear Jane," said Emily, soothingly, "will you not admit me?"

Jane could not resist any longer the affection of her sister, and the
door was opened; but as Emily endeavored to take her hand, she drew back
coldly, and cried--

"I wonder you, who are so happy, will leave the gay scene below for the
society of an humbled wretch like me;" and overcome with the violence of
her emotion, she burst into tears.

"Happy!" repeated Emily, in a tone of anguish, "happy, did you say,
Jane? Oh, little do you know my sufferings, or you would never speak so
cruelly!"

Jane, in her turn, surprised at the strength of Emily's language,
considered her weeping sister with commiseration; and then her thoughts
recurring to her own case, she continued with energy--

"Yes, Emily, happy; for whatever may have been the reason of Denbigh's
conduct, he is respected; and if you do or did love him, he was worthy
of it. But I," said Jane, wildly, "threw away my affections on a wretch-
-a mere impostor--and I am miserable for ever."

"No, dear Jane," rejoined Emily, having recovered her self-possession,
"not miserable--nor for ever. You have many, very many sources of
happiness yet within your reach, even in this world. I--I do think, even
our strongest attachments may be overcome by energy and a sense of duty.
And oh! how I wish I could see you make the effort."

For a moment the voice of the youthful moralist had failed her; but
anxiety in behalf of her sister overcame her feelings, and she ended the
sentence with earnestness.

"Emily," said Jane, with obstinacy, and yet in tears, "you don't know
what blighted affections are. To endure the scorn of the world, and see
the man you once thought near being your husband married to another, who
is showing herself in triumph before you, wherever you go!"

"Hear me, Jane, before you reproach me further, and then judge between
us." Emily paused a moment to acquire nerve to proceed, and then related
to her astonished sister the little history of her own disappointments.
She did not affect to conceal her attachment for Denbigh. With glowing
cheeks she acknowledged, that she found a necessity for all her efforts
to keep her rebellious feelings yet in subjection; and as she recounted
generally his conduct to Mrs. Fitzgerald, she concluded by saying, "But,
Jane, I can see enough to call forth my gratitude; and although, with
yourself, I feel at this moment as if my affections were sealed for
ever, I wish to make no hasty resolutions, nor act in any manner as if I
were unworthy of the lot Providence has assigned me."

"Unworthy? no!--you have no reasons for self-reproach. If Mr. Denbigh
has had the art to conceal his crimes from you, he did it to the rest of
the world also, and has married a woman of rank and character. But how
differently are we situated! Emily--I--I have no such consolation."

"You have the consolation, my sister, of knowing there is an interest
made for you where we all require it most, and it is there I endeavor to
seek my support," said Emily, in a low and humble tone. "A review of our
own errors takes away the keenness of our perception of the wrongs done
us, and by placing us in charity with the rest of the world, disposes us
to enjoy calmly the blessings within our reach. Besides, Jane, we have
parents whose happiness is locked up in that of their children, and we
should--we must overcome the feelings which disqualify us for our common
duties, on their account."

"Ah!" cried Jane, "how can I move about in the world, while I know the
eyes of all are on me, in curiosity to discover how I bear my
disappointments. But you, Emily, are unsuspected. It is easy for you to
affect a gaiety you do not feel."

"I neither affect nor feel any gaiety," said her sister, mildly. "But
are there not the eyes of One on us, of infinitely more power to punish
or reward than what may be found in the opinions of the world? Have we
no duties? For what is our wealth, our knowledge, our time given us, but
to improve for our own and for the eternal welfare of those around us?
Come then, my sister, we have both been deceived--let us endeavor not to
be culpable."

"I wish, from my soul, we could leave Bath," cried Jane. "The place, the
people are hateful to me!"

"Jane," said Emily, "rather say you hate their vices, and wish for their
amendment: but do not indiscriminately condemn a whole community for the
wrongs you have sustained from one of its members."

Jane allowed herself to be consoled, though by no means convinced, by
this effort of her sister; and they both found a relief by thus
unburdening their hearts to each other, that in future brought them more
nearly together, and was of mutual assistance in supporting them in the
promiscuous circles in which they were obliged to mix.

With all her fortitude and principle, one of the last things Emily would
have desired was an interview with Denbigh, and she was happily relieved
from the present danger of it by the departure of Lady Laura and her
brother, to go to the residence of the Colonel's sick uncle.

Both Mrs. Wilson and Emily suspected that a dread of meeting them had
detained him from his intended journey to Bath; and neither was sorry to
perceive, what they considered as latent signs of grace--a grace of
which Egerton appeared entirely to be without.

"He may yet see his errors, and make a kind and affectionate husband,"
thought Emily; and then, as the image of Denbigh rose in her
imagination, surrounded with the domestic virtues, she roused herself
from the dangerous reflection to the exercise of the duties in which she
found a refuge from unpardonable wishes.



Chapter XXXV.

Nothing material occurred for a fortnight after the departure of Lady
Laura, the Moseleys entering soberly into the amusements of the place,
and Derwent and Chatterton becoming more pointed every day in their
attentions--the one to Emily, and the other to Lady Harriet; when the
dowager received a pressing entreaty from Catherine to hasten to her at
Lisbon, where her husband had taken up his abode for a time, after much
doubt and indecision as to his place of residence. Lady Herriefield
stated generally in her letter, that she was miserable, and that without
the support of her mother she could not exist under the present
grievances; but what was the cause of those grievances, or what grounds
she had for her misery, she left unexplained.

Lady Chatterton was not wanting in maternal regard, and she promptly
determined to proceed to Portugal in the next packet. John felt inclined
for a little excursion with his bride; and out of compassion to the
baron, who was in a dilemma between his duty and his love (for Lady
Harriet about that time was particularly attractive), he offered his
services.

Chatterton allowed himself to be persuaded by the good-natured John,
that his mother could safely cross the ocean under the protection of the
latter. Accordingly, at the end of the before mentioned fortnight, the
dowager, John, Grace, and Jane, commenced their journey to Falmouth.

Jane had offered to accompany Grace, as a companion in her return (it
being expected Lady Chatterton would remain in the country with her
daughter); and her parents appreciating her motives, permitted the
excursion, with a hope it would draw her thoughts from past events.

Although Grace shed a few tears at parting with Emily and her friends,
it was impossible for Mrs. Moseley to be long unhappy, with the face of
John smiling by her side; and they pursued their route uninterruptedly.
In due season they reached the port of embarkation.

The following morning the packet got under weigh, and a favorable breeze
soon wafted them out of sight of their native shores. The ladies were
too much indisposed the first day to appear on the deck; but the weather
becoming calm and the sea smooth, Grace and Jane ventured out of the
confinement of their state-rooms, to respire the fresh air above.

There were but few passengers, and those chiefly ladies--the wives of
officers on foreign stations, on their way to join their husbands. As
these had been accustomed to moving in the world, their disposition to
accommodate soon removed the awkwardness of a first meeting, and our
travellers began to be at home in their novel situation.

While Grace stood leaning on the arm of her husband, and clinging to his
support, both from affection and a dread of the motion of the vessel,
Jane ventured with one of the ladies to attempt a walk round the deck of
the ship. Unaccustomed to such an uncertain foothold, the walkers were
prevented falling by the kind interposition of a gentleman, who for the
first time had shown himself among them at that moment. The accident,
and their situation, led to a conversation which was renewed at
different times during their passage, and in some measure created an
intimacy between our party and the stranger. He was addressed by the
commander of the vessel as Mr. Harland; and Lady Chatterton exercised
her ingenuity in the investigation of his history, by which she made the
following discovery:

The Rev. and Hon. Mr. Harland was the younger son of an Irish earl, who
had early embraced his sacred profession in that church, in which he
held a valuable living in the gift of his father's family. His father
was yet alive, and then at Lisbon with his mother and sister, in
attendance on his elder brother, who had been sent there in a deep
decline a couple of months before. It had been the wish of his parents
to have taken all their children with them; but a sense of duty had kept
the young clergyman in the exercise of his holy office, until a request
of his dying brother, and the directions of his father, caused him to
hasten abroad to witness the decease of the one, and to afford all the
solace within his power to the others.

It may be easily imagined that the discovery of the rank of their
accidental acquaintance, with the almost certainty that existed of his
being the heir of his father's honors, in no degree impaired his
consequence in the eyes of the dowager; and it is certain, his visible
anxiety and depressed spirits, his unaffected piety, and disinterested
hopes for his brother's recovery, no less elevated him in the opinions
of her companions.

There was, at the moment, a kind of sympathy between Harland and Jane,
notwithstanding the melancholy which gave rise to it proceeding from
such very different causes and as the lady, although with diminished
bloom, retained all her personal charms, rather heightened than
otherwise by the softness of low spirits, the young clergyman sometimes
relieved his apprehensions of his brother's death by admitting the image
of Jane among his more melancholy reflections.

The voyage was tedious, and some time before it was ended the dowager
had given Grace an intimation of the probability there was of Jane's
becoming, at some future day, a countess. Grace sincerely hoped that
whatever she became she would be as happy as she thought all allied to
John deserved to be.

They entered the bay of Lisbon early in the morning; and as the ship had
been expected for some days, a boat came alongside with a note for Mr.
Harland, before they had anchored. It apprised him of the death of his
brother. The young man threw himself precipitately into it, and was soon
employed in one of the loveliest offices of his vocation, that of
healing the wounds of the afflicted.

Lady Herriefield received her mother in a sort of sullen satisfaction,
and her companions with an awkwardness she could ill conceal. It
required no great observation in the travellers to discover, that their
arrival was entirely unexpected by the viscount, if it were not equally
disagreeable; indeed, one day's residence under his roof assured them
all that no great degree of domestic felicity was an inmate of the
dwelling.

From the moment Lord Herriefield became suspicious that he had been the
dupe of the management of Kate and her mother, he viewed every act of
his wife with a prejudiced eye. It was easy, with his knowledge of human
nature, to detect her selfishness and worldly-mindedness; for as these
were faults she was unconscious of possessing, so she was unguarded in
her exposure of them. But her designs, in a matrimonial point of view,
having ended with her marriage, had the viscount treated her with any of
the courtesies due her sex and station, she might, with her disposition,
have been contented in the enjoyment of rank and in the possession of
wealth; but their more private hours were invariably rendered
unpleasant, by the overflowings of her husband's resentment at having
been deceived in his judgment of the female sex.

There is no point upon which men are more tender than their privilege of
suiting themselves in a partner for life, although many of both sexes
are influenced in this important selection more by the wishes and whims
of others than is usually suspected; yet, as all imagine what is the
result of contrivance and management is the election of free will and
taste, so long as they are ignorant, they are contented. Lord
Herriefield wanted this bliss of ignorance; and, with contempt for his
wife, was mingled anger at his own want of foresight.

Very few people can tamely submit to self-reproach; and as the cause of
this irritated state of mind was both not only constantly present, but
completely within his power, the viscount seemed determined to give her
as little reason to exult in the success of her plans as possible.
Jealous he was, from temperament, from bad associations, and a want of
confidence in the principles of his wife, the freedom of foreign manners
having an additional tendency to excite this baneful passion to an
unusual degree. Abridged in her pleasures, reproached with motives she
was incapable of harboring, and disappointed in all those enjoyments her
mother had ever led her to believe the invariable accompaniments of
married life, where proper attention had been paid to the necessary
qualifications of riches and rank, Kate had written to the dowager with
the hope her presence might restrain, or her advice teach her,
successfully to oppose the unfeeling conduct of the viscount.

Lady Chatterton never having implanted any of her favorite systems in
her daughter, so much by precept as by the force of example in her own
person, as well as by indirect eulogiums on certain people who were
endowed with those qualities and blessings she most admired, on the
present occasion Catherine did not unburden herself in terms to her
mother; but by a regular gradation of complaints, aimed more at the
world than at her husband, she soon let the knowing dowager see their
application, and in the end completely removed the veil from her
domestic grievances.

The example of John and Grace for a short time awed the peer into
dissembling his disgust for his spouse; but the ice once broken, their
presence soon ceased to affect either the frequency or the severity of
his remarks, when under its influence.

From such exhibitions of matrimonial discord, Grace shrank timidly into
the retirement of her room, and Jane, with dignity, would follow her
example; while John at times became a listener, with a spirit barely
curbed within the bounds of prudence, and at others, he sought in the
company of his wife and sister, relief from the violence of his
feelings.

John never admired nor respected Catherine, for she wanted those very
qualities he chiefly loved in her sister; yet, as she was a woman, and
one nearly connected with him, he found it impossible to remain a quiet
spectator of the unmanly treatment she often received from her husband;
he therefore made preparations for his return to England by the first
packet, abridging his intended residence in Lisbon more than a month.

Lady Chatterton endeavored all within her power to heal the breach
between Kate and her husband, but it greatly exceeded her abilities. It
was too late to implant such principles in her daughter, as by a long
course of self-denial and submission might have won the love of the
viscount, had the mother been acquainted with them herself; so that
having induced her child to marry with a view to obtaining precedence
and a jointure, she once more set to work to undo part of her former
labors, by bringing about a decent separation between the husband and
wife, in such a manner as to secure to her child the possession of her
wealth, and the esteem of the world. The latter, though certainly a
somewhat difficult undertaking, was greatly lessened by the assistance
of the former.

John and his wife determined to seize the opportunity to examine the
environs of the city. In one of these daily rides, they met their fellow
traveller, Mr. now Lord Harland. He was rejoiced to see them again, and
hearing of their intended departure, informed them of his being about to
return to England in the same vessel--his parents and sister
contemplating ending the winter in Portugal.

The intercourse between the two families was kept up with a show of
civilities between the noblemen, and much real good-will on the part of
the juniors of the circle, until the day arrived for the sailing of the
packet.

Lady Chatterton was left behind with Catherine, as yet unable to
circumvent her schemes with prudence; it being deemed by the world a
worse offence to separate, than to join together one's children in the
bands of wedlock.

The confinement of a vessel is very propitious to those intimacies which
lead to attachments. The necessity of being agreeable is a check upon
the captious, and the desire to lessen the dulness of the scene a
stimulus to the lively; and though the noble divine and Jane could not
possibly be ranked in either class, the effect was the same. The noble
man was much enamored, and Jane unconsciously gratified. It is true,
love had never entered her thoughts in its direct and unequivocal form;
but admiration is so consoling to those laboring under self-
condemnation, and flattery of a certain kind so very soothing to all, it
is not to be wondered that she listened with increasing pleasure to the
interesting conversation of Harland on all occasions, and more
particularly, as often happened, when exclusively addressed to herself.

Grace had of late reflected more seriously on the subject of her eternal
welfare than she had been accustomed to do in the house of her mother;
and the example of Emily, with the precepts of Mrs. Wilson, had not been
thrown away upon her. It is a singular fact, that more women feel a
disposition to religion soon after marriage than at any other period of
life; and whether it is, that having attained the most important station
this life affords the sex, they are more willing to turn their thoughts
to a provision for the next, or whether it be owing to any other cause,
Mrs. Moseley was included in the number. She became sensibly touched
with her situation, and as Harland was both devout and able as well as
anxious to instruct, one of the party, at least, had cause to rejoice in
the journey for the remainder of her days. But precisely as Grace
increased in her own faith, so did her anxiety after the welfare of her
husband receive new excitement; and John, for the first time, became the
cause of sorrow to his affectionate companion.

The deep interest Harland took in the opening conviction of Mrs.
Moseley, did not so entirely engross his thoughts as to prevent the too
frequent contemplation of the charms of her friend for his own peace of
mind; and by the time the vessel reached Falmouth, he had determined to
make a tender of his hand and title to the acceptance of Miss Moseley.
Jane did not love Egerton; on the contrary, she despised him; but the
time had been, when all her romantic feelings, every thought of her
brilliant imagination, had been filled with his image, and Jane felt it
a species of indelicacy to admit the impression of another so soon, or
even at all. These objections would, in time, have been overcome, as her
affections became more and more enlisted on behalf of Harland, had she
admitted his addresses; but there was an impediment that Jane considered
insurmountable to a union with any man.

She had once communicated her passion to its object. There had been the
confidence of approved love; and she had now no heart for Harland, but
one that had avowedly been a slave to another. To conceal this from him
would be unjust, and not reconcilable to good faith; to confess it,
humiliating, and without the pale of probability. It was the misfortune
of Jane to keep the world too constantly before her, and to lose sight
too much of her really depraved nature, to relish the idea of humbling
herself so low in the opinion of a fellow-creature. The refusal of
Harland's offer was the consequence, although she had begun to feel an
esteem for him, that would no doubt have given rise to an attachment in
time, far stronger and more deeply seated than her passing fancy for
Colonel Egerton had been.

If the horror of imposing on the credulity of Harland a wounded heart,
was creditable to Jane, and showed an elevation of character that under
proper guidance would have placed her in the first ranks of her sex; the
pride which condemned her to a station nature did not design her for was
irreconcilable with the humility a just view of her condition could not
fail to produce; and the second sad consequence of the indulgent
weakness of her parents, was confirming their child in passions directly
at variance with the first duties of a Christian.

We have so little right to value ourselves on anything, that pride is a
sentiment of very doubtful service, and one certainly, that is unable to
effect any useful results which will not equally flow from good
principles.

Harland was disappointed and grieved, but prudently judging that
occupation and absence would remove recollections which could not be
very deep, they parted at Falmouth, and our travellers proceeded on
their journey for B----, whither, during their absence, Sir Edward's
family had returned to spend a month, before they removed to town for
the residue of the winter.

The meeting of the two parties was warm and tender, and as Jane had many
things to recount, and John as many to laugh at, their arrival threw a
gaiety around Moseley Hall to which it had for months been a stranger.

One of the first acts of Grace, after her return, was to enter strictly
into the exercise of all those duties and ordinances required by her
church, and the present state of her mind, and from the hands of Dr.
Ives she received her first communion at the altar.

As the season had now become far advanced, and the fashionable world had
been some time assembled in the metropolis, the Baronet commenced his
arrangements to take possession of his town-house, after an interval of
nineteen years. John proceeded to the capital first; and the necessary
domestics procured, furniture supplied, and other arrangements usual to
the appearance of a wealthy family in the world having been completed,
he returned with the information that all was ready for their triumphal
entrance.

Sir Edward, feeling that a separation for so long a time, and at such an
unusual distance, in the very advanced age of Mr. Benfield, would be
improper, paid him a visit, with the intention of persuading him to make
one of his family for the next four months. Emily was his companion, and
their solicitations were happily crowned with a success they had not
anticipated. Averse to be deprived of Peter's society, the honest
steward was included in the party.

"Nephew," said Mr. Benfield, beginning to waver in his objections to the
undertaking, as the arguments pro and con were produced, "there are
instances of gentlemen, not in parliament, going to town in the winter,
I know. You are one yourself; and old Sir John Cowel, who never could
get in, although he ran for every city in the kingdom, never missed his
winter in Soho. Yes, yes--the thing is admissible--but had I known your
wishes before, I would certainly have kept my borough if it were only
for the appearance of the thing--besides," continued the old man,
shaking his head, "his majesty's ministers require the aid of some more
experienced members in these critical times; for what should an old man
like me do in Westminster, unless it were to aid his country with his
advice?"

"Make his friends happy with his company, dear uncle," said Emily,
taking his hand between both her own, and smiling affectionately on the
old gentleman as she spoke.

"Ah! Emmy dear!" cried Mr. Benfield, looking on her with melancholy
pleasure, "you are not to be resisted--just such another as the sister
of my old friend Lord Gosford; she could always coax me out of anything.
I remember now, I heard the earl tell her once he could not afford to
buy a pair of diamond ear-rings; and she looked--only looked--did not
speak! Emmy!--that I bought them with intent to present them to her
myself."

"And did she take them, uncle?" asked his niece, in a little surprise.

"Oh yes! When I told her if she did not I would throw them into the
river, as no one else should wear what had been intended for her; poor
soul! how delicate and unwilling she was. I had to convince her they
cost three hundred pounds, before she would listen to it; and then she
thought it such a pity to throw away a thing of so much value. It would
have been wicked, you know, Emmy, dear; and she was much opposed to
wickedness and sin in any shape."

"She must have been a very unexceptionable character indeed," cried the
Baronet, with a smile, as he proceeded to make the necessary orders for
their journey. "But we must return to the party left at Bath."



Chapter
XXXVI.

The letters of Lady Laura informed her friends, that she and Colonel
Denbigh had decided to remain with his uncle until the recovery of the
latter was complete, and then to proceed to Denbigh Castle, to meet the
Duke and his sister during the approaching holidays.

Emily was much relieved by this postponement of an interview which she
would gladly have avoided for ever; and her aunt sincerely rejoiced that
her niece was allowed more time to eradicate impressions, which, she saw
with pain, her charge had yet a struggle to overcome.

There were so many points to admire in the character of Denbigh; his
friends spoke of him with such decided partiality; Dr. Ives, in his
frequent letters, alluded to him with so much affection; that Emily
frequently detected herself in weighing the testimony of his guilt, and
indulging the expectation that circumstances had deceived them all in
their judgment of his conduct. Then his marriage would cross her mind;
and with the conviction of the impropriety of admitting him to her
thoughts at all, would come the mass of circumstantial testimony which
had accumulated against him.

Derwent served greatly to keep alive the recollections of his person,
however; and as Lady Harriet seemed to live only in the society of the
Moseleys, not a day passed without giving the Duke some opportunity of
indirectly preferring his suit.

Emily not only appeared, but in fact was, unconscious of his admiration;
and entered into their amusements with a satisfaction that was increased
by the belief that the unfortunate attachment her cousin Chatterton had
once professed for herself, was forgotten in the more certain enjoyments
of a successful love.

Lady Harriet was a woman of manners and character very different from
Emily Moseley; yet had she in a great measure erased the impressions
made by the beauty of his kinswoman from the bosom of the baron.

Chatterton, under the depression of his first disappointment, it will be
remembered, had left B---- in company with Mr. Denbigh. The interest of
the duke had been unaccountably exerted to procure him the place he had
so long solicited in vain, and gratitude required his early
acknowledgments for the favor. His manner, so very different from a
successful applicant for a valuable office, had struck both Derwent and
his sister as singular. Before, however, a week's intercourse had passed
between them, his own frankness had made them acquainted with the cause;
and a double wish prevailed in the bosom of Lady Harriet, to know the
woman who could resist the beauty of Chatterton, and to relieve him from
the weight imposed on his spirits by disappointed affection.

The manners of Lady Harriet Denbigh were not in the least forward or
masculine; but they had the freedom of high rank, mingled with a good
deal of the ease of fashionable life. Mrs. Wilson noticed, moreover, in
her conduct to Chatterton, a something exceeding the interest of
ordinary communications in their situation, which might possibly have
been attributed more to feeling than to manner. It is certain, one of
the surest methods to drive Emily from his thoughts, was to dwell on the
perfections of some other lady; and Lady Harriet was so constantly
before him in his visit into Westmoreland, so soothing, so evidently
pleased with his presence, that the baron made rapid advances in
attaining his object.

He had alluded, in his letter to Emily, to the obligation he was under
to the services of Denbigh, in erasing his unfortunate partiality for
her: but what those services were, we are unable to say, unless they
were the usual arguments of the plainest good sense, enforced in the
singularly insinuating and kind manner which distinguished that
gentleman. In fact, Lord Chatterton was not formed by nature to love
long, deprived of hope, or to resist long the flattery of a preference
from such a woman as Harriet Denbigh.

On the other hand, Derwent was warm in his encomiums on Emily to all but
herself; and Mrs. Wilson again thought it prudent to examine into the
state of her feelings, in order to discover if there was any danger of
his unremitted efforts drawing Emily into a connexion that neither her
religion nor prudence could wholly approve.

Derwent was a man of the world--a Christian only in name; and the
cautious widow determined to withdraw in season, should she find grounds
for her apprehensions.

About ten days after the departure of the Dowager and her companions,
Lady Harriet exclaimed, in one of her morning visits--

"Lady Moseley! I have now hopes of presenting to you soon the most
polished man in the United Kingdom!"

"As a husband! Lady Harriet?" inquired the other, with a smile.

"Oh, no! only as a cousin, a second cousin! madam!" replied Lady
Harriet, blushing a little, and looking in the opposite direction to the
one in which Chatterton was placed.

"But his name? You forget our curiosity! What is his name?" cried Mrs.
Wilson, entering into the trifling for the moment.

"Pendennyss, to be sure, my dear madam: whom else can I mean?"

"And you expect the earl at Bath?" Mrs. Wilson eagerly inquired.

"He has given us such hopes, and Derwent has written him to-day,
pressing the journey."

"You will be disappointed, I am afraid, sister," said the duke.
"Pendennyss has become so fond of Wales of late, that it is difficult to
get him out of it."

"But," said Mrs. Wilson, "he will take his seat in parliament during the
winter, my lord?"

"I hope he will, madam; though Lord Eltringham holds his proxies, in my
absence, in all important questions before the house."

"Your grace will attend, I trust," said Sir Edward. "The pleasure of
your company is among my expected enjoyments in the town."

"You are very good, Sir Edward," replied the duke, looking at Emily. "It
will somewhat depend on circumstances, I believe."

Lady Harriet smiled, and the speech seemed understood by all but the
lady most concerned in it.

"Lord Pendennyss is a universal favorite, and deservedly so," cried the
duke. "He has set an example to the nobility, which few are equal to
imitate. An only son, with an immense estate, he has devoted himself to
the profession of a soldier, and gained great reputation by it in the
world; nor has he neglected any of his private duties as a man----"

"Or a Christian, I hope," said Mrs. Wilson, delighted with the praises
of the earl.

"Nor of a Christian, I believe," continued the duke; "he appears
consistent, humble, and sincere--three requisites, I believe, for that
character."

"Does not your grace know?" said Emily, with a benevolent smile.

Derwent colored slightly as he answered--

"Not as well as I ought; but"--lowering his voice for her ear alone, he
added, "under proper instruction I think I might learn."

"Then I would recommend that book to you, my lord," rejoined Emily, with
a blush, pointing to a pocket Bible which lay near her, though still
ignorant of the allusion he meant to convey.

"May I ask the honor of an audience of Miss Moseley," said Derwent, in
the same low tone, "whenever her leisure will admit of her granting the
favor?"

Emily was surprised; but from the previous conversation and the current
of her thoughts at the moment, supposing his communication had some
reference to the subject before them, she rose from her chair, and
unobtrusively, but certainly with an air of perfect innocence and
composure, she went into the adjoining room, the door of which was open
very near them.

Caroline Harris had abandoned all ideas of a coronet with the departure
of the Marquess of Eltringham and his sisters for their own seat; and as
a final effort of her fading charms, had begun to calculate the
capabilities of Captain Jarvis, who had at this time honored Bath with
his company.

It is true, the lady would have greatly preferred her father's neighbor,
but that was an irretrievable step. He had retired, disgusted with her
haughty dismissal of his hopes, and was a man who, although he greatly
admired her fortune, was not to be recalled by any beck or smile which
might grow out of caprice.

Lady Jarvis had, indeed, rather magnified the personal qualifications of
her son; but the disposition they had manifested, to devote some of
their surplus wealth to purchasing a title, had great weight, for Miss
Harris would cheerfully, at any time, have sacrificed one half her own
fortune to be called my lady. Jarvis would make but a shabby-looking
lord, 'tis true; but then what a lord's wife would she not make herself!
His father was a merchant, to be sure, but then merchants were always
immensely rich, and a few thousand pounds, properly applied, might make
the merchant's son a baron. She therefore resolved to inquire, the first
opportunity, into the condition of the sinking fund of his plebeianism,
and had serious thoughts of contributing her mite towards the
advancement of the desired object, did she find it within the bounds of
probable success.

An occasion soon offered, by the invitation of the Captain to accompany
him in an excursion in the tilbury of his brother-in-law.

In this ride they passed the equipages of Lady Harriet and Mrs. Wilson,
with their respective mistresses, taking an airing. In passing the
latter, Jarvis bowed (for he had renewed his acquaintance at the rooms,
without daring to visit at the lodgings of Sir Edward), and Miss Harris
saw both parties as they dashed by them.

"You know the Moseleys, Caroline?" said Jarvis, with the freedom her
manners had established between them.

"Yes," replied the lady, drawing her head back from a view of the
carriages; "what fine arms those of the Duke's are--and the coronet, it
is so noble--so rich--I am sure if I were a man," laying great emphasis
on the word--"I would be a Lord."

"If you could, you mean," cried the captain.

"Could--why money will buy a title, you know--only most people are
fonder of their cash than of honor."

"That's right," said the unreflecting captain; "money is the thing,
after all. Now what do you suppose our last mess-bill came to?"

"Oh, don't talk of eating and drinking," cried Miss Harris, in affected
aversion; "is it beneath the consideration of nobility."

"Then any one may be a lord for me," said Jarvis, drily "if they are not
to eat and drink; why, what do they live for, but such sort of things!"

"A soldier lives to fight and gain honor and distinction"--for his wife-
-Miss Harris would have added, had she spoken all she thought.

"A poor way that of spending a man's time," said the Captain. "Now there
is Captain Jones in our regiment; they say he loves fighting as much as
eating: if he do, he is a bloodthirsty fellow."

"You know how intimate I am with your dear mother," continued the lady,
bent on the principal object; "she has made me acquainted with her
greatest wish."

"Her greatest wish!" cried the Captain, in astonishment; "why, what can
that be?--a new coach and horses?"

"No, I mean one much dearer to us--I should say, to her, than any such
trifles: she has told me of the plan."

"Plan!" said Jarvis, still in wonder, "what plan?"

"About the fund for the peerage, you know. Of course, the thing is
sacred with me, as, indeed, I am equally interested with you all in its
success."

Jarvis eyed her with a knowing look, and as she concluded, rolling his
eyes in an expression of significance, he said--

"What, serve Sir William some such way, eh?"

"I will assist a little, if it be necessary, Henry," said the lady,
tenderly, "although my mite cannot amount to a great deal."

During this speech, the Captain was wondering what she could mean; but,
having had a suspicion, from something that had fallen from his mother,
that the lady was intended for him as a wife, and that she might be as
great a dupe as Lady Jarvis herself, he was resolved to know the whole,
and to act accordingly.

"I think it might be made to do," he replied, evasively in order to
discover the extent of his companion's information.

"Do!", cried Miss Harris, with fervor, "it cannot fail! How much do you
suppose will be wanting to buy a barony, for instance?"

"Hem!" said Jarvis; "you mean more than we have already?"

"Certainly."

"Why, about a thousand pounds, I think, will do it, with what we have,"
said Jarvis, affecting to calculate.

"Is that all?" cried the delighted Caroline; and the captain grew in an
instant, in her estimation, three inches higher;--quite noble in his
air, and, in short, very tolerably handsome.

From that moment, Miss Harris, in her own mind, had fixed the fate of
Captain Jarvis, and had determined to be his wife, whenever she could
persuade him to offer himself; a thing she had no doubt of accomplishing
with comparative ease. Not so the Captain. Like all weak men, there was
nothing of which he stood more in terror than of ridicule. He had heard
the manoeuvres of Miss Harris laughed at by many of the young men in
Bath, and was by no means disposed to add himself to the food for mirth
of these wags; and, indeed, had cultivated her acquaintance with a kind
of bravado to some of his bottle companions, in order to show his
ability to oppose all her arts, when most exposed to them: for it is one
of the greatest difficulties to the success of this description of
ladies, that their characters soon become suspected, and do them
infinitely more injury than all their skill in their vocation.

With these views in the respective champions the campaign opened, and
the lady, on her return, acquainted his mother with the situation of the
privy purse, that was to promote her darling child to the enviable
distinction of the peerage. Lady Jarvis was for purchasing a baronetcy
on the spot, with what they had, under the impression that when ready
for another promotion they would only have to pay the difference, as
they did in the army when he received his captaincy. As, however, the
son was opposed to any arrangement that might make the producing the few
hundred pounds he had obtained from his mother's folly necessary, she
was obliged to postpone the wished-for day, until their united efforts
could compass the means of effecting the main point. As an earnest,
however, of her spirit in the cause, she gave him a fifty pound note,
that morning obtained from her husband, and which the Captain lost at
one throw of the dice to his brother-in-law the same evening.

During the preceding events, Egerton had either studiously avoided all
collision with the Moseleys, or his engagements had confined him to such
very different scenes, that they never met.

The Baronet had felt his presence a reproach, and Lady Moseley rejoiced
that Egerton yet possessed sufficient shame to keep him from insulting
her with his company.

It was a month after the departure of Lady Chatterton that Sir Edward
returned to B----, as related in the preceding chapter, and that the
arrangements for the London winter were commenced.

The day preceding their leaving Bath, the engagement of Chatterton with
Lady Harriet was made public amongst their mutual friends, and an
intimation was given that their nuptials would be celebrated before the
family of the Duke left his seat for the capital.

Something of the pleasure that she had for a long time been a stranger
to, was felt by Emily Moseley, as the well remembered tower of the
village church of B---- struck her sight on their return from their
protracted excursion. More than four months had elapsed since they had
commenced their travels, and in that period what changes of sentiments
had she not witnessed in others; of opinions of mankind in general, and
of one individual in particular, had she not experienced in her own
person. The benevolent smiles, the respectful salutations they received,
in passing the little group of houses which, clustered round the church,
had obtained the name of "the village," conveyed a sensation of delight
that can only be felt by the deserving and virtuous; and the smiling
faces, in several instances glistening with tears, which met them at the
Hall, gave ample testimony to the worth of both the master and his
servants.

Francis and Clara were in waiting to receive them, and a very few
minutes elapsed before the rector and Mrs. Ives, having heard they had
passed, drove in also. In saluting the different members of the family,
Mrs. Wilson noticed the startled look of the doctor, as the change in
Emily's appearance first met his eyes. Her bloom, if not gone, was
greatly diminished; and it was only when under the excitement of strong
emotions, that her face possessed that radiance which had so eminently
distinguished it before her late journey.

"Where did you last see my friend George?" said the Doctor to Mrs.
Wilson, in the course of the first afternoon, as he took a seat by her
side, apart from the rest of the family.

"At L----," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely.

"L----!" cried the doctor, in evident amazement. "Was he not at Bath
then during your stay there?"

"No; I understand he was in attendance on some sick relative, which
detained him from his friends," said Mrs. Wilson, wondering why the
doctor chose to introduce so delicate a topic. Of his guilt in relation
to Mrs. Fitzgerald he was doubtless ignorant, but surely not of his
marriage.

"It is now some time since I heard from him," continued the doctor,
regarding Mrs. Wilson expressively, but to which the lady only replied
with a gentle inclination of the body; and the Rector, after pausing a
moment, continued:

"You will not think me impertinent if I am bold enough to ask, has
George ever expressed a wish to become connected with your niece by
other ties than those of friendship?"

"He did," answered the widow, after a little hesitation.

"He did, and--"

"Was refused," continued Mrs. Wilson, with a slight feeling for the
dignity of her sex, which for a moment caused her to lose sight of
justice to Denbigh.

Dr. Ives was silent; but manifested by his dejected countenance the
interest he had taken in this anticipated connexion, and as Mrs. Wilson
had spoken with ill-concealed reluctance on the subject at all, the
Rector did not attempt a renewal of the disagreeable.



Chapter XXXVII.

"Samvenson has returned, and I certainly must hear from Harriet,"
exclaimed the sister of Pendennyss, as she stood at a window watching
the return of a servant from the neighboring post-office.

"I am afraid," rejoined the Earl, who was seated by the breakfast table,
waiting the leisure of the lady to give him his cup of tea--"You find
Wales very dull, sister. I sincerely hope both Derwent and Harriet will
not forget their promise of visiting us this month."

The lady slowly took her seat at the table, engrossed in her own
reflections, when the man entered with his budget of news; and having
deposited sundry papers and letters he respectfully withdrew. The Earl
glanced his eyes over the directions of the epistles, and turning to his
servants said, "Answer the bell when called." Three or four liveried
footmen deposited their silver salvers and different implements of
servitude, and the peer and his sister were left to themselves.

"Here is one from the Duke to me, and one for you from his sister," said
the brother; "I propose they be read aloud for our mutual advantage." To
this proposal the lady, whose curiosity to hear the contents of
Derwent's letter greatly exceeded her interest in that of his sister,
cheerfully acquiesced, and her brother first broke the seal of his own
epistle, and read its contents as follow:

"Notwithstanding my promise of seeing you this month in Caernarvonshire,
I remain here yet, my dear Pendennyss, unable to tear myself from the
attractions I have found in this city, although the pleasure of their
contemplation has been purchased at the expense of mortified feelings
and unrequited affections. It is a truth (though possibly difficult to
be believed), that this mercenary age has produced a female disengaged,
young, and by no means very rich, who has refused a jointure of six
thousand a year, with the privilege of walking at a coronation within a
dozen of royalty itself."

Here the accidental falling of a cup from the hands of the fair listener
caused some little interruption to the reading of the brother; but as
the lady, with a good deal of trepidation and many blushes, apologized
hastily for the confusion her awkwardness had made, the Earl continued
to read.

"I could almost worship her independence: for I know the wishes of both
her parents were for my success. I confess to you freely, that my vanity
has been a good deal hurt, as I really thought myself agreeable to her.
She certainly listened to my conversation, and admitted my approaches,
with more satisfaction than those of any other of the men around her;
and when I ventured to hint to her this circumstance, as some
justification for my presumption, she frankly acknowledged the truth of
my impression, and, without explaining the reasons for her conduct,
deeply regretted the construction I had been led to place upon the
circumstance. Yes, my lord, I felt it necessary to apologize to Emily
Moseley for presuming to aspire to the honor of possessing so much
loveliness and virtue. The accidental advantages of rank and wealth lose
all their importance, when opposed to her delicacy, ingenuousness, and
unaffected principles.

"I have heard it intimated lately, that George Denbigh was in some way
or other instrumental in saving her life once; and that to her
gratitude, and to my resemblance to the colonel, am I indebted to a
consideration with Miss Moseley, which, although it has been the means
of buoying me up with false hopes, I can never regret, from the pleasure
her society has afforded me. I have remarked, on my mentioning his name
to her, that she showed unusual emotion; and as Denbigh is already a
husband, and myself rejected, the field is now fairly open to you. You
will enter on your enterprise with great advantage, as you have the same
flattering resemblance, and, if anything, the voice, which, I am told,
is our greatest recommendation with the ladies, in higher perfection
than either George or your humble servant."

Here the reader stopped of his own accord, and was so intently absorbed
in his meditations, that the almost breathless curiosity of his sister
was obliged to find relief by desiring him to proceed. Roused by the
sound of her voice, the earl changed color sensibly, and continued:

"But to be serious on a subject of great importance to my future life
(for I sometimes think her negative will make Denbigh a duke), the
lovely girl did not appear happy at the time of our interview, nor do I
think she enjoys at any time the spirits nature has evidently given her.
Harriet is nearly as great an admirer of Miss Moseley, and takes her
refusal to heart as much as myself; she even attempted to intercede with
her in my behalf. But the charming girl though mild, grateful, and
delicate, was firm and unequivocal, and left no grounds for the remotest
expectation of success from perseverance on my part.

"As Harriet had received an intimation that both Miss Moseley and her
aunt entertained extremely rigid notions on the score of religion, she
took occasion to introduce the subject in her conference with the
former, and was told in reply, 'that other considerations would have
determined her to decline the honor I intended her; but that, under any
circumstances, a more intimate knowledge of my principles would be
necessary before she could entertain a thought of accepting my hand, or,
indeed, that of any other man.' Think of that, Pendennyss! The
principles of a duke!--now, a dukedom and forty thousand a year would
furnish a character, with most people, for a Nero.

"I trust the important object I have had in view here is a sufficient
excuse for my breach of promise to you; and I am serious when I wish you
(unless the pretty Spaniard has, as I sometimes suspect, made you a
captive) to see, and endeavor to bring me in some degree connected with,
the charming family of Sir Edward Moseley.

"The aunt, Mrs. Wilson, often speaks of you with the greatest interest,
and, from some cause or other, is strongly enlisted in your favor, and
Miss Moseley hears your name mentioned with evident pleasure. Your
religion or principles cannot be doubted. You can offer larger
settlements, as honorable if not as elevated a title, a far more
illustrious name, purchased by your own services, and personal merit
greatly exceeding the pretensions of your assured friend and relative,

"DERWENT."

Both brother and sister were occupied with their own reflections for
several minutes after the letter was ended, and the silence was broken
first, by the latter saying with a low tone to her brother,--

"You must endeavor to become acquainted with Mrs. Wilson; she is, I
know, very anxious to see you, and your friendship for the general
requires it of you."

"I owe General Wilson much," replied the brother, in a melancholy voice;
"and when we go to Annerdale House, I wish you to make the acquaintance
of the ladies of the Moseley family, should they be in town this
winter;--but you have yet the letter of Harriet to read."

After first hastily running over its contents, the lady commenced the
fulfilment of her part of the engagement.

"Frederick has been so much engrossed of late with his own affairs, that
he has forgotten there is such a creature in existence as his sister,
or, indeed, any one else but a Miss Emily Moseley, and consequently I
have been unable to fulfil my promise of making you a visit, for want of
a proper escort, and--and--perhaps some other considerations, not worth
mentioning in a letter I know you will read to the earl.

"Yes, my dear cousin, Frederick Denbigh has supplicated the daughter of
a country baronet to become a duchess; and, hear it, ye marriage-seeking
nymphs and marriage-making dames! has supplicated in vain!

"I confess to you, when the thing was first in agitation, my
aristocratic blood roused itself a little at the anticipated connexion;
but finding on examination that Sir Edward was of no doubtful lineage,
and that the blood of the Chattertons runs in his veins, and finding the
young lady everything I could wish in a sister, my scruples soon
disappeared, with the folly that engendered them.

"There was no necessity for any alarm, for the lady very decidedly
refused the honor offered her by Derwent, and what makes the matter
worse, refused the solicitations of his sister also.

"I have fifty times been surprised at my own condescension, and to this
moment am at a loss to know whether it was to the lady's worth, my
brother's happiness, or the Chatterton blood, that I finally yielded.
Heigho! this Chatterton is certainly much too handsome for a man; but I
forget you have never seen him." (Here an arch smile stole over the
features of the listener, as his sister continued)--"To return to my
narration, I had half a mind to send for a Miss Harris there is here, to
learn the most approved fashion of a lady preferring a suit, but as fame
said she was just now practising on a certain hero ycleped Captain
Jarvis, heir to Sir Timo of that name, it struck me her system might be
rather too abrupt, so I was fain to adopt the best plan--that of
trusting to nature and my own feelings for words.

"Nobility is certainly a very pretty thing (for those who have it), but
I would defy the old Margravine of ---- to keep up the semblance of
superiority with Emily Moseley. She is so very natural, so very
beautiful, and withal at times a little arch, that one is afraid to set
up any other distinctions than such as can be fairly supported.

"I commenced with hoping her determination to reject the hand of
Frederick was not an unalterable one. (Yes, I called him Frederick, what
I never did out of my own family before in my life.) There was a
considerable tremor in the voice of Miss Moseley, as she replied, 'I now
perceive, when too late, that my indiscretion has given reason to my
friends to think that I have entertained intentions towards his grace,
of which I entreat you to believe me, Lady Harriet, I am innocent.
Indeed--indeed, as anything more than an agreeable acquaintance I have
never allowed myself to think of your brother:' and from my soul I
believe her. We continued our conversation for half an hour longer, and
such was the ingenuousness, delicacy, and high religious feeling
displayed by the charming girl, that if I entered the room with a spark
of regret that I was compelled to solicit another to favor my brother's
love, I left it with a feeling that my efforts had been unsuccessful.
Yes! thou peerless sister of the more peerless Pendennyss! I once
thought of your ladyship as a wife for Derwent--"

A glass of water was necessary to enable the reader to clear her voice,
which grew husky from speaking so long.

"But I now openly avow, neither your birth, your hundred thousand
pounds, nor your merit, would put you on a footing, in my estimation,
with my Emily. You may form some idea of her power to captivate, and of
her indifference to her conquests, when I mention that she once refused-
-but I forget, you don't know him, and therefore cannot be a judge. The
thing is finally decided, and we shortly go into Westmoreland, and next
week, the Moseleys return to Northamptonshire. I don't know when I shall
be able to visit you, and think I may now safely invite you to Denbigh
Castle, although a month ago I might have hesitated. Love to the earl,
and kind assurance to yourself of unalterable regard.

"HARRIET DENBIGH."

"P.S. I believe I forgot to mention that Mrs. Moseley, a sister of Lord
Chatterton, has gone to Portugal, and that the peer himself is to go
into the country with us: there is, I suppose, a fellow-feeling between
them just now, though I do not think Chatterton looks so very miserable
as he might. Adieu."

On ending this second epistle the same silence which had succeeded the
reading of the first prevailed, until the lady with an arch expression,
interrupted it by saying,

"Harriet will, I think, soon grace the peerage."

"And happily, I trust," replied the brother.

"Do you know Lord Chatterton?"

"I do; he is very amiable, and admirably calculated to contrast with the
lively gaiety of Harriet Denbigh."

"You believe in loving our opposites, I see," rejoined the lady; and
then affectionately stretching out her hand to him, she added, "but,
Pendennyss, you must give me for a sister one as nearly like yourself as
possible."

"That might please your affections," answered the earl with a smile,
"but how would it comport with my tastes? Will you suffer me to describe
the kind of man you are to select for your future lord, unless, indeed,
you have decided the point already?"

The lady colored violently, and appearing anxious to change the subject,
she tumbled over two or three unopened letters, as she cried eagerly--

"Here is one from the Donna Julia." The earl instantly broke the seal
and read aloud; no secrets existing between them in relation to their
mutual friend.

"My Lord,

"I hasten to write you what I know it will give you pleasure to hear,
concerning my future prospects in life. My uncle, General M'Carthy, has
written me the cheerful tidings, that my father has consented to receive
his only child, without any other sacrifice than a condition of
attending the service of the Catholic Church without any professions on
my side, or even an understanding that I am conforming to its peculiar
tenets. This may be, in some measure, irksome at times, and possibly
distressing; but the worship of God with a proper humiliation of spirit,
I have learnt to consider as a privilege to us here, and I owe a duty to
my earthly father of penitence and care in his later years that will
justify the measure in the eyes of my heavenly One. I have, therefore,
acquainted my uncle in reply, that I am willing to attend the Conde's
summons at any moment he will choose to make them; and I thought it a
debt due your care and friendship to apprise your lordship of my
approaching departure from this country; indeed, I have great reasons
for believing that your kind and unremitted efforts to attain this
object have already prepared you to expect this result.

"I feel it will be impossible to quit England without seeing you and
your sister, to thank you for the many, very many favors, of both a
temporal and eternal nature, you have been the agents of conferring on
me. The cruel suggestions which I dreaded, and which it appears had
reached the ears of my friends in Spain, have prevented my troubling
your lordship of late unnecessarily with my concerns. The consideration
of a friend to your character (Mrs. Wilson) has removed the necessity of
applying for your advice; she and her charming niece, Miss Emily
Moseley, have been, next to yourselves, the greatest solace I have had
in my exile, and united you will be remembered in my prayers. I will
merely mention here, deferring the explanation until I see you in
London, that I have been visited by the wretch from whom you delivered
me in Portugal, and that the means of ascertaining his name have fallen
into my hands. You will be the best judge of the proper steps to be
taken; but I wish, by all means, something may be done to prevent his
attempting to see me in Spain. Should it be discovered to my relations
there that he has any such intentions, it would certainly terminate in
his death, and possibly in my disgrace. Wishing you and your kind sister
all possible happiness, I remain,

"Your Lordship's obliged friend,

"JULIA FITZGERALD."

"Oh!" cried the sister as she concluded the letter, "we must certainly
see her before she goes. What a wretch that persecutor of hers must be!
how persevering in his villainy!"

"He does exceed my ideas of effrontery," said the earl, in great warmth-
-"but he may offend too far; the laws shall interpose their power to
defeat his schemes, should he ever repeat them."

"He attempted to take your life, brother," said the lady shuddering, "if
I remember the tale aright."

"Why, I have endeavored to free him from that imputation," rejoined the
brother, musing, "he certainly fired a pistol, but the latter hit my
horse at such a distance from myself, that I believe his object was to
disable me and not murder. His escape has astonished me; he must have
fled by himself into the woods, as Harmer was but a short distance
behind me, admirably mounted, and the escort was up and in full pursuit
within ten minutes. After all it may be for the best he was not taken;
for I am persuaded the dragoons would have sabred him on the spot, and
he may have parents of respectability, or a wife to kill by the
knowledge of his misconduct."

"This Emily Moseley must be a faultless being," cried the sister, as she
ran over the contents of Julia's letter. "Three different letters, and
each containing her praises!"

The earl made no reply, but opening the duke's letter again, he appeared
to be studying its contents. His color slightly changed as he dwelt on
its passages, and turning to his sister he inquired if she had a mind to
try the air of Westmoreland for a couple of weeks or a month.

"As you say, my Lord," replied the lady, with cheeks of scarlet.

"Then I say we will go. I wish much to see Derwent and I think there
will be a wedding during our visit."

He rang the bell, and the almost untasted breakfast was removed in a few
minutes. A servant announced that his horse was in readiness. The earl
wished his sister a friendly good morning, and proceeded to the door,
where was standing one of the noble black horses before mentioned, held
by a groom, and the military-looking attendant ready mounted on another.

Throwing himself into the saddle, the young peer rode gracefully from
the door, followed by his attendant horseman. During this ride, the
master suffered his steed to take whatever course most pleased himself,
and his follower looked up in surprise more than once, to see the
careless manner in which the Earl of Pendennyss, confessedly one of the
best horsemen in England, managed the noble animal. Having, however, got
without the gates of his own park, and into the vicinity of numberless
cottages and farm-houses, the master recovered his recollection, and the
man ceased to wonder.

For three hours the equestrians pursued their course through the
beautiful vale which opened gracefully opposite one of the fronts of the
castle; and if faces of smiling welcome, inquiries after his own and his
sister's welfare, which evidently sprang from the heart, or the most
familiar but respectful representations of their own prosperity or
misfortunes, gave any testimony of the feelings entertained by the
tenantry of this noble estate for their landlord, the situation of the
young nobleman might be justly considered envied.

As the hour for dinner approached, they turned the heads of their horses
towards home; and on entering the park, removed from the scene of
industry and activity without, the earl relapsed into his fit of musing.
A short distance from the house he suddenly called, "Harmer." The man
drove his spurs into the loins of his horse, and in an instant was by
the side of his master, which he signified by raising his hand to his
cap with the palm opening outward.

"You must prepare to go to Spain when required, in attendance on Mrs.
Fitzgerald."

The man received his order with the indifference of one used to
adventures and movements, and having laconically dignified his assent,
he drew his horse back again into his station in the rear.



Chapter
XXXVIII.

The day succeeding the arrival of the Moseleys at the seat of their
ancestors, Mrs. Wilson observed Emily silently putting on her pelisse,
and walking out unattended by either of the domestics or any of the
family. There was a peculiar melancholy in her air and manner, which
inclined the cautious aunt to suspect that her charge was bent on the
indulgence of some ill-judged weakness; more particularly, as the
direction she took led to the arbor, a theatre in which Denbigh had been
so conspicuous an actor. Hastily throwing a cloak over her own
shoulders, Mrs. Wilson followed Emily with the double purpose of
ascertaining her views, and if necessary, of interposing her own
authority against the repetition of similar excursions.

As Emily approached the arbor, whither in truth she had directed her
steps, its faded vegetation and chilling aspect, so different from its
verdure and luxuriance when she last saw it, came over her heart as a
symbol of her own blighted prospects and deadened affections. The
recollection of Denbigh's conduct on that spot, of his general
benevolence and assiduity to please, being forcibly recalled to her mind
at the instant, forgetful of her object in visiting the arbor, Emily
yielded to her sensibilities, and sank on the seat weeping as if her
heart would break.

She had not time to dry her eyes, and to collect her scattered thoughts,
before Mrs. Wilson entered the arbor. Eyeing her niece for a moment with
a sternness unusual for the one to adopt or the other to receive, she
said,

"It is a solemn obligation we owe our religion and ourselves, to
endeavor to suppress such passions as are incompatible with our duties;
and there is no weakness greater than blindly adhering to the wrong,
when we are convinced of our error. It is as fatal to good morals as it
is unjust to ourselves to persevere, from selfish motives, in believing
those innocent whom evidence has convicted as guilty. Many a weak woman
has sealed her own misery by such wilful obstinacy, aided by the
unpardonable vanity of believing herself able to control a man that the
laws of God could not restrain."

"Oh, dear madam, speak not so unkindly to me," sobbed the weeping girl;
"I--I am guilty of no such weakness, I assure you:" and looking up with
an air of profound resignation and piety, she continued: "Here, on this
spot, where he saved my life, I was about to offer up my prayers for his
conviction of the error of his ways, and for the pardon of his too--too
heavy transgressions."

Mrs. Wilson, softened almost to tears herself, viewed her for a moment
with a mixture of delight, and continued in a milder tone,--

"I believe you, my dear. I am certain, although you may have loved
Denbigh much, that you love your Maker and his ordinances more; and I
have no apprehensions that, were he a disengaged man, and you alone in
the world--unsupported by anything but your sense of duty--you would
ever so far forget yourself as to become his wife But does not your
religion, does not your own usefulness in society, require you wholly to
free your heart from the power of a man who has so unworthily usurped a
dominion over it?"

To this Emily replied, in a hardly audible voice, "Certainly--and I pray
constantly for it."

"It is well, my love," said the aunt, soothingly; "you cannot fail with
such means, and your own exertions, finally to prevail over your own
worst enemies, your passions. The task our sex has to sustain is, at the
best, an arduous one; but so much the greater is our credit if we do it
well."

"Oh! how is an unguided girl ever to judge aright, if,--" cried Emily,
clasping her hands and speaking with great energy, and she would have
said, "one like Denbigh in appearance, be so vile!" Shame, however, kept
her silent.

"Few men can support such a veil of hypocrisy as that with which I
sometimes think Denbigh must deceive even himself. His case is an
extraordinary exception to a very sacred rule--'that the tree is known
by its fruits,'" replied her aunt. "There is no safer way of judging of
character that one's opportunities will not admit of more closely
investigating, than by examining into and duly appreciating early
impressions. The man or woman who has constantly seen the practice of
piety before them, from infancy to the noon of life, will seldom so far
abandon the recollection of virtue as to be guilty of great enormities.
Even Divine Truth has promised that his blessings or his curses shall
extend to many generations. It is true, that with our most most guarded
prudence we may be deceived." Mrs. Wilson paused and sighed heavily, as
her own case, connected with the loves of Denbigh and her niece,
occurred strongly to her mind. "Yet," she continued, "we may lessen the
danger much by guarding against it; and it seems to me no more than what
self-preservation requires in a young woman. But for a religious parent
to neglect it, is a wilful abandonment of a most solemn duty."

As Mrs. Wilson concluded, her niece, who had recovered the command of
her feelings pressed her hand in silence to her lips, and showed a
disposition to retire from a spot which she found recalled too many
recollections of a man whose image it was her imperious duty to banish,
on every consideration of propriety and religion.

Their walk into the house was silent, and their thoughts were drawn from
the unpleasant topic by finding a letter from Julia, announcing her
intended departure from this country, and her wish to take leave of them
in London before she sailed. As she had mentioned the probable day for
that event, both the ladies were delighted to find it was posterior to
the time fixed by Sir Edward for their own visit to the capital.

Had Jane, instead of Emily, been the one that suffered through the
agency of Mrs. Fitzgerald, however innocently on the part of the lady,
her violent and uncontrolled passions would have either blindly united
the innocent with the guilty in her resentments; or, if a sense of
justice had vindicated the lady in her judgment, yet her pride and ill-
guided delicacy would have felt her name a reproach, that would have
forbidden any intercourse with her or any belonging to her.

Not so with her sister. The sufferings of Mrs. Fitzgerald had taken a
strong hold on her youthful feelings, and a similarity of opinions and
practices on the great object of their lives, had brought them together
in a manner no misconduct in a third person could weaken. It is true,
the recollection of Denbigh was intimately blended with the fate of Mrs.
Fitzgerald. But Emily sought support against her feeling from a quarter
that rather required an investigation of them than a desire to drown
care with thought.

She never indulged in romantic reflections in which the image of Denbigh
was associated. This she had hardly done in her happiest moments; and
his marriage, if nothing else had interfered, now absolutely put it out
of the question. But, although a Christian, and an humble and devout
one, Emily Moseley was a woman, and had loved ardently, confidingly, and
gratefully. Marriage is the business of life with her sex,--with all,
next to a preparation for a better world,--and it cannot be supposed
that a first passion in a bosom like that of our heroine was to be
suddenly erased and to leave no vestiges of its existence.

Her partiality for the society of Derwent, her meditations in which she
sometimes detected herself drawing a picture of what Denbigh might have
been, if early care had been taken to impress him with his situation in
this world, and from which she generally retired to her closet and her
knees, were the remains of feelings too strong and too pure to be torn
from her in a moment.

The arrival of John, with Grace and Jane, enlivened not only the family
but the neighborhood. Mr. Haughton and his numerous friends poured in on
the young couple with their congratulations, and a few weeks stole by
insensibly, previously to the commencement of the journeys of Sir Edward
and his son--the one to Benfield Lodge and the other to St. James's
Square.

On the return of the travellers, a few days before they commenced their
journey to the capital, John laughingly told his uncle that, although he
himself greatly admired the taste of Mr. Peter Johnson in dress, yet he
doubted whether the present style of fashions in the metropolis would
not be scandalized by the appearance of the honest steward.

John had in fact noticed, in their former visit to London, mob of
mischievous boys eyeing Peter with indications of rebellious movements
which threatened the old man, and from which he had retreated by taking
a coach, and he now made the suggestion from pure good-nature, to save
him any future trouble from a similar cause.

They were at dinner when Moseley made the remark, and the steward was in
his place at the sideboard--for his master was his home. Drawing near at
the mention of his name first, and casting an eye over his figure to see
if all was decent, Peter respectfully broke silence, determined to
defend his own cause.

"Why! Mr. John--Mr. John Moseley? if I might judge, for an elderly man,
and a serving man," said the steward, bowing humbly, "I am no
disparagement to my friends, or even to my honored master."

Johnson's vindication of his wardrobe drew the eyes of the family upon
him, and an involuntary smile passed from one to the other, as they
admired his starched figure and drab frock, or rather doublet with
sleeves and skirts. Sir Edward, being of the same opinion with his son,
observed--

"I do think, Uncle Benfield, there might be an improvement in the dress
of your steward without much trouble to the ingenuity of his tailor."

"Sir Edward Moseley--honorable sir," said the steward, beginning to grow
alarmed, "if I may be so bold, you young gentlemen may like gay clothes;
but as for me and his honor; we are used to such as we wear, and what we
are used to we love."

The old man spoke with earnestness, and drew the particular attention of
his master to a review of his attire. After reflecting that no gentleman
in the house had been attended by any servitor in such a garb, Mr.
Benfield thought it time to give his sentiments on the subject.

"Why I remember that my Lord Gosford's gentleman never wore a livery,
nor can I say that he dressed exactly after the manner of Johnson. Every
member had his body servant, and they were not unfrequently taken for
their masters. Lady Juliana, too, after the death of her nephew, had one
or two attendants out of livery, and in a different fashion from your
attire. Peter, I think with John Moseley there, we must alter you a
little for the sake of appearances."

"Your honor!" stammered out Peter, in increased terror; "for Mr. John
Moseley and Sir Edward, and youngerly gentlemen like, dress may do. Now,
your honor, if--" and Peter, turning to Grace, bowed nearly to the
floor--"I had such a sweet, most beautiful young lady to smile on me, I
might wish to change; but, sir, my day has gone by." Peter sighed as the
recollection of Patty Steele and his youthful love floated across his
brain. Grace blushed and thanked him for the compliment, and gave her
opinion that his gallantry merited a better costume.

"Peter," said his master, decidedly, "I think Mrs. Moseley is right. If
I should call on the viscountess (the Lady Juliana, who yet survived an
ancient dowager of seventy), I shall want your attendance, and in your
present garb you cannot fail to shock her delicate feelings. You remind
me now I think, every time I look at you, of old Harry, the earl's
gamekeeper, one of the most cruel men I ever knew."

This decided the matter. Peter well knew that his master's antipathy to
old Harry arose from his having pursued a poacher one day, in place of
helping the Lady Juliana over a stile, in her flight from a bull that
was playing his gambols in the same field; and not for the world would
the faithful steward retain even a feature, if it brought unpleasant
recollections to his kind master. He at one time thought of closing his
innovations on his wardrobe, however, with a change of his nether
garment; as after a great deal of study he could only make out the
resemblance between himself and the obnoxious gamekeeper to consist in
the leathern breeches. But fearful of some points escaping his memory in
forty years, he tamely acquiesced in all John's alterations, and
appeared at his station three days afterwards newly decked from head to
foot in a more modern suit of snuff-color.

The change once made, Peter greatly admired himself in a glass, and
thought, could he have had the taste of Mr. John Moseley in his youth to
direct his toilet, that the hard heart of Patty Steele would not always
have continued so obdurate.

Sir Edward wished to collect his neighbors round him once more before he
left them for another four months; and accordingly the rector and his
wife, Francis and Clara, the Haughtons, with a few others, dined at the
Hall by invitation, the last day of their stay in Northamptonshire. The
company had left the table to join the ladies, when Grace came into the
drawing-room with a face covered with smiles and beaming with pleasure.

"You look like the bearer of good news, Mrs. Moseley," cried the rector,
catching a glimpse of her countenance as she passed.

"Good! I sincerely hope and believe," replied Grace. "My letters from my
brother announce that his marriage took place last week, and give us
hopes of seeing them all in town within the month."

"Married!" exclaimed Mr. Haughton, casting his eyes unconsciously on
Emily, "my Lord Chatterton married! May I ask the name of the bride, my
dear Mrs. Moseley?"

"To Lady Harriet Denbigh--and at Denbigh Castle in Westmoreland; but
very privately, as you may suppose from seeing Moseley and myself here,"
answered Grace, her cheeks yet glowing with surprise and pleasure at the
intelligence.

"Lady Harriet Denbigh?" echoed Mr. Haughton; "what! a kinswoman of our
old friend? your friend, Miss Emily?" The recollection of the service he
had performed at the arbor still-fresh in his memory.

Emily commanded herself sufficiently to reply, "Brothers' children, I
believe, sir."

"But a lady--how came she my lady?" continued the good man, anxious to
know the whole, and ignorant of any reasons for delicacy where so great
a favorite as Denbigh was in the question.

"She is the daughter of the late Duke of Derwent," said Mrs. Moseley, as
willing as himself to talk of her new sister.

"How happens it that the death of old Mr. Denbigh was announced as plain
Geo. Denbigh, Esq., if he was the brother of a duke?" said Jane,
forgetting for a moment the presence of Dr. and Mrs. Ives, in her
surviving passion for genealogy: "should he not have been called Lord
George, or honorable?"

This was the first time any allusion had been made to the sudden death
in the church by any of the Moseleys in the hearing of the rector's
family; and the speaker sat in breathless terror at her own
inadvertency. But Dr. Ives, observing that a profound silence prevailed
as soon as Jane ended, answered, mildly, though in a way to prevent any
further comments--

"The late Duke's succeeding a cousin-german in the title, was the
reason, I presume. Emily, I am to hear from you by letter I hope, after
you enter into the gaieties of the metropolis?"

This Emily cheerfully promised, and the conversation took another turn.

Mrs. Wilson had carefully avoided all communications with the rector
concerning his youthful friend, and the Doctor appeared unwilling to
commence anything which might lead to his name being mentioned. "He is
disappointed in him as well as ourselves," thought the widow, "and it
must be unpleasant to have his image recalled. He saw his attentions to
Emily, and he knows of his marriage to Lady Laura of course, and he
loves us all, and Emily in particular, too well not to feel hurt by his
conduct."

"Sir Edward!" cried Mr. Haughton, with a laugh, "Baronets are likely to
be plenty. Have you heard how near we were to have another in the
neighborhood lately?" Sir Edward answered in the negative, and his
neighbor continued--

"Why no less a man than Captain Jarvis, promoted to the bloody hand."

"Captain Jarvis!" exclaimed five or six at once; "explain yourself, Mr.
Haughton."

"My near neighbor, young Walker, has been to Bath on an unusual
business--his health--and for the benefit of the country he has brought
back a pretty piece of scandal. It seems that Lady Jarvis, as I am told
she is since she left here, wished to have her hopeful heir made a lord,
and that the two united for some six months in forming a kind of
savings' bank between themselves, to enable them at some future day to
bribe the minister to honor the peerage with such a prodigy. After
awhile the daughter of our late acquaintance, Sir William Harris, became
an accessory to the plot, and a contributor too, to the tune of a couple
of hundred pounds. Some circumstances, however, at length made this
latter lady suspicious, and she wished to audit the books. The Captain
prevaricated--the lady remonstrated, until the gentleman, with more
truth than manners, told her that she was a fool--the money he had
expended or lost at dice; and that he did not think the ministers quite
so silly as to make him a lord, or that he himself was such a fool as to
make her his wife; so the whole thing exploded."

John listened with a delight but little short of what he had felt when
Grace owned her love, and anxious to know all, eagerly inquired--

"But, is it true? how was it found out?"

"Oh, the lady complained of part, and the Captain tells all to get the
laugh on his side; so that Walker says the former is the derision and
the latter the contempt of all Bath."

"Poor Sir William," said the baronet, with feeling; "he is much to be
pitied."

"I am afraid he has nothing to blame but his own indulgence," remarked
the rector.

"You don't know the worst of it," replied Mr. Haughton. "We poor people
are made to suffer--Lady Jarvis wept and fretted Sir Timo out of his
lease, which has been given up, and a new house is to be taken in
another part of the kingdom, where neither Miss Harris nor the story is
known."

"Then Sir William has to procure a new tenant," said Lady Moseley, not
in the least regretting the loss of the old one.

"No! my lady!" continued Mr. Haughton, with a smile. "Walker is, you
know, an attorney, and does some business occasionally for Sir William.
When Jarvis gave up the lease, the baronet, who finds himself a little
short of money, offered the deanery for sale, it being a useless place
to him; and the very next day, while Walker was with Sir William, a
gentleman called, and without higgling agreed to pay down at once his
thirty thousand pounds for it."

"And who is the purchaser?" inquired Lady Moseley, eagerly.

"The Earl of Pendennyss."

"Lord Pendennyss!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilson in rapture.

"Pendennyss!" cried the rector, eyeing the aunt and Emily with a smile.

"Pendennyss!" echoed all in the room in amazement.

"Yes," said Mr. Haughton, "it is now the property of the earl, who says
he has bought it for his sister."



Chapter XXXIX.

Mrs. Wilson found time the ensuing day to ascertain before they left the
hall, the truth of the tale related by Mr. Haughton. The deanery had
certainly changed its master, and a new steward had already arrived to
take possession in the name of his lord. What induced Pendennyss to make
this purchase she was at a loss to conceive--most probably some
arrangement between himself and Lord Bolton. But whatever might be his
motive, it in some measure insured his becoming for a season their
neighbor; and Mrs. Wilson felt a degree of pleasure at the circumstance
that she had been a stranger to for a long time--a pleasure which was
greatly heightened as she dwelt on the lovely face of the companion who
occupied the other seat in her travelling chaise.

The road to London led by the gates of the deanery, and near them they
passed a servant in the livery of those they had once seen following the
equipage of the earl. Anxious to know anything which might hasten her
acquaintance with this admired nobleman, Mrs. Wilson stopped her
carriage to inquire.

"Pray, sir, whom do you serve?"

"My Lord Pendennyss, ma'am," replied the man, respectfully taking off
his hat.

"The earl is not here?" asked Mrs. Wilson, with interest.

"Oh, no, madam; I am here in waiting on his steward. My lord is in
Westmoreland, with his grace and Colonel Denbigh, and the ladies."

"Does he remain there long?" continued the anxious widow, desirous of
knowing all she could learn.

"I believe not, madam; most of our people have gone to Annerdale-House,
and my lord is expected in town with the duke and the colonel."

As the servant was an elderly man, and appeared to understand the
movements of his master so well, Mrs. Wilson was put in unusual spirits
by this prospect of a speedy termination to her anxiety to meet
Pendennyss.

"Annerdale-House is the earl's town residence?" quietly inquired Emily.

"Yes; he got the fortune of the last duke of that title, but how I do
not exactly know. I believe, however, through his mother. General Wilson
did not know his family: indeed, Pendennyss bore a second title during
his lifetime; but did you observe how very civil his servant was, as
well as the one John spoke to before,--a sure sign their master is a
gentleman?"

Emily smiled at the strong partialities of her aunt, and replied, "Your
handsome chaise and attendants will draw respect from most men in his
situation, dear aunt, be their masters who they may."

The expected pleasure of meeting the earl was a topic frequently touched
upon between her aunt and Emily during their journey; the former
beginning to entertain hopes she would have laughed at herself for,
could they have been fairly laid before her; and the latter entertaining
a profound respect for his character, but chiefly governed by a wish to
gratify her companion.

The third day they reached the baronet's handsome house in St. James's
Square, and found that the forethought of John had provided everything
in the best and most comfortable manner.

It was the first visit of both Jane and Emily to the metropolis; and
under the protection of their almost equally curious mother, and
escorted by John, they wisely determined to visit the curiosities, while
their leisure yet admitted of the opportunity. For the first two weeks
their time was chiefly employed in the indulgence of this unfashionable
and vulgar propensity, which, if it had no other tendency, served
greatly to draw the thoughts of both the young women from the
recollections of the last few months.

While her sister and nieces were thus employed, Mrs. Wilson, assisted by
Grace, was occupied in getting things in preparation to do credit to the
baronet's hospitality.

The second week after their arrival, Mrs. Moseley was delighted by
seeing advance upon her unexpectedly through the door of the breakfast
parlor, her brother, with his bride leaning on his arm. After the most
sincere greetings and congratulations, Lady Chatterton cried out gaily,

"You see, my dear Lady Moseley, I am determined to banish ceremony
between us, and so, instead of sending you my card, have come myself to
notify you of my arrival. Chatterton would not suffer me even to swallow
my breakfast, he was so impatient to show me off."

"You are placing things exactly on the footing I wish to see ourselves
with all our connexions," replied Lady Moseley, kindly; "but what have
you done with the duke? is he not in your train?"

"Oh! he is gone to Canterbury with George Denbigh, madam," cried the
lady, shaking her head reproachfully though affectionately at Emily;
"his grace dislikes London just now excessively, he says, and the
Colonel being obliged to leave his wife, on regimental business, Derwent
was good enough to keep him company during his exile."

"And Lady Laura, do we see her?" inquired Lady Moseley.

"She came with us. Pendennyss and his sister follow immediately; so, my
dear madam, the dramatis personæ will all be on the stage soon."

Cards and visits now began to accumulate on the Moseleys, and their time
no longer admitted of that unfettered leisure which they had enjoyed at
their entrance on the scene. Mrs. Wilson, for herself and charge,
adopted a rule for the government of her manner of living, which was
consistent with her duties. They mixed in general society sparingly;
and, above all, they rigidly adhered to the obedience to the injunction
which commanded them to keep the Sabbath day holy; a duty of no trifling
difficulty to perform in fashionable society in the city of London, or,
indeed, in any other place, where the influence of fashion has
supplanted the laws of God.

Mrs. Wilson was not a bigot; but she knew and performed her duty
rigidly. It was a pleasure to her to do so. It would have been misery to
do otherwise. In the singleness of heart and deep piety of her niece,
she had a willing pupil to her system of morals, and a rigid follower of
her religious practices. As they both knew that the temptations to go
astray were greater in town than in country, they kept a strict guard
over the tendency to err, and in watchfulness found their greatest
security.

John Moseley, next to his friends, loved his bays: indeed, if the
aggregate of his affections for these and Lady Herriefield had been put
in opposite scales, we strongly suspect the side of the horses would
predominate.

One Sunday, soon after being domesticated, John, who had soberly
attended morning service with the ladies, came into a little room where
the more reflecting part of the family were assembled, in search of his
wife.

Grace, we have before mentioned, had become a real member of that church
in which she had been educated, and had entered, under the direction of
Dr. Ives and Mrs. Wilson, into an observance of its wholesome
ordinances. Grace was certainly piously inclined, if not devout. Her
feelings on the subject of religion had been sensibly awakened during
their voyage to Lisbon; and at the period of which we write, Mrs.
Moseley was as sincerely disposed to perform her duty as her powers
admitted. To the request of her husband, that she would take a seat in
his phaeton while he drove her round the park once or twice, Grace gave
a mild refusal, by saying,

"It is Sunday, my dear Moseley."

"Do you think I don't know that?" cried John, gaily. "There will be
everybody there, and, the better day, the better deed."

Now, Moseley, if he had been asked to apply this speech to the case
before them, would have frankly owned his inability; but his wife did
not make the trial: she was contented with saying, as she laid down her
book to look on a face she so tenderly loved,

"Ah! Moseley, you should set a better example to those below you in
life."

"I wish to set an example," returned her husband, with an affectionate
smile, "to all above as well as below me, in order that they may find
out the path to happiness, by exhibiting to the world a model of a wife,
in yourself, dear Grace."

As this was uttered with a sincerity which distinguished the manner of
Moseley, his wife was more pleased with the compliment than she would
have been willing to make known; and John spoke no more than he thought;
for a desire to show his handsome wife was the ruling passion for a
moment.

The husband was too pressing and the wife too fond not to yield the
point; and Grace took her seat in the carriage with a kind of half-
formed resolution to improve the opportunity by a discourse on serious
subjects--a resolution which terminated as all others do, that postpone
one duty to discharge another of less magnitude; it was forgotten.

Mrs. Wilson had listened with interest to the efforts of John to prevail
on his wife to take the ride, and on her leaving the room to comply she
observed to Emily, with whom she now remained alone--

"Here is a consequence of a difference in religious views between man
and wife, my child: John, in place of supporting Grace in the discharge
of her duties, has been the actual cause of her going astray."

Emily felt the force of her aunt's remark, and saw its justice; yet her
love for the offender induced her to say--

"John will not lead her openly astray for he has a sincere respect for
religion, and this offence is not unpardonable, dear aunt."

"The offence is assuredly not unpardonable," replied Mrs. Wilson, "and
to infinite mercy it is hard to say what is; but it is an offence, and
directly in the face of an express ordinance of the Lord; it is even
throwing off the appearance of keeping the Sabbath day holy, much less
observing the substance of the commandment; and as to John's respect for
holy things in this instance, it was injurious to his wife. Had he been
an open deist she would have shrunk from the act in suspicion of its
sinfulness. Either John must become Christian, or I am afraid Grace will
fall from her undertaking."

Mrs. Wilson shook her head mournfully, while Emily offered up a silent
petition that the first might speedily be the case.

Lady Laura had been early in her visit to the Moseleys; and as Denbigh
had both a town residence and a seat in parliament, it appeared next to
impossible to avoid meeting him or to requite the pressing civilities of
his wife by harsh refusals; that might prove in the end injurious to
themselves by creating a suspicion that resentment at his not choosing a
partner from amongst them, governed the conduct of the Moseleys towards
a man to whom they were under such a heavy obligation.

Had Sir Edward known as much as his sister and daughters he would
probably have discountenanced the acquaintance altogether; but owing to
the ignorance of the rest of her friends of what had passed, Mrs. Wilson
and Emily had not only the assiduities of Lady Laura but the wishes of
their own family to contend with, and consequently she submitted to the
association with a reluctance that was in some measure counteracted by
their regard for Lady Laura, and by compassion for her abused
confidence.

A distant connexion of Lady Moseley's had managed to collect in her
house a few hundred of her nominal friends, and as she had been
particularly attentive in calling in person on her venerable relative,
Mr. Benfield, soon after his arrival in town, out of respect to her
father's cousin, or perhaps mindful of his approaching end, and
remembering there were such things as codicils to wills, the old man,
flattered by her notice, and yet too gallant to reject the favor of a
lady, consented to accompany the remainder of the family on the
occasion.

Most of their acquaintances were there, and Lady Moseley soon found
herself engaged in a party at quadrille, while the young people were
occupied by the usual amusements of their age in such scenes. Emily
alone feeling but little desire to enter into the gaiety of general
conversation with a host of gentlemen who had collected round her aunt
and sisters, offered her arm to Mr. Benfield, on seeing him manifest a
disposition to take a closer view of the company, and walked away with
him.

They wandered from room to room, unconscious of the observation
attracted by the sight of a man in the costume of Mr. Benfield, leaning
on the arm of so young and lovely a woman as his niece; and many an
exclamation of surprise, ridicule, admiration, and wonder had been made,
unnoticed by the pair, until finding the crowd rather inconvenient to
her companion, Emily gently drew him into one of the apartments where
the card-tables, and the general absence of beauty, made room less
difficult to be found.

"Ah! Emmy dear," said the old gentleman, wiping his face, "times are
much changed, I see, since my youth. Then you would see no such throngs
assembled in so small a space; gentlemen shoving ladies, and yes, Emmy,"
continued her uncle in a lower tone, as if afraid of uttering something
dangerous, "the ladies themselves shouldering the men. I remember at a
drum given by Lady Gosford, that although I may, without vanity, say I
was one of the gallantest men in the rooms, I came in contact with but
one of the ladies during the whole evening, with the exception of
handing the Lady Juliana to a chair, and that," said her uncle, stopping
short and lowering his voice to a whisper, "was occasioned by a
mischance in the old duchess in rising from her seat when she had taken
too much strong waters, as she was at times a little troubled with a
pain in the chest."

Emily smiled at the casualty of her grace, and they proceeded slowly
through the table until their passage was stopped by a party at the game
of whist, which, by its incongruous mixture of ages and character,
forcibly drew her attention.

The party was composed of a young man of five or six and twenty, who
threw down his cards in careless indifference, and heedlessly played
with the guineas which were laid on the side of the table as markers, or
the fruits of a former victory: or by stealing hasty and repeated
glances through the vista of the tables into the gayer scenes of the
adjoining rooms, proved he was in duresse, and waited for an opportunity
to make his escape from the tedium of cards and ugliness to the life of
conversation and beauty.

His partner was a woman of doubtful age, and one whose countenance
rather indicated that the uncertainty was likely to continue until the
record of the tomb-stone divulged the so often contested circumstance to
the world. Her eyes also wandered to the gayer scenes, but with an
expression of censoriousness mingled with longings; nor did she neglect
the progress of the game as frequently as her more heedless partner. A
glance thrown on the golden pair which was placed between her and her
neighbor on her right, marked the importance of the corner, and she
shuffled the cards with a nervousness which plainly denoted her
apprehension of the consequences of her partner's abstraction.

Her neighbor on the right was a man of sixty, and his vestments
announced him a servant of the sanctuary. His intentness on the game
proceeded no doubt from his habits of reflection; his smile at success,
quite possibly from charity to his neighbors; his frown in adversity
from displeasure at the triumphs of the wicked, for such in his heart he
had set down Miss Wigram to be; and his unconquerable gravity in the
employment from a profound regard to the dignity of his holy office.

The fourth performer in this trial of memories was an ancient lady,
gaily dressed, and intently eager on the game. Between her and the young
man was a large pile of guineas, which appeared to be her exclusive
property, from which she repeatedly, during the play, tendered one to
his acceptance on the event of a hand or a trick, and to which she
seldom failed from inadvertence to add his mite, contributing to
accumulate the pile.

"Two double and the rub, my dear doctor," exclaimed the senior lady, in
triumph. "Sir William, you owe me ten."

The money was paid as easily as it had been won, and the dowager
proceeded to settle some bets with her female antagonist.

"Two more, I fancy, ma'am," said she, closely scanning the contributions
of the maiden.

"I believe it is right, my lady," was the answer, with a look that said
pretty plainly, that or nothing.

"I beg pardon, my dear, here are but four; and you remember two on the
corner, and four on the points. Doctor, I will trouble you for a couple
of guineas from Miss Wigram's store, I am in haste to get to the
Countess's route."

The doctor was coolly helping himself from the said store, under the
watchful eyes of its owner, and secretly exulting in his own judgment in
requiring the stakes, when the maiden replied in great warmth,

"Your ladyship forgets the two you lost to me at Mrs. Howard's."

"It must be a mistake, my dear, I always pay as I lose," cried the
dowager, with great spirit, stretching over the table and helping
herself to the disputed money.

Mr. Benfield and Emily had stood silent spectators of the whole scene,
the latter in astonishment to meet such manners in such society, and the
former under feelings it would have been difficult to describe; for in
the face of the Dowager which was inflamed partly from passion and more
from high living, he recognised the remains of his Lady Juliana, now the
Dowager Viscountess Haverford.

"Emmy, dear," said the old man, with a heavy-drawn sigh, as if awaking
from a long and troubled dream, "we will go."

The phantom of forty years had vanished before the truth and the fancies
of retirement, simplicity, and a diseased imagination yielded to the
influence of life and common sense.



Chapter XL.

With Harriet, now closely connected with them by marriage as well as
attachment, the baronet's family maintained a most friendly intercourse;
and Mrs. Wilson, and Emily, a prodigious favorite with her new cousin,
consented to pass a day soberly with her during an excursion of her
husband to Windsor on business connected with his station. They had,
accordingly, driven round to an early breakfast; and Chatterton, after
politely regretting his loss, and thanking them for their consideration
for his wife, made his bow.

Lady Harriet Denbigh had brought the Baron a very substantial addition
to his fortune; and as his sisters were both provided for by ample
settlements, the pecuniary distresses which had existed a twelvemonth
before had been entirely removed. Chatterton's income was now large, his
demands upon it small, and he kept up an establishment in proportion to
the rank of both husband and wife.

"Mrs. Wilson," cried the hostess, twirling her cup as she followed with
her eyes the retreating figure of her husband at the door, "I am about
to take up the trade of Miss Harris, and become a match-maker."

"Not on your own behalf so soon, surely," rejoined the widow.

"Oh no, my fortune is made for life, or not at all," continued the
other, gaily; "but in behalf of our little friend Emily here."

"Me," cried Emily, starting from a reverie, in which the prospect of
happiness to Lady Laura was the subject; "you are very good, Harriet;
for whom do you intend me?"

"Whom! Who is good enough for you, but my cousin Pendennyss? Ah!" she
cried, laughing, as she caught Emily by the hand, "Derwent and myself
both settled the matter long since, and I know you will yield when you
come to know him."

"The duke!" cried the other, with a surprise and innocence that
immediately brought a blush of the brightest vermillion into her face.

"Yes, the duke," said Lady Chatterton: "you may think it odd for a
discarded lover to dispose of his mistress so soon, but both our hearts
are set upon it. The earl arrived last night, and this day he and his
sister dine with us in a sober way: now, my dear madam," turning to Mrs.
Wilson, "have I not prepared an agreeable surprise for you?"

"Surprise indeed," said the widow, excessively gratified at the probable
termination to her anxieties for this meeting; "but where are they
from?"

"From Northamptonshire, where the earl has already purchased a
residence, I understand, and in your neighborhood too; so, you perceive,
he at least begins to think of the thing."

"A certain evidence, truly," cried Emily, "his having purchased the
house. But was he without a residence that he bought the deanery?"

"Oh no! he has a palace in town, and three seats in the country; but
none in Northamptonshire but this," said the lady, with a laugh. "To own
the truth he did offer to let George Denbigh have it for the next
summer, but the Colonel chose to be nearer Eltringham; and I take it, it
was only a ruse in the earl to cloak his own designs. You may depend
upon it, we trumpeted your praises to him incessantly in Westmoreland."

"And is Colonel Denbigh in town?" said Mrs. Wilson, stealing an anxious
glance towards her niece, who, in spite of all her efforts, sensibly
changed color.

"Oh, yes! and Laura is as happy--as happy--as myself," said Lady
Chatterton, with a glow on her cheeks, as she attended to the request of
her housekeeper, and left the room.

Her guests sat in silence, occupied with their own reflections, while
they heard a summons at the door of the house. It was opened, and
footsteps approached the door of their own room. It was pushed partly
open, as a voice on the other side said, speaking to a servant without,-
-

"Very well. Do not disturb your lady. I am in no haste."

At the sound of its well known tones, both the ladies almost sprang from
their seats. Here could be no resemblance, and a moment removed their
doubts. The speaker entered. It was Denbigh.

He stood for a moment fixed as a statue: It was evident the surprise was
mutual. His face was pale as death, and then instantly was succeeded by
a glow of fire. Approaching them, he paid his compliments with great
earnestness, and in a voice in which his softest tones preponderated.

"I am happy, very happy, to be so fortunate in again meeting with such
friends, and so unexpectedly."

Mrs. Wilson bowed in silence to his compliment, and Emily, pale as
himself, sat with her eyes fastened on the carpet, without daring to
trust her voice with an attempt to speak.

After struggling with his mortified feelings for a moment, Denbigh rose
from the chair he had taken, and drawing near the sofa on which the
ladies were placed, exclaimed with fervor,

"Tell me, dear madam, lovely, too lovely Miss Moseley, has one act of
folly, of wickedness if you please, lost me your good opinion for ever?
Derwent had given me hopes that you yet retained some esteem for my
character, lowered, as I acknowledge it to be, in my own estimation."

"The Duke of Derwent? Mr. Denbigh!"

"Do not; do not use a name, dear madam, almost hateful to me," cried he,
in a tone of despair.

"If," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, "you have made your own name
disreputable, I can only regret it, but--"

"Call me by my title--oh! do not remind me of my folly; I cannot bear
it, and from you."

"Your title!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, with a cry of wonder, and Emily
turned on him a face in which the flashes of color and succeeding
paleness were as quick, and almost as vivid, as the glow of lightning.
He caught their astonishment in equal surprise.

"How is this? some dreadful mistake, of which I am yet in ignorance," he
cried, taking the unresisting hand of Mrs. Wilson, and pressing it with
warmth between both his own, as he added, "do not leave me in suspense."

"For the sake of truth, for my sake, for the sake of this suffering
innocent, say, in sincerity, who and what you are," said Mrs. Wilson in
a solemn voice, gazing on him in dread of his reply.

Still retaining her hand, he dropped on his knees before her, as he
answered,--

"I am the pupil, the child of your late husband, the companion of his
dangers, the sharer of his joys and griefs, and would I could add, the
friend of his widow. I am the Earl of Pendennyss."

Mrs. Wilson's head dropped on the shoulders of the kneeling youth, her
arms were thrown in fervor around his neck, and she burst into a flood
of tears. For a moment, both were absorbed in their own feelings; but a
cry from Pendennyss aroused the aunt to the situation of her niece.

Emily had fallen senseless on the sofa.

An hour elapsed before her engagements admitted of the return of Lady
Chatterton to the breakfast parlor, where she was surprised to find the
breakfast equipage yet standing, and her cousin, the earl. Looking from
one to the other in surprise, she exclaimed,--

"Very sociable, upon my word; how long has your lordship honored my
house with your presence, and have you taken the liberty to introduce
yourself to Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley?"

"Sociability and ease are the fashion of the day. I have been here an
hour, my dear coz, and have taken the liberty of introducing myself to
Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley," replied the earl gravely, although a
smile of meaning lighted his handsome features as he uttered the latter
part of the sentence, which was returned by Emily with a look of
archness and pleasure that would have graced her happiest moments of
juvenile joy.

There was such an interchange of looks, and such a visible alteration in
the appearance of her guests, that it could not but attract the notice
of Lady Chatterton. After listening to the conversation between them for
some time in silence; and wondering what could have wrought so sudden a
change below stairs, she broke forth with saying,--"Upon my word, you
are an incomprehensible party to me. I left you ladies alone, and find a
gentleman with you. I left you grave, if not melancholy, and find you
all life and gaiety. I find you with a stranger, and you talk with him
about walks, and rides, and scenes, and acquaintances. Will you, madam,
or you, my lord, be so kind as to explain these seeming
inconsistencies?"

"No," cried the earl, "to punish your curiosity, I will keep you in
ignorance; but Marian is in waiting for me at your neighbor's, Mrs.
Wilmot, and I must hasten to her--- you will see us both by five."
Rising from his seat he took the offered hand of Mrs. Wilson and pressed
it to his lips. To Emily he also extended his hand, and received hers in
return, though with a face suffused with the color of the rose.
Pendennyss held it to his heart for a moment with fervor, and kissing
it, precipitately left the room. Emily concealed her face with her
hands, and, dissolving in tears, sought the retirement of an adjoining
apartment.

All these unaccountable movements filled Lady Chatterton with amazement,
that would have been too painful for further endurance; and Mrs. Wilson,
knowing that further concealment with so near a connexion would be
impossible, if not unnecessary, entered into a brief explanation of the
earl's masquerade (although ignorant herself of its cause, or of the
means of supporting it), and his present relation with her niece.

"I declare it is provoking," cried Lady Chatterton, with a tear in her
eye, "to have such ingenious plans as Derwent and I had made lost from
the want of necessity in putting them in force. Your demure niece has
deceived us all handsomely; and my rigid cousin, too--I will rate him
soundly for his deception."

"I believe he already repents sincerely of his having practised it,"
said Mrs. Wilson, "and is sufficiently punished for his error by its
consequence. A life of misery for four months is a serious penalty to a
lover."

"Yes," said the other; "I am afraid his punishment was not confined to
himself alone: he has made others suffer from his misconduct. I will
rate him famously, depend upon it I will."

If anything, the interest felt by Lady Chatterton for her friend was
increased by this discovery of the affections of Pendennyss, and a few
hours were passed by the three, in we will not say sober delight, for
transport would be a better word. Lady Chatterton frankly declared that
she would rather see Emily the wife of the earl than of her brother, for
he alone was good enough for her; and Mrs. Wilson felt an exhilaration
of spirits, in the completion of her most sanguine wishes, that neither
her years, her philosophy, nor even her religion, could entirely
restrain. The face of Emily was a continued blush, her eye sparkled with
the lustre of renewed hope, and her bosom was heaving with the purest
emotions of happiness.

At the appointed hour the rattling of wheels announced the approach of
the earl and his sister.

Pendennyss came into the room with a young woman of great personal
beauty and extremely feminine manners, leaning on his arm. He first
announced her to Mrs. Wilson as his sister, Lady Marian Denbigh, who
received her with a frank cordiality that made them instantly
acquainted. Emily, although confiding in the fullest manner in the truth
and worth of her lover, had felt an inexplicable sensation of pleasure,
as she heard the earl speak of his sister by the name of Marian; love is
such an unquiet, and generally such an engrossing passion, that few
avoid unnecessary uneasiness while under its influence, unless so
situated as to enjoy a mutual confidence.

As this once so formidable Marian approached to salute her with an
extended hand, Emily rose, with a face illumined with pleasure, to
receive her. Marian viewed her for a moment intently, and folding her
arms around her, whispered softly as she pressed her to her heart,

"My sister, my only sister."

Our heroine was affected to tears, and Pendennyss gently separating the
two he loved best in the world, they soon became calm.

Lady Marian was extremely like her brother, and had a family resemblance
to her cousin Harriet; but her manners were softer and more retiring,
and she had a slight tinge of a settled melancholy. When her brother
spoke she was generally silent, not in fear, but in love. She evidently
regarded him amongst the first of human beings, and all her love was
amply returned.

Both the aunt and niece studied the manners of the earl closely, and
found several shades of distinction between what he was and what he had
been. He was now the perfect man of the world, without having lost the
frank sincerity which caused you to believe all he said. Had Pendennyss
once told Mrs. Wilson, with his natural air and manner, "I am innocent,"
she would have believed him, and an earlier investigation would have
saved them months of misery; but the consciousness of his deception had
oppressed him with the curse of the wicked.

Pendennyss had lost that air of embarrassment and alarm which had so
often startled the aunt, even in her hours of greatest confidence, and
which had their original in the awkwardness of disguise. But he retained
his softness, his respect, his modest diffidence of his opinions,
although somewhat corrected now by his acknowledged experience and
acquaintance with man.

Mrs. Wilson thought these decided trifling alterations in manner were
improvements; but it required some days and a few tender speeches to
reconcile Emily to any change in the appearance of Denbigh.

Lady Marian had ordered her carriage early, as she had not anticipated
the pleasure she found, and was engaged to accompany her cousin, Lady
Laura, to a fashionable rout that evening. Unwilling to be torn from ins
newly found friends, the earl proposed that the three ladies should
accompany his sister to Annerdale House, and then accept himself as an
escort to their own residence. To this Harriet assented, and leaving a
message for Chatterton, they entered the coach of Marian, and
Pendennyss, mounting the dickey, drove off.

Annerdale House was amongst the best edifices of London. It had been
erected in the preceding century, and Emily for a moment felt, as she
went through its splendid apartments, that it threw a chill around her
domestic affections; but the figure of Pendennyss by her side reconciled
her to a magnificence she had been unused to, which looked the lord
indeed; but with so much modesty and softness, and so much attention to
herself, that before she left the house, Emily began to think it very
possible to enjoy happiness even in the lap of splendor.

The names of Colonel Denbigh and Lady Laura were soon announced, and
this formidable gentleman made his appearance, He resembled Pendennyss
more than even the duke, and appeared about the same age.

Mrs. Wilson soon saw that she had no grounds for pitying Lady Laura. The
colonel was a polished, elegant man, of evident good sense and knowledge
of the world, and apparently devoted to his wife. He was called George
frequently by all his relatives, and he, not unfrequently, used the same
term himself in speaking to the earl. Something was said of a much
admired bust, and the doors of a large library were opened to view it.
Emily was running over the backs of a case of books, until her eye
rested on one; and half smiling and blushing she turned to Pendennyss,
who watched every movement, as she said, playfully,

"Pity me, my lord, and lend me this volume."

"What is it you read?" he asked, as he bowed his cheerful assent.

But Emily hid the book in her handkerchief. Pendennyss noticing an
unwillingness, though an extremely playful one, to let him into the
secret, examined the case, and perceiving her motive, smiled, as he took
down another volume and said--

"I am not an Irish, but an English peer, Emily. You have the wrong
volume."

Emily laughed, with deeper blushes, when she found her wishes detected,
while the earl, opening the volume he held--the first of Debrett's
Peerage--pointed with his finger to the article concerning his own
family, and said to Mrs. Wilson, who had joined them at the instant--

"To-morrow, dear madam, I shall beg your attention to a melancholy tale,
and which may, in some slight degree, extenuate the offence I was guilty
of in assuming, or rather in maintaining an accidental disguise."

As he ended, he went to the others, to draw off their attention, while
Emily and her aunt examined the paragraph. It was as follows:

"George Denbigh--Earl of Pendennyss--and Baron Lumley, of Lumley Castle-
-- Baron Pendennyss--Beaumaris, and Fitzwalter, born----, of----, in the
year of----; a bachelor." The list of earls and nobles occupied several
pages, but the closing article was as follows:

"George, the 21st earl, succeeded his mother Marian, late Countess of
Pendennyss, in her own right, being born of her marriage with George
Denbigh, Esq., a cousin-german to Frederick, the 9th Duke of Derwent."

"Heir apparent. The titles being to heirs general, will descend to his
lordship's sister, Lady Marian Denbigh, should the present earl die
without lawful issue."

As much of the explanation of the mystery of our tales, involved in the
foregoing paragraphs, we may be allowed to relate in our own language,
what Pendennyss made his friends acquainted with at different times, and
in a manner suitable to the subject and his situation.



Chapter XLI.

It was at the close of that war which lost this country the wealthiest
and most populous of her American colonies, that a fleet of ships were
returning from their service amongst the islands of the New World, to
seek for their worn out and battered hulks, and equally weakened crews,
the repairs and comforts of England and home.

The latter word, to the mariner the most endearing of all sounds, had,
as it were, drawn together by instinct a group of sailors on the
forecastle of the proudest ship of the squadron, who gazed with varied
emotions on the land which gave them birth, but with one common feeling
of joy that the day of attaining it was at length arrived.

The water curled from the bows of this castle of the ocean, in
increasing waves and growing murmurs, that at times drew the attention
of the veteran tar to their quickening progress, and having cheered his
heart with the sight, he cast his experienced eye in silence on the
swelling sails, to see if nothing more could be done to shorten the
distance between him and his country.

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the land of their birth, and hundreds of
hearts were beating in that one vessel with the awakening delights of
domestic love and renewed affections; but no tongue broke the
disciplined silence of the ship into sounds that overcame the propitious
ripple of the water.

On the highest summit of their towering mast floated a small blue flag,
the symbol of authority, and beneath it paced a man to and fro the deck,
who was abandoned by his inferiors to his more elevated rank. His
square-built form and careworn features, which had lost the brilliancy
of an English complexion, and hair whitened prematurely, spoke of bodily
vigor, and arduous services which had put that vigor to the severest
trials.

At each turn of his walk, as he faced the land of his nativity, a
lurking smile stole over his sun-burnt features, and then a glance of
his eye would scan the progress of the far-stretched squadron which
obeyed his orders, and which he was now returning to his superiors,
undiminished in numbers, and proud with victory.

By himself stood an officer in a uniform differing from all around him.
His figure was small, his eye restless, quick, and piercing, and bent on
those shores to which he was unwillingly advancing, with a look of
anxiety and mortification, that showed him the late commander of those
vessels around them, which, by displaying their double flags, manifested
to the eye of the seaman a recent change of masters.

Occasionally the conqueror would stop, and by some effort of well meant,
but rather uncouth civility, endeavor to soften the hours of captivity;
efforts which were received with the courtesy of the most punctilious
etiquette, but a restraint which showed that they were unwelcome.

It was, perhaps, the most unlucky moment that had occurred within the
two months of their association, for an exchange of their better
feelings. The honest heart of the English tar dilated with ill-concealed
delight at his approach to the termination of labors performed with
credit and honor, and his smiles and good humor, which partly proceeded
from the feelings of a father and a friend, were daggers to the heart of
his discomfited rival.

A third personage now appeared from the cabin of the vessel, and
approached the spot where the adverse admirals at the moment were
engaged in one of these constrained conferences.

The appearance and dress of this gentleman differed widely from the two
just described. He was tall, graceful, and dignified; he was a soldier,
and clearly of high rank. His carefully dressed hair concealed the
ravages of time and on the quarter-deck of a first-rate his attire and
manners were suited to a field-day in the park.

"I really insist, monsieur," cried the admiral, good-naturedly, "that
you shall take part of my chaise to London. You are a stranger, and it
will help to keep up your spirits by the way."

"You are very good, Monsieur Howell," replied the Frenchman, with a
polite bow and forced smile, misconstruing ill-judged benevolence into a
wish for his person to grace a triumph--"but I have accepted the offer
Monsieur le General Denbigh was so good as to make me."

"The comte is engaged to me, Howell," said the general, with a courtly
smile, "and, indeed, you must leave the ship to night, or as soon as we
anchor.--But I shall take daylight and to-morrow."

"Well--well--Denbigh," exclaimed the other, rubbing his hands with
pleasure as he viewed the increasing power of the wind, "only make
yourselves happy, and I am contented."

A few hours intervened before they reached the Bay of Plymouth, and
round the table, after their dinner, were seated the general and English
admiral. The comte, under the pretence of preparing his things for a
removal, had retired to his apartment to conceal his feelings;--and the
captain of the ship was above, superintending the approach of the vessel
to her anchorage. Two or three well emptied bottles of wine yet
remained; but as the healths of all the branches of the House of
Brunswick had been propitiated from their contents, with a polite
remembrance of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette from General Denbigh,
neither of the superiors was much inclined for action.

"Is the Thunderer in her station?" said the admiral to the signal
lieutenant, who at that moment came below with a report.

"Yes, sir, and has answered."

"Very well; make the signal to prepare to anchor."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And here, Bennet," to the retiring lieutenant--"call the transports all
in shore of us."

"Three hundred and eighty-four, sir," said the officer, looking at his
signal-book.

The admiral cast his eye at the book, and nodded an assent.

"And let the Mermaid--Flora--Weasel--Bruiser, and all the sloops lie
well off, until we have landed the soldiers: the pilot says the channel
is full of luggers, and Jonathan has grown very saucy."

The lieutenant made a complying bow, and was retiring to execute these
orders, as Admiral Howell, taking up a bottle not yet entirely deserted
by its former tenant, cried stoutly--"Here, Bennet--I forgot--take a
glass of wine; drink success to ourselves, and defeat to the French all
over the world."

The general pointed significantly to the adjoining cabin of the French
admiral, as he pressed his hand on his lips for silence.

"Oh!" cried Admiral Howell, recollecting himself, continuing in a
whisper, "you can drink it in your heart, notwithstanding."

The signal officer nodded, and drank the liquor. As he smacked his lips
while going on deck, he thought to himself, these nabobs drink famous
good wine.

Although the feelings of General Denbigh were under much more command
and disciplined obedience than those of his friend, yet was he too
unusually elated with his return to home and expected honors. If the
admiral had captured a fleet, he had taken an island;--and hand in hand
they had co-operated in unusual harmony through the difficulties of an
arduous campaign. This rather singular circumstance was owing to their
personal friendship. From their youth they had been companions, and
although of very different characters and habits, chance had cemented
their intimacy in more advanced life. While in subordinate stations,
they had been associated together in service; and the general and
admiral, in command of an army and fleet, had once before returned to
England with less renown, as a colonel and a captain of a frigate. The
great family influence of the soldier, with the known circumstance of
their harmony, had procured them this later command, and home, with its
comforts and rewards, was close before them. Pouring out a glass of
Madeira, the general, who always calculated what he said, exclaimed,

"Peter--we have been friends from boys."

"To be sure we have," said the admiral, looking up in a little surprise
at this unexpected commencement--"and it will not be my fault if we do
not die such, Frederick."

Dying was a subject the general did not much delight in although of
conspicuous courage in the field; and he proceeded to his more important
purpose--"I could never find, although I have looked over our family
tree so often, that we are in any manner related, Howell."

"I believe it is too late to mend that matter now," said the admiral,
musing.

"Why no--hem--I think not, Howell; take a glass of this Burgundy."

The admiral shook his head with a stubborn resolution to taste nothing
French, but he helped himself to a bountiful stock of Madeira, as he
replied--

"I should like to know how you can bring it about this time of day,
Denbigh."

"How much money will you be able to give that girl of yours, Peter?"
said his friend, evading the point.

"Forty thousand down, my good fellow, and as much more when I die,"
cried the open-hearted sailor, with a nod of exultation.

"George, my youngest son, will not be rich--but Francis will be a duke,
and have a noble estate; yet," said the general; meditating, "he is so
unhappy in his disposition and uncouth in his manners, I cannot think of
offering him to your daughter as a husband."

"Isabel shall marry a good-natured man, like myself, or not at all,"
said the admiral, positively, but not in the least suspecting the drift
of his friend, who was influenced by anything but a regard for the
lady's happiness.

Francis, his first born, was, in truth, as he had described; but his
governing wish was to provide for his favorite George. Dukes could never
want wives, but unportioned captains in the guards might.

"George is one of the best tempers in the world," said his father, with
strong feeling, "and the delight of us all. I could wish he had been the
heir to the family honors."

"That it is certainly too late to help," cried the admiral, wondering if
the ingenuity of his friend could devise a remedy for this evil too.

"Too late, indeed," said the other, with a heavy sigh, "but Howell, what
say you to matching Isabel with my favorite George?"

"Denbigh," cried the sailor, eyeing him keenly, "Isabel is my only
child, and a dutiful, good girl; one that will obey orders if she breaks
owners, as we sailors say. Now I did think of marrying her to a seaman,
when a proper man came athwart my course; yet your son is a soldier, and
that is next to being in the navy: if-so-be you had made him come aboard
me, when I wanted you to, there would have been no objection at all:
however, when occasion offers. I will overhaul the lad, and if I find
him staunch he may turn in with Bell and welcome."

This was uttered in perfect simplicity, and with no intention of giving
offence, partaking partly of the nature of a soliloquy; so the general,
greatly encouraged, was about to push the point, when a gun was fired
from their own ship.

"There's some of them lubberly transports won't mind our signals; they
have had these soldiers so long on board, they get as clumsy as the red-
coats themselves," muttered the admiral, hastening on deck to enforce
his commands.

A shot or two, sent significantly in the direction of the wanderers, but
so as not to hit them, restored order; and within an hour forty line of
battle ships and a hundred transports were disposed in the best manner
for convenience and safety.

On their presentation to their sovereign, both veterans were embellished
with the riband of the Bath; and as their exploits filled the mouths of
the newsmongers, and the columns of the public prints of the day, the
new knights began to think more seriously of building a monument to
their victories, in a union between their children. The admiral,
however, determined to do nothing with his eyes shut, and he demanded a
scrutiny.

"Where is the boy who is to be a duke?" exclaimed he, one day, when his
friend had introduced the point with a view to a final arrangement.
"Bell has good blood in her veins--is a tight built little vessel--clean
heel'd and trim, and would make as good a duchess as the best of them;
so Denbigh, I will begin by taking a survey of the senior." To this the
general had no objection, as he well knew that Francis would be wide of
pleasing the tastes of an open-hearted, simple man, like the sailor.
They met, accordingly, for what the general facetiously called the
review, and what the admiral innocently termed his survey, at the house
of the former, when the young gentlemen were submitted to his
inspection.

Francis Denbigh was about four and twenty, of a feeble body, and with a
face marked with the small-pox, to approaching deformity; his eye was
brilliant and piercing, but unsettled, and at times wild--his manner
awkward, constrained, and timid. There would be seen, it is true, an
intelligence and animation, which occasionally lighted his countenance
into gleams of sunshine, that caused you to overlook the lesser
accompaniments of complexion and features in the expression; but they
were transient, and inevitably vanished whenever his father spoke or in
any manner mingled in his pursuits.

An observer close as Mrs. Wilson, would have said that the feelings of
the father and son were not such as ought to exist between parent and
child.

But the admiral, who regarded model and rigging a good deal, satisfied
himself with muttering, as he turned his eye on the junior--

"He may do for a duke--but I would not have him for a cockswain."

George was a year younger than Francis; in form, stature, and personal
grace, the counterpart of his father; his eye was less keen but more
attractive than that of his brother; his air open, polished, and manly.

"Ah!" thought the sailor, as he ended a satisfactory survey of the
youth, "what a thousand pities Denbigh did not send him to sea!"

The thing was soon settled, and George was to be the happy man. Sir
Peter concluded to dine with his friend, in order to settle
preliminaries over the bottle by themselves; the young men and their
mother being engaged to their uncle the duke.

"Well, Denbigh," cried the admiral, as the last servant withdrew, "when
do you mean to have the young couple spliced?"

"Why," replied the wary soldier, who knew he could not calculate on
obedience to his mandate with as great a certainty as his friend--"the
better way is to bring the young people together, in order that they may
become acquainted, you know."

"Acquainted--together--" cried his companion, in a little surprise,
"what better way is there to bring them together, than to have them up
before a priest, or to make them acquainted by letting them swing in the
same hammock?"

"It might answer the end, indeed," said the general, with a smile, "but
somehow or other, it is always the best method to bring young folks
together, to let them have their own way in the affair for a time."

"Own way!" rejoined Sir Peter, bluntly, "did you ever find it answer to
let a woman have her own way, Sir Frederick?"

"Not common women certainly, my good friend," said the general, "but
such a girl as my intended daughter is an exception."

"I don't know that," cried the sailor; "Bell is a good girl, but she has
her quirks and whims like all the sex."

"You have had no trouble with her as yet, I believe, Howell," said Sir
Frederick cavalierly, throwing an inquiring glance on his friend at the
same time.

"No, not yet--nor do I think she will ever dare to mutiny; but there has
been one wishing to take her in tow already since we got in."

"How!" said the other in alarm, "who--what is he? some officer in the
navy, I suppose."

"No, he was a kind of chaplain, one Parson Ives, a good sort of a youth
enough, and a prodigious favorite with my sister, Lady Hawker."

"Well, what did you answer, Peter?" said his companion in increasing
uneasiness; "did you put him off?"

"Off! to be sure I did--do you think I wanted a barber's clerk for a
son-in-law? No, no, Denbigh; a soldier is bad enough, without having a
preacher."

The general compressed his lips at this direct attack on a profession
that he thought the most honorable of any in the world, in some
resentment; but remembering the eighty thousand pounds, and accustomed
to the ways of the other, he curbed his temper, and inquired--

"But Miss Howell--your daughter--how did she stand affected to this
priest?"

"How--why--how?--why I never asked her."

"Never asked her?"

"No, never asked her: she is my daughter, you know, and bound to obey my
orders, and I did not choose she should marry a parson; but, once for
all, when is the wedding to take place?"

General Denbigh had indulged his younger son too blindly and too fondly
to expect that implicit obedience the admiral calculated to a certainty
on, and with every prospect of not being disappointed, from his
daughter. Isabel Howell was pretty, mild, and timid, and unused to
oppose any of her father's commands; but George Denbigh was haughty,
positive, and self-willed, and unless the affair could be so managed as
to make him a willing assistant in the courtship, his father knew it
might be abandoned at once. He thought his son might be led, but not
driven; and, relying on his own powers for managing, the general saw his
only safety in executing the scheme was in postponing his advances for a
regular siege to the lady's heart.

Sir Peter chafed and swore at this circumlocution: the thing could be
done as well in a week as in a year; and the veterans, who, for a
miracle, had agreed in their rival stations, and in doubtful moments of
success, were near splitting on the point of marrying a girl of
nineteen.

As Sir Peter both loved his friend, and had taken a prodigious fancy to
the youth, he however was fain to submit to a short probation.

"You are always for going a round-about way to do a thing," said the
admiral, as he yielded the point. "Now, when you took that battery, had
you gone up in front, as I advised you, you would have taken it in ten
minutes, instead of five hours."

"Yes," said the other, with a friendly shake of the hand at parting,
"and lost fifty men in place of one by the step."



Chapter XLII.

The Honorable General Denbigh was the youngest of three sons. His
seniors, Francis and George, were yet bachelors. The death of a cousin
had made Francis a duke while yet a child, and both he and his favorite
brother George, had decided on lives of inactivity and sluggishness.

"When I die, brother," the oldest would say, "you will succeed me, and
Frederick can provide heirs for the name hereafter."

This arrangement had been closely adhered to, and the two elder brothers
reached the ages of fifty-five and fifty-six, without altering their
condition. In the mean time, Frederick married a young woman of rank and
fortune; the fruits of their union being the two young candidates for
the hand of Isabel Howell.

Francis Denbigh, the eldest son of the general, was naturally diffident,
and, in addition, it was his misfortune to be the reverse of captivating
in external appearance. The small-pox sealed his doom;--ignorance, and
the violence of the attack, left him indelibly impressed with the
ravages of that dreadful disorder. Oh the other hand, his brother
escaped without any vestiges of the complaint; and his spotless skin and
fine open countenance, met the gaze of his mother, after the recovery of
the two, in striking contrast to the deformed lineaments of his elder
brother. Such an occurrence is sure to excite one of two feelings in the
breast of every beholder--pity or disgust; and, unhappily for Francis,
maternal tenderness, in his case, was unable to counteract the latter
sensation. George become a favorite, and Francis a neutral. The effect
was easy to be seen, and it was rapid, as it was indelible.

The feelings of Francis were sensitive to an extreme. He had more
quickness, more sensibility, more real talent than George; which enabled
him to perceive, and caused him to feel more acutely, the partiality of
his mother.

As yet, the engagements and duties of the general had kept his children
and, their improvements out of his sight; but at the ages of eleven and
twelve, the feelings of a father, began, to take pride in the possession
of his sons.

On his return from a foreign station, after an absence of two years, his
children were ordered from school to meet him. Francis had improved in
stature, but not in beauty; George had flourished in both.

The natural diffidence of the former was increased, by perceiving that
he was no favorite, and the effect began to show itself on manners at no
time engaging. He met his father with doubt, and he saw with anguish,
that the embrace received by his brother much exceeded in warmth that
which had been bestowed on himself.

"Lady Margaret," said the general to his wife, as he followed the boys
as they retired from the dinner table, with his eyes, "it is a thousand
pities George had not been the elder. He would have graced a dukedom or
a throne. Frank is only fit for a parson."

This ill-judged speech was uttered sufficiently loud to be overheard by
both the sons: on the younger, it made a pleasurable sensation for the
moment. His father--his dear father, had thought him fit to be a king;
and his father must be a judge, whispered his native vanity; but all
this time the connexion between the speech and his brother's rights did
not present themselves to his mind. George loved this brother too well,
too sincerely, to have injured him even in thought; and so far as
Francis was concerned, his vanity was as blameless as it was natural.

The effect produced on the mind of Francis was different both in
substance and in degree. It mortified his pride, alarmed his delicacy,
and wounded his already morbid sensibility to such an extent, as to make
him entertain the romantic notion of withdrawing from the world, and of
yielding a birthright to one so every way more deserving of it than
himself.

From this period might be dated an opinion of Francis's, which never
afterwards left him; he fancied he was doing injustice to another, and
that other, a brother whom he ardently loved, by continuing to exist.
Had he met with fondness in his parents, or sociability in his
playfellows, these fancies would have left him as he grew into life. But
the affections of his parents were settled on his more promising
brother; and his manners daily increasing in their repulsive traits,
drove his companions to the society of others, more agreeable to their
own buoyancy and joy.

Had Francis Denbigh, at this age, met with a guardian clear-sighted
enough to fathom his real character, and competent to direct his onward
course, he would yet have become an ornament to his name and country,
and a useful member of society. But no such guide existed. His natural
guardians, in his particular case, were his worst enemies; and the boys
left school for college four years afterwards, each advanced in his
respective properties of attraction and repulsion.

Irreligion is hardly a worse evil in a family than favoritism. When once
allowed to exist, in the breast of the parent, though hid apparently
from all other eyes, its sad consequences begin to show themselves.
Effects are produced, and we look in vain for the cause. The awakened
sympathies of reciprocal caresses and fondness are mistaken for uncommon
feelings, and the forbidding aspect of deadened affections is miscalled
native sensibility.

In this manner the evil increases itself, until manners are formed, and
characters created, that must descend with their possessor to the tomb.

In the peculiar formation of the mind of Francis Denbigh, the evil was
doubly injurious. His feelings required sympathy and softness, and they
met only with coldness and disgust. George alone was an exception to the
rule. He did love his brother; but even his gaiety and spirits finally
tired of the dull uniformity of the diseased habits of his senior.

The only refuge Francis found in his solitude, amidst the hundreds of
the university, was in his muse and in the powers of melody. The voice
of his family has been frequently mentioned in these pages; and if, as
Lady Laura had intimated, there had ever been a siren in the race, it
was a male one. He wrote prettily, and would sing these efforts of his
muse to music of his own, drawing crowds around his windows, in the
stillness of the night, to listen to sounds as melodious as they were
mournful. His poetical efforts partook of the distinctive character of
the man, being melancholy, wild, and sometimes pious.

George was always amongst the most admiring of his brother's auditors,
and would feel a yearning of his heart towards him, at such moments,
that was painful. But George was too young and too heedless, to supply
the place of a monitor, or to draw his thoughts into a more salutary
train. This was the duty of his parents, and should have been their
task. But the world, his rising honors, and his professional
engagements, occupied the time of the father; and fashion, parties, and
pleasure, killed the time of his mother. When they did think of their
children, it was of George; the painful image of Francis being seldom
admitted to disturb their serenity.

George Denbigh was open-hearted without suspicion, and a favorite. The
first quality taxed his generosity, the second subjected him to fraud,
and the third supplied him with the means. But these means sometimes
failed. The fortune of the general, though handsome, was not more than
competent to support his style of living. He expected to be a duke
himself one day, and was anxious to maintain an appearance now that
would not disgrace his future elevation. A system of strict but liberal
economy had been adopted in the case of his sons. They had, for the sake
of appearances, a stated and equal allowance.

The duke had offered to educate the heir himself, and under his own eye.
But to this Lady Margaret had found some ingenious excuse, and one that
seemed to herself and the world honorable to her natural feeling; but
had the offer been made to George, these reasons would have vanished in
the desire to advance his interests, or to gratify his propensities.
Such decisions are by no means uncommon; parents having once decided on
the merits and abilities of their children, frequently decline the
interference of third persons, since the improvement of their denounced
offspring might bring their own judgment into question, if it did not
convey an indirect censure on their justice.

The heedlessness of George brought his purse to a state of emptiness.
His last guinea was gone, and two months were wanting to the end of the
quarter. George had played and been cheated. He had ventured to apply to
his mother for small sums, when his dress or some trifling indulgence
required an advance; and always with success. But here were sixty
guineas gone at a blow, and pride, candor, forbade his concealing the
manner of his loss, if he made the application. This was dreadful; his
own conscience reproached him, and he had so often witnessed the
violence of his mother's resentments against Francis, for faults which
appeared to him very trivial, not to stand in the utmost dread of her
more just displeasure in the present case.

Entering the apartment of his brother, in this disturbed condition,
George threw himself into a chair, and with his face concealed between
his hands, sat brooding over his forlorn situation.

"George!" said his brother, soothingly, "you are in distress; can I
relieve you in any way?"

"Oh no--no--no--Frank; it is entirely out of your power."

"Perhaps not, my dear brother," continued the other, endeavoring to draw
his hand into his own.

"Entirely! entirely!" said George. Then springing up in despair, he
exclaimed, "But I must live--I cannot die."

"Live! die!" cried Francis, recoiling in horror. "What do you mean by
such language? Tell me, George, am I not your brother? Your only brother
and best friend?"

Francis felt he had no friend if George was not that friend, and his
face grew pale while the tears flowed rapidly down his cheeks.

George could not resist such an appeal. He caught the hand of his
brother and made him acquainted with his losses and his wants.

Francis mused some little time over his narration, ere he broke silence.

"It was all you had?"

"The last shilling," cried George, beating his head with his hand.

"How much will you require to make out the quarter?"

"Oh I must have at least fifty guineas, or how can I live at all?"

The ideas of life in George were connected a good deal with the manner
it was to be enjoyed. His brother appeared struggling with himself, and
then turning to the other, continued,

"But surely, under present circumstances, you could make less do."

"Less, never--hardly that"--interrupted George, vehemently. "If Lady
Margaret did not inclose me a note now and then, how could we get along
at all? don't you find it so yourself, brother?"

"I don't know," said Francis, turning pale--

"Don't know!" cried George, catching a view of his altered countenance--
"you get the money, though?"

"I do not remember it," said the other, sighing heavily.

"Francis," cried George, comprehending the truth, "you shall share every
shilling I receive in future--you shall--indeed you shall."

"Well, then," rejoined Francis with a smile, "it is a bargain; and you
will receive from me a supply in your present necessities."

Without waiting for an answer, Francis withdrew into an inner apartment,
and brought out the required sum for his brother's subsistence for two
months. George remonstrated, but Francis was positive; he had been
saving, and his stock was ample for his simple habits without it.

"Besides, you forget we are partners, and in the end I shall be a
gainer."

George yielded to his wants and his brother's entreaties, and he gave
him great credit for the disinterestedness of the act. Several weeks
passed without any further allusion to this disagreeable subject, which
had at least the favorable result of making George more guarded and a
better student.

The brothers, from this period, advanced gradually in those distinctive
qualities which were to mark the future men; George daily improving in
grace and attraction, Francis, in an equal ratio, receding from those
very attainments which it was his too great desire to possess. In the
education of his sons, General Denbigh had preserved the appearance of
impartiality; his allowance to each was the same: they were at the same
college, they had been at the same school; and if Frank did not improve
as much as his younger brother, it was unquestionably his own obstinacy
and stupidity, and surely not want of opportunity or favor.

Such, then, were the artificial and accidental causes, which kept a
noble, a proud, an acute but a diseased mind, in acquirements much below
another every way its inferior, excepting in the happy circumstance of
wanting those very excellences, the excess and indiscreet management of
which proved the ruin instead of the blessing of their possessor.

The duke would occasionally rouse himself from his lethargy, and
complain to the father, that the heir of his honors was far inferior to
his younger brother in acquirements, and remonstrate against the course
which produced such an unfortunate inequality. On these occasions a
superficial statement of his system from the general met the objection;
they cost the same money, and he was sure he not only wished but did
everything an indulgent parent could, to render Francis worthy of his
future honors. Another evil of the admission of feelings of partiality,
in the favor of one child, to the prejudice of another, is that the
malady is contagious as well as lasting: it exists without our own
knowledge, and it seldom fails to affect those around us. The uncle soon
learnt to distinguish George as the hope of the family, yet Francis must
be the heir of its honors, and consequently of its wealth.

The duke and his brother were not much addicted to action, hardly to
reflection; but if anything could rouse them to either, it was the
reputation of the house of Denbigh. Their ideas of reputation, it is
true, were of their own forming.

The hour at length drew near when George expected a supply from the ill-
judged generosity of his mother; it came, and with a heart beating with
pleasure, the youth flew to the room of Francis with a determination to
force the whole of his twenty pounds on his acceptance. On throwing open
his door, he saw his brother evidently striving to conceal something
behind his books. It was at the hour of breakfast, and George had
intended for a novelty to share his brother's morning repast. They
always met at dinner, but the other meals were made in their own rooms.
George looked in vain for the usual equipage of the table; suspicion
flashed upon him; he threw aside the books, and a crust of bread and a
glass of water met his eye; the truth now flashed upon him in all its
force.

"Francis, my brother, to what has my extravagance reduced you!"
exclaimed the contrite George with a heart nearly ready to burst.
Francis endeavored to explain, but a sacred regard to the truth held him
tongue-tied, until dropping his head on the shoulder of George, he
sobbed out--

"It is a trifle; nothing to what I would do for you, my brother."

George felt all the horrors of remorse, and was much too generous to
conceal his error any longer; he wrote a circumstantial account of the
whole transaction to Lady Margaret.

Francis for a few days was a new being. He had acted nobly, his
conscience approved of his motives, and of his delicate concealment of
them; he in fact began to think there were in himself the seeds of
usefulness, as his brother, who from this moment began to understand his
character better, attached himself more closely to him.

The eye of Francis met that of George with the look of acknowledged
affection, his mind became less moody, and his face was sometimes
embellished with a smile.

The reply of their mother to the communication of George threw a damp on
the revived hopes of the senior, and drove him back into himself with
tenfold humility.

"I am shocked, my child, to find that you have lowered yourself, and
forgot the family you belong to, so much as to frequent those gambling-
houses, which ought not to be suffered in the neighborhood of the
universities: when at a proper age and in proper company, your
occasional indulgence at cards I could not object to, as both your
father and myself sometimes resort to it as an amusement, but never in
low company. The consequence of mingling in such society is, that you
were cheated, and such will always be your lot unless you confine
yourself to associates more becoming your rank and illustrious name.

"As to Francis, I see every reason to condemn the course he has taken.
Being the senior by a year, he should have taken the means to prevent
your falling into such company; and he should have acquainted me
immediately with your loss, in place of wounding your pride by
subjecting you to the mortification of receiving a pecuniary obligation
from one so little older than yourself, and exposing his own health by a
diet on bread and water, as you wrote me, for a whole month. Both the
general and myself are seriously displeased with him, and think of
separating you, as you thus connive at each other's follies."

George was too indignant to conceal this letter and the reflections of
Francis were dreadful.

For a short time he actually meditated suicide, as the only method of
removing himself from before the advancement of George. Had not George
been more attentive and affectionate than formerly, the awful expedient
might have been resorted to.

From college the young men went, one into the army and the other to the
mansion of his uncle. George became an elegant, gay, open-hearted,
admired captain in the guards; and Francis stalked through the halls of
his ancestors, their acknowledged future lord, but a misanthrope;
hateful to himself and disagreeable to all around him.

This picture may be highly wrought, but the effects, in the case of
Francis, were increased by the peculiar tone of his diseased state of
mind. The indulgence of favoritism, nevertheless, always brings its own
sad consequences, in a greater or less degree, while it seldom fails to
give sorrow and penitence to the bosom of the parents.



Chapter XLIII.

No little art and management had been necessary to make the admiral
auxiliary to the indirect plan proposed by his friend to bring George
and Isabel together. This, however, effected, the general turned his
whole strategy to the impression to be made on the heart of the young
gentleman.

Sir Frederick Denbigh had the same idea of the virtue of management as
the Dowager Lady Chatterton, but he understood human nature better.

Like a prudent officer, his attacks were all masked, and, like a great
officer, they seldom failed of success.

The young couple were thrown in each other's way, and as Isabel was
extremely attractive, somewhat the opposite to himself in ardor of
temperament and vivacity, modest, and sensible, it cannot be expected
that the association was maintained by the youth with perfect impunity.
Within a couple of months he fancied himself desperately in love with
Isabel Howell; and, in truth, he had some reason for the supposition.

The general watched every movement of his son with a wary and vigilant
eye--occasionally adding fuel to the flame, by drawing his attention to
projects of matrimony in other quarters, until George began to think he
was soon to undergo a trial of his constancy, and in consequence he
armed himself with a double portion of admiration for his Isabel, in
order to enable himself to endure the persecution; while the admiral
several times endangered the success of the whole enterprise by
volunteer contributions to the hopes of the young man, which only
escaped producing an opposite effect to that which was intended, by
being mistaken for the overflowings of good nature and friendship.

After suffering his son to get, as he thought, sufficiently entangled in
the snares of Cupid, Sir Frederick determined to fire a volley from one
of his masked batteries, which he rightly judged would bring on a
general engagement. They were sitting at the table after dinner, alone,
when the general took the advantage of the name of Miss Howell being
accidentally mentioned, to say--

"By the by, George, my friend the admiral said something yesterday on
the subject of your being so much with his daughter. I wish you to be
cautious, and not to give the old sailor offence in any way, for he is
my particular friend."

"He need be under no violent apprehensions," cried George, coloring
highly with shame and pride, "I am sure a Denbigh is no unworthy match
for a daughter of Sir Peter Howell."

"Oh! to be sure not, boy, we are as old a house as there is in the
kingdom, and as noble too; but the admiral has queer notions, and,
perhaps, he has some cub of a sailor in his eye for a son-in-law. Be
prudent, my boy, be prudent; that is all I ask of you."

The general, satisfied with the effect he had produced, carelessly arose
from his seat, and joined Lady Margaret in her drawing-room.

George remained for several minutes musing on his father's singular
request, as well as the admiral's caution, when he sprang from his seat,
caught up his hat and sword, and in ten minutes rang at Sir Peter's door
in Grosvenor Square. He was admitted, and ascending to the drawing-room,
he met the admiral on his way out. Nothing was further from the thoughts
of the veteran than a finesse like the general's; and, delighted to see
George on the battle-ground, he pointed significantly over his shoulder
towards the door of the room Isabel was in, and exclaimed, with a good-
natured smile,

"There she is, my hearty; lay her aside, and hang me if she don't
strike. I say, George, faint heart never won fair lady: remember that,
my boy; no, nor a French ship."

George would have been at some loss to have reconciled this speech to
his father's caution, if time had been allowed him to think at all; but
the door being open he entered, and found Isabel endeavoring to hide her
tears.

The admiral, dissatisfied from the beginning with the tardy method of
despatching things, thought he might be of use in breaking the ice for
George, by trumpeting his praises on divers occasions to his daughter.
Under all circumstances, he thought she might be learning to love the
man, as he was to be her husband; and speeches like the following had
been frequent of late from the parent to the child:

"There's that youngster, George Denbigh: now, Bell, is he not a fine
looking lad? Then I know he is brave. His father before him, was good
stuff and a true Englishman. What a proper husband he would make for a
young woman, he loves his king and country so; none of your new-fangled
notions about religion and government, but a sober, religious churchman;
that is, as much so, girl, as you can expect in the guards. No
Methodist, to be sure;--it's a great pity he wasn't sent to sea, don't
you think so? But cheer up, girl, one of these days he may be taking a
liking to you yet."

Isabel, whose fears taught her the meaning of these eloquent praises of
Captain Denbigh, listened to these harangues in silence, and often
meditated on their import by herself in tears.

George approached the sofa on which the lady was seated before she had
time to conceal the traces of her sorrow, and in a voice softened by
emotion, he took her hand gently as he said,--

"What can have occasioned this distress to Miss Howell. If anything in
my power to remove, or which a life devoted to her service can mitigate,
she has only to command me to find a cheerful obedience."

"The trifling causes of sorrow in a young woman," replied Isabel,
endeavoring to smile, "will hardly require such serious services to
remove them."

But the lady was extremely interesting at the moment. George was goaded
by his father's caution, and urged on by his own feelings, with great
sincerity, and certainly much eloquence, he therefore proffered his love
and hand to the acceptance of his mistress.

Isabel heard him in painful silence. She respected him, and dreaded his
power over her father; but, unwilling to abandon hopes to which she yet
clung as to her spring of existence, with a violent effort she
determined to throw herself on the generosity of her lover.

During her father's late absence Isabel had, as usual, since the death
of her mother, been left with his sister, and had formed an attachment
for a young clergyman, a younger son of a baronet, and the present Dr.
Ives. The inclination had been mutual; and as Lady Hawker knew her
brother to be perfectly indifferent to money, she could see no possible
objection to its indulgence.

On his return, Ives made his proposals, as related; and although warmly
backed by the recommendations of the aunt, he was refused. Out of
delicacy the wishes of Isabel had not been mentioned by her clerical
lover, and the admiral supposed he had only complied with his agreement
with the general, without in any manner affecting the happiness of his
daughter by his answer. But the feelings which prompted the request
still remained in full vigor in the lovers; and Isabel now, with many
blushes and some hesitation of utterance, made George fully acquainted
with the state of her heart, giving him at the same time to understand
that he was the only obstacle to her happiness.

It cannot be supposed that George heard her without pain or
mortification. The struggle with self-love was a severe one, but his
better feelings prevailed, and he assured the anxious Isabel that from
his importunities she had nothing to apprehend in future. The grateful
girl overwhelmed him with thanks, and George had to fly ere he repented
of his own generosity.

Miss Howell intimated, in the course of her narrative, that a better
understanding existed between their parents than the caution of the
general had discovered to his unsuspecting child, and George was
determined to know the worst at once.

At supper he mentioned, as if in remembrance of his father's injunction,
that he had been to take his leave of Miss Howell, since he found his
visits gave uneasiness to her friends. "On the whole," he added,
endeavoring to yawn carelessly, "I believe I shall visit there no more."

"Nay, nay," returned Sir Frederick, a little displeased at his son's
obedience, "I meant no such thing. Neither the admiral nor myself, has
the least objection to your visiting in moderation; indeed, you may
marry the girl with all our hearts, if you can agree."

"But we can't agree, I take it," said George, looking up at the wall.

"Why not? what hinders?' cried his father unguardedly.

"Only--only I don't like her," said the son, tossing off a glass of
wine, which nearly strangled him.

"You don't," cried the general with great warmth, thrown entirely off
his guard by this unexpected declaration "and may I presume to ask the
reason why you do not like Miss Howell, sir?"

"Oh! you know, one never pretends to give a reason for this sort of
feeling, my dear sir."

"Then," cried his father with increasing heat, "you must allow me to
say, my dear sir, that the sooner you get rid of these sort of feelings
the better. I choose you shall not only like, but love Miss Howell; and
this I have promised her father."

"I thought that the admiral was displeased with my coming to his house
so much--or did I not understand you this morning?"

"I know nothing of his displeasure, and care less. He has agreed that
Isabel shall be your wife, and I have passed my word to the engagement;
and if, sir, you wish to be considered as my son, you will prepare to
comply."

George was expecting to discover some management on the part of his
father, but by no means so settled an arrangement, and his anger was in
proportion to the deception.

To annoy Isabel any further was out of the question; to betray her,
base; and the next morning he sought an audience with the Duke. To him
he mentioned his wish for actual service, but hinted that the maternal
fondness of Lady Margaret was averse to his seeking it. This was true,
and George now pressed his uncle to assist him in effecting an exchange.

The boroughs of the Duke of Derwent were represented by loyal members of
parliament, his two brothers being contemporary with Mr. Benfield in
that honor; and a request from a man who sent six members to the
Commons, besides having a seat in the Lords in his own person, must be
listened to.

Within the week George ceased to be a captain in the guards, and became
lieutenant-colonel of a regiment under orders for America.

Sir Frederick soon became sensible of the error his warmth had led him
into, and endeavored, by soothing and indulgence, to gain the ground he
had so unguardedly lost. But terrible was his anger, and bitter his
denunciations, when his son acquainted him with his approaching
embarkation with his new regiment for America. They quarrelled; and as
the favorite child had never, until now, been thwarted or spoken harshly
to, they parted in mutual disgust. With his mother George was more
tender; and as Lady Margaret never thought the match such as the
descendant of two lines of dukes was entitled to form, she almost
pardoned the offence in the cause.

"What's this here?" cried Sir Peter Howell, as he ran over a morning
paper at the breakfast table: "Captain Denbigh, late of the guards, has
been promoted to the Lieutenant-Colonelcy of the ---- Foot, and sails
to-morrow to join that regiment, now on its way to America."

"It's a lie, Bell!--it's all a lie! not but what he ought to be there,
too, serving his king and country; but he never would serve you so."

"Me?" said Isabel, with a heart throbbing with the contending feelings
of admiration for George's generosity, and delight at her own
deliverance. "What have I to do with the movements of Mr. Denbigh?"

"What!" cried her father in astonishment; "a'n't you to be his wife,
a'n't it all agreed upon--that is, between Sir Frederick and me, which
is the same thing, you know--"

Here he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of the general himself,
who had just learnt the departure of his son and hastened, with the
double purpose of breaking the intelligence to his friend, and of making
his own peace.

"See here, Denbigh," exclaimed the admiral, pointing to the paragraph,
"what do you say to that?"

"Too true--too true, my dear friend," replied the general shaking his
head mournfully.

"Hark ye, Sir Frederick Denbigh," cried the admiral fiercely; "did you
not say that your son George was to marry my daughter?"

"I certainly did, Sir Peter, and am sorry to say that, in defiance of my
entreaties and commands, he has deserted his home, and, in consequence,
I have discarded him for ever."

"Now, Denbigh," said the admiral, a good deal mollified by this
declaration, "have I not always told you, that in the army you know
nothing of discipline? Why, sir, if he was a son of mine, he should
marry blindfolded, if I chose to order it. I wish, now, Bell had an
offer, and dared to refuse it."

"There is the barber's clerk, you know," said the general, a good deal
irritated by the contemptuous manner of his friend.

"And what of that, Sir Frederick?" said the sailor sternly; "if I choose
her to marry a quill-driver, she shall comply."

"Ah! my good friend," said the general, willing to drop the disagreeable
subject, "I am afraid we shall both find it more difficult to control
the affections of our children than we at first imagined."

"You do, General Denbigh?" said the admiral, with a curl of contempt on
his lip; and ringing the bell violently, he bid the servant send his
young lady to him.

On the appearance of Isabel, her father inquired with an air of settled
meaning where young Mr. Ives resided. It was only in the next street,
and a messenger was sent to him, with Sir Peter Howell's compliments,
and a request to see him without a moment's delay.

"We'll see, we'll see, my old friend, who keeps the best discipline,"
muttered the admiral, as he paced up and down the room, in eager
expectation of the return of his messenger.

The wondering general gazed on his friend, to ascertain if he was out of
his senses. He knew he was quick to decide, and excessively obstinate,
but he did not think him so crazy as to throw away his daughter in a fit
of spleen. It never occurred to Sir Frederick, however, that the
engagement with himself was an act of equal injustice and folly, because
it was done with more form and deliberation, which, to the eye of sober
reason, would rather make the matter worse. Isabel sat in trembling
suspense for the issue of the scene, and Ives in a few minutes made his
appearance in no little alarm.

On entering, the admiral addressed him abruptly, by inquiring if he
still wished to marry that girl, pointing to his daughter. The reply was
an eager affirmative. Sir Peter beckoned to Isabel, who approached,
covered with blushes; and her father having placed her hand in that of
her lover, with an air of great solemnity he gave them his blessing. The
young people withdrew to another room at Sir Peter's request, when he
turned to his friend, delighted with his own decision and authority, and
exclaimed,

"There, Fred. Denbigh, that is what I call being minded."

The general had penetration enough to see that the result was agreeable
to both the young people, a thing he had long apprehended; and being
glad to get rid of the affair in any way that did not involve him in a
quarrel with his old comrade, he gravely congratulated the admiral on
his good fortune and retired.

"Yes, yes," said Sir Peter to himself, as he paced up and down his room,
"Denbigh is mortified enough, with his joy, and felicity, and grand-
children. I never had any opinion of their manner of discipline at all;
too much bowing and scraping. I'm sorry, though, he is a priest; not but
what a priest may be as good a man as another, but let him behave ever
so well, he can only get to be a bishop at the most. Heaven forbid he
should ever get to be a Pope! After all, his boys may be admirals if
they behave themselves;" and he went to seek his daughter, having in
imagination manned her nursery with vice and rear admirals in embryo by
the half dozen.

Sir Peter Howell survived the marriage of his daughter but eighteen
months; yet that was sufficient time to become attached to his
invaluable son-in-law. Mr. Ives insensibly led the admiral, during his
long indisposition, to a more correct view of sacred things, than he had
been wont to entertain; and the old man breathed his last, blessing both
his children for their kindness, and with an humble hope of future
happiness. Some time before his death, Isabel, whose conscience had
always reproached her with the deception practised on her father, and
with the banishment of George from his country and home, threw herself
at the feet of Sir Peter and acknowledged her transgression.

The admiral heard her in astonishment, but not in anger. His opinions of
life had sensibly changed, and his great cause of satisfaction with his
new son removed all motives for regret for anything but for the fate of
poor George. With the noble forbearance and tenderness of the young man
to his daughter, the hardy veteran was sensibly touched; and his
entreaties with Sir Frederick made his peace with a father already
longing for the return of his only hope.

The admiral left Colonel Denbigh his blessing, and his favorite pistols,
as a remembrance of his esteem; but he did not live to see the reunion
with his family.

George had soon learnt, deprived of hope and in the midst of novelty, to
forget a passion which could no longer be prosperous; and two years from
his departure returned to England, glowing in health, and improved in
person and manners by a more extensive knowledge of the world and
mankind.



Chapter XLIV.

During the time occupied by the foregoing events, Francis continued a
gloomy inmate of his uncle's house. The duke and his brother George were
too indolent and inactive in their minds to pierce the cloud that
mortification and deadened affections had drawn around the real
character of their nephew; and although he was tolerated as the heir, he
was but little loved as a man.

In losing his brother, Francis lost the only human being with whom he
possessed any sympathies in common; and he daily drew more and more into
himself, in gloomy meditation on his forlorn situation, in the midst of
wealth and expected honors. The attentions he received were paid to his
rank, and Francis had penetration enough to perceive it. His visits to
his parents were visits of ceremony, and in time all parties came to
look to their termination with pleasure, as to the discontinuance of
heartless and forced civilities.

Affection, even in the young man, could not endure, repulsed as his
feelings were, for ever; and in the course of three years, if his
attachments were not alienated from his parents, his ardor had become
much abated.

It is a dreadful truth, that the bonds of natural affection can be
broken by injustice and contumely; and it is yet more to be deplored,
that when from such causes we loosen the ties habit and education have
drawn around us, a reaction in our feelings commences; we seldom cease
to love, but we begin to hate. Against such awful consequences it is one
of the most solemn duties of the parent to provide in season; and what
surer safeguard is there, than to inculcate those feelings which teach
the mind to love God, and in so doing induce love to the whole human
family?

Sir Frederick and Lady Margaret attended the church regularly, repeated
the responses with much decency, toasted the church next to the king,
even appeared at the altars of their God, and continued sinners. From
such sowings, no good fruit could be expected to flourish: yet Francis
was not without his hours of devotion; but his religion was, like
himself, reserved, superstitious, ascetic, and gloomy. He never entered
into social worship: if he prayed it was with an ill-concealed wish to
end this life of care. If he returned thanks, it was with a bitterness
that mocked the throne before which he was prostrate. Such pictures are
revolting; but their originals have and do exist; for what enormity is
there of which human frailty, unchecked by divine assistance, may not be
guilty?

Francis received an invitation to visit a brother of his mother's at his
seat in the country, about the time of the expected return of George
from America; and in compliance with the wishes of his uncles he
accepted it. The house was thronged with visitors, and many of them were
ladies. To these, the arrival of the unmarried heir of the house of
Derwent was a subject of no little interest. His character had, however,
preceded him, and a few days of his awkward and, as they conceived,
sullen deportment, drove them back to their former beaux, with the
exception of one; and she was not only amongst the fairest of the
throng, but decidedly of the highest pretensions on the score of birth
and fortune.

Marian Lumley was the only surviving child of the last Duke of
Annerdale, with whom had expired the higher honors of his house. But the
Earldom of Pendennyss, with numerous ancient baronies, were titles in
fee; and together with his princely estates had descended to his
daughter as heir-general of the family. A peeress in her own right, with
an income far exceeding her utmost means of expenditure, the lovely
Countess of Pendennyss was a prize aimed at by all the young nobles of
the empire.

Educated in the midst of flatterers and dependants she had become
haughty, vain, and supercilious; still she was lovely, and no one knew
better how to practise the most winning arts of her sex, when whim or
interest prompted her to the trial.

Her host was her guardian and relative; and through his agency she had
rejected, at the age of twenty, numerous suitors for her hand. Her eyes
were fixed on the ducal coronet; and unfortunately for Francis Denbigh,
he was, at the time, the only man of the proper age who could elevate
her to that enviable distinction in the kingdom; and an indirect measure
of her own had been the means of his invitation to the country.

Like the rest of her young companions, Marian was greatly disappointed
on the view of her intended captive, and for a day or two she abandoned
him to his melancholy and himself. But ambition was her idol; and to its
powerful rival, love, she was yet a stranger. After a few struggles with
her inclinations the consideration that their united fortunes and family
alliances would make one of the wealthiest and most powerful houses in
the kingdom, prevailed. Such early sacrifices of the inclinations in a
woman of her beauty, youth and accomplishments, may excite surprise; but
where the mind is left uncultivated by the hand of care, the soul
untouched by the love of goodness, the human heart seldom fails to set
up an idol of its own to worship. In the Countess of Pendennyss this
idol was pride.

The remainder of the ladies, from ceasing to wonder at the manners of
Francis, had made them the subject of their mirth; and nettled at his
apparent indifference to their society, which they erroneously
attributed to his sense of his importance, they overstepped the bounds
of good-breeding in manifesting their displeasure.

"Mr. Denbigh," cried one of the most thoughtless and pretty of the gay
tribe to him one day, as Francis sat in a corner abstracted from the
scene around him, "when do you mean to favor the world with your
brilliant ideas in the shape of a book?"

"Oh! no doubt soon," said a second; "and I expect they will be homilies,
or another volume to the Whole Duty of Man."

"Rather," cried a third, with bitter irony, "another canto to the Rape
of the Lock, his ideas are so vivid and full of imagery."

"Or, what do you think," said a fourth, speaking in a voice of harmony,
and tones of the most soothing tenderness, "of pity and compassion, for
the follies of those inferior minds, who cannot enjoy the reflections of
a good sense and modesty peculiarly his own?"

This might also be irony; and Francis thought it so; but the tones were
so soft and conciliating, that with a face pale with his emotions, he
ventured to look up and met the eye of Marian, fixed on him in an
expression that changed his death-like hue into the color of vermillion.

He thought of this speech; he reasoned on it; he dreamt on it. But for
the looks which accompanied it, like the rest of the party, he would
have thought it the cruellest cut of them all. But that look, those
eyes, that voice, what a commentary on her language did they not afford!

Francis was not long in suspense; the next morning an excursion was
proposed, which included all but himself in its arrangements. He was
either too reserved or too proud to offer services which were not
required.

Several gentlemen had contended for the honor of driving the countess in
a beautiful phaeton of her own. They grew earnest in their claims: one
had been promised by its mistress with an opportunity of trying the ease
of the carriage; another was delighted with the excellent training of
her horses; in short, all had some particular claim to the distinction,
which was urged with a warmth and pertinacity proportionate to the value
of the prize to be obtained. Marian heard the several claimants with an
ease and indifference natural to her situation, and ended the dispute by
saying--

"Gentlemen, as I have made so many promises from the dread of giving
offence, I must throw myself on the mercy of Mr. Denbigh, who alone,
with the best claims, does not urge them; to you then," continued she,
approaching him with the whip which was to be given the victor, "I
adjudge the prize, if you will condescend to accept it."

This was uttered with one of her most attractive smiles, and Francis
received the whip with an emotion that he with difficulty could control.

The gentlemen were glad to have the contest decided by adjudging the
prize to one so little dangerous, and the ladies sneered at her choice
as they left the house.

There was something so soothing in the manners of Lady Pendennyss, she
listened to the little he said with such a respectful attention, was so
anxious to have him give his opinions, that the unction of flattery,
thus sweetly applied, and for the first time, could not fail of its
wonted effects.

The communications thus commenced were continued. It was so easy to be
attentive, by being simply polite to one unused to notice of any kind,
that Marian found the fate of the young man in her hands almost as soon
as she attempted to control it.

A new existence opened upon Francis, as day after day she insensibly led
him to a display of powers he was unconscious until now of possessing
himself. His self-respect began to increase, his limited pleasures to
multiply, and he could now look around him with a sense of participation
in the delights of life, as he perceived himself of consequence to this
much admired woman.

Trifling incidents, managed on her part with consummate art, had led him
to the daring inference that he was not entirely indifferent to her; and
Francis returned the incipient affection of his mistress with a feeling
but little removed from adoration. Week flew by after week, and still he
lingered at the residence of his kinsman, unable to tear himself from
the society of one so worshipped, and yet afraid to take a step by
making a distinct declaration which might involve him in disgrace or
ridicule.

The condescension of the countess increased, and she had indirectly
given him the most flattering assurances of his success, when George,
just arrived from America, having first paid his greetings to his
reconciled parents, and the happy couple of his generosity, flew to the
arms of his brother in Suffolk.

Francis was overjoyed to see George, and George delighted in the visible
improvement of his brother. Still Francis was far, very far behind his
junior in graces of mind and body; indeed, few men in England were more
adapted by nature and education for female society than was Colonel
Denbigh at the period of which we write.

Marian witnessed all his attractions, and deeply felt their influence;
for the first time she felt the emotions of the gentle passion; and
after having sported in the gay world, and trifled with the feelings of
others for years, the countess in her turn became an unwilling victim to
its power. George met her flame with a corresponding ardor, and the
struggle between ambition and love became severe; the brothers
unconsciously were rivals.

Had George for a moment suspected the situation of the feelings of
Francis, his very superiority in the contest would have induced him to
retreat from the unnatural rivalry. Had the elder dreamt of the views of
his junior, he would have abandoned his dearest hopes in utter despair.
Francis had so long been accustomed to consider George as his superior
in everything, that a competition with him would have appeared
desperate. Marian contrived to keep both in hopes, undecided herself
which to choose, and perhaps ready to yield to the first applicant. A
sudden event, however, removed all doubts, and decided the fate of the
three.

The Duke of Derwent and his bachelor brother became so dissatisfied with
the character of their future heir, that they as coolly set about
providing themselves with wives as they had performed any other ordinary
transaction of life, They married cousins, and on the same day the
choice of the ladies was assigned between them by lots; and if his grace
got the prettier, his brother certainly got the richest; under the
circumstances a very tolerable distribution of fortune's favors.

These double marriages dissolved the charm of Francis, and Lady
Pendennyss determined to consult her wishes; a little pointed
encouragement brought out the declaration of George, and he was
accepted.

Francis, who had never communicated his feelings to any one but the
lady, and that only indirectly, was crushed by the blow. He continued in
public until the day of their union; was present, composed and silent;
but it was the silence of a mountain whose volcanic contents had not
reached the surface. The same day he disappeared, and every inquiry
after him proved fruitless; search was baffled, and for seven years it
was not known what had become of the general's eldest son.

George on marrying resigned his commission, at the earnest entreaties of
his wife, and retired to one of her seats, to the enjoyment of ease and
domestic love. The countess was enthusiastically attached to him; and as
motives for the indulgence of coquetry were wanting, her character
became gradually improved by the contemplation of the excellent
qualities of her generous husband.

A lurking suspicion of the cause of Francis's sudden disappearance
rendered her uneasy at times; but Marian was too much beloved, too
happy, in the enjoyment of too many honors, and of too great wealth, to
be open to the convictions of conscience. It is in our hours of pain and
privation that we begin to feel its sting: if we are prosperous, we
fancy we reap the fruits of our own merit; but if we are unfortunate,
the voice of truth seldom fails to remind us that we are deserving of
our fate:--a blessed provision of Providence that often makes the
saddest hours of our earthly career the morn of a day that is to endure
for ever.

General Denbigh and Lady Margaret both died within five years of the
marriage of their favorite child, although both lived to see their
descendant, in the person of the infant Lord Lumley.

The duke and his brother George were each blessed with offspring, and in
these several descendants of the different branches of the family of
Denbigh may be seen the different personages of our history. On the
birth of her youngest child, the Lady Marian, the Countess of Pendennyss
sustained a shock in her health from which she never wholly recovered:
she became nervous, and lost most of her energy both of mind and body.
Her husband was her solace; his tenderness remaining unextinguished,
while his attentions increased.

As the fortune of Ives and Isabel put the necessity of a living out of
the question, and no cure offering for the acceptance of the first, he
was happy to avail himself of an offer to become domestic chaplain to
his now intimate friend, Mr. Denbigh. For the first six years they were
inmates of Pendennyss Castle. The rector of the parish was infirm, and
averse to a regular assistant; but the unobtrusive services of Mr. Ives
were not less welcome to the pastor than to his parishioners.

Employed in the duties which of right fell to the incumbent, and
intrusted with the spiritual guardianship of the dependants of the
castle, our young clergyman had ample occupation for all his time, if
not a sufficient theatre for his usefulness. Isabel and himself remained
the year round in Wales, and the first dawnings of education received by
Lord Lumley were those he acquired conjointly with Francis from the care
of the latter's father. They formed, with the interval of the time spent
by Mr. Denbigh and Lady Pendennyss in town in winter, but one family. To
the gentleman, the attachment of the grateful Ives was as strong as it
was lasting. Mrs. Ives never ceased to consider him as a self-devoted
victim to her happiness; and although a far more brilliant lot had
awaited him by the change, yet her own husband could not think it a more
happy one.

The birth of Lady Marian had already, in its consequences, begun, to
throw a gloom round the domestic comforts of Denbigh, when he was to
sustain another misfortune in a separation from his friends.

Mr., now Dr. Ives, had early announced his firm intention, whenever an
opportunity was afforded him, to enter into the fullest functions of his
ministry, as a matter of duty. Such an opportunity now offered at B----,
and the doctor became its rector about the period Sir Edward became
possessor of his paternal estate.

Denbigh tried every inducement within his power to keep the doctor in
his own society. If as many thousands as his living would give him
hundreds could effect it, they would have been at his service; but
Denbigh understood the character of the divine too well to offer such an
inducement: he however urged the claims of friendship to the utmost, but
without success. The doctor acknowledged the hold both himself and
family had gained upon his affections, but he added--

"Consider, my dear Mr. Denbigh, what we would have thought of one of the
earlier followers of our Saviour, who from motives of convenience or
worldly-mindedness could have deserted his sacred calling. Although the
changes in the times may have rendered the modes of conducting them
different, necessarily the duties remain the same. The minister of our
holy religion who has once submitted to the call of his divine Master,
must allow nothing but ungovernable necessity to turn him from the path
he has entered on; and should he so far forget himself, I greatly fear
he would plead, when too late to remedy the evil, his worldly duties,
his cares, or even his misfortunes, in vain. Solemn and arduous are his
obligations to labor, but when faithfully he has discharged these
duties, oh! how glorious must be his reward."

Before such opinions every barrier must fall, and the doctor entered
into the cure of his parish without further opposition, though not
without unceasing regret on the part of his friend. Their intercourse
was, however, maintained by letter, and they also frequently met at
Lumley Castle, a seat of the countess's, within two days' ride of the
doctor's parish, until her increasing indisposition rendered journeying
impossible; then, indeed, the doctor extended his rides into Wales, but
with longer intervals between his visits, though with the happiest
effects to the objects of his journey.

Mr. Denbigh, worn down with watching and blasted hopes, under the
direction of the spiritual watchfulness of the rector of B----, became
an humble, sincere, and pious Christian.



Chapter XLV.

It has been already mentioned, that the health of Lady Pendennyss
suffered a severe shock, in giving birth to a daughter. Change of scene
was prescribed as a remedy for her disorder, and Denbigh and his wife
were on their return from a fruitless excursion amongst the northern
lakes, in pursuit of amusement and relief for the latter when they were
compelled to seek shelter from the fury of a sudden gust in the first
building that offered. It was a farm-house of the better sort; and the
attendants, carriages, and appearance of their guests, caused no little
confusion to its simple inmates. A fire was lighted in the best parlor,
and every effort was made by the inhabitants to contribute to the
comforts of the travellers.

The countess and her husband were sitting in that kind of listless
melancholy which had been too much the companion of their later hours,
when in the interval of the storm, a male voice in an adjoining room
commenced singing the following ballad, the notes being low, monotonous,
but unusually sweet, and the enunciation so distinct, as to rende every
syllable intelligible:

Oh! I have lived in endless pain, And I have lived, alas! in vain, For
none regard my woe--No father's care conveyed the truth, No mother's
fondness blessed my youth, Ah! joys too great to know--

And Marian's love, and Marian's pride, Have crushed the heart that would
have died. To save my Marian's tears--A brother's hand has struck the
blow Oh! may that brother never know Such madly sorrowing years!

But hush my griefs--and hush my song, I've mourned in vain--I've mourned
too long; When none have come to soothe--And dark's the path, that lies
before, And dark have been the days of yore, And all was dark in youth.

The maids employed around the person of their comfortless mistress, the
valet of Denbigh engaged in arranging a dry coat for his master--all
suspended their employments to listen in breathless silence to the
mournful melody of the song.

But Denbigh himself had started from his seat at the first notes, and he
continued until the voice ceased, gazing in vacant horror in the
direction of the sounds. A door opened from the parlor to the room of
the musician; he rushed through it, and there, in a kind of shed to the
building, which hardly sheltered him from the fury of the tempest, clad
in the garments of the extremest poverty, with an eye roving in madness,
and a body rocking to and fro from mental inquietude, he beheld seated
on a stone the remains of his long lost brother, Francis.

The language of the song was too plain to be misunderstood. The truth
glared around George with a violence that dazzled his brain; but he saw
it all, he felt it all, and rushing to the feet of his brother, he
exclaimed in horror, pressing his hands between his own,--

"Francis--my own brother--do you not know me?"

The maniac regarded him with a vacant gaze, but the voice and the person
recalled the compositions of his more reasonable moments to his
recollection; pushing back the hair of George, so as to expose his fine
forehead to view, he contemplated him for a few moments, and then
continued to sing, in a voice still rendered sweeter than before by his
faint impressions:

His raven locks, that richly curled, His eye, that proud defiance
hurled. Have stol'n my Marian's love! Had I been blest by nature's
grace, With such a form, with such a face, Could I so treacherous prove?

And what is man--and what is care--That he should let such passions tear
The bases of the soul! Oh! you should do, as I have done--And having
pleasure's summit won, Each bursting sob control!

On ending the last stanza, the maniac released his brother, and broke
into the wildest laugh of madness.

"Francis!--Oh! Francis, my brother," cried George, in bitterness. A
piercing shriek drew his eye to the door he had passed through--on its
threshold lay the senseless body of his wife. The distracted husband
forgot everything in the situation of his Marian, and raising her in his
arms, he exclaimed,--

"Marian--my Marian, revive--look up--know me."

Francis had followed him, and now stood by his side, gazing intently on
the lifeless body; his looks became more soft--his eye glanced less
wildly--he too cried,--

"Marian--My Marian."

There was a mighty effort; nature could endure no more, he broke a
blood-vessel and fell at the feet of George. They flew to his
assistance, giving the countess to her women; but he was dead.

For seventeen years Lady Pendennyss survived this shock: but having
reached her own abode, during that long period she never left her room.

In the confidence of his surviving hopes, Doctor Ives and his wife were
made acquainted with the real cause of the grief of their friend, but
the truth went no further. Denbigh was the guardian of his three young
cousins, the duke, his sister, and young George Denbigh; these, with his
son, Lord Lumley, and daughter, Lady Marian, were removed from the
melancholy of the Castle to scenes better adapted to their opening
prospects in life. Yet Lumley was fond of the society of his father, and
finding him a youth endowed beyond his years, the care of his parent was
early turned to the most important of his duties in that sacred office;
and when he yielded to his wishes to go into the army, he knew he went a
youth of sixteen, possessed of principles and self-denial that would
become a man of five-and-twenty.

General Wilson completed the work which the father had begun; and Lord
Lumley formed a singular exception to the character of most of his
companions.

At the close of the Spanish war, he returned home, and was just in time
to receive the parting breath of his mother.

A few days before her death, the countess requested that her children
might be made acquainted with her history and misconduct; and she placed
in the hands of her son a letter; with directions for him to open it
after her decease. It was addressed to both children, and after
recapitulating generally the principal events of her life, continued:

"Thus, my children, you perceive the consequences of indulgence and
hardness of heart, which made me insensible to the sufferings of others,
and regardless of the plainest dictates of justice. Self was my idol.
The love of admiration, which was natural to me, was increased by the
flatterers who surrounded me; and had the customs of our country
suffered royalty to descend in their unions to a grade in life below
their own, your uncle would have escaped the fangs of my baneful
coquetry.

"Oh! Marian, my child, never descend so low as to practise those arts
which have degraded your unhappy mother. I would impress on you, as a
memorial of my parting affection, these simple truths--that coquetry
stands next to the want of chastity in the scale of female vices; it is
in fact a kind of mental prostitution; it is ruinous to all that
delicacy of feeling which gives added lustre to female charms; it is
almost destructive to modesty itself. A woman who has been addicted to
its practice, may strive long and in vain to regain that singleness of
heart, which can bind her up so closely in her husband and children as
to make her a good wife or a mother; and if it should have degenerated
into habit, it may lead to the awful result of infidelity to her
marriage vows.

"It is vain for a coquette to pretend to religion; its practice involves
hypocrisy, falsehood, and deception--everything that is mean--everything
that is debasing. In short, as it is bottomed on selfishness and pride,
where it has once possessed the mind, it will only yield to the truth-
displaying banners of the cross. This, and this only, can remove the
evil; for without it she, whom the charms of youth and beauty have
enabled to act the coquette, will descend into the vale of life,
altered, it is true, but not amended. She will find the world, with its
allurements, clinging around her parting years, in vain regrets for days
that are flown, and in mercenary views for her descendants. Heaven bless
you, my children, console and esteem your inestimable father while he
yet remains with you; and place your reliance on that Heavenly Parent
who will never desert those who seek him in sincerity and love. Your
dying mother,

"M. PENDENNYSS."

This letter, evidently written under the excitement of deep remorse,
made a great impression on both her children. In Lady Marian it was
pity, regret, and abhorrence of the fault which had been the principal
cause of the wreck of her mother's peace of mind; but in her brother,
now Earl of Pendennyss, these feelings were united with a jealous dread
of his own probable lot in the chances of matrimony.

His uncle had been the supposed heir to a more elevated title than his
own, but he was now the actual possessor of as honorable a name, and of
much larger revenues. The great wealth of his maternal grandfather, and
the considerable estate of his own father, were, or would soon be,
centred in himself; and if a woman as amiable, as faultless, as
affection had taught him to believe his mother to be, could yield in her
situation to the lure of worldly honors, had he not great reason to
dread, that a hand might be bestowed at some day upon himself, when the
heart would point out some other destination, if the real wishes of its
owner were consulted?

Pendennyss was modest by nature, and humble from principle, though by no
means distrustful; yet the shock of discovering his mother's fault, the
gloom occasioned by her death and his father's declining health,
sometimes led him into a train of reflections which, at others, he would
have fervently deprecated.

A short time after the decease of the countess, Mr. Denbigh, finding his
constitution fast giving way, under the wasting of a decline he had been
in for a year, resolved to finish his days in the abode of his Christian
friend, Doctor Ives. For several years they had not met; increasing
duties and infirmities on both sides having interrupted their visits.

By easy stages he left the residence of his son in Wales, and
accompanied by both his children he reached Lumley Castle much
exhausted; here he took a solemn and final leave of Marian, unwilling
that she should so soon witness again the death of another parent, and
dismissing the earl's equipage and attendants a short day's ride from B-
---, they proceeded alone to the rectory.

A letter had been forwarded acquainting the doctor of his approaching
visit, wishing it to be perfectly private, but not alluding to its
object, and naming a day, a week later than the one on which he arrived.
This plan was altered on perceiving the torch of life more rapidly
approaching the socket than he had at first supposed. His unexpected
appearance and reception are known. Denbigh's death and the departure of
his son followed; Francis having been Pendennyss's companion to the tomb
of his ancestors in Westmoreland.

The earl had a shrinking delicacy, under the knowledge of his family
history, that made him anxious to draw all eyes from the contemplation
of his mother's conduct; how far the knowledge of it had extended in
society he could not know, but he wished it buried with her in the tomb.
The peculiar manner of his father's death would attract notice, and
might recall attention to the prime cause of his disorder; as yet all
was veiled, and he wished the doctor's family to let it remain so. It
was, however, impossible that the death of a man of Mr. Denbigh's rank
should be unnoticed in the prints, and the care of Francis dictated the
simple truth without comments, as it appeared. As regarded the Moseleys,
what was more natural than that the son of Mr. Denbigh should also be
Mr. Denbigh?

In the presence of the rector's family no allusions were made to their
friends, and the villagers and the neighborhood spoke of them as old and
young Mr. Denbigh.

The name of Lord Lumley, now Earl of Pendennyss, was known to the whole
British nation; but the long retirement of his father and mother had
driven them almost from the recollection of their friends. Even Mrs.
Wilson supposed her favorite hero a Lumley. Pendennyss Castle had been
for centuries the proud residence of that family; and the change of name
in its possessor was forgotten with the circumstances that had led to
it.

When, therefore, Emily met the earl so unexpectedly the second time at
the rectory, she, of course, with all her companions, spoke of him as
Mr. Denbigh. On that occasion, Pendennyss had called in person, in
expectation of meeting his kinsman, Lord Bolton; but, finding him
absent, he could not resist his desire to visit the rectory.
Accordingly, he sent his carriage and servants on to London, leaving
them at a convenient spot, and arrived on foot at the house of Dr. Ives.
From the same motives which had influenced him before--a wish to
indulge, undisturbed by useless ceremony, his melancholy reflections--he
desired that his name might not be mentioned.

This was an easy task. Both Doctor and Mrs. Ives had called him, when a
child, George or Lumley, and were unused to his new appellation of
Pendennyss; indeed, it rather recalled painful recollections to them
all.

It may be remembered that circumstances removed the necessity of any
introduction to Mrs. Wilson and her party; and the difficulty in that
instance was happily got rid of.

The earl had often heard Emily Moseley spoken of by his friends, and in
their letters they frequently mentioned her name as connected with their
pleasures and employments, and always with an affection Pendennyss
thought exceeding that which they manifested for their son's wife; and
Mrs Ives, the evening before, to remove unpleasant thoughts, had given
him a lively description of her person and character. The earl's
curiosity had been a little excited to see this paragon of female beauty
and virtue; and, unlike most curiosity on such subjects, he was
agreeably disappointed by the examination. He wished to know more, and
made interest with the doctor to assist him to continue the incognito
with which accident had favored him.

The doctor objected on the ground of principle, and the earl desisted;
but the beauty of Emily, aided by her character, had made an impression
not to be easily shaken off, and Pendennyss returned to the charge.

His former jealousies were awakened in proportion to his admiration;
and, after some time, he threw himself on the mercy of the divine, by
declaring his new motive, but without mentioning his parents. The doctor
pitied him, for he scanned his feelings thoroughly, and consented to
keep silent, but laughingly declared it was bad enough for a divine to
be accessory to, much less aiding in a deception; and that he knew if
Emily and Mrs. Wilson learnt his imposition, he would lose ground in
their favor by the discovery.

"Surely, George," said the doctor with a laugh, "you don't mean to marry
the young lady as Mr. Denbigh?"

"Oh, no! it is too soon to think of marrying her at all," replied the
earl with a smile; "but, somehow, I should like to see what my reception
in the world will be as plain Mr. Denbigh, unprovided for and unknown."

"No doubt, my lord," said the rector archly, "in proportion to your
merits, very unfavorably indeed; but then your humility will be finally
elevated by the occasional praises I have heard Mrs. Wilson lavish on
your proper character of late."

"I am much indebted to her partiality," continued the earl mournfully;
then throwing off his gloomy thoughts he added, "I wonder, my dear
doctor, your goodness did not set her right in the latter particular."

"Why, she has hardly given me an opportunity; delicacy and my own
feelings have kept me very silent on the subject of your family to any
of that connexion. They think, I believe, I was a rector in Wales,
instead of your father's chaplain; and somehow," continued the doctor,
smiling on his wife, "the association with your late parents was so
connected in my mind with my most romantic feelings, that although I
have delighted in it, I have seldom alluded to it in conversation at
all. Mrs. Wilson has spoken of you but twice in my hearing, and that
since she has expected to meet you; your name has doubtless recalled the
remembrance of her husband."

"I have many, many reasons to remember the general with gratitude,"
cried the earl with fervor; "but doctor, do not forget my incognito:
only call me George; I ask no more."

The plan of Pendennyss was put in execution. Day after day he lingered
in Northamptonshire, until his principles and character had grown upon
the esteem of the Moseleys in the manner we have mentioned.

His frequent embarrassments were from the dread and shame of a
detection. With Sir Herbert Nicholson he had a narrow escape, and Mrs.
Fitzgerald and Lord Henry Stapleton he of course avoided; for having
gone so far, he was determined to persevere to the end. Egerton he
thought knew him, and he disliked his character and manners.

When Chatterton appeared most attentive to Emily, the candor and good
opinion of that young nobleman made the earl acquainted with his wishes
and his situation. Pendennyss was too generous not to meet his rival on
fair grounds. His cousin and the duke were requested to use their united
influence secretly to obtain the desired station for the baron. The
result is known, and Pendennyss trusted his secret to Chatterton; he
took him to London, gave him in charge to Derwent, and returned to
prosecute his own suit. His note from Bolton Castle was a ruse to
conceal his character, as he knew the departure of the baronet's family
to an hour, and had so timed his visit to the earl as not to come in
collision with the Moseleys.

"Indeed, my lord," cried the doctor to him one day, "your scheme goes on
swimmingly, and I am only afraid when your mistress discovers the
imposition, you will find your rank producing a different effect from
what you have apprehended."



Chapter XLVI.

But Dr. Ives was mistaken. Had he seen the sparkling eyes and glowing
cheeks of Miss Moseley, the smile of satisfaction and happiness which
played on the usually thoughtful face of Mrs. Wilson, when the earl
handed them into his own carriage, as they left his house on the evening
of the discovery, the doctor would have gladly acknowledged the failure
of his prognostics. In truth, there was no possible event that, under
the circumstances, could have given both aunt and niece such heartfelt
pleasure, as the knowledge that Denbigh and the earl were the same
person.

Pendennyss stood holding the door of the carriage in his hand,
irresolute how to act, when Mrs. Wilson said--

"Surely, my lord, you sup with us."

"A thousand thanks, my dear madam, for the privilege," cried the earl,
as he sprang into the coach; the door was closed, and they drove off.

"After the explanations of this morning, my lord," said Mrs. Wilson,
willing to remove all doubts between him and Emily, and perhaps anxious
to satisfy her own curiosity, "it will be fastidious to conceal our
desire to know more of your movements. How came your pocket-book in the
possession of Mrs. Fitzgerald?"

"Mrs. Fitzgerald!" cried Pendennyss, in astonishment "I lost the book in
one of the rooms of the Lodge, and supposed it had fallen into your
hands, and betrayed my disguise by Emily's rejection of me, and your own
altered eye. Was I mistaken then in both?"

Mrs. Wilson now, for the first time, explained their real grounds for
refusing his offers, which, in the morning, she had loosely mentioned as
owing to a misapprehension of his just character, and recounted the
manner of the book falling into the hands of Mrs. Fitzgerald.

The earl listened in amazement, and after musing with himself,
exclaimed--

"I remember taking it from my pocket, to show Colonel Egerton some
singular plants I had gathered, and think I first missed it when
returning to the place where I had then laid it; in some of the side-
pockets were letters from Marian, addressed to me, properly; and I
naturally thought they had met your eye."

Mrs. Wilson and Emily immediately thought Egerton the real villain, who
had caused both themselves and Mrs. Fitzgerald so much uneasiness, and
the former mentioned her suspicions to the earl.

"Nothing more probable, dear madam," cried he, "and this explains to me
his startled looks when we first met, and his evident dislike to my
society, for he must have seen my person, though the carriage hid him
from my sight."

That Egerton was the wretch, and that through his agency the pocket-book
had been carried to the cottage, they all now agreed, and turned to more
pleasant subjects.

"Master!--here--master," said Peter Johnson, as he stood at a window of
Mr. Benfield's room, stirring a gruel for the old gentleman's supper,
and stretching his neck and straining his eyes to distinguish objects by
the light of the lamps--"I do think there is Mr. Denbigh, handing Miss
Emmy from a coach, covered with gold, and two footmen, all dizened with
pride like."

The spoon fell from the hands of Mr. Benfield. He rose briskly from his
seat, and adjusting his dress, took the arm of the steward, and
proceeded to the drawing-room. While these several movements were in
operation, which consumed some time, the old bachelor relieved the
tedium of Peter's impatience by the following speech:--

"Mr. Denbigh!--what, back?--I thought he never could let that rascal
John shoot him and forsake Emmy after all; (here the old gentleman
suddenly recollected Denbigh's marriage) but now, Peter, it can do no
good either.--I remember, that when my friend the Earl of Gosford "--
(and again he was checked by the image of the card-table and the
viscountess) "but, Peter," he said with great warmth, "we can go down
and see him, notwithstanding."

"Mr. Denbigh!" exclaimed Sir Edward, in astonishment, when he saw the
companion of his sister and child enter the drawing-room, "you are
welcome once more to your old friends: your sudden retreat from us gave
us much pain; but we suppose Lady Laura had too many attractions to
allow us to keep you any longer in Norfolk."

The good Baronet sighed, as he held out his hand to the man whom he had
once hoped to receive as a son.

"Neither Lady Laura nor any other lady, my dear Sir Edward," cried the
earl, as he took the baronet's hand, "drove me from you, but the frowns
of your own fair daughter; and here she is, ready to acknowledge her
offence, and, I hope, to atone for it."

John, who knew of the refusal of his sister, and was not a little
displeased with the cavalier treatment he had received at Denbigh's
hands, felt indignant at such improper levity in a married man, and
approached with--

"Your servant, Mr. Denbigh--I hope my Lady Laura is well."

Pendennyss understood his look, and replied very gravely--

"Your servant, Mr. John Moseley--my Lady Laura is, or certainly ought to
be, very well, as she has this moment gone to a rout, accompanied by her
husband."

The quick eye of John glanced from the earl to his aunt, to Emily; a
lurking smile was on all their features. The heightened color of his
sister, the flashing eyes of the young nobleman, the face of his aunt,
all told him that something uncommon was about to be explained; and,
yielding to his feelings, he caught the hand which Pendennyss extended
to him, and cried,

"Denbigh, I see--I feel--there is some unaccountable mistake--we are--"

"Brothers!" said the earl, emphatically. "Sir Edward--dear Lady Moseley,
I throw myself on your mercy. I am an impostor: when your hospitality
received me into your house, it is true you admitted George Denbigh, but
he is better known as the Earl of Pendennyss."

"The Earl of Pendennyss!" exclaimed Lady Moseley, in a glow of delight,
as she saw at once through some juvenile folly a deception which
promised both happiness and rank to one of her children. "Is it
possible, my dear Charlotte, that this is your unknown friend?"

"The very same, Anne," replied the smiling widow, "and guilty of a folly
that, at all events, removes the distance between us a little, by
showing that he is subject to the failings of mortality. But the
masquerade is ended, and I hope you and Edward will not only treat him
as an earl, but receive him as a son."

"Most willingly--most willingly," cried the baronet, with great energy;
"be he prince, peer, or beggar, he is the preserver of my child, and as
such he is always welcome."

The door now slowly opened, and the venerable bachelor appeared on its
threshold.

Pendennyss, who had never forgotten the good will manifested to him by
Mr. Benfield, met him with a look of pleasure, as he expressed his
happiness at seeing him again in London.

"I never have forgotten your goodness in sending honest Peter such a
distance from home, on the object of his visit. I now regret that a
feeling of shame occasioned my answering your kindness so laconically:"
turning to Mrs. Wilson, he added, "for a time I knew not how to write a
letter even, being afraid to sign my proper appellation, and ashamed to
use my adopted."

"Mr. Denbigh, I am happy to see you. I did send Peter, it is true, to
London, on a message to you--but it is all over now," the old man
sighed--"Peter, however, escaped the snares of this wicked place; and if
you are happy, I am content. I remember when the Earl of--"

"Pendennyss!" exclaimed the other, "imposed on the hospitality of a
worthy man, under an assumed appellation, in order to pry into the
character of a lovely female, who was only too good for him, and who now
is willing to forget his follies, and make him not only the happiest of
men, but the nephew of Mr. Benfield."

During this speech, the countenance of Mr. Benfield had manifested
evident emotion: he looked from one to another, until he saw Mrs. Wilson
smiling near him. Pointing to the earl with his finger, he stood unable
to speak, as she answered simply,--

"Lord Pendennyss."

"And Emmy dear--will you--will you marry him?" cried Mr. Benfield,
suppressing his feelings, to give utterance to his question.

Emily felt for her uncle, and blushing deeply, with great frankness she
put her hand in that of the earl, who pressed it with rapture again and
again to his lips.

Mr. Benfield sank into a chair, and with a heart softened by emotion,
burst into tears.

"Peter," he cried, struggling with his feelings, "I am now ready to
depart in peace--I shall see my darling Emmy happy, and to her care I
shall commit you."

Emily, deeply affected with his love, threw herself into his arms, in a
torrent of tears, and was removed from them by Pendennyss, in
consideration for the feelings of both.

Jane felt no emotions of envy for her sister's happiness; on the
contrary, she rejoiced in common with the rest of their friends in her
brightening prospects, and they all took their seats at the supper
table, as happy a group as was contained in the wide circle of the
metropolis. A few more particulars served to explain the mystery
sufficiently, until a more fitting opportunity made them acquainted with
the whole of the earl's proceedings.

"My Lord Pendennyss," said Sir Edward, pouring out a glass of wine, and
passing the bottle to his neighbor: "I drink your health--and happiness
to yourself and my darling child."

The toast was drunk by all the family, and the earl replied to the
compliments with his thanks and smiles, while Emily could only notice
them with her blushes and tears.

But this was an opportunity not to be lost by the honest steward, who,
from affection and long services, had been indulged in familiarities
exceeding any other of his master's establishment. He very deliberately
helped himself to a glass of wine, and drawing near the seat of the
bride-elect, with an humble reverence, commenced his speech as follows:

"My dear Miss Emmy:--Here's hoping you'll live to be a comfort to your
honored father, and your honored mother, and my dear honored master, and
yourself, and Madam Wilson." The steward paused to clear his voice, and
profited by the delay to cast his eye round the table to collect the
names; "and Mr. John Moseley, and sweet Mrs. Moseley, and pretty Miss
Jane" (Peter had lived too long in the world to compliment one handsome
woman in the presence of another, without the qualifying his speech a
little); "and Mr. Lord Denbigh--earl like, as they say he now is, and"--
Peter stopped a moment to deliberate, and then making another reference,
he put the glass to his lips; but before he had got half through its
contents, recollected himself, and replenishing it to the brim, with a
smile acknowledging his forgetfulness, continued, "and the Rev. Mr.
Francis Ives, and the Rev. Mrs. Francis Ives."

Here the unrestrained laugh of John interrupted him; and considering
with himself that he had included the whole family, he finished his
bumper. Whether it was pleasure at his own eloquence in venturing on so
long a speech, or the unusual allowance, that affected the steward, he
was evidently much satisfied with himself, and stepped back behind his
master's chair, in great good humor.

Emily, as she thanked him, noticed a tear in the eye of the old man, as
he concluded his oration, that would have excused a thousand breaches of
fastidious ceremony. But Pendennyss rose from his seat, and took him
kindly by the hand, and returned his own thanks for his good wishes.

"I owe you much good will, Mr. Johnson, for, your two journeys in my
behalf, and trust I never shall forget the manner in which you executed
your last mission in particular. We are friends, I trust, for life."

"Thank you--thank your honor's lordship," said the steward, almost
unable to utter; "I hope you may live long, to make dear little Miss
Emmy as happy--as I know she ought to be."

"But really, my lord," cried John, observing that the steward's
affection for his sister had affected her to tears, "it was a singular
circumstance, the meeting of the four passengers of the stage so soon at
your hotel."

Moseley explained his meaning to the rest of the company.

"Not so much so as you imagine," said the earl in reply; "yourself and
Johnson were in quest of me. Lord Henry Stapleton was under an
engagement to meet me that evening at the hotel, as we were both going
to his sister's wedding--I having arranged the thing with him by letter
previously; and General M'Carthy was also in search of me, on business
relating to his niece, the Donna Julia. He had been to Annerdale House,
and, through my servants, heard I was at an hotel. It was the first
interview between us, and not quite as amicable a one as has since been
had in Wales. During my service in Spain, I saw the Conde, but not the
general. The letter he gave me was from the Spanish ambassador, claiming
a right to require Mrs. Fitzgerald from our government, and deprecating
my using an influence to counteract his exertions"--

"Which you refused," said Emily, eagerly.

"Not refused," answered the earl, smiling at her warmth, while he
admired her friendly zeal, "for it was unnecessary: there is no such
power vested in the ministry. But I explicitly told the general, I would
oppose any violent measures to restore her to her country and a convent.
From the courts, I apprehended nothing for my fair friend."

"Your honor--my lord," said Peter, who had been listening with great
attention, "if I may presume just to ask two questions, without
offence."

"Say on, my good friend," said Pendennyss, with an encouraging smile.

"Only" continued the steward--hemming, to give proper utterance to his
thoughts--"I wish to know, whether you stayed in that same street after
you left the hotel--for Mr. John Moseley and I had a slight difference
in opinion about it."

The earl smiled, having caught the arch expression of John, and replied-
-

"I believe I owe you an apology, Moseley, for my cavalier treatment; but
guilt makes us all cowards. I found you were ignorant of my incognito,
and I was equally ashamed to continue it, or to become the relater of my
own folly. Indeed," he continued, smiling on Emily as he spoke, "I
thought your sister had pronounced the opinion of all reflecting people
on my conduct. I went out of town, Johnson, at day-break. What is the
other query?"

"Why, my lord," said Peter, a little disappointed at finding his first
surmise untrue, "that outlandish tongue your honor used--"

"Was Spanish," cried the earl.

"And not Greek, Peter," said his master, gravely. "I thought, from the
words you endeavored to repeat to me, that you had made a mistake. You
need not be disconcerted, however, for I know several members of the
parliament of this realm who could not talk the Greek language, that is,
fluently. So it can be no disgrace to a serving-man to be ignorant of
it."

Somewhat consoled to find himself as well off as the representatives of
his country, Peter resumed his station in silence, when the carriages
began to announce the return from the opera. The earl took his leave,
and the party retired to rest.

The thanksgivings of Emily that night, ere she laid her head on her
pillow, were the purest offering of mortal innocence. The prospect
before her was unsullied by a cloud and she poured out her heart in the
fullest confidence of pious love and heartfelt gratitude.

As early on the succeeding morning as good-breeding would allow, and
much earlier than the hour sanctioned by fashion, the earl and Lady
Marian stopped in the carriage of the latter at the door of Sir Edward
Moseley. Their reception was the most flattering that could be offered
to people of their stamp; sincere, cordial, and, with a trifling
exception in Lady Moseley, unfettered with any useless ceremonies.

Emily felt herself drawn to her new acquaintance with a fondness which
doubtless grew out of her situation with her brother; which soon found
reasons enough in the soft, lady-like, and sincere manners of Lady
Marian, to justify her attachment on her own account.

There was a very handsome suite of drawing-rooms in Sir Edward's house,
and the communicating doors were carelessly open. Curiosity to view the
furniture, or some such trifling reasons, induced the earl to find his
way into the one adjoining that in which the family were seated. It was
unquestionably a dread of being lost in a strange house, that induced
him to whisper a request to the blushing Emily, to be his companion; and
lastly, it must have been nothing but a knowledge that a vacant room was
easier viewed than one filled with company, that prevented any one from
following them. John smiled archly at Grace, doubtless in approbation of
the comfortable time his friend was likely to enjoy, in his musings on
the taste of their mother. How the door became shut, we have ever been
at a loss to imagine.

The company without were too good-natured and well satisfied with each
other to miss the absentees, until the figure of the earl appeared at
the reopened door, beckoning, with a face of rapture, to Lady Moseley
and Mrs. Wilson. Sir Edward next disappeared, then Jane, then Grace--
then Marian; until John began to think a tête-à-tête with Mr. Benfield
was to be his morning's amusement.

The lovely countenance of his wife, however, soon relieved his ennui,
and John's curiosity was gratified by an order to prepare for his
sister's wedding the following week.

Emily might have blushed more than common during this interview, but it
is certain she did not smile less; and the earl, Lady Marian assured Sir
Edward, was so very different a creature from what he had recently been,
that she could hardly think it was the same sombre gentleman with whom
she had passed the last few months in Wales and Westmoreland.

A messenger was dispatched for Dr. Ives and their friends at B----, to
be witnesses to the approaching nuptials; and Lady Moseley at length
found an opportunity of indulging her taste for splendor on this joyful
occasion.

Money was no consideration; and Mr. Benfield absolutely pined at the
thought that the great wealth of the earl put it out of his power to
contribute in any manner to the comfort of his Emmy. However, a
fifteenth codicil was framed by the ingenuity of Peter and his master,
and if it did not contain the name of George Denbigh, it did that of his
expected second son, Roderick Benfield Denbigh, to the qualifying
circumstance of twenty thousand pounds, as a bribe for the name.

"And a very pretty child, I dare say, it will be," said the steward, as
he placed the paper in its repository. "I don't know that I ever saw,
your honor, a couple that I thought would make a handsomer pair like,
except--" Peter's mind dwelt on his own youthful form coupled with the
smiling graces of Patty Steele.

"Yes! they are as handsome as they are good!" replied his master. "I
remember now, when our Speaker took his third wife, the world said that
they were as pretty a couple as there was at court. But my Emma and the
earl will be a much finer pair. Oh! Peter Johnson; they are young, and
rich, and beloved; but, after all, it avails but little if they be not
good."

"Good!" cried the steward in astonishment; "they are as good as angels."

The master's ideas of human excellence had suffered a heavy blow in the
view of his viscountess, but he answered mildly,

"As good as mankind can well be."



Chapter XLVII.

The warm weather had now commenced; and Sir Edward, unwilling to be shut
up in London at a time the appearance of vegetation gave the country a
new interest, and accustomed for many years of his life to devote an
hour in his garden each morn, had taken a little ready furnished cottage
a short ride from his residence, with the intention of frequenting it
until after the birthday. Thither then Pendennyss took his bride from
the altar, and a few days were passed by the newly married pair in this
little asylum.

Doctor Ives, with Francis, Clara, and their mother, had obeyed the
summons with an alacrity in proportion to the joy they felt on receiving
it, and the former had the happiness of officiating on the occasion. It
would have been easy for the wealth of the earl to procure a license to
enable them to marry in the drawing-room; the permission was obtained,
but neither Emily nor himself felt a wish to utter their vows in any
other spot than at the altar, and in the house of their Maker.

If there was a single heart that felt the least emotion of regret or
uneasiness, it was Lady Moseley, who little relished the retirement of
the cottage on so joyful an occasion; but Pendennyss silenced her
objections by good-humoredly replying--

"The fates have been so kind to me, in giving me castles and seats, you
ought to allow me, my dear Lady Moseley, the only opportunity I shall
probably ever have of enjoying love in a cottage."

A few days, however, removed the uneasiness of the good matron, who had
the felicity within the week of seeing her daughter initiated mistress
of Annerdale House.

The morning of their return to this noble mansion the earl presented
himself in St. James's Square, with the intelligence of their arrival,
and smiling as he bowed to Mrs. Wilson, he continued--

"And to escort you, dear madam, to your new abode."

Mrs. Wilson started with surprise, and with a heart beating quick with
emotion, she required an explanation of his words.

"Surely, dearest Mrs. Wilson--more than aunt--my mother--you cannot
mean, after having trained my Emily through infancy to maturity in the
paths of duty, to desert her in the moment of her greatest trial. I am
the pupil of your husband," he continued, taking her hands in his own
with reverence and affection; "we are the children of your joint care,
and one home, as there is but one heart, must in future contain us."

Mrs. Wilson had wished for, but hardly dared to expect this invitation.
It was now urged from the right quarter, and in a manner that was as
sincere as it was gratifying. Unable to conceal her tears, the good
widow pressed the hand of Pendennyss to her lips as she murmured out her
thanks. Sir Edward was prepared also to lose his sister; but unwilling
to relinquish the pleasure of her society, he urged her making a common
residence between the two families.

"Pendennyss has spoken truth, my dear brother," cried she, recovering
her voice; "Emily is the child of my care and my love--the two beings I
love best in this world are now united--but," she added, pressing Lady
Moseley to her bosom, "my heart is large enough for you all; you are of
my blood, and my gratitude for your affection is boundless. There shall
be but one large family of us; and although our duties may separate us
for a time, we will, I trust, ever meet in tenderness and love, though
with George and Emily I will take up my abode."

"I hope your house in Northamptonshire is not to be vacant always," said
Lady Moseley to the earl, anxiously.

"I have no house there, my dear madam," he replied; "when I thought
myself about to succeed in my suit before, I directed a lawyer at Bath,
where Sir William Harris resided most of his time, to endeavor to
purchase the deanery, whenever a good opportunity offered: in my
discomfiture," he added, smiling, "I forgot to countermand the order,
and he purchased it immediately on its being advertised. For a short
time it was an incumbrance to me, but it is now applied to its original
purpose. It is the sole property of the Countess of Pendennyss, and I
doubt not you will see it often and agreeably tenanted."

This intelligence gave great satisfaction to his friends, and the
expected summer restored to even Jane a gleam of her former pleasure.

If there be bliss in this life, approaching in any degree to the
happiness of the blessed, it is the fruition of long and ardent love,
where youth, innocence, piety, and family concord, smile upon the union.
And all these were united in the case of the new-married pair; but
happiness in this world cannot or does not, in any situation, exist
without alloy.

The peace of mind and fortitude of Emily were fated to receive a blow,
as unlooked for to herself as it was unexpected to the world. Bonaparte
appeared in France, and Europe became in motion.

From the moment the earl heard the intelligence his own course was
decided. His regiment was the pride of the army, and that it would be
ordered to join the duke he did not entertain a doubt.

Emily was, therefore, in some little measure prepared for the blow. It
is at such moments as our own acts, or events affecting us, get to be
without our control, that faith in the justice and benevolence of God is
the most serviceable to the Christian. When others spend their time in
useless regrets he is piously resigned: it even so happens, that when
others mourn he can rejoice.

The sound of the bugle, wildly winding its notes, broke on the stillness
of the morning in the little village in which was situated the cottage
tenanted by Sir Edward Moseley. Almost concealed by the shrubbery which
surrounded its piazza, stood the forms of the Countess of Pendennyss and
her sister Lady Marian, watching eagerly the appearance of those whose
approach was thus announced.

The carriage of the ladies, with its idle attendants, was in waiting at
a short distance; and the pale face but composed resignation of its
mistress, indicated a struggle between conflicting duties.

File after file of heavy horse passed them in military pomp, and the
wistful gaze of the two females had scanned them in vain for the well
known, much-beloved countenance of the leader. At length a single
horseman approached them, riding deliberately and musing: their forms
met his eye, and in an instant Emily was pressed to the bosom of her
husband.

"It is the doom of a soldier," said the earl, dashing a tear from his
eye; "I had hoped that the peace of the world would not again be
assailed for years, and that ambition and jealousy would yield a respite
to our bloody profession; but cheer up, my love--hope for the best--your
trust is not in the things of this life, and your happiness is without
the power of man."

"Ah! Pendennyss--my husband," sobbed Emily, sinking on his bosom, "take
with you my prayers--my love--everything that can console you--
everything that may profit you. I will not tell you to be careful of
your life; your duty teaches you that. As a soldier, expose it; as a
husband guard it; and return to me as you leave me, a lover, the dearest
of men, and a Christian."

Unwilling to prolong the pain of parting, the earl gave his wife a last
embrace, held Marian affectionately to his bosom, and mounting his
horse, was out of sight in an instant.

Within a few days of the departure of Pendennyss, Chatterton was
surprised with the entrance of his mother and Catharine. His reception
of them was that of a respectful child, and his wife exerted herself to
be kind to connexions she could not love, in order to give pleasure to a
husband she adored. Their tale was soon told. Lord and Lady Herriefield
were separated; and the dowager, alive to the dangers of a young woman
in Catharine's situation, and without a single principle on which to
rest the assurance of her blameless conduct in future, had brought her
to England, in order to keep off disgrace, by residing with her child
herself.

There was nothing in his wife to answer the expectations with which Lord
Herriefield married. She had beauty, but with that he was already sated;
her simplicity, which, by having her attention drawn elsewhere, had at
first charmed him, was succeeded by the knowing conduct of a determined
follower of the fashions, and a decided woman of the world.

It had never struck the viscount as impossible that an artless and
innocent girl would fall in love with his faded and bilious face, but
the moment Catharine betrayed the arts of a manager, he saw at once the
artifice that had been practised; of course he ceased to love her.

Men are flattered for a season with notice that has been unsought, but
it never fails to injure the woman who practises it in the opinion of
the other sex, in time. Without a single feeling in common, without a
regard to anything but self, in either husband or wife, it could not but
happen that a separation must follow, or their days be spent in
wrangling and misery. Catharine willingly left her husband; her husband
more willingly got rid of her.

During all these movements the dowager had a difficult game to play. It
was unbecoming her to encourage the strife, and it was against her
wishes to suppress it; she therefore moralized with the peer, and
frowned upon her daughter.

The viscount listened to her truisms with the attention of a boy who is
told by a drunken father how wicked it is to love liquor, and heeded
them about as much; while Kate, mistress at all events of two thousand a
year, minded her mother's frowns as little as she regarded her smiles;
both were indifferent to her.

A few days after the ladies left Lisbon, the viscount proceeded to Italy
in company with the repudiated wife of a British naval officer; and if
Kate was not guilty of an offence of equal magnitude, it was more owing
to her mother's present vigilance than to her previous care.

The presence of Mrs. Wilson was a great source of consolation to Emily
in the absence of her husband; and as their longer abode in town was
useless, the countess declining to be presented without the earl, the
whole family decided upon a return into Northamptonshire.

The deanery had been furnished by order of Pendennyss immediately on his
marriage; and its mistress hastened to take possession of her new
dwelling. The amusement and occupation of this movement, the planning of
little improvements, her various duties under her increased
responsibilities, kept Emily from dwelling unduly upon the danger of her
husband. She sought out amongst the first objects of her bounty the
venerable peasant whose loss had been formerly supplied by Pendennyss on
his first visit to B----, after the death of his father. There might not
have been the usual discrimination and temporal usefulness in this
instance which generally accompanied her benevolent acts; but it was
associated with the image of her husband, and it could excite no
surprise in Mrs. Wilson, although it did in Marian, to see her sister
driving two or three times a week to relieve the necessities of a man
who appeared actually to be in want of nothing.

Sir Edward was again amongst those he loved, and his hospitable board
was once more surrounded with the faces of his friends and neighbors.
The good-natured Mr. Haughton was always a welcome guest at the hall,
and met, soon after their return, the collected family of the baronet,
at a dinner given by the latter to his children and one or two of his
most intimate neighbors--

"My Lady Pendennyss," cried Mr. Haughton, in the course of the
afternoon, "I have news from the earl, which I know it will do your
heart good to hear."

Emily smiled at the prospect of hearing in any manner of her husband,
although she internally questioned the probability of Mr. Haughton's
knowing anything of his movements, of which her daily letters did not
apprise her.

"Will you favor me with the particulars of your intelligence, sir?" said
the countess.

"He has arrived safe with his regiment near Brussels; heard it from a
neighbor's son who saw him enter the house occupied by Wellington, while
he was standing in the crowd without, waiting to get a peep at the
duke."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Wilson with a laugh, "Emily knew that ten days ago.
Could your friend tell us anything of Bonaparte? We are much interested
in his movements just now."

Mr. Haughton, a good deal mortified to find his news stale, mused a
moment, as if in doubt to proceed or not; but liking of all things to
act the part of a newspaper, he continued--

"Nothing more than you see in the prints; but I suppose your ladyship
has heard about Captain Jarvis too?"

"Why, no," said Emily, laughing; "the movements of Captain Jarvis are
not quite as interesting to me as those of Lord Pendennyss--has the duke
made him an aide-de-camp?"

"Oh! no," cried the other, exulting at his having something new: "as
soon as he heard of the return of Boney, he threw up his commission and
got married."

"Married!" cried John; "not to Miss Harris, surely."

"No; to a silly girl he met in Cornwall, who was fool enough to be
caught with his gold lace. He married one day, and the next told his
disconsolate wife and panic-stricken mother that the honor of the
Jarvises must sleep until the supporters of the name became sufficiently
numerous to risk them in the field of battle."

"And how did Mrs. Jarvis and Sir Timo's lady relish the news?" inquired
John, expecting something ridiculous.

"Not at all," rejoined Mr. Haughton; "the former sobbed, and said she
had only married him for his bravery and red coat, and the lady
exclaimed against the destruction of his budding honors."

"How did it terminate?" asked Mrs. Wilson.

"Why, it seems while they were quarrelling about it, the War-Office cut
the matter short by accepting his resignation, I suppose the commander-
in-chief had learned his character; but the matter was warmly contested:
they even drove the captain to a declaration of his principles."

"And what kind of ones might they have been, Haughton?" said Sir Edward,
drily.

"Republican."

"Republican!" exclaimed two or three in surprise.

"Yes, liberty and equality, he contended, were his idols, and he could
not find it in his heart to fight against Bonaparte."

"A somewhat singular conclusion," said Mr. Benfield, musing. "I remember
when I sat in the House, there was a party who were fond of the cry of
this said liberty; but when they got the power they did not seem to me
to suffer people to go more at large than they went before; but I
suppose they were diffident of telling the world their minds after they
were put in such responsible stations, for fear of the effect of
example."

"Most people like liberty as servants but not as masters, uncle," cried
John, with a sneer.

"Captain Jarvis, it seems, liked it as a preservative against danger,"
continued Mr. Haughton; "to avoid ridicule in his new neighborhood, he
has consented to his father's wishes, and turned merchant in the city
again."

"Where I sincerely hope he will remain," cried John, who since the
accident of the arbor, could not tolerate the unfortunate youth.

"Amen!" said Emily, in an under tone, heard only by her brother.

"But Sir Timo--what has become of Sir Timo--the good, honest merchant?"
asked John.

"He has dropt the title, insists on being called plain Mr. Jarvis, and
lives entirely in Cornwall. His hopeful son-in-law has gone with his
regiment to Flanders; and Lady Egerton, being unable to live without her
father's assistance, is obliged to hide her consequence in the west
also."

The subject became now disagreeable to Lady Moseley, and it was changed.
Such conversations made Jane more reserved and dissatisfied than ever.
She had no one respectable excuse to offer for her partiality to her
former lover, and when her conscience told her the mortifying fact, was
apt to think that others remembered it too.

The letters from the continent now teemed with preparations for the
approaching contest; and the apprehensions of our heroine and her
friends increased, in proportion to the nearness of the struggle, on
which hung not only the fates of thousands of individuals, but of
adverse princes and mighty empires. In this confusion of interests, and
of jarring of passions, there were offered prayers almost hourly for the
safety of Pendennyss, which were as pure and ardent as the love which
prompted them.



Chapter XLVIII.

Napoleon had commenced those daring and rapid movements, which for a
time threw the peace of the world into the scale of fortune, and which
nothing but the interposition of a ruling Providence could avert from
their threatened success. As the the ----th dragoons wheeled into a
field already deluged with English blood, on the heights of Quatre Bras,
the eye of its gallant colonel saw a friendly battalion falling beneath
the sabres of the enemy's cuirassiers. The word was passed, the column
opens, the sounds of the quivering bugle were heard for a moment above
the roar of the cannon and the shouts of the combatants; the charge,
sweeping like a whirlwind, fell heavily on those treacherous Frenchmen,
who to-day had sworn fidelity to Louis, and to-morrow intended lifting
their hands in allegiance to his rival.

"Spare my life in mercy," cried an officer, already dreadfully wounded,
who stood shrinking from the impending blow of an enraged Frenchman. An
English dragoon dashed at the cuirassier, and with one blow severed his
arm from his body.

"Thank God," sighed the wounded officer, sinking beneath the horse's
feet.

His rescuer threw himself from the saddle, and raising the fallen man
inquired into his wounds. It was Pendennyss, and it was Egerton. The
wounded man groaned aloud, as he saw the face of him who had averted the
fatal blow; but it was not the hour for explanations or confessions,
other than those with which the dying soldiers endeavored to make their
tardy peace with their God.

Sir Henry was given in charge to two slightly wounded British soldiers,
and the earl remounted: the scattered troops were rallied at the sound
of the trumpet, and again and again, led by their dauntless colonel,
were seen in the thickest of the fray, with sabres drenched in blood,
and voices hoarse with the shouts of victory.

The period between the battles of Quatre Bras and Waterloo was a trying
one to the discipline and courage of the British army. The discomfited
Prussians on their flank had been routed and compelled to retire, and in
their front was an enemy, brave, skilful, and victorious, led by the
greatest captain of the age. The prudent commander of the English forces
fell back with dignity and reluctance to the field of Waterloo; here the
mighty struggle was to terminate, and the eye of every experienced
soldier looked on those eminences as on the future graves for thousands.

During this solemn interval of comparative inactivity the mind of
Pendennyss dwelt on the affection, the innocence, the beauty and worth
of his Emily, until the curdling blood, as he thought on her lot should
his life be the purchase of the coming victory, warned him to quit the
gloomy subject, for the consolations of that religion which only could
yield him the solace his wounded feelings required. In his former
campaigns the earl had been sensible of the mighty changes of death, and
had ever kept in view the preparations necessary to meet it with hope
and joy; but the world clung around him now, in the best affections of
his nature, and it was only as he could picture the happy reunion with
his Emily in a future life, that he could look on a separation in this
without despair.

The vicinity of the enemy admitted of no relaxation in the strictest
watchfulness in the British lines: and the comfortless night of the
seventeenth was passed by the earl, and his Lieutenant Colonel, George
Denbigh, on the same cloak, and under the open canopy of Heaven.

As the opening cannon of the enemy gave the signal for the commencing
conflict, Pendennyss mounted his charger with a last thought on his
distant wife. With a mighty struggle he tore her as it were from his
bosom, and gave the remainder of the day to duty.

Who has not heard of the events of that fearful hour, on which the fate
of Europe hung as it were suspended in the scale? On one side supported
by the efforts of desperate resolution, guided by the most consummate
art; and on the other defended by a discipline and enduring courage
almost without a parallel.

The indefatigable Blucher arrived, and the star of Napoleon sank.

Pendennyss threw himself from his horse, on the night of the eighteenth
of June, as he gave way by orders, in the pursuit, to the fresher
battalions of the Prussians, with the languor that follows unusual
excitement, and mental thanksgivings that this bloody work was at length
ended. The image of his Emily again broke over the sterner feelings of
the battle, like the first glimmerings of light which succeed the awful
darkness of the eclipse of the sun: and he again breathed freely, in the
consciousness of the happiness which would await his speedy return.

"I am sent for the colonel of the ----th dragoons," said a courier in
broken English to a soldier, near where the earl lay on the ground,
waiting the preparations of his attendants "have I found the right
regiment, my friend?"

"To be sure you have," answered the man, without looking up from his
toil on his favorite animal, "you might have tracked us by the dead
Frenchmen, I should think. So you want my lord, my lad, do you? do we
move again to-night?" suspending his labor for a moment in expectation
of a reply.

"Not to my knowledge," rejoined the courier; "my message is to your
colonel, from a dying man. Will you point out his station?"

The soldier complied, the message was soon delivered, and Pendennyss
prepared to obey its summons immediately. Preceded by the messenger as a
guide, and followed by Harmer, the earl retraced his steps over that
ground on which he had but a few hours before been engaged in the deadly
strife of man to man, hand to hand.

How different is the contemplation of a field of battle during and after
the conflict! The excitement, suspended success, shouts, uproar, and
confusion of the former, prevent any contemplation of the nicer parts of
this confused mass of movements, charges, and retreats; or if a
brilliant advance is made, a masterly retreat effected, the imagination
is chained by the splendor and glory of the act, without resting for a
moment on the sacrifice of individual happiness with which it is
purchased. A battle-ground from which the whirlwind of the combat has
passed, presents a different sight; it offers the very consummation of
human misery.

There may occasionally be an individual, who from station, distempered
mind, or the encouragement of chimerical ideas of glory, quits the
theatre of life with at least the appearance of pleasure in his
triumphs. If such there be in reality, if this rapture of departing
glory be anything more than the deception of a distempered excitement,
the subject of its exhibition is to be greatly pitied. To the Christian,
dying in peace with both God and man, can it alone be ceded in the eye
of reason, to pour out his existence with a smile on his quivering lip.

And the warrior, who falls in the very arms of victory, after passing a
life devoted to the world; even, if he sees kingdoms hang suspended on
his success, may smile indeed, may utter sentiments full of loyalty and
zeal, may be the admiration of the world, and what is his reward? a
deathless name, and an existence of misery, which knows no termination.

Christianity alone can make us good soldiers in any cause, for he who
knows how to live, is always the least afraid to die.

Pendennyss and his companions pushed their way over the ground occupied
before the battle by the enemy; descended into and through that little
valley, in which yet lay, in undistinguished confusion, masses of the
dead and dying of either side; and again over the ridge, on which could
be marked the situation of those gallant squares which had so long
resisted the efforts of the horse and artillery by the groups of bodies,
fallen where they had bravely stood, until even the callous Harmer
sickened with the sight of a waste of life that he had but a few hours
before exultingly contributed to increase.

Appeals to their feelings as they rode through the field had been
frequent, and their progress was much retarded by attempts to contribute
to the ease of a wounded or a dying man; but as the courier constantly
urged speed, as the only means of securing the object of their ride,
these halts were reluctantly abandoned.

It was ten o'clock before they reached the farm-house, where, in the
midst of hundreds of his countrymen, lay the former lover of Jane.

As the subject of his confession must be anticipated by the reader, we
will give a short relation of his life, and of those acts which more
materially affect our history.

Henry Egerton had been turned early on the world, hundreds of his
countrymen, without any principle to counteract the arts of infidelity,
or resist the temptations of life. His father held a situation under
government, and was devoted to his rise in the diplomatic line. His
mother was a woman of fashion, who lived for effect and idle competition
with her sisters in weakness and folly. All he learnt in his father's
house was selfishness, from the example of one, and a love of high life
and its extravagance from the other.

He entered the army young, and from choice. The splendor and reputation
of the service caught his fancy; and, by pride and constitution, he was
indifferent to personal danger. Yet he loved London and its amusements
better than glory; and the money of his uncle, Sir Edgar, whose heir he
was reputed to be, raised him to the rank of lieutenant colonel, without
his spending an hour in the field.

Egerton had some abilities, and a good deal of ardor of temperament, by
nature. The former, from indulgence and example, degenerated into
acquiring the art to please in mixed society; and the latter, from want
of employment, expended itself at the card table.

The association between the vices is intimate. There really appears to
be a kind of modesty in sin that makes it ashamed of good company. If we
are unable to reconcile a favorite propensity to our principles, we are
apt to abandon the unpleasant restraint on our actions, rather than
admit the incongruous mixture. Freed entirely from the fetters of our
morals, what is there that our vices will not prompt us to commit?
Egerton, like thousands of others, went on from step to step, until he
found himself in the world; free to follow all his inclinations, so he
violated none of the decencies of life.

When in Spain, in his only campaign, he was accidentally, as has been
mentioned, thrown in the way of the Donna Julia, and brought her off the
ground under the influence of natural sympathy and national feeling; a
kind of merit that makes vice only more dangerous, by making it
sometimes amiable. He had not seen his dependant long before her beauty,
situation, and his passions decided him to effect her ruin.

This was an occupation that his figure, manners, and propensities had
made him an adept in, and nothing was further from his thoughts than the
commission of any other than the crime that, according to his code, a
gentleman might be guilty of with impunity.

It is, however, the misfortune of sin, that from being our slave it
becomes a tyrant; and Egerton attempted what in other countries, and
where the laws ruled, might have cost him his life.

The conjecture of Pendennyss was true. He saw the face of the officer
who interposed between him and his villanous attempt, but was hid
himself from view. He aimed not at his life, but at his own escape.
Happily his first shot succeeded, for the earl would have been
sacrificed to preserve the character of a man of honor; though no one
was more regardless of the estimation he was held in by the virtuous
than Colonel Egerton.

In pursuance of his plans on Mrs. Fitzgerald, the colonel had sedulously
avoided admitting any of his companions into the secret of his having a
female in his care.

When he left the army to return home, he remained until a movement of
the troops to a distant part of the country enabled him to effect his
own purposes, without incurring their ridicule; and when he found
himself obliged to abandon his vehicle for a refuge in the woods, the
fear of detection made him alter his course; and under the pretence of
wishing to be in a battle about to be fought, he secretly rejoined the
army, and the gallantry of Colonel Egerton was mentioned in the next
despatches.

Sir Herbert Nicholson commanded the advanced guard, at which the earl
arrived with the Donna Julia; and like every other brave man (unless
guilty himself) was indignant at the villany of the fugitive. The
confusion and enormities daily practised in the theatre of the war
prevented any close inquiries into the subject, and circumstances had so
enveloped Egerton in mystery, that nothing but an interview with the
lady herself was likely to expose him.

With Sir Herbert Nicholson, he had been in habits of intimacy, and on
that gentleman's alluding in a conversation in the barracks at F---- to
the lady brought into his quarters before Lisbon, he accidentally
omitted mentioning the name of her rescuer. Egerton had never before
heard the transaction spoken of, and as he had of course never mentioned
the subject himself, was ignorant who had interfered between him and his
views; also of the fate of Donna Julia; indeed, he thought it probable
that it had not much improved by a change of guardians.

In coming into Northamptonshire he had several views; he wanted a
temporary retreat from his creditors. Jarvis had an infant fondness for
play, without an adequate skill, and the money of the young ladies, in
his necessities, was becoming of importance; but the daughters of Sir
Edward Moseley were of a description more suited to his taste, and their
portions were as ample as the others. He had become in some degree
attached to Jane; and as her imprudent parents, satisfied with his
possessing the exterior and requisite recommendations of a gentleman
admitted his visits freely, he determined to make her his wife.

When he met Denbigh the first time, he saw that chance had thrown him in
the way of a man who might hold his character in his power. He had never
seen him as Pendennyss, and, it will be remembered, was ignorant of the
name of Julia's friend: he now learnt for the first time that it was
Denbigh. Uneasy at he knew not what, fearful of some exposure he knew
not how, when Sir Herbert alluded to the occurrence, with a view to
rebut the charge, if Denbigh should choose to make one, and with the
near-sightedness of guilt, he pretended to know the occurrence, and
under the promise of secresy, mentioned that the name of the officer was
Denbigh. He had noticed Denbigh avoiding Sir Herbert at the ball; and
judging others from himself, thought it was a wish to avoid any
allusions to the lady he had brought into the other's quarters that
induced the measure; for he was in hopes that if Denbigh was not as
guilty as himself, he was sufficiently so to wish to keep the
transaction from the eyes of Emily. He was, however, prepared for an
explosion or an alliance with him, when the sudden departure of Sir
Herbert removed the danger of a collision. Believing at last that they
were to be brothers-in-law, and mistaking the earl for his cousin, whose
name he bore, Egerton became reconciled to the association; while
Pendennyss, having in his absence heard, on inquiring, some of the vices
of the colonel, was debating with himself whether he should expose them
to Sir Edward or not.

It was in their occasional interchange of civilities that Pendennyss
placed his pocket-book upon a table, while he exhibited the plants to
the colonel: the figure of Emily passing the window drew him from the
room, and Egerton having ended his examination, observing the book, put
it in his own pocket, to return it to its owner when they next met.

The situation, name, and history of Mrs. Fitzgerald were never mentioned
by the Moseleys in public; but Jane, in the confidence of her
affections, had told her lover who the inmate of the cottage was. The
idea of her being kept there by Denbigh immediately occurred to him, and
although he was surprised at the audacity of the thing, he was
determined to profit by the occasion.

To pay this visit, he stayed away from the excursion on the water, as
Pendennyss had done to avoid his friend, Lord Henry Stapleton. An excuse
of business, which served for his apology, kept the colonel from seeing
Denbigh to return the book, until after his visit to the cottage. His
rhapsody of love, and offers to desert his intended wife, were nothing
but the common-place talk of his purposes; and his presumption in
alluding to his situation with Miss Moseley, proceeded from his
impressions as to Julia's real character. In the struggle for the bell,
the pocket-book of Denbigh accidentally fell from his coat, and the
retreat of the colonel was too precipitate to enable him to recover it.

Mrs. Fitzgerald was too much alarmed to distinguish nicely, and Egerton
proceeded to the ball-room with the indifference of a hardened offender.
When the arrival of Miss Jarvis, to whom he had committed himself,
prompted him to a speedy declaration, and the unlucky conversation of
Mr. Holt brought about a probable detection of his gaming propensities,
the colonel determined to get rid of his awkward situation and his debts
by a coup-de-main. He accordingly eloped with Miss Jarvis.

What portion of the foregoing narrative made the dying confession of
Egerton to the man he had so lately discovered to be the Earl of
Pendennyss, the reader can easily imagine.



Chapter XLIX.

The harvest had been gathered, and the beautiful vales of Pendennyss
were shooting forth a second crop of verdure. The husbandman was turning
his prudent forethought to the promises of the coming year, while the
castle itself exhibited to the gaze of the wondering peasant a sight of
cheerfulness and animation which had not been seen in it since the days
of the good duke. Its numerous windows were opened to the light of the
sun, its halls teemed with the faces of its happy inmates. Servants in
various liveries were seen gliding through its magnificent apartments
and multiplied passages. Horses, grooms, and carriages, with varied
costumes and different armorial bearings, crowded its spacious stables
and offices. Everything spoke society, splendor, and activity without;
everything denoted order, propriety, and happiness within.

In a long range of spacious apartments were grouped in the pursuit of
their morning employments, or in arranging their duties and pleasures of
the day, the guests and owners of the princely abode.

In one room was John Moseley, carefully examining the properties of some
flints which were submitted to his examination by his attending servant;
while Grace, sitting at his side, playfully snatches the stones from his
hand, as she cries half reproachfully, half tenderly---

"You must not devote yourself to your gun so incessantly, Moseley; it is
cruel to kill inoffensive birds for your amusement only."

"Ask Emily's cook, and Mr. Haughton's appetite," said John, coolly
extending his hand towards her for the flint--"whether no one is
gratified but myself. I tell you, Grace, I seldom fire in vain."

"That only makes the matter worse; the slaughter you commit is
dreadful."

"Oh!" cried John, with a laugh, "the ci-devant Captain Jarvis is a
sportsman to your mind. He would shoot a month without moving a feather;
he was a great friend to," throwing an arch look to his solitary sister,
who sat on a sofa at a distance perusing a book, "Jane's feathered
songsters."

"But now, Mosely," said Grace, yielding the flints, but gently retaining
the hand that took them, "Pendenyss and Chatterton intend driving their
wives, like good husbands, to see the beautiful waterfall in the
mountains; and what am I to do this long tedious morning?"

John stole an enquiring glance, to see if his wife was very anxious to
join the party--cast one look of regret on a beautiful agate that he had
selected, and inquired--

"Do you wish to go very much, Mrs. Mosely?"

"Indeed--indeed I do," said the other, eagerly, "if--"

"If what?"

"You will drive me?" continued she, with a cheek slightly tinged with
color.

"Well, then," answered John, with deliberation, and regarding his wife
with affection "I will go on one condition."

"Name it!" cried Grace, with still increasing color.

"That you will not expose your health again in going to the church on a
Sunday, if it rains."

"The carriage is so close, Mosely," answered Grace, with a paler cheek
than beforehand eyes fixed on the carpet, "it is impossible I can take
cold: you see the earl, and countess, and aunt Wilson never miss public
worship, when possibly within their power."

"The earl goes with his wife; but what becomes of poor me at such
times!" said John, taking her hand and pressing it kindly. "I like to
hear a good sermon, but not in bad weather. You must consent to oblige
me, who only live in your presence."

Grace smiled faintly, as John, pursuing the point, said--"What do you
say to my condition?"

"Well then, if you wish," replied Graces without the look of gaiety her
hopes had first inspired, "I will not go if it rain."

John ordered his phaeton, and his wife went to her room to prepare for
the trip, and to regret her own resolution.

In, the recess of a window, in which bloomed a profusion of exotics,
stood the figure of Lady Marian Denbigh, playing with a half-blown rose
of the richest colors; and before her, leaning against the angle of the
wall, stood her kinsman the Duke of Derwent.

"You heard the plan at the breakfast table," said his Grace, "to visit
the little falls in the hills. But I suppose you have seen them too
often to undergo the fatigue?"

"Oh no! I love that ride dearly, and should wish to accompany the
countess in her first visit to it. I had half a mind to ask George to
take me in his phaeton."

"My curricle would be honored with the presence of Lady Marian Denbigh,"
cried the duke with animation, "if, she would accept me for her knight
on the occasion."

Marian bowed an assent, in evident satisfaction, as the duke proceeded--

"But if you take me as your knight I should wear your ladyship's
colors;" and he held out his hand towards the budding rose. Lady Marian
hesitated a moment--looked out at the prospect--up at the wall--turned,
and wondered where her brother was; and still finding the hand of the
duke extended, while his eye rested on her in admiration, she gave him
the boon with a cheek that vied with the richest tints of the flower.
They separated to prepare, and it was on their return from the falls
that the duke seemed uncommonly gay and amusing, and the lady silent
with her tongue, though her eyes danced in every direction but towards
her cousin.

"Really, my dear Lady Mosely," said the dowager, as, seated by the side
of her companion, her eyes roved over the magnificence within, and
widely extended domains without--"Emily is well established indeed--
better even than my Grace."

"Grace has an affectionate husband," replied the other, gravely, "and
one that I hope will make her happy."

"Oh! no doubt happy!" said Lady Chatterton, hastily: "but they say Emily
has a jointure of twelve thousand a year--by-the-by," she added, in a
low tone, though no one was near enough to hear what she said, "could
not the earl have settled Lumley Castle on her instead of the deanery?"

"Upon my word I never think of such gloomy subjects as provisions for
widowhood," cried Lady Mosely: "you have been in Annerdale House--is it
not a princely mansion?"

"Princely, indeed," rejoined the dowager, sighing: "don't the earl
intend increasing the rents of this estate as the leases fall in? I am
told they are very low now!"

"I believe not," said the other. "He has enough, and is willing others
should prosper. But there is Clara, with her little boy--is he not a
lovely child?" cried the grandmother, rising to take the infant in her
arms.

"Oh! excessively beautiful!" said the dowager, looking the other way,
and observing Catharine making a movement towards Lord Henry Stapleton,
she called to her. "Lady Herriefield--come this way, my dear--I wish to
speak to you."

Kate obeyed with a sullen pout of her pretty lip, and entered into some
idle discussion about a cap, though her eyes wandered round the rooms in
listless vacancy.

The dowager had the curse of bad impressions in youth to contend with,
and labored infinitely harder now to make her daughter act right, than
formerly she had ever done to make her act wrong.

"Here! uncle Benfield," cried Emily, with a face glowing with health and
animation, as she approached his seat with a glass in her hands. "Here
is the negus you wished; I have made it myself, and you will praise it
of course."

"Oh! my dear Lady Pendennyss," said the old gentleman, rising politely
from his seat to receive the beverage: "you are putting yourself to a
great deal of trouble for an old bachelor like me; too much indeed, too
much."

"Old bachelors are sometimes more esteemed than young one," cried the
earl gaily, joining them in time to hear this speech. "Here is my
friend, Mr. Peter Johnson; who knows when we may dance at his wedding?"

"My lord, and my lady, and my honored master," said Peter gravely, in
reply, bowing respectfully where he stood, waiting to take his master's
glass--"I am past the age to think of a wife: I am seventy-three coming
next 'lammas, counting by the old style."

"What do you intend to do with your three hundred a year," said Emily
with a smile, "unless you bestow it on some good woman, for making the
evening of your life comfortable?'

"My lady--hem--my lady," said the steward, blushing, "I had a little
thought, with your kind ladyship's consent, as I have no relations,
chick or child in the world, what to do with it."

"I should be happy to hear your plan," said the countess, observing that
the steward was anxious to communicate something.

"Why, my lady, if my lord and my honored master's agreeable, I did think
of making another codicil to master's will in order to dispose of it."

"Your master's will," said the earl laughing; "why not to your own, good
Peter?"

"My honored lord," said the steward, with great humility, "it don't
become a poor serving-man like me to make a will."

"But how will you prove it?" said the earl, kindly, willing to convince
him of his error; "you must be both dead to prove it."

"Our wills," said Peter, gulping his words, "will be proved on the same
day."

His master looked round at him with great affection, and both the earl
and Emily were too much struck to say anything. Peter had, however, the
subject too much at heart to abandon it, just as he had broken the ice.
He anxiously wished for the countess's consent to the scheme, for he
would not affront her, even after he was dead.

"My lady--Miss Emmy," said Johnson, eagerly, "my plan is, if my honored
master's agreeable--to make a codicil, and give my mite to a little--
Lady Emily Denbigh."

"Oh! Peter, you and uncle Benfield are both too good," cried Emily,
laughing and blushing, as she hastened to Clara and her mother.

"Thank you, thank you," cried the delighted earl, following his wife
with his eyes, and shaking the steward cordially by the hand; "and, if
no better expedient be adopted by us, you have full permission to do as
you please with your money.

"Peter," said his master to him in a low tone, "you should never speak
of such things prematurely; now I remember when the Earl of Pendennyss,
my nephew, was first presented to me, I was struck with the delicacy and
propriety of his demeanor, and the Lady Pendennyss, my niece, too; you
never see any thing forward, or--Ah! Emmy, dear," said the old man,
tenderly interrupting himself, "you are too good to remember your old
uncle," taking one of the fine peaches she handed him from a plate.

"My lord," said Mr. Haughton to the earl, "Mrs. Ives and myself have had
a contest about the comforts of matrimony; she insists she may be quite
as happy at Bolton Parsonage as in this noble castle, and with this rich
prospect in view."

"I hope," said Francis, "you are not teaching my wife to be discontented
with her humble lot--if so, both hers and your visit will be an unhappy
one."

"It would be no easy task, if our good friend intended any such thing by
his jests," said Clara, smiling. "I know my true interests, I trust, too
well, to wish to change my fortune."

"You are right," said Pendennyss; "it is wonderful how little our
happiness depends on a temporal condition. When here, or at Lumley
Castle, surrounded by my tenantry, there are, I confess, moments of
weakness, in which the loss of my wealth or rank would be missed
greatly; but when on service, subjected to great privations, and
surrounded by men superior to me in military rank, who say unto me--go,
and I go--come, and I come--I find my enjoyments intrinsically the
same."

"That," said Francis, "may be owing to your Lordship's tempered
feelings, which have taught you to look beyond this world for pleasures
and consolation."

"It has, doubtless, an effect," said the earl, "but there is no truth of
which I am more fully persuaded, than that our happiness here does not
depend upon our lot in life, so we are not suffering for necessaries--
even changes bring less real misery than they are supposed to do."

"Doubtless," cried Mr. Haughton, "under the circumstances, I would not
wish to change even with your lordship--unless, indeed," he continued,
with a smile and bow to the countess, "it were the temptation of your
lovely wife."

"You are quite polite," said Emily laughing, "but I have no desire to
deprive Mrs. Haughton of a companion she has made out so well with these
twenty years past."

"Thirty, my lady, if you please."

"And thirty more, I hope," continued Emily, as a servant announced the
several carriages at the door. The younger part of the company now
hastened to their different engagements, and Chatterton handed Harriet;
John, Grace; and Pendennyss, Emily, into their respective carriages; the
duke and Lady Marian following, but at some little distance from the
rest of the party.

As the earl drove from the door, the countess looked up to a window, at
which were standing her aunt and Doctor Ives. She kissed her hand to
them, with a face, in which glowed the mingled expression of innocence,
love, and joy.

Before leaving the Park, the party passed Sir Edward; with his wife
leaning on one arm and Jane on the other, pursuing their daily walk. The
baronet followed the carriages with his eyes, and exchanged looks of the
fondest love with his children, as they drove slowly and respectfully by
him; and if the glance which followed on Jane, did not speak equal
pleasure, it surely denoted its proper proportion of paternal love.

"You have much reason to congratulate yourself on the happy termination
of your labors," said the doctor, with a smile, to the widow; "Emily is
placed, so far as human foresight can judge, in the happiest of all
stations a female can be in: she is the pious wife of a pious husband,
beloved, and deserving of it."

"Yes," said Mrs. Wilson, drawing back from following the phaeton with
her eyes, "they are as happy as this world will admit, and, what is
better, they are well prepared to meet any reverse of fortune which may
occur, as well as to discharge the duties on which they have entered. I
do not think," continued she, musing, "that Pendennyss can ever doubt
the affections of such a woman as Emily."

"I should think not" said the doctor, "but what can excite such a
thought in your breast, and one so much to the prejudice of George?"

"The only unpleasant thing I have ever observed in him," said Mrs.
Wilson gravely, "is the suspicion which induced him to adopt the
disguise in which he entered our family."

"He did not adopt it, madam--- chance and circumstances drew it around
him accidentally; and when you consider the peculiar state of his mind
from the discovery of his mother's misconduct--his own great wealth and
rank--- it is not so surprising that he should yield to a deception,
rather harmless than injurious."

"Dr. Ives," said Mrs. Wilson, "is not wont to defend deceit."

"Nor do I now, madam;" replied the doctor with a smile; "I acknowledge
the offence of George, myself, wife, and son. I remonstrated at the time
upon principle; I said the end would not justify the means; that a
departure from ordinary rules of propriety was at all times dangerous,
and seldom practised with impunity."

"And you failed to convince your hearers," cried Mrs. Wilson, gaily; "a
novelty in your case, my good rector."

"I thank you for the compliment," said the doctor; "I did convince them
as to the truth of the principle, but the earl contended that his case
might make an innocent exception. He had the vanity to think, I believe,
that by concealing his real name, he injured himself more than any one
else, and got rid of the charge in some such way. He is however,
thoroughly convinced of the truth of the position, by practice; his
sufferings, growing out of the mistake of his real character, and which
could not have happened had he appeared in proper person, having been
greater than he is ready to acknowledge."

"If they study the fate of the Donna Julia, and his own weakness," said
the widow, "they will have a salutary moral always at hand, to teach
them the importance of two cardinal virtues at least--obedience and
truth."

"Julia has suffered much," replied the doctor; "and although she has
returned to her father, the consequences of her imprudence are likely to
continue. When once the bonds of mutual confidence and respect are
broken, they may be partially restored, it is true, but never with a
warmth and reliance such as existed previously. To return, however, to
yourself, do you not feel a sensation of delight at the prosperous end
of your exertions in behalf of Emily?"

"It is certainly pleasant to think we have discharged our duties, and
the task is much easier than we are apt to suppose," said Mrs. Wilson;
"it is only to commence the foundation, so that it will be able to
support the superstructure. I have endeavored to make Emily a Christian.
I have endeavored to form such a taste and principles in her, that she
would not be apt to admire an improper suitor and I have labored to
prepare her to discharge her continued duties through life, in such a
manner and with such a faith, as under the providence of God will result
in happiness far exceeding anything she now enjoys. In all these, by the
blessing of Heaven, I have succeeded, and had occasion offered, I would
have assisted her inexperience through the more delicate decisions of
her sex, though in no instance would I attempt to control them."

"You are right, my dear madam," said the doctor, taking her kindly by
the hand, "and had I a daughter, I would follow a similar course. Give
her delicacy, religion, and a proper taste, aided by the unseen
influence of a prudent parent's care, and the chances of a woman for
happiness would be much greater than they are; and I am entirely of your
opinion--'That prevention is at all times better than cure.'"

The End.








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