‘Be wise to-day, ’tis
madness to defer--
To-morrow’s caution may
arrive too late.’ ”
“I wonder if we are to
have a neighbour 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 mansion 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 neighbour to us?” asked Sir Edward
Moseley of his son.
“Why, Sir, I learn he
has been a capital merchant, that has retired from business with a large
fortune; that he has, like yourself, sir, an only hope for his declining years
in his son, who is an officer in the army; and, moreover, that he has a couple
of fine daughters; so, sir, he is a man of family, 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, colouring
slightly with vexation at his speech.
“Yes, but 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, coloured, and affectionately kissing
the hand which kept him silent, addressed himself to Jane, and by his vivacity
and good humour soon restored her 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 we live in.”
“And Mr. Jarvis has the
great goodness of money, by John’s account,” dryly observed Mrs. Wilson, a
sister of Sir Edward’s.
“Let me tell you, madam,”
cried the rector of the parish, looking around him pleasantly, “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
neighbourhood, 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 neighbour. 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 on
this day round the hospitable board of the baronet, was composed, beside the
before-mentioned persons, of a 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 into holy orders himself.
The remainder of the
day was passed in that uninterrupted flow of pleasant conversation which was
the natural consequence of a unison of opinions in all leading questions, and
where the parties had 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 join the intended party at his house.
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 ancestors, an estate
which placed him amongst the greatest landed proprietors in 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 make such a provision for his younger
children, the three daughters already mentioned, as he conceived their birth
entitled them to expect. Seventeen years had 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 his 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 vigour as his talents or energy would admit of; it was the
step most obviously for his interests, and safest both in its execution and
consequences, and as such 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 laboured 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, although
few were disposed to view her errors with that severity which truth requires,
and a just discrimination of character renders necessary. Her union had been
one of love, and for a time, objected to by the friends of her husband, on the
score of fortune; but constancy and perseverance had prevailed, and the
protracted and inconsequent opposition of his parents, had left no other
effects, than an aversion in their children to the exercise or even influence
of parental authority, in marrying their own descendants, which, although equal
in degree, was somewhat differing in effect. In the husband it was quiescent;
but in the wife, slightly shaded with the female esprit du 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 or her reasoning
powers suffered her to be at all times consistent; yet few knew her but loved
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 her attachment to her husband necessarily exposed her; to
find relief from which, an invaluable friend had pointed out the only true
course her case admitted of--a research into her own heart, and the employment
of active benevolence. The death of her husband, who lost his life in battle,
causing her to withdraw in a great measure from the world, gave her time for,
and induced those reflections, which led to impressions on the subject of
religion, correct in themselves, and indispensable as the basis of future
happiness, but slightly tinctured with the sternness of her vigorous mind, and
possibly at times more unbending than was compatible with the comforts of this
world; a fault, however, of manner, and not of matter. Warmly attached to her
brother and his children, Mrs. Wilson, who had never been a mother herself, had
yielded to their earnest entreaties to become one of the family; and although
left by the late General Wilson with a large income, she had since his death
given up her 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 her aunt; and it was commonly thought Emily would
inherit the very handsome sum left to the disposal of the General’s widow.
Both Sir Edward and
Lady Moseley had possessed a large share of personal beauty when young, and it
had descended in common to all their children, but more particularly to the
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 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 their 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 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 here rightly judged, that none other
would make his future life so happy, as the mildness, the tenderness, the
unassuming worth of the retiring Clara. Their passion, if so gentle a feeling
could deserve the term, had received the sanction of their parents, and waited
only the establishment of the youthful divine, to perfect their union.
The retirement of Sir
Edward’s family had been uniform, with the exception of occasional visits 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 declared his intention of making the children of Lady
Moseley his heirs. The visits of Mr. Benfield were always hailed as calling for
more than ordinary gayety; for although rough from indulgence in his manner,
and somewhat infirm from his years, the old bachelor, who was rather addicted
to those customs he had indulged in in his youth, and was fond of dwelling on the
scenes of former days, was universally beloved where he was intimately known,
for his unbounded, though at times, singular philanthropy.
The illness of the
mother-in-law of Mrs. Wilson had called her to Bath the winter preceding the
spring our history commences, and she had been accompanied by her nephew and
favourite niece. John and Emily, during the month of their residence in that
city, were in the practice of making daily excursions in its environs; and it
was in one of these little tours 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 led to a slight intercourse, which continued for the
fortnight longer they remained there.
John had given himself
some trouble to ascertain who she was, but in vain. All they could learn was,
that her life was blameless, she saw no one but themselves, and her dialect
raised a suspicion she was not English. To this then it was that Emily had
alluded in her playful attempt to stop the heedless rattle of her brother,
which was not always restrained by a proper regard for the feelings of others.
On the morning
succeeding the day of the dinner at the Hall, Mrs. Wilson, and all her nieces
and her nephew, availed themselves of the fineness of the weather, to walk to
the Rectory, whither they were in the frequent habit of such informal and
friendly visits. They had just cleared the little village of B--, which lay in
their route, as 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 neighbours, the Jarvis’s; yes, yes, that must be the
old merchant muffled up in the corner, which I mistook at first for a pile of
band-boxes; then the rosy-cheek’d lady, with so many feathers, must be the old
lady--heaven forgive me, Mrs. Jarvis I mean --ay, and the two others the
belles.”
“You are in a hurry to
pronounce them belles, John,” cried Jane; “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 horse-back. 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 low cushion 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 apologising for troubling them, he desired to know which road led to
the Deanery. “The right, sir,” 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, as he hastened to beat the dog back from the young lady; and
again he apologised in the same collected and handsome manner-- when 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; he was decidedly
military, 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 different materials altogether.
“I wonder,” said Jane,
as they turned a corner which hid them from view, “who they are?” “Who they
are?” cried her brother, “why the Jarvis’s to be sure; did’nt 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; 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 gentleman who spoke to us, and I was right about the band-boxes.”
“You forget,” said
Clara, with a smile, “the polite inquiry concerning the old gentleman.”
“Ah! true; who 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, you might know more, but it is all guess with you.”
“No, it is not guess--I
am sure of it.”
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,” continued her brother, “if you know,
tell.” “Why, the arms were different, then.”
John laughed as he
said, “that is a good reason, to be sure, for the tilbury being the colonel’s
property; but now for his blood; how did you discover that, sis, by his gait
and movements?”
Jane coloured a little,
and laugh’d faintly, as she said, “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, Colonel Egerton; it had been awkwardly
driven in turning in the deanery gate, and upset: the colonel received some
injury to his ancle, 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 usual
exclamations which follow such details, Jane ventured to inquire of the young
divine who Colonel Egerton was: “Why, 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, smiling;
“indeed, most men of gallantry would, I believe, rejoice in an accident which
drew forth so much sympathy, as the Miss Jarvis’s manifested.”
“How fortunate you
should all happen to be near,” said Clara, compassionately.
“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; and 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 damsels, who took
such evident 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,
who they found reclining on a sofa with his leg in a chair, amply secured in
numerous bandages, but unable to rise; yet, notwithstanding the awkwardness of
his situation, he was by far the least discomposed person of the party, and
having pleasantly excused his dishabille to the ladies, appeared to think no
more of his accident or its effects.
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,
now-a-days, appear to forget that there are any things in the world but
themselves; now I told Harry that your ladyship and daughters would favour 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, madam.”
“It is all one, fish or
birds,” cried Mrs. Jarvis, “he is out of the way when he is wanted most, and I
believe we can buy fish as easily as birds; I wish he would pattern after
yourself, colonel, in these matters.”
Colonel Egerton laughed
pleasantly, but did not blush at this open compliment to his manners, 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, “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,” and preventing the necessity of a reply from her aunt; the young
lady promised to be early in her visit, and the subject changed to a general
and uninteresting discourse on the neighbourhood, country, 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 spirt; but Mrs. Wilson put a stop
to it 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, at least equal to that of
her brother, but 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 in
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 gayeties and splendour 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 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 opinions.
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 favourite niece, went in the baronet’s post chaise to
the town of F--, a distance of twenty miles, to meet him, and convey him 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 conceited they could alone find that comfort and care, their age and
services gave them a claim to. The day was uncommonly pleasant, and the young
people 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 fixed himself comfortably by the side of his sister in the chaise, “let
me know honestly, how you like the Jarvis’s and the handsome colonel.”
“Then, John, honestly,
I neither like nor dislike the Jarvis’s or the handsome colonel, if you must
know.”
“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 our sister, and one I am sure you love as
tenderly as myself.”
“I acknowledge my
error,” said the brother, taking her hand affectionately, “and will endeavour
to offend no more; but this Colonel Egerton, sister, he is certainly a
gentleman, both by blood and in manners, as Jane”--Emily interrupted him with a
laugh at his forgetfulness, which John took very good-naturedly, as he repeated
his observation 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, and I find him set down there 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,” cried John, with a laugh; “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, with a smile; “it will do until the
truth be known.”
“And Jane,” cried her
brother, “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 at times he was
rather addicted to, was silent; and they rode some distance before John, who
was ever as ready to atone as he was to offend, again apologised, 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 homeward.
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, and had been a great beau and courtier
in the commencement of the reign. A disappointment in an affair of the heart,
had driven 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 his figure, he was tall and
spare, very erect for his years, and he faithfully preserved in his attire,
servants, carriages, and indeed every thing around him, as much of the fashions
of his youth, as circumstances would admit of: 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 you bring Emmy with you.”
John pointed to the
window, where his sister stood anxiously watching her uncle’s movements. On
catching her eye, he smiled kindly, as he pursued his way into the house,
talking to himself.
“Ay, 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?” as he stopped
at the door of the room; while John, who in this description could not see a
resemblance, which existed no where 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; for 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 as 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.” “O 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 neighbour. If it be
the person I mean, Emmy dear, he is like--like--ay, 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; while Emily,
smiling at the comparison, 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 to himself, “very like old Peter; as like as two peas;” and the
parallel was by no means as ridiculous as might be supposed.
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, a short time before his stoppage. It was in
elucidating the transaction Mr. Jarvis had paid Benfield Lodge a visit, and
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.
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 the 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 my 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 expect:” (John rolled his eyes at this suggestion of his sister’s
recollection of a man who had been forty years dead, as his uncle continued;) “he
always voted with me in the parliament of this realm; he was a thorough 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 they made a Marquis
of, 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; ay,
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 honours; 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 every where--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 she regretted
him when dead, though she never could abide him when living--ah! she was a
tender-hearted creature!” For 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,
that 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.
“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 at home on his
account; as Mr. Benfield, having composedly put on his spectacles, walked
deliberately up to where the merchant had seated himself, and having examined
him through his glasses to his satisfaction, took them off, and carefully
wiping them, 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, who a kind
of shame had kept silent during this examination, exchanged his 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 not relished by
the ladies of the family, who were not a little 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.”
“And 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; and then
observing her sister to shrink from a familiarity she was unused to, she
replied 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 that 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; and without
waiting for an answer, added, “She is a great belle--all the gentlemen are
dying for her.”
“Or her fortune,” said
her sister, with a contemptuous toss of the head; “for my part, I never could
see any thing 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,” hesitatingly answered the young lady, and colouring
violently as she spoke.
“What do you mean, by
exactly acquainted, Sally?” cried her 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 was happily 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 character of those you don’t know: your
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,” cried 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
plumb 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 eye-lashes, 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
(he whispered) gives me a lecture now and then.”
“Oh ho!” said the lady
in the same tone, with a knowing leer, and pointing slily with her finger at
her own father.
“Does it feel good?”
said John in the same manner, and with a look of great sympathy: but the lady,
who now felt awkwardly, without knowing exactly why, shook her head in silence
as she forced a faint laugh.
“Who have we here?”
cried Captain Jarvis, as he looked through a window which commanded a view of
the approach to the house--“the apothecary and his attendant, judging from
their 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 credit of your cook,
I beg of you;” and as this request was politely seconded by others of the
party, the rector bid them show the strangers in.
On opening the parlour
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, was 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 an indescribable sensation of pleasure. The doctor and
Mrs. Ives rose from their seats involuntarily, and stood each for a moment as
if 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
endeavoured 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, sunk 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 who now, regardless of every thing else,
anxiously watched the enfeebled step of the stranger. On reaching the door,
they both turned and bowed to the company in a manner of much dignity, mingled
with sweetness, that all, not excepting Mr. Benfield, rose from their seats to
return the salutation. On passing from the dining parlour, the door was closed,
leaving the company standing round the table, in mute astonishment and
commiseration, at the scene they had just witnessed. 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 apologising 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
appeared 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 rude, with their
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.
“’T was 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 thought she might have left
it 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-- Lud--I have
forgotten his name; just bring me his name too, Jones; and it may make some
difference in our party, so 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 returned again. With an important look, she commenced her
narrative, the daughters being accidentally present.
“Why ma’am, I went
across the fields, and William was good enough to go with me; so when we got
there, I rung, and they showed us into the servants’ room, and I gave my
message, and the veil was not there. Lord, ma’am, there’s the veil now, on the
back o’ that chair.”--“Very well, very well, Jones, never mind the veil,” cried
her impatient mistress.
“So, madam, while they
were looking for the veil. I just asked one of the maids, what company had
arrived, but”--(here Jones looked very suspiciously, and shook her head
significantly:) “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 would’nt 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.
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 vigour, 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, in very contact with our senses. The eye loves to wander over the
bountiful provisions nature is throwing forth in every direction for our
comfort; and fixing 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, and leads the mind insensibly to dwell on
the things of another and a better world. It was on such a day, 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
child, in the duties of his sacred calling.
Amongst the crowd, whom
curiosity or a better feeling had drawn forth, were to be seen the modern
equipages of the Jarvises, and the handsome carriages of Sir Edward Moseley and
his sister. All the members of this 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 excellency of his education, and the fervour 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, and which had identified itself
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 he 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 chasteneth 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.”
And at the same time 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 demeanour of
Lady Moseley, all was graceful and decent, although nothing could be said to be
studied. She followed her husband with a step of equal deliberation, that was
slightly varied by an observance of a manner which appeared natural to herself,
but might have been artificial to another: her cambric handkerchief concealed
her face as she sunk 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, fixed, as if
in settled gaze, on that eternity to 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
far beyond the limits of this sphere.
There was a
restlessness and varying of colour, 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 form, 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 sunk
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 sensibly 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 his
deliberate separation of the flaps of his coat, as he comfortably seated himself,
when you thought him about to kneel, and followed by a pinch of snuff, as he
threw his eye around in examination of the building, led you at once to
conjecture, that what at first you had 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 his 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, (for some time was 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 struck forcibly on the imaginations of those who witnessed
it, and disposed the heart to listen, with reverence and humility, to precepts
that flowed from 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 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
in his arduous duties, 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 --and casting one
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 for happiness here or hereafter. After having learnedly, but in the most
unaffected manner, displayed the necessity of this dependence, as affording
security against the evils of this life, he proceeded to paint the hope, the
resignation, the felicity of a christian’s death-bed. Warmed by the subject,
his animation had given 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 burthen; 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 had been 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,
with a few exaggerations, by the Jarvis ladies, that gave additional interest
to the whole event; and which, by creating an impression with those, gentler
feelings would not have restrained, there was something of mystery about them;
prevented many distressing questions to the Ives’, 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 unwearied attentions of the
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, was universally supposed to
allude to the rector’s friend.
“Died, suddenly, at
B--, on the 20th instant, George Denbigh, Esq. aged 63.”
During the week, the
intercourse between Moseley-Hall and the Rectory had been 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, they 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 demeanour, loaded with the overstrained ceremony
of his day; and 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 favourable
impressions in behalf of this 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 on account
of the necessity of being civil, and keeping up sociability in the
neighbourhood. 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 have availed himself of
the acquaintance of young Jarvis to place himself in their neighbourhood. 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 selfishness.
The attentions of the
colonel were of the most polished 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 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. In Lady Moseley, her wishes disposed her to be easily
satisfied, and her mind naturally shrunk from an investigation she felt herself
unequal to; while in Mrs. Wilson, it was the conviction of a sound discretion,
matured by long and deep reasoning, acting upon a temper at all times ardent,
and a watchfulness eminently calculated to endure to the end.
“Pray, my lady,” cried
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, madam,”
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 it is to that Mrs. Jarvis alludes.”
“O yes,” cried Mrs.
Jarvis, “the colonel is right;” and 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 Denbigh’s 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 or his son looked much like a duke, or so much as an officer
either,” cried Mrs. Jarvis, who thought the last the next dignity in degree
below nobility.
“There sat, in the
parliament of this realm, when I was a member, a General Denbigh,” said Mr.
Benfield with great 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: ay, the old
admiral was a hearty old blade, a good deal such a looking man as my Hector
would make.” Hector was his bull dog.
“Mercy,” whispered John
to Clara, “that’s your grandfather that is to be, uncle Benfield speaks of.”
Clara smiled, as she
ventured to say, “Sir Peter was Mrs. Ives’ 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?” cried John, with an air of unconquerable
gravity.
“But, sir,” said Emily
with quickness, “were General Denbigh and Admiral Howell related?”
“Not that I ever knew,
Emmy dear,” he replied. “Sir Frederic Denbigh did not look much like the
admiral; he rather resembled (gathering himself up into an air of stiff
formality, and bowing to Colonel Egerton) this gentleman here.”
“I have not the honour
of the connexion,” observed the colonel, as he withdrew behind the chair of
Jane.
Mrs. Wilson changed the
conversation to a more general one; but the little that had fallen from Mr.
Benfield gave reason for believing a connexion, in some way they were ignorant
of, existed between the descendants of the 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 his
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 favourite sentiments; he had read poetry, and a remark of
his had 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
favourite beauties, it gave place to that 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 laboured 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 upon,
and in works of the imagination, she found her greatest delight. An animated
discussion of the merits of their favourite 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, was 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,” cried 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 coloured, 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 such vengeance.
“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
ardour, shrunk with fastidious delicacy from the indulgence of a perverted
taste, when exposed to her view, 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 others in good humour 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 in relation to their military beaux. 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,
or added force even to the oracles of wisdom. She laboured 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 ardour 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,
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,” replied
he. “I have much reason to regret, that our service laid 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 began to steal over her; as 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 endeavoured 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?” commenced Mrs. Wilson, with a smile.
“Oh! aunt, don’t ask
me,” said her niece, laughingly, “as John says, they are new indeed.”
“I am not sorry,”
continued the aunt, “to have you observe more closely than you have been used
to, the manner of such women as the Jarvis’s; they are too abrupt and
unpleasant to create a dread of any imitation; but the gentlemen are heroes in
very different style.”
“Different from each
other, indeed,” cried Emily.
“Which do you give the
preference to, 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, every thing 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 his being in the wrong.”
“And is he in the
wrong?”
Emily looked up from
arranging some laces, with an expression of surprise, as she replied, “did you
not hear him talk of those poems, and attempt to point out the beauties of
several works? I thought every thing 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 there was such a thing as principle: and then he
spoke of some woman to Jane, who left her father for her lover, with so much
admiration of her feelings, to take up with poverty and love, 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,
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 generous feelings of our nature, I am afraid, are corrupted
in him, from too much 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 endeavour, I believe, to be 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, or to obtain new ones from a proper source; he has copied
from bad models, and his work must necessarily be imperfect”--and kissing her
niece, she retired into her own room, with the happy assurance, that she had
not laboured 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
strait through the devious paths of female duties.
A month now passed in
the ordinary avocations and amusements of a country life, and 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. And in Jane it was yet more
inexplicable; for Jane had, in a decided way very common to her, avowed her
disgust of the manners of these new associates on their first acquaintance; and
yet Jane would now even quit her own society for that of Miss Jarvis,
especially--if Colonel Egerton were of the party. The innocence of Emily
prevented her scanning the motives which could induce such a change in the
conduct of her sister; and she set seriously about an examination into her own
deportment to find the latent cause, and wherever opportunity offered, to
evince the tenderness of her own affections.
For a short time, the
colonel had seemed at a loss where to make his choice; but a few days
determined him, and Jane was now evidently the favourite. 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 excursions, the colonel
suddenly became a sportsman. The ladies would often accompany them in their
morning rides; 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
their progress. Francis was a favourite 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 colour into the
cheeks of his intended, who suffered herself to be handed into the vacant seat
of 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 equestrians to ride fast 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 almost of Colonel Egerton and Jane, “why you ride like a
jockey, captain; better than any amateur I have ever seen, unless indeed it be
your sister;” and the lady, encouraged by his commendations, whipped on,
followed by her brother and sister at half speed.
“There, Emily,” said
John, as he quietly dropped 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, as he went on:
“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 tythes a dozen times already.”
And 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 in love. Clara, who had no
spice of coquetry, promised to be his as soon as he was inducted, which 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
voids in future 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 turn’d 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, as she crossed the threshold; 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 the appearance
of interest in what he said; and Emily thought him at that moment, for the
first time, as handsome as he was reputed generally. 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;
and I wish you joy of it with all my heart: Mr. Moseley tells me it is a
capital good thing.”
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 on
their return 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 with her sister and daughters, 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
wished 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, but with difficulty restrained her tears. This appeal to
the best feelings of the mother triumphed; and she yielded her love of
splendour, to her love for 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,
re-seated herself, calmly awaiting his entrance: “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 she said to herself, the politeness of Colonel Egerton
might not keep him in waiting for her. Lady Moseley resumed her seat by the
side of her sister with an air of great complacency, as having seen her
daughter happily off, she returned from the window. For some time, each was
occupied quietly with her needle, for neither neglected their more useful
employments in that way, in compliance with the fashions of the day, when Mrs.
Wilson suddenly broke the silence with saying,
“Who is Colonel
Egerton?”
Lady Moseley looked up
for a moment in amazement, but recollecting herself, answered, “nephew and heir
of Sir Edgar Egerton, sister.” This was spoken in a rather positive way, as if
it were to be 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 yet 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 so,
Charlotte; and 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 improper to be granted, is a very venial offence, I believe,”
replied Mrs. Wilson, with a smile; “and I confess I think it improper to allow
any attentions to be forced on us, that may subject us to disagreeable
consequences in any way; but the attentions of Colonel Egerton are becoming
marked, Anne.”
“Do you for a moment
doubt their being honourable, or that he dares to trifle with a daughter of Sir
Edward Moseley?” said the mother with a shade of indignation.
“I should hope not,
certainly,” replied her aunt, “although it may be well to guard against such
misfortunes too; but I am of opinion it is quite as important, to know whether
he is worthy to be her husband, as it is that he be serious in his intentions
of becoming 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 upon; 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 more important requisites, without evidence of his possessing them. His
principles, his habits, his very character, what do we know of it? I say we,
for you know, Anne, that your children are as dear to me as my own would have
been.”
“I believe you
sincerely,” said Lady Mosley; “but these 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 controul the affections of my children.”
“Had you said, never to
force the affections of your children, you would have said enough, Anne; but,
to controul, or rather guide the affections of a child, especially a daughter,
is a duty in some cases, as imperious as it would be to avert any other
impending calamity. Surely the 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 this interference of the parents,” said Lady Moseley,
adhering to her opinions.
“True; for to be of
use, it should not be seen, unless in extraordinary cases. You will pardon me,
Anne, but I have often thought parents are generally in extremes; either
determined to make the election for their children, or leaving them entirely to
their own flattered vanity and inexperience, to govern not only their own
lives, but I may say, leave an impression on future generations. And after all,
what is this love? nineteen cases in twenty of what we call affairs of the
heart would be better termed affairs of the imagination.”
“And, is there not a
great deal of imagination in all love?” inquired Lady Moseley, with a smile.
“Undoubtedly there is
some; but there is one difference, which I take to be this: 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 favours, 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?”
“Those in which the
heart takes the lead-- these generally follow from long intercourse, or the
opportunity of judging the real character--and are the only ones 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 her sister to look, as
if requiring 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 these principles, that I feel no apprehension that Emily will
ever allow her affections to be ensnared by a man of the evident opinions and
views of Colonel Egerton. I am impressed with a two fold duty in watching the
feelings of my charge; she has so much singleness of heart, such real strength
of pure native feeling, that should an improper man gain possession of her
affections, the struggle between her duty and her love would be weighty indeed,
but should it have proceeded so far as to make it her duty to love an unworthy
object, I am sure she would sink under it; but Jane would only awake from a
dream, and, for a while, be wretched.”
“I thought you
entertained a better opinion of Jane, sister,” said Lady Moseley,
reproachfully.
“I think her admirably
calculated by nature to make an invaluable wife and mother; but she is so much
under the influence of her fancy, that it is seldom she gives her heart an
opportunity of displaying its excellencies; 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
then 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 entrusted to my care.”
Francis, who laboured
with the ardour of a lover, under the influence of newly awakened stimulus,
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, her 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 great 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 keeping 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 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 for their happiness. 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 their daughters. Jane and Emily had 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; he at first intimated his intention of calling on
Mr. Benfield in that capacity, but 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, 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 attending them. This answer arrived only the day preceding that fixed for
the wedding, and at the very moment they were expecting his lordship in his
proper person.
“There,” cried Jane, in
a kind of triumph, “I told you, you were silly in sending 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 Mar-plot.”
“Jenny, Jenny, you are
a make-plot,” said John, as he coolly took up his hat to leave the room.
“Which way, my son?”
said the baronet, as he met him on his own entrance.
“To the deanery, sir,
to try to get Captain Jarvis to act as brides-maid--I beg his pardon,
grooms-man, to-morrow--Chatterton has been thrown from a horse, and can’t come.”
“John!”
“Jenny!”
“I am sure,” said Jane,
indignation glowing in her countenance, “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, you ask the colonel.”
“Your ladyship’s wishes
are orders to me,” said John, gayly kissing his hand as he left the room.
As 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 was the only person
present at the ceremony, who did not stand within the bonds of consanguinity to
either of the parties--He was invited by the baronet to dine at the hall, and
notwithstanding the repeated injunctions of Mrs. Jarvis and her daughters, to
return to them immediately with an account of the dress of the bride, and other
important items of a similar nature, the colonel accepted the invitation. On
reaching the hall, Emily retired to her own room, and on her entrance at
dinner, the paleness of her cheeks and 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, to those who were
losers by the change. The day, however, passed off tolerably well for those who
are expected to be happy, 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, wore his gayety
in a less graceful manner than usual, and was observed by his aunt, to look
with moistened eyes at the vacant chair a servant had, from habit, placed 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 with you?”
The wine was drank, and
the beef succeeded by game; 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
house-keepers delight so 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 apologising
to the colonel for his absence, on the plea of some business with his people,
left the room.
The attentions of
Colonel Egerton to both mother and daughter were of the most delicate kind; he
spoke of Clara, as if his situation as grooms-man to her husband, entitled him
to an interest in her welfare--with John he was kind and sociable, and even
Mrs. Wilson acknowledged, after he took his leave, that he possessed a
wonderful faculty of making himself agreeable, and began to think that, under
all circumstances, he might possibly prove as advantageous a connexion as Jane
could expect to form. Had any one have proposed him as a husband for Emily, her
affection would have quickened her judgment to a decision, true to the best,
the only interest of her charge--the rejection of a man whose principles
offered no security for his conduct.
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, as he left the room to meet them--The mother of Sir Edward
was a daughter of this family, and sister to the grandfather of the present
lord. The connexion had always been kept up with the show of cordiality between
Sir Edward and his cousin, although their manner of living and habits in common
were very different. The baron was a courtier and a place-man; 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, both his duty, and the
observance of his promise to his wife’s father, required at his hands. He had
been dead a couple of years, and his son found himself saddled with the support
of an unjointured mother and unportioned sisters. Money was not the idol
worshipped by the young lord, nor even pleasure; he was affectionate to his
surviving parent, and his first act was to settle during his own life, two
thousand pounds a year upon 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 exclaimed with something like
horror at the proposal.
“Why 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 policy to Mrs. Wilson,
but was lost on his lordship; he, poor soul, thinking she meant it as
convenient to support the interest he had been making for the place held by his
father; one of more emolument than service or even honour. The contending
parties were so equally matched, that the situation was kept as it were in
abeyance, waiting the arrival of some newcomer to the strength of one or other
of the claimants--the interest of the peer had began to lose ground at the
period we speak of, and his careful mother saw new motives for her activity in
providing for her children in the lottery of life. Mrs. Wilson herself could
not be more vigilant in examining the candidates for her daughter’s favours,
than was the dowager Lady Chatterton--it is true, the task of the former lady
was by far the most arduous, as it involved a study of character and
development of principle, while that of the latter would have been finished by
the development of a rent-roll--provided it contained five figures in the sum
total of its amount. Sir Edward’s was known to contain that number, and two of
them were not cyphers. Mr. Benfield was rich, and John Moseley 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 any thing
in his power to grant, and who was particularly dutiful, when a visit to
Moseley Hall was in the question, suffered himself to be persuaded his shoulder
was well, and they left town the day before the wedding, thinking to be in time
for all the gayeties, 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
colour, 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 a friendship between the young men at
college, and had been maintained ever since, by a perfect regard for each
others dispositions, and respect for each others characters. 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 disponser 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 empressement of good breeding, which so
eminently distinguished the manners of his wife.
The honourable Miss
Chattertons 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
favourite of Emily Moseley--Nothing of the strained or sentimental nature,
which so often characterise what is called female friendship, 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 checquered with such passions, her own sisters were too
near her own age, to suffer her to think of a confidence, to which the holy
ties of natural affection did not give a claim to a participation in. Mrs. Wilson
had found it necessary, to give her charge very differing views on many
subjects, from what 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 any thing, more respectful to her parents, more
affectionate to her friends, than any of her connexions; for in her the warmth
of natural feelings 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 equal claims upon her partiality from
ordinary associations, and as such, she now received her with kindness and
affection.
In Catherine, Jane, who
had not felt satisfied with the ordering of providence for the disposal of her
sympathies, and had felt a restlessness that prompted her to look abroad for a
confiding spirit to communicate her-- secrets she had none her delicacy would
suffer her to reveal--but to communicate the crude opinions and reflections of
her ill-regulated mind to. Catherine, however, had not stood the test of trial.
For a short time, the love of heraldry had 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
neighbourhood--a really delicate female mind, shrinks from the exposure of its
love to the other sex, and Jane began to be less uneasy, to form a connexion,
which would either violate the sensibility of her nature, or lead to treachery
to her friend.
“I regret extremely, my
lady,” said the dowager, as they entered the drawing room, “the accident which
befel Chatterton, should have kept us until too late for the ceremony; but we
made it a point to hasten with our congratulations, as soon as Astley Cooper
thought it safe for him to travel.”
“I feel indebted for
your ladyship’s kindness,” replied her smiling hostess; “we are always happy to
have our friends around us, and none more than yourself and family. We were
fortunate, however, in finding a friend to supply your son’s place, that the
young people might go to the altar in a proper manner--Lady Chatterton, allow
me to present our friend, Colonel Egerton”--and speaking in a low tone, and
with a manner of a little consequence--“ heir to Sir Edgar.”
The colonel had bowed
gracefully, and the dowager dropped a hasty curtsey at the commencement of the
speech; but a lower bend followed the closing remark, and a glance of the eye
was thrown in quest of her daughters, as if insensibly wishing to bring them to
their proper places.
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 an irresistible desire to mingle their anticipation of future
happiness to the new married couple, with those most interested in them; and
Francis had promised his father to ride over in the course of the day. Emily
longed to inquire after Clara, from whom she appeared already to have been
separated a month. Her impatience, as they approached the house, hurried her on
ahead of her companions, who waited the more sober gait of her aunt. She
entered the parlour at the rectory without meeting any one; glowing with the
unusual exercise of her speed, and her hair falling over her shoulder, released
from the confinement of the hat she had, oppressed with the heat, thrown down
hastily as she gained the door. In the room there stood a gentleman in deep
black, with his back toward the entrance, intent on a book he held in his hand,
and she concluded at once it was Francis.
“Where is dear Clara,
Frank?” cried the beautiful girl, laying 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 would
never be forgotten at B--.
“I thought--I thought,
sir,” said Emily, almost sinking with confusion, “Mr. Francis Ives--”
“Your brother has not
yet arrived, Miss Moseley,” replied the stranger, in a voice of peculiar tones,
and the manner of a perfect gentleman--“I will acquaint Mrs. Ives with your
visit;” and bowing, he delicately left the room.
Emily, who felt
insensibly relieved by his manner, and the nice allusion to her connexion with
Francis, as explaining her familiarity--immediately restored her hair to its
proper bounds, and had recovered her composure by the time her aunt and friends
joined her--she hastily mentioned the incident, laughing at her own
precipitation, when Mrs. Ives came into the room.
Chatterton and his
sister were both known to her, and both favourites; she was pleased to see
them, and after reproaching the brother with compelling her son to ask a favour
of a comparative stranger, she smilingly turned to Emily, and said--
“You found the parlour
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”-and
a servant 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, madam,” and in an easy, but respectful manner, took his place
with the guests, no introduction passed, and none seemed 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. Every thing was natural, yet every thing was softened by education;
and the little party in the rector’s parlour, in fifteen minutes, felt as if they
had known him for years. The doctor and his son now joined them--Clara was
looking forward in delightful expectation of to-morrow, and wished greatly for
Emily as a guest at her 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 her 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, gayly; “go on, and
say and do nothing that either can disapprove of, when tested by the standard
of duty, and you need never be afraid of losing a friend that is worth the
keeping.”
“The removal of a young
woman from her own home to that of her husband, must give birth to many
melancholy reflections,” observed Denbigh to Francis, with a smile, and the
subject was dropped.
It was three o’clock
before the carriage of Mrs. Wilson, which had been directed to come for them,
arrived at the rectory; and the time had stolen away insensibly in free and
friendly communications between the doctor’s guests and his wife, for he
himself had returned with his son to dine at Bolton some time previously.
Denbigh had joined modestly, and with the degree of interest a stranger could
be supposed to feel, in the occurrences of a circle he was nearly a stranger
to; there was at times a slight display of awkwardness, both about himself and
Mrs. Ives, for which Mrs. Wilson easily accounted by the recollections of his
recent loss, and the scene that very room had witnessed; but which 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 pleasing in his manner.”
“Ay, my lord, and in
his matter too, judging of the little we have seen of him,” replied Mrs.
Wilson.
“Who is he, madam?”
“Why, I rather suspect
he is some way related to Mrs. Ives; her staying from Bolton to-day, must be
owing to Mr. Denbigh, and as the doctor has gone, he must be just near enough
to them, neither to be wholly neglected, or a tax upon their politeness; I
rather wonder he did not go with them.”
“I heard him tell
Francis,” said Emily, “he would not think of intruding, and he insisted on Mrs.
Ives going, but she had employment 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, and on the estate of the former. Mrs.
Wilson stopped a moment to inquire after an aged pensioner of her’s, who had
lately met with a loss in his business, she was fearful must have distressed
him greatly. In crossing a ford in the little river between his cottage and the
market-town, the stream, which had been unexpectedly higher than usual by heavy
rains above, had swept away his horse and cart, loaded with the entire produce
of his small field---with much difficulty he had saved his own life. Mrs.
Wilson had it not until now in her power to inquire particularly into the
affair, and offer that relief she felt 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 his door, as he
pointed out the excellent qualities of both. He ceased on the approach of his
benefactress on so many former occasions, and, at her request, gave a particular
account of the affair.
“And where did you get
the 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, madam, and this noble
horse, and twenty golden guineas into the bargain, to put me upon 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, madam; the
servants told me, he called to see the earl, on his way to Lonnon, but finding
he’d went a few days agone to Ireland, my lord went for Lonnon, without
stopping the night even. Ah! madam,” continued the old man, as he stood leaning
on his 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, on 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 savour 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
father of these children, is a soldier in the --th dragoons, of which the earl
is colonel, and that accounts to me for the liberality of the donation,”
recollecting, with a sigh, the feelings which had drawn herself out of the
usual circles of her charities, in the case of the same man.
“Did you ever see the
earl, aunt?” inquired Emily, gently.
“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 in 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 ride.
General Wilson had been
a cavalry officer, and commanded the same 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 his praises --his bravery--his goodness to the soldiery-- and when he
fell, he had been supported from the field, and died in the arms of his
youthful friend. A letter announcing his death, had been received by his widow
from the earl, and the tenderness and affectionate manner of speaking of her
husband, had taken a deep hold on her affections--All the circumstances
together, had thrown an interest around him that had made Mrs. Wilson almost
entertain the romantic wish he might be found worthy of, and disposed to
solicit the hand of her Emily. Her inquiries into his character had been
attended with such answers as flattered her wishes; but the service 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 image was connected
with some of the most tender, although most melancholy recollections of her
life.
Colonel Egerton, who
now appeared 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 learnt that Sir Edgar’s heir was likely to have
the necessary number of figures in the sum total of his revenue. 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 abilities of the mother had for a long time
been staggered with discovering a way of bringing in the foot also. In vain her
daughter hinted at dancing, an amusement she was passionately fond of, as the
proper theatre for this exhibition. The wary mother knew too well the effects
of concentrated force to leave it out of the combat. After a great deal of
experimentizing in her own person, she endeavoured to correct Catherine for her
manner of sitting, and by dint of twisting and turning, she contrived that her
pretty foot and ancle should be thrown forward in such a way, that the eye
dropping from the move, should rest on this beauteous object; thus giving, as
it were, a Scylla and Charybdis to her daughter’s charms.
John Moseley was the
first person she undertook to try the effect of her invention upon a few months
before; 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, in triumph, 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, and 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 there,” and coolly taking up his hat he
walked off, nor could they ever get him seated again.
“You beat me too
easily, Miss Chatterton,” he would say, when pressed to play, “before I have
time to look up, it’s checkmate--excuse me”--and the dowager 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 no material captures, at least on one side.
Colonel Egerton entered
on the duties of his dangerous undertaking, with all the indifference of
fool-hardiness; and the game was played with tolerable ability by either party;
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 checkmate could she obtain, until wilfully throwing away an advantage,
he suffered the lady to win the game--and the dowager was satisfied nothing
could be done with the colonel.
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, as she impatiently waited his removing some slight obstruction to her
alighting, “thank you, thank you, that will do,” and 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, modestly withdrawing, as if unwilling to
intrude on such pure and domestic feelings as the sisters exposed, unconscious
of a witness-- her aunt and Jane, followed by Miss Chatterton, now entered, and
cordial salutes and greetings flowed upon Clara from her various friends.
The baronet’s coach had
reached the door; in it were 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 Mosely forgot her form, and bursting into
tears, pressed her with ardour 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--every thing in good order 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, as he ascended the steps slowly, to the
entrance--“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,” and 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, and turning, she observed to Denbigh, “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?” said Mr. Benfield; and then, turning an inquiring look on the figure of
the young man, he added, “you don’t look much like him.”
“That is rather before
my day, sir,” said Denbigh, with a smile, and 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 replied by saying--
“True, true, that was
sixty years ago; you can hardly recollect so 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, now drink their port;
aye! and those who went bare-foot, must have their shoes and stockings too.
Luxury, sir, and the love of ease, will ruin this mighty empire; corruption has
taken hold of every thing; the ministry buy the members, the members buy the
ministry---every thing is bought and sold; now, sir, in the parliament I had 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 I always liked his
ways; how was he related to you, sir?”
“He was my grandfather,”
replied Denbigh, with a benevolent smile, and looking at Emily. Had the old man
continued his speech an hour longer, Denbigh would not have complained; he had
stopped while talking, and thus confronted him with the beautiful figure that
supported his left arm. Denbigh had contemplated in admiration, the varying
countenance, which now blushed with apprehension, and now smiled in affection,
or 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 parlour, though for his life he could not recollect a
word he had said.
The Haughtons, the
Jarvises, and a few others of their intimate acquaintances, now arrived, and
the parsonage had the air of a busy scene; 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-inhand.
Lady Chatterton had
begun to be seriously uneasy, and 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 him so late, whose
horses were so evidently fleet; accordingly she met them in great spirits,
with--
“Upon my word, Mr.
Moseley, I began to think you had taken the road to Scotland with my daughter,
you staid so long.”
“Your daughter, my Lady
Chatterton,” said John, cooly, “would neither go to Scotland with me, or any
other man, or I am deceived in her character--Clara, my sister, how do you do,”
and he saluted the bride with great warmth.
“But what detained you,
Moseley?” inquired his mother.
“One of the horses was
restive, and broke the harness, and I 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; and as she always does, like an angel,” said
John, with fervour.
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, 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;
and John felt flattered to a degree, that, 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. But managers too often overdo their
work. “Grace is a good girl,” said her mother; “and you found her very valiant,
Mr. Moseley?” “Oh, as brave as Cćsar,” answered John, carelessly, and in a way
that proved he was ironical. Grace, whose burning cheeks showed but too
plainly, that praise from John Moseley was an incense too powerful for her
resistance, now sunk back behind some of the company, endeavouring to conceal
the tears that almost gushed from her eyes; as Denbigh, who had been a silent
spectator of the whole scene, observed, that he had seen an improvement which
would obviate the difficulty Mr. Moseley had experienced; John turned to the
speaker, and was about to reply, for he had heard of his being at the rectory
the day before, as the tilbury of Colonel Egerton drove to the door, containing
himself and his friend the captain.
The bride undoubtedly
received congratulations on that day, more sincere than what were now offered,
but none were delivered in a more graceful and insinuating manner than those
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, appeared fixed at the centre of all attraction to him. “There
is a gentleman 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.
“Yes, it is Mr.
Denbigh, of whom you heard us speak,” replied Mrs. Wilson; and 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 such as was inexplicable
to Mrs. Wilson, the only observer of this singular recognition, for such it
evidently was; all was natural in the colonel--for the moment, his colour
sensibly changed, and there was a peculiar expression 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 and him to avoid each other, had they
wished it; and 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, when the colonel, who was not
exactly at ease, said hastily,
“Mr. Denbigh is, or has
been, in the army too, I believe.”
Denbigh now started in
his turn; he cast a look on Egerton of fixed and settled meaning; and said
carelessly, but still as if requiring an answer,
“I am, sir, yet; but do
not recollect having the pleasure of seeing Colonel Egerton in the service.”
“Your countenance is
familiar, sir,” replied the colonel, carelessly, “but at this moment, I cannot
tax my memory with the place of our meeting,” and he changed the discourse. It
was some time, however, before either gentleman recovered his ease, and many
days elapsed ere any thing like intercourse passed between them; the colonel
attached himself during this visit to Jane, with occasional notices of the Miss
Jarvises, 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
were, on the other hand, entertained by the conversations of Chatterton and
Denbigh, with occasional sallies from the lively John. There was something in
the person and manner of Denbigh, that insensibly attracted towards him those
whom fortune threw in his way. His face was not strikingly handsome, but it was
noble; and when he smiled, or was much animated with any emotion, it did not
fail invariably to communicate a spark of his own enthusiasm to the beholder;
his figure was faultless--his air and manner, if less easy than that of Colonel
Egerton, was more sincere and ingenuous, his breeding clearly high, and his
respect rather bordering on the old school; but in his voice there existed a
charm, which would make him, when he spoke of love that he felt, to a female
ear, almost resistless; it was soft, deep, melodious.
“Baronet,” said the
rector, with a smile on his son and daughter-in-law, “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 baronet, good humouredly.
“Do you hear that, my
Lady Chatterton,” cried John, who had just taken a seat by Grace, as her mother
approached them.
“I hear it, but do not
see the application, Mr. Moseley.”
“No, my lady! why there
is the honourable Miss Chatterton, almost dying to play a game of her favourite
chess with Mr. Denbigh; she has beat us all but him, you know.”
And as Denbigh politely
offered to meet the challenge, the board was produced; and the lady attended,
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--“Well,” thought
John, as he viewed the players, while listening with pleasure to the opinions
of Grace, who had recovered her composure and spirits; “Kate has played one
game without using her feet.”
Ten days or a fortnight
now 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 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,
at an hour rather unusual for his visits; throwing down his hat, after making the
usual inquiries, he began,
“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 honour 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 the 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 now, 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, and
some little dread.
“I neither approve or
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 Mr. Haughton; “I had thought I recollected your advising
your son, never to dance or play at games of chance.”
“You thought right, my
friend,” said the doctor, laying down his newspaper; “I gave that advice to
Frank---I do not object to dancing as innocent in itself, and as elegant
exercise, but it is like drinking, generally carried to excess; and as a
Christian, I am opposed to all excesses; the music and company lead to
intemperance in the recreation, and it often induces neglect of duties---but so
may any thing else.”
“I like a game of
whist, doctor, greatly,” said Mr. Haughton, “but observing 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; “but 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 your own remark, the last time, which was yesterday, I
called to see you--- that Sir Edward was wrong in letting that poacher off so
easily as he did; 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 have, and
that was rude.”
“Rude! I hope,
sincerely, Sir Edward has put no such construction on it;” and 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,” cried
John, with a droll look 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 would hurt him in
the opinions of those his influence is necessary with, and impair his
usefulness; therefore clergymen should never dance---In the same way with
cards; they are the common instruments of gambling, and an odium attached to
them, on that account; women and clergymen must respect the prejudices of
mankind, in some cases, or hurt 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, my good friend; it would
be a greater evil to wound the feelings of such a neighbour as Mr. Haughton,
than to show my face once at a ball---as innocent as your’s will be;” and
rising, he laid his hand on his shoulder kindly. “Both your scandal and
rudeness are easily forgiven; but I wished to show you the common error of the
world---that 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, with the view of his object, and laying a handful of notes on the
table, hoped he should have the pleasure of seeing them all; 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,” replied Emily, with a playful smile, and stealing a look at the rector.
“Admonitions are
generally thrown away on young ladies, when pleasure is in the question,” said
the doctor, overhearing her as she intended, and 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 greatly; if it is to be made subsidiary to envy, malice,
coquetry, vanity, or any other such little, lady-like accomplishment,” replied
the doctor, good-homouredly, “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 little 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, and played
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, or loved him, from
the manner Emily listened to his conversation.
“Will Miss Moseley
forgive a bold request I have to urge,” said Denbigh, with some hesitation.
Emily looked up from
her work in silence, but with some little flutterings at the heart, occasioned
by his peculiar manner--“the honour of her hand for the first dance,” said
Denbigh, observing her in expectation 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 approved
of--his qualities were those which insensibly gained on the heart, and 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 favourably; 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 lips that command respect
from a reputation for intelligence, and which are probably suggested by a
desire to please the very listener who hears them. In short, Mrs. Wilson knew,
that as our happiness chiefly interested 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 good or evil
in a 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 was very influential 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 immediate steps to be taken. Every day
gave her, what she thought, melancholy proof of the ill consequences of
neglecting our 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 favourite 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; it was 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 acted generally as soon as she had decided, followed
him in silence. As their conversations were known often to relate to little
offices of charity they both delighted in, the movement excited no surprise,
and she entered the library with the doctor, uninterrupted by any one else.
“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; and 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 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 fervour, “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 with a smile.
His fortune was of but
little moment; Emily would be amply provided, for all the customary necessaries
of her station; and Mrs. Wilson thanking the divine, returned to the parlour,
easy in her 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 any thing more than
unavoidable courtesies had passed between them, and the colonel appeared
slightly uneasy under his 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 to account for; 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 from which to discover the truth, and supposing after all it might be her
imagination only, she turned to more pleasant reflections.
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; as their good hearted host would
sing, “to dance away care:”--e’er, however, she could make out to scan the
countenances of the beaux, young Jarvis, decked in the full robes of his
dignity, as captain in the-- foot, approached and solicited the honour 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 favour conferred on them, from the anxiety his sisters 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.
As Clara had prudently
decided to comport herself as a clergyman’s wife, and had declined dancing in
future; Catherine Chatterton was the lady 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; she 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 his
promised honour, Emily thought him, if not as handsome, much more interesting
than Colonel Egerton, who passed them in 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, 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; he had, by
the aid of a pint of wine and his own reflections, 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 fastened on Jarvis, as a man
at leisure to keep him company, in his favourite libations; 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 from him.
There is a certain set
of men in every service, who imbibe notions of bloodshed, and indifference to
human life, that is revolting to humanity, and too often, fatal in its results;
their morals are never correct, and what little they have sets 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 honour 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 honour---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; but which 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, he would have quietly gone home and gone to sleep.
“Have you ever fought,”
said Captain Digby cooly to his companion, as they seated themselves in his
father’s parlour, 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, “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,” cried his friend, eyeing him keenly; “where were you hit?”
“He hit me all over.”
“All over--did you use
small shot? How did you fight?”
“With fists,” said
Jarvis, yawning; and his companion seeing how the matter was, rung 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
honour of her acquaintance, and a 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 where she sat; he stammered, said
something she could not understand, and precipitately withdrew; and although
both herself 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 colour to her cheeks, with a
glow that was painful. Sir Herbert smiled, and observed 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,” said 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 to where she sat, moved her face on either
side rapidly, in search of some one who was apparently not to be found; the
undulations of her bosom perceptibly increased, and John was on the point of
speaking to her, as the dowager stepped 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 must not ask Grace to dance; she can refuse you nothing,
and she has been up the two last figures.”
“Your wishes are
irresistible, Lady Chatterton,” said John, as he coolly turned 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 two last
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 every thing that is agreeable, if --if it
were not for mother Chatterton”--- and he led out one of the prettiest girls in
the room.
Col. Egerton was
peculiarly adapted to the ball room; he danced gracefully and with spirit; was
perfectly at home with all the usages of the best society, and 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---was respectful
---his tastes were her tastes---his opinions her opinions---On the formation of
their acquaintance, they had differed in some trifling point of poetical
criticism, and for near a month the colonel had maintained his opinion, with a
show of firmness; but as opportunities were 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 heart devoted to her service, 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
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 that principle which was to teach her submission
in opposition to her wishes, that principle that could alone afford her
security against the treachery of her own passions, she was a stranger to.
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 will soon be, a
perfect hero.” Her aunt, somewhat surprised, both with the abruptness and force
of the remark, inquired her meaning--“Oh, Jane will make him one, whether or
no.” This was spoken with a show of vexation in her niece 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,
as she acknowledged her error; but added, that she felt a momentary irritation
at the idea, that a man of Colonel Egerton’s character, should gain 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 honoured herself, she took
as a matter of course; and that, when the veil was removed she had helped to
throw before her own eyes, 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, in
averting a similar, or what she thought would prove a heavier misfortune, from
her own charge. 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 required by her professions. 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 endeavouring 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 guileess 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 of; in person, she
was of the middle size, exquisitely formed, graceful and elastic in her step,
without 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 colour rather high, but varying with every emotion of
her bosom; her feelings 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 an union with purity--sense--principles, like those of
Emily, would be more---it would be blissful.”
Mrs. Ives smiled at her
husband’s animation, as she observed, “you remind me more of the romantic youth
I once knew, than of the grave divine before me. There is but one man I know,
that I could wish, now, to give Emily to; it is Lumley---if Lumley sees her, he
will woo her; and if he woos, he will win her.”
“And Lumley I believe to
be worthy of her,” cried the rector, as he retired for the night.
The following day
brought a large party of the military beaux 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
she felt an interest in, there were few sacrifices of her own propensities, she
would not cheerfully have made---it was this very love for her offspring, that
made her anxious to dispose of her daughters in wedlock; her own marriage had
been so happy, she naturally concluded it the state most likely to insure the
happiness of her children; and with Lady Moseley, as with thousands of others,
who, averse or unequal to the labours 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 ride over in the evening yet.”
Looks of a singular
cast were exchanged between Colonel Egerton and Sir Herbert Nicholson, at the
mention of Denbigh’s name; which, as the latter had just asked the favour 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
withdrew; with an indefinite suspicion of something wrong, she ventured to
address Sir Herbert with,
“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; and 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; but the soldier affecting
not to hear the question, 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 did, sir;” Jarvis, in his
turn, affected not to hear this speech, and nothing further was said, as Sir
Edward saw the name of Mr. Denbigh excited a sensation amongst his guests he
was unable to account for, 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, which he had been
a witness to that morning, while on a visit to Denbigh at the rectory: as
sitting in the parlour by themselves over their breakfast, a Captain Digby was
announced, and asked in.
“I have the honour 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, “that
Lord Chatterton cannot be privy to; if he will excuse the interruption.” The
nobleman bowed, and Captain Digby, a little lowered by the rank of Denbigh’s
friend, proceeded in a more easy manner.
“Captain Jarvis has
empowered me, sir, to make any arrangement with yourself or friend, previous to
your meeting, which he hopes may be as soon as possible, if convenient to
yourself,” replied the soldier cooly.
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 honour to himself,” said the captain, with an affectation
of 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,”
asked Digby, “will it be convenient to give him the meeting?” and 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 cannot ever give a
meeting to Captain Jarvis, with hostile intentions,” replied Denbigh, calmly.
“Sir!”
“I decline the combat,
Sir,” said Denbigh, speaking with firmness.
“Your reasons, Sir, if
you please,” asked Captain Digby, compressing his lips, and drawing up in an
air of personal interest.
“Surely,” cried
Chatterton, who had with difficulty restrained his feelings, “surely Mr.
Denbigh could never so far forget himself, as 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 blood-shed.”
“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
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, as his
fighting friend entered. “Well,” said Jarvis, in a low tone.
“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,” cried
Jarvis, in surprise; “engaged, perhaps.”
“Engaged to his
conscience,” exclaimed Digby, with an oath.
“To his conscience! I
do not know I rightly understand you, Captain Digby,” said Jarvis, catching his
breath, and raising his voice a 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 a waiter for a fresh supply.
“He shall.”
“I don’t know how you
will make him,” said Digby, cooly.
“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 takes the matter up with warmth; if I were not afraid of his
interest 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 great contempt.
“Yes, yes,” said
Jarvis, “it would hurt my views.”
“Here’s to the health
of His Majesty’s gallant -- regiment of foot,” cried Captain Digby, in a tone
of irony, 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 candour,
almost sickened him with the apprehension of his being a successful one. The
ladies were not slow in expressing their disgust with 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 admired the consistent refusal of
admitting any collateral inducements, in explanation of his decision; while the
latter, at the same time she saw the act in its true colours and elevated
principle, could hardly keep from believing that a regard for her feelings had,
in a trifling degree, its influence in his declining 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 kept upon all he said or did, as likely to elucidate his real
character, well knowing that the requisites to bring or 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 favourite principle,
as a besetting sin.
Sir Edward Moseley had
some difficulty in restraining the impetuosity of his son from taking some
hasty step, in resenting this impertinent interference of young Jarvis, in the
conduct of his favourite sister; indeed, he 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 a
quarrel in any manner. It was seldom the good baronet felt himself called upon
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 his application; and hinting the necessity, if the affair was not
amicably terminated, of protecting the peace of mind of his daughters against
similar exposures in future, by declining the acquaintance of a neighbour he
respected as much as Mr. Jarvis.
The merchant was a man
of few words, but great promptitude; he had made his fortune, and more than
once saved it, by his decision; and coolly assuring the baronet he should hear
no more of it, at least in a disagreeable way, took his hat and walked home
from the village where the conversation passed; on arriving at his own house,
he found the family collected, for a morning ride, in the parlour, and throwing
himself into a chair, he commenced with great violence by saying--
“So, Mrs. Jarvis, 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, with all its horrors, floated, and near which
her early life had been passed, and a contemplation of whose frequent scenes
had been her juvenile lessons of morality--“Harry! Harry! would you murder.”
“Murder!” echoed her
son, looking askance, as if to see the bailiffs, “no, mother, I wanted nothing
but what was fair; Mr. Denbigh would have had an equal chance to have blown out
my brains; I am sure every thing 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 loose; but I have promised Sir Edward
that you shall make proper apologies to himself, his daughter, and Mr. Denbigh;”
this was rather exceeding the truth, but the alderman prided himself on
performing more than he promised.
“Apology,” exclaimed
the captain, “why, sir, the apology is due to me--ask Colonel Egerton if he
ever heard of an apology being made by the challenger.”
“No, sure,” said the
mother, who having now made out the truth of the matter, thought it was likely
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;” and 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 of his son, as the door closed behind them.
“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, and
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 sound of 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 any thing 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,”
observed Mr. Jarvis, as he left them, “apology, or ten and sixpence.”
“Harry,” said his
mother, holding up her finger in a menacing attitude, “if you do beg his
pardon, you are no son of mine.”
“No,” cried Miss Sarah,
“it would be 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 my money.”
“Who will pay my debts,”
repeated the son.
“Apology, indeed; who
is he, that you, a son of Alderman--of--of Mr. Jarvis, of the deanery, B--,
Northamptonshire, should beg his pardon--a vagrant that nobody knows.”
“Who will pay my debts,”
said the captain, drumming with his foot.
“Why, Harry,” exclaimed
the mother, “do you love money better than honour--a soldier’s honour?”
“No, mother; but I like
good eating and drinking--think, mother, its a cool five hundred.”
“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; and, 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 his interest in was but little short
of what he felt for his own---so he had told her fifty times---and the captain
determined within himself, to touch the five hundred, let the colonel decide as
he would; but the colonel’s decision prevented this disobedience to the
commands of one parent, in order to submit to the requisition of the other. The
question was put to him by Mrs. Jarvis, on his return from the airing, with no
doubt the decision would be favourable 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 the affair; if Mr. Denbigh would not meet him, (a
very extraordinary measure, indeed, I confess,) what can he 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 his five hundred pounds had worked a
mighty revolution, exclaimed--
“You know, mother, I
accused him--that is, suspected him of dancing with Miss Moseley against my
right to her; now you find that was 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 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, madam,
and he begs to be remembered to yourself and family.” Mrs. Jarvis bowed 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 already.
On leaving the room,
after the first discussion, and before the appeal, he had hastened to his
father with his concessions. The old gentleman knew too well the influence of
five hundred pounds, to doubt their effects in the present instance, and had
ordered his carriage for the excursion--it came, and to the hall they
proceeded; the captain found his intended antagonist there, and in a rather
uncouth manner, made the required concession. He was restored to his former
favour--no great distinction--and his visits to the hall suffered, but with a
dislike Emily could never conquer, or at all times conceal.
Denbigh was standing
with a book in his hand, when Jarvis commenced his speech to the baronet and
his daughter, and was apparently much engaged with its contents, as the captain
blundered through. It was necessary, the captain saw by a glance of his father’s
eyes, to say something to the gentleman, who had delicately withdrawn to a
distant window. His speech was 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
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 hoped the colonel was not a duellist.
Several days passed,
before the deanery ladies could forgive the indignity their family had
sustained, sufficiently to resume their customary intercourse; like all other
grievances, where the passions are chiefly interested, it was forgotten in
time, and things 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 honourable man could resort to, to
effect his object. This desire to provide for his sisters, had been backed by
the ardour 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
his lordship’s success had left him--Chatterton was in despair. On the
following day, however, he received a second letter from the same friend,
announcing his appointment; after mentioning the fact, he went on to say--“The
cause of this sudden revolution in your favour 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 heard of.” Chatterton was
as much at a loss as his friend, but it mattered not; he could now offer to
Emily --it was a patent office, to a large amount in receipts, and a few years
would amply portion his sisters; that very day he proposed, and was refused.
Emily had a difficult
task to avoid self-reproach, in regulating her deportment to the peer. 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, left
her in no doubt of his attachment; she was excessively grieved at the
discovery, and 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; encouragement, in the usual meaning of the
term, she gave to him, or no 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 tetę-a-tętes; always natural and unaffected, there was a simple
dignity about her that forbade the request, almost the thought, in the
gentlemen of her acquaintance; Emily had no amusements, no pleasures of any
kind, in which her sisters were not her companions; and if any thing 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 affections; and he would, at any time leave even Grace
Chatterton, to attend his sister--all this was without affectation, and
generally without notice. Emily so looked the delicacy and reserve she acted
without ostentation, that not even her own sex had affixed to her conduct the
epithet of squeamish; it was difficult, therefore, for her to do any thing, which
would show Lord Chatterton her disinclination to his suit, without assuming a
dislike she did not feel, or giving him slights neither good breeding or good
nature could justify; at one time, indeed, she 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, than Emily did to have it in her power to decline
it; her rejection was firm and unqualified, but uttered with a grace and
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 route from the rectory to the hall.
Chatterton raised his
face as he spoke; there were evident traces of tears on it, and Denbigh,
shocked, was delicately about to proceed, as the baron caught his arm.
“Mr. Denbigh,” said the
young peer, in a voice almost choaked with emotion, “may you never know the
pain I have felt this morning--Emily--Emily Moseley--is lost to me--forever.”
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’s.
For two hours they
walked together in the baronet’s park, and when they appeared at dinner, Emily
wondered why Mr. Denbigh had taken a seat next her mother, instead of his usual
place between herself and 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, but much regretted for the time. They 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 the peer and his companion were many miles on their route to
the metropolis.
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, leave Grace with her friend, 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 her
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 compelled her to
accept her cousin’s invitation--her mother was peremptory, 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 it--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 not 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 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 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 to Clara a
fortnight, 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 now availed themselves
of the visit of Clara’s friends to perform their own engagements. 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; every
thing 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 her 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 endeavour to imitate; her affection for Emily was not,
however, to be thought less than what she felt for her other children; she was
in fact her favourite, and had the discipline of Mrs. Wilson admitted of so
weak an interference, might have been injured as such.
John Moseley had been
able, by long observation, 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 in full trot to Bolton 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, “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 the room.”
“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,” said Emily, “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
expect---but here she is, to answer for herself.”
Grace said but 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,” said Moseley, with a look of interest.
“A slight head ache,”
said Grace, faintly, “but I feel better.”
“Want of air and
exercise; my horses are at the door; the phaeton will hold three easily; run,
sister, for your hats,” 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, woman, and several children. The
owner of the gig had alighted for some purpose, 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, endeavouring to check his horses; he succeeded
in part, but not so as to prevent his passing at a spot where the road was
narrow; his 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
her every nerve; and she afterwards often laughed at Emily for her terror when
there was so little danger---the the horses were not in the least frightened,
and after a little patching, 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, 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
unsafe 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; he inquired
of Denbigh their situations; their tale was a piteous one--their distress
evidently real; the husband had been gardener to a gentleman in a neighbouring
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, and
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 neighbouring parish, where he said he had a right to, and must seek, public
assistance; their 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 or Grace could refrain from tears at the recital of their 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 the 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, and 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 the delicacy of her brother to
a more hasty departure, than under other circumstances he would, just at the
moment, have felt disposed to. 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 interview. Half a crown was but little, thought Emily,
for a family that was starving, though; 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. 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 on 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 in their countries, he
spoke not unfrequently, 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 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 rank not
as conspicuous as she thought his merit entitled him to, and that possibly he
felt an awkwardness of contrasting it with the more elevated station of Colonel
Egerton; the same idea had struck the whole family, and prevented from delicacy
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 possessed of too just a
sense of propriety, to touch upon points that might bring her conjugal fidelity
in question.
Denbigh appeared
himself a little abstracted during the ride, but his questions concerning Sir
Edward and her friends were kind and affectionate; as they approached the
house, he suffered his horse to walk; 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 his generous treatment of a passion
she cannot return-- Chatterton,” and he smiled mournfully, “is yet too true in
his devotion to cease his commendations.”
Emily blushed
painfully, but took the letter in silence, and as Denbigh pursued the topic no
farther, the little distance they had to go, was rode 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 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, with a laugh, “Denbigh is a disciple to Frank’s system of
horse-flash---hairs smooth enough here, I see; Grace and I thought you would
never get home.” Now, John fibbed a little, for neither Grace or himself, had
thought in the least about them, or any thing 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 the 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, and, I doubt not, you will become as happy as
you deserve; what greater earthly blessing can I implore upon you!
Chatterton.”
Emily, while reading
this epistle, felt a confusion but little inferior to what 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, could hardly look in
the face a man who, it would seem, had been so openly selected by another, as
the being 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 he had been the bearer of, and greatly relieved her from
the awkwardness his presence had at first occasioned.
Francis soon returned,
accompanied by his wife and aunt, and was overjoyed to find the guest who had
so unexpectedly arrived in his absence. 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 the thing was soon
settled to their perfect satisfaction. 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.
“I am sorry, aunt, Mr.
Denbigh is not rich,” said Emily to Mrs. Wilson, after they had retired in the
evening, and almost unconscious of what she uttered. The latter looked at her
neice in surprise, at the abrupt remark, and one so very different from the
ordinary train of Emily’s reflections, as she required an explanation. Emily
slightly colouring at the channel her thoughts had insensibly stolen into, gave
her aunt an account of their adventures in the course of their morning’s ride,
and touched lightly on the difference in the amount of the alms of her brother
and 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 their thoughts,
until sleep closed their eyes.
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 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 was the wife of
the labourer who inhabited the building, engaged in her customary morning
employments. They explained the motives of their visit, and were told 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
them. “I expect, my lady, its the new rector, who every body 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,” curtseying and handing the fresh dusted chairs to her
unexpected visiters; 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 petition, the first note of which
undeceived them as to the person of the gardener’s visiter.
“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 in procuring your discharge, if it has not justified him from what was
his duty to your common employer.
“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 your
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 leads to a loss of those powers which are necessary to insure
your own eternal welfare.”
“May Heaven bless your
honour,” cried the woman, with fervour, 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 from improper
companions, and every thing 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 homeward. 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 him 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 on 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
labour, with such an excitement before him; but what is that to the charity of
Mr. Denbigh;” and she paused.
Grace was unused to
contend, and least of all, with Mrs Wilson; but unwilling to abandon John to
such comparative 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 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 act favourably 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 colour,
“it is a 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, and
losing the consideration of John in the strength of her feeling, “his charity
you think to be thus.”
“So far, my child, as
we can attribute motives from the complexion of the conduct,” said her aunt,
with lessened energy, “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 would hide the cottage from their
view. Emily involuntarily turned her head as they arrived at this spot, and saw
that Denbigh had approached to 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 her by Mrs. Wilson. No mention
was made of the gardener, and Denbigh commenced a lively description of Italian
scenery, which their present situation reminded him of. The discourse was
maintained with great interest by himself and Mrs. Wilson, on this subject, 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, already returned, and who instead of pursuing his favourite
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, at their request, 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 subjection of the passions, that, if any thing,
gave him less interest with Emily than had it been marked by an evidence of
stronger feeling; but on the present occasion, the objection was removed; his
reading was impressive; he dwelt on those passages which had most pleased
himself, with a warmth of eulogium fully equal to her own undisguised
sensations. In the hour occupied in their reading this exquisite little poem,
and 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 the poet’s; 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 overloked its beauties on that occasion; even
John acknowledged that it certainly appeared a different thing now from what he
then thought it; but Emily had taxed his declamatory power, in the height of
the pheasant season; and some how or other, John had now conceited, 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, 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 softer than his own, “I am sure--I am sure, we none of
us think you, or your dogs ever a plague.”
“Ah! Grace,” and John
was about to become what he had never been before--sentimental--as 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; at least, five
minutes could have made no great difference to her mother, and she would have
so liked to hear what it was 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 something different language, from what his 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
humour she had not felt since the disappointment of her late expedition on
behalf of Catherine. The gentleman she had determined on for her object 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, cooly, and something 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 their own, as other people’s sisters, this may be fairly set down as a
pretty broad hint of the thoughts the dowager entertained of the state of
things; and John saw it, and Grace saw it.--The former cooly replied, “why,
upon the whole, if your ladyship will excuse the neglect, I will try a shot
this fine day;” and in five minutes, Carlo and Rover were both
delighted.--Grace kept her place at the window, from a feeling she could not
define, and perhaps was unconscious of, 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 a 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
Chatterton’s manśuvres 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---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 colour, trembling, undulations of the bosom, and such natural
movements can be called so; 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
endeavoured to conceal her tears, “when are we to have another wedding? I trust
every thing is settled between you and Mr. Moseley by this time.”
“Mother! Mother!” said
Grace, nearly convulsed with the bitterness of her regret, “Mother, you will
break my heart, indeed you will;” and 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 shame, “you young
people are fools in these matters, but Sir Edward and myself will arrange every
thing as it should be.” The daughter now not only looked up, but sprang from
her seat, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed in almost horror; her
cheek pale as death; but the mother had retired, and Grace sank back in her
chair with a sensation of disgrace, of despair, which could not have been
surpassed, had she readily merited the heavy weight of obloquy and shame she
thought about to be heaped upon her.
The succeeding morning,
the whole party, with the exception of Denbigh, returned to the Hall. Nothing
had transpired out of the ordinary course of the colonel’s assiduities; and
Jane, whose sense of propriety forbad the indulgence of tete-a-tetes, and such
little accompaniments of every-day attachments, was rejoiced to see a sister
she loved, and an aunt she respected, once more in the bosom of her family.
The dowager impatiently
waited an opportunity to effect, what she intended for a master-stroke of
policy in the disposal of Grace. Like all other managers, she thought no one
equal to herself in devising ways and means, and was unwilling to leave any
thing 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; thus, also, 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 other
necessary employments of a similar nature; and it was here she determined to
have the conference.
“My Lady Chatterton,
you do me honour,” 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 the taste
of his mother, the Hon. 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 principle object of her visit. “I am happy to find,
baronet, 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, willing to
know the truth, and rather pleased to find John had selected a young woman he
really loved in his heart, he observed,
“I am not sure I
rightly understand your ladyship.”
“No!” cried the
dowager, in well-counterfeited affectation of surprise, “perhaps after all my
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 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 know the
feelings, 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, my lady, you are 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 withdrew with her handkerchief at her eyes, to conceal the
tears--that did not flow.
Sir Edward thought all
was natural and as it should be, and he sought an early conference with his
son.
“John,” said the
father, ta kng his hand kindly, “you have no reason to doubt my affection or
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 smooth 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 would in a few
minutes have settled every thing to the dowager’s perfect satisfaction, had not
John interrupted him, by the exclamation of, “what do you allude to, father?”
in a tone of astonishment.
“Allude to,” said Sir
Edward simply, “why Grace Chatterton, my son.”
“Grace Chatterton, Sir
Edward; what have I to do with Grace Chatterton?” cried his child, colouring a
little.
“Her mother has made me
acquainted with your proposals,” said the baronet, “and”--
“Proposals!”
“Attentions I ought to
have said; and you have no reason to apprehend any thing 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, “she is pleased.”
“She is,” cried John impatiently,
“but I am displeased, that she undertakes to put constructions on my acts, that
no attention or words of mine will justify.”
It was Sir Edward’s
turn now 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 to contention,
and wondering at his cousin’s mistake, which he at once attributed to her
anxiety, 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”--and John softened and began to
feel unhappy a little, but his anger prevailed.
From the moment Grace
Chatterton conceived a dread of her mother’s saying any thing to Sir Edward,
her whole conduct was altered. She could hardly look any of the family in the
face, and her most ardent wish was, that they might depart. John she avoided as
she would an adder, although it nearly broke her heart to do so.
Mr. Benfield had staid
longer than usual, and now wished to return. John Moseley eagerly seized the
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, she had overshot her mark, and at the same time she
wondered at the reason of such a strange result, from such well digested and
well conducted plans; she determined 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 neither resembled ordinary
lovers, in their temperament or 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 resumed his abode under
their roof immediately. The intercourse between the rector’s family and Sir
Edward’s was renewed, with all its former friendly confidence.
Col. Egerton began to
speak of his departure also, but hinted his 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, had been resorted to by the neighbouring 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, and 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 are 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 testing the
probability 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, 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 a humble and devout
dependance on the assistance of that Almighty Power, which is alone able to
hold us up against temptation.
Uniformity of taste, is
no doubt necessary to what we call love, at least to think so; but is not taste
acquired? Would our daughters admire a handsome deist if properly impressed
with a horror of its doctrines, sooner than they now would 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 indispensible requisite in the husband to
be permitted to her charge, and watches against the possibility of any other
gaining the affections of Emily. Lady Chatterton considers the want of an
establishment, as the one sin not to be forgiven, 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
desires.
John Moseley returned
from L--within the week, and appeared as if his whole delight consisted in
knocking over the inoffensive birds. His restlessness induced him to make a
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 favourite amusement of
John.
There was a little
arbour within the walls of the park, which had been for years the 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 arbour the ladies had one day
retired during the warmth of a noon-day sun, with the exception of Lady Moseley,
who had her own engagements 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, with which he
admitted the association. Egerton had taken his seat on the ground, near the
feet of Jane; and Denbigh had stationed himself on a bench placed without the
arbour, but so near as to have the full benefit of the shade of the noble oak,
whose branches 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 that the
Colonel was convenient to hand Jane her scissors, or any other little implement
of her work that she occasionally dropped, and so 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 rout
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 favourite with John, “that I have
taken if 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 a 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,” said John; “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 whom he took the advantage of day-light 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, why he had certainly an equal
claim to the honour. 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, and who had several times tried in vain to break
him of, that of shooting at marks. If birds were not plenty, he would throw up
a chip, and sometimes his hat, by the 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 labour. 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 amusement, “are
you ready?”
“Yes, throw.”
Jarvis threw, and John
fired; the hat fairly bounced--“Have I hit it?” asked John coolly, 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; here must have been a dozen shot have gone through
in a place.”
“It does look rather
like a cullender,” said John, as he overlooked his companion’s observations on the
state of his 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 arbour 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 rules.
“Mr. Denbigh,” said
John archly, 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 any thing to say to a gentleman to whom he had been obliged to apologize
for his five hundred pounds, went into the arbour 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, and 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 with his
finger, as he said,
“There is one of your
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 it was that 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 his mark
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, sir,” cried
John playfully, having taken up his gun from against the body of the tree, and
dropping it towards her--
Jarvis had endeavoured
to make an appeal to the commiseration of Emily, in favour of his 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 then fell at
her feet.
The gun dropt from the
nerveless grasp of young Moseley. Emily sunk in insensibility by the side of
her preserver. Mrs. Wilson and Jane stood speechless and aghast. The colonel
alone retained a presence of mind so necessary to devise the steps to be
immediately taken. He sprung to the examination of Denbigh; his eyes were open,
and his recollection perfect: they were fixed in intense observation on the
inanimate body which laid by 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 any thing
but the shock, assisted John in supporting the wounded man.
He 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 mansion of Sir Edward, and quietly
waiting for that professional aid, which could only decide on his probable
fate. The group assembled in the room, were waiting in fearful expectation 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 barely 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 favourite; and no
reward would have been sufficient, no gratitude lively enough, in the estimation
of the baronet, to compensate the defender of such a child. She sat between her
mother and Jane, with a hand held by each, pale and opprest with a load of
gratitude, of thanksgiving, of wo, 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
the examination of 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, the heart had
certainly, and he hoped the lungs had escaped uninjured; the ball was a very
small one, and the danger to be apprehended was from fever: he had taken the
usual precautions against it, 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 favour 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 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 a parlour. Mrs. Wilson followed him slowly and in
silence, but was checked on her opening the door, with the sight of the rector
on his knees, and the big tear 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, as he now manifests,
cannot be an unworthy one.”
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 unfavourable; 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 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 anti-chamber
of the room Denbigh was placed in. “It is impossible to say, Sir Edward,”
replied the physician, “he refuses all medicines, and unless this fever abates,
there is but little hopes of his 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 for Denbigh to take, and it now stood rejected on a table
in view through the open door of his room ---almost breathless she glided to
where it was put, and taking it 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 to Denbigh; her face
had lost the paleness of anxiety, and glowed with some other emotion.
“Mr. Denbigh---dear
Denbigh,” said Emily, with energy, and unconsciously dropping her voice into
the softest notes of persuasion; “will you refuse me?--me, Emily Moseley, whose
life you have saved?” and she offered him the salutary beverage.
“Emily Moseley!”
repeated Denbigh, after her, and in those tones so remarkable to his natural
voice, “is she safe? I thought she was killed---dead;” and then, as if
recollecting somewhat, he gazed intently on her countenance---his eye became
less fiery---his his muscles relaxed---he smiled, and took without opposition
the prescribed medicines from her hand. He still wandered in his language, but
his physician, profiting by the command Emily possessed over his patient,
increased his care, and by night his fever had abated, and before morning he
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 colour. 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
again, her anxiety for his health, and then, as he addressed her by her proper
appellation, all her emotions appeared absorbed in a sense of the shame his
praises overwhelmed her with, as he became more placid with the decrease of his
fever. 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, he dropped into a deep sleep, from which he awoke
perfectly refreshed and collected in his mind. The fever had left him, and his
attendants pronounced, with the usual caution 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, from her sympathy in the fate of a man she supposed to be her
sister’s.
The recovery of Denbigh
was as rapid as the most sanguine expectation of his friends could justify; and
in ten days from the accident, he left his bed, and would sit for an hour or
two at a time in his dressing room, where Mrs. Wilson, accompanied by Jane or
Emily, would come and read to him, such books as they knew he was fond of; and
it was a remark of Sir Edward’s game-keeper, 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 seen bringing home one.
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 met, he pretended a recal 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 the assurance of the anxiety he
should look forward to the moment of their meeting at L--, wither he intended
repairing, as soon as the corps he belonged to 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 on her lover, or any thing
else but her rescued sister and her preserver; but now the former was
pronounced in safety, and the latter, by the very re-action 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---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 have
identified all those good properties with her hero, or had she possessed a
matured or well regulated judgment to have controlled 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 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 favour the colonel’s wishes.
Egerton had not been over anxious to come to the point, and every thing 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 have receded from, but which, like
all other bargains that are loosely made, are sometimes violated, if
convenient. Man is a creature that, 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 and its effects she has in vain hoped to escape; 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 requires a man to speak to be
understood, and a woman to answer to be committed.
There was a little
parlour in the house of Sir Edward Moseley, that was the privileged retreat of
none but the members of his own family; it was here that the ladies were
accustomed to withdraw into the bosom of their domestic quietude, when
occasional visiters had disturbed their ordinary intercourse, and many were the
hasty and unreserved communications it had witnessed from the sisters, in their
stolen flights from the gayer 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 splendour, 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 arbour; after remaining
conversing for an hour by themselves, John was called away to attend to a
pointer that had been taken sick, 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 endeavoured to
continue in his present mood, until the quick, but stifled breathing, of some
one nearer to him 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 from the excessive heat; 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 moved-- but the hand was
withdrawn 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 fullness of her charms, and with a face, in which glowed
an emotion of interest he had never witnessed in it before; it undoubtedly was
gratitude. For a moment she gazed on him, as her colour 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 Denbigh been inclined to judge the actions of Emily Moseley harshly, it
were impossible to mistake the movement for any thing 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 endeavouring 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 mind 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
great neatness and accuracy, and no little despatch. It would have been no
subject of surprise, had admiration, or some more powerful feeling, betrayed to
the maid, the deception which the young man, whose features she was now
studying, was practising on her unsuspicion. 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 with the rich colour of her 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 now
betrayed by their animation the success of her art, formed a picture in itself,
that Denbigh might have been content to have gazed on forever. Her back was to
a window, that threw its strong light on the paper; whose figures were reflected,
as she occasionally held it up to study its effect in a large mirror, so fixed
that Denbigh caught a view of her subject--he knew it at a glance--the
arbour--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
favourable moment to complete his 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 port-folio--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 it,” said Denbigh, looking at his watch, “I owe an apology, Miss
Moseley, for making so free with your parlour; but I was too lazy to move.”
“Apology! Mr. Denbigh,”
cried Emily, with a colour 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 port-folio, 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 have declined
viewing the contents of a lady’s port-folio. The drawings were, many of them,
interesting, and the exhibiter 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
performance. Denbigh would have given much to have dared 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 evident 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 has 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
colour-- 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 sopha. Emily was standing by the little table, deeply
musing on the qualities of her port-folio; for her eyes were fixed on its
outside intently, as if she expected to see its contents through the leather
covering.
“Miss Emily Moseley,”
continued the doctor, gravely, “am I to die of thirst or not, this warm day.”
“Do you wish any thing,
Doctor Ives,” said Emily, as he passed her in order to ring the bell.
“Only a servant to get
me some 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
port-folio.” Emily blushed, and endeavoured to laugh at her own absence of
mind; but she would have given the world to know who Marian was.
As a month had elapsed
since the receiving of 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; Doctor Ives may have known you longer,
and may have ties of blood upon 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, as he replied,
“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 endeavour 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 the 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 he spoke of. 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 to this young man, to interfere with her favourite 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
laboured 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 her 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 indispensible 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 professing 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 to resist long; perhaps Mrs. Wilson, owing to circumstances without her
control, had 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 had, however, both by his acts and his opinions, 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 favour.
“Who have we here,”
said Lady Moseley; “a landaulet and four--the Earl of Bolton, I declare;” and
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 visiter. Lord
Bolton was a bachelor of sixty-five, who had long been attached to the court,
and had retained much of the manners of the old school; his principle 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 to 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 on her hand, “your looks do ample justice to the air of
Northamptonshire. I hope your ladyship enjoys your usual health;” and 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,
my lord,” said Lady Moseley, with dignity. “Yes,” continued her husband; “your
lordship, in giving the living to Frank, did me a favour, 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,
answered,
“Not unsolicited, Sir
Edward. I have no doubt had my 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, the ear of royalty would not
have been deaf to.”
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 to me for it, as a favour done to himself; and
Pendennyss is a man not to be refused any thing.”
“Lord Pendennyss,”
exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, with animation, “and in what way came we to be under
this obligation to his lordship?”
“He did me the honour
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 neighbourhood, 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 Mrs. Wilson.
“It was whispered at
court, madam,” said the earl, sensibly lowering his voice, and speaking with an
air of mystery, a lord of the bed-chamber is fonder of, than a lord of the
council-board, “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
succeding 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 favour 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 mansion--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 cue, which reached half way
down his back, closely cased in numerous windings of leather, or skin of some
fish. His drab coat was in shape between a frock and 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, and thereby
setting off his shapes to peculiar advantage; his breeches were buckskin, and
much soiled; his stockings blue yarn, although it was midsummer; and his shoes
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, deliberately put on his spectacles, thrust his hand into an outside
pocket of his coat, and produced, from under its huge flaps, a black leather
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 where the baronet stood, 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 honoured me with; come, take a
glass of wine before you go to your dinner --drink that you hope it may not be
the last.”
“Sir Edward Moseley,
and you honourable gentlemen, will pardon me,” replied the steward, in his
solemn keys, “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
honourable 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 received
its answer, he was about to take his departure that evening, thinking he might
get a good piece on his road homeward, as it wanted a half an hour yet to
sundown. 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 attentions) 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, in astonishment, both at the request, and 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
good ten minutes, gazing on the sleeper in silence; and John observed, as he
blew his nose, on regaining his own apartment, his little gray eyes twinkled
with a lustre, that could not be taken for any thing 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 honour 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 it might have been
something 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 of how he fares; for should he be wanting for any thing 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 any thing, 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 his promotion in the army,
as I take it he is not over wealthy, you 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 had
insisted on putting the bays into 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 any thing but excessively happy; there was a tremour
in her voice, and redness about her eyes, that alarmed Lady Moseley with the
apprehension she had taken cold; but as the paleness of her cheeks were
immediately succeeded with as fine a brilliancy of colour, as the heart could
wish, the anxious mother allowed herself to be persuaded by Mrs. Wilson, there
was no danger, and 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 parlour in
quest of Emily.
“I have come to make my
parting compliments, Miss Moseley,” said he, in a tremulous voice, as he
ventured to hold forth his hand; “may heaven preserve you,” he continued,
holding it in fervour to his bosom, and 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 sought a shelter in a seat of the window for her person and her
sorrows. Lady Moseley, on returning, was again 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 ardour 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 pannels of the carriage, and answered, “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
us 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
neighbourhood. 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 on the day after the morrow he goes to Wales, your honour.”
“I thank you, friend,”
said John; and 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 honour 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 this winter, where I may
find a more fitting opportunity of expressing those grateful feelings so long due
to your lordship, from your sincere friend,
“Charlotte Wilson. “Moseley
Hall, Friday morning.”
With this answer the
servant was despatched, and the carriages moved on. John had induced Emily to
trust herself once more to the bays and his skill; but on perceiving the
melancholy of her aunt, she insisted on exchanging seats with Jane, who had
accepted a place in the carriage of Mrs. Wilson. No objection being made, Mrs.
Wilson and her niece rode the first afternoon together in her travelling
chaise. The road run within a quarter of a mile of Bolton Castle, and the
ladies endeavoured 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 favourite, 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 belive 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 fervour. “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 slight colour. 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 fervour equal to my warmest expectations.” The Moseley arms in F--,
was kept by an old butler of the family, and Sir Edward every year, going and
coming to 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, barrowknight, your honour, 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 honour 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 evident wish to relate his
triumphs.
“Your honour must have
heard mention made of a great lord, one Duke of Derwent; well, Sir Edward,
about six weeks agone he past 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
had’nt 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 honour,” 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 honour’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 honour.”
“And what was it?”
“Only that your honour’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 house,” said John with a laugh.
“No, Mr. Moseley;
Daniels would hardly dare do that: but yesterday, your honour, yesterday
evening, beat every thing. 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 honour, 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 honour. Oh, he is a sweet gentleman, and he asked all about my
living with your honour, 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 laughing. Jackson looked a
little foolish, but the question being repeated, he answered--“Why, sir, I was
a little crowded for room, and so your honour, so I just sent Tom across the
street, to know if Mr. Daniels could’nt keep a couple of the grooms.”
“And Tom got his head
broke.”
“No, Mr. John, the
tankard missed him; but if---”
“Very well,” cried 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 neighbour, or I may take my arms down, and you may lose your noble
visiters---see see my room prepared.”
“Yes, your honour,”
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; and 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 favour
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 cheek, and
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 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 gentlemen held a gun in my day; that is, no gentlemen
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 had 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
honour, and the 38th of his present majesty, and the 64th year of your life,
sir, June the 12th, about meridian.” Peter had 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 a term Peter had left off using to the baronet
within the last ten years, “did you think---to to bring home---the goggles?”
“Oh yes,” said John
gravely, and he produced them from his pocket, most of the party having entered
the parlour, and 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;”
and then holding up his finger significantly, “but 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 just then.
“As witness, Miss
Emmy---witness to all---but 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
good three hundred a year.” Emily, who had seldom heard as long a speech as the
old man’s gratitude drew from him, expressed her pleasure to hear it, and
shaking him kindly by the hand, left him for the parlour.
“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: honour 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 in, tegrity 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?
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 of its fashionable arrangements for the
accommodation of its guests, one of those circulaters 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
as 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 their 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
labour of research; and like most others who are averse to contention, and
disposed to be easily satisfied, the baronet sometimes found he had harboured
opinions on things not exactly reconcilable 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 any thing, 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, or
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 neighbouring 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, inquired for the remainder of the set. The
peculiarity of her idiom, and nearness 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, 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, she did not
despair of.” 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
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 unknow
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 ride. 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 of his movements, 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 an 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
old gentleman 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 had strode on the threshold of that fantastic edifice,
in which Jane ordinarily resided. Emily was in that 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 such
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 entrusted 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 her 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 laboured hard to prevent the
blandishments of life, supplanting the lively hope of enjoying another
existence; she endeavoured, 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 kind
and Almighty Providence, her labours, 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, awaking from a reverie, exclaimed suddenly to his sister--
“Which do you think the
handsomest, Emily, Grace Chatterton or Mrs. Fitzgerald?”
Emily laughed aloud as
she answered, “Grace, certainly; do you not think so, brother?”
“Why, sometimes; 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?” cried John with a smile.
“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, and 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, 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 parlour door, and the sudden appearance
on its threshold of Denbigh. Every countenance glowed with pleasure at this
unexpected return to them of their favourite; and but for the prudent caution
in Mrs. Wilson, of handing a glass of water to her niece, the surprise might
have proved too much for her. His salutations 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 what 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 on his account, 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 stopt 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.”
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 a 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 early morning excursions, in order to pay his personal respects.
They found the cottage
a beautiful and genteel, though very small and retired dwelling, almost hid by
the trees and shrubs which surrounded it, and its mistress on its little
piazza, 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 this 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 feelings 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 honours of her house with graceful ease, and conducted her visiters
into her little grounds, which, together with 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 labourer for her garden and shrubbery. They never visited; it was a
resolution she had made on fixing her residence, but if Mrs. Wilson and Miss
Moseley would forgive her rudeness in 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 so young a 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 repeating her
visit soon. 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 the chair of Jane. He had arrived during their absence,
and sought out immediately 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
every thing 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 care of her maternal anxiety 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 to 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
anticipation of the future as his lady, experienced an equal degree of
contentment; and it would have been a difficult task to have discovered 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’s 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 arbour scene from the
servants, (and of course with many exaggerations,) mentioned to his master that
the colonel was very active in his assistance, 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 molified 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, and 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 colouring 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 favour of her nieces, was if any thing increased by their short
separation, and particularly noticed on the part of the colonel an aversion to
Denbigh that at times painfully alarmed her, 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 of the manners and appearance of Denbigh, were
soon forgotten in her just appreciation of the more solid parts of his
character--these appeared literally unexceptionable; and when momentary
uneasiness would steal over her, the remembrance of the opinion of Dr. Ives, his
behaviour with Jarvis, his charity, and chiefly his self-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 was 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 never-failing 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 favourite,” 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 to another with satisfaction, even
though Denbigh was the favourite, a feeling which soon wore away by custom and
reflection. Mr. Benfield had taken it into his head, that if the wedding of
Emily could be solemnised 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
harboured 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
would 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
his 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 here: 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,
“Every thing, I
suppose, master, is settled between the young people?”
“Every thing, 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 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 every body 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, sit, 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 honour, as I would
have done for myself: now. sir, when I courted Patty Steele, your honour, in
the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and sixty-five, I should have
been married but for one difficulty, which your honour says is removed in the
case of Miss Emmy.”
“What was that, Peter,”
asked his master in a tender tone.
“She was’nt 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; his want of tact, on the present occasion,
after much reflection, he attributed to his never sitting in parliament.
Mrs. Wilson and Emily,
in the fortnight they had been at Benfield Lodge, had paid frequent and long
visits to the cottage; and each succeeding interview left a more favourable
impression of the character of its mistress, and a greater certainty that she
was unfortunate; she, 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 received 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 other 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 pleased at the noble conduct of the gentleman so much as to
express a desire to see him; but the impressions of the moment appeared to have
died away, as nothing more was said by either lady on the subject, and was
apparently forgotten. Mrs. Fitzgerald was found one morning, weeping over a letter
she held in her hand, and the Donna Lorenza endeavouring to console her. The
situation of this latter lady was somewhat doubtful; she appeared neither
wholly a friend or a menial; in the manners of the two there was a striking
difference; although the Donna was not vulgar, she was far from the polish of
her more juvenile friend, and Mrs. Wilson considered her in a station between a
housekeeper and a companion. After hoping that no unpleasant intelligence
occasioned the distress they witnessed, the ladies were about delicately to
take their leave, but Mrs. Fitzgerald intreated 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 greatly assisted to attain her peace
of mind; this letter is from the gentleman you have heard me speak of, as once
visiting me, and though it has struck me with an 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 free 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 every thing--honour--comfort--religion--and even life itself.”
Mrs. Wilson’s cheek
glowed with an unusual colour, at this discovery of another act of benevolence
and virtue, in the 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 any thing 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, would the next day, if they would honour her with
another call, 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 then, 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 herself
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 her
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 favourably.”
“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, with a smile.
“Doubtless, my love, or
as many enemies; but honour, 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, 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 without having sat in the
parliament of this realm.
The same 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; 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 his 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 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 acknowledgments, were made, and nothing further remained but to
live--to 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 for 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; and 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 her speech to their daughter, and the colonel bowed in
acquiescence.
In the evening, the
Jarvis family favoured 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
again under his roof, the best of the trio of Jarvises he had known, and
something like sociability prevailed in the party. There was to be a ball, Miss
Jarvis remarked, at L--, on the following day, which would help to enliven the
scene a little, especially as there were a couple of frigates lying 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, if invited, they would go, out of respect to his
neighbours, they cheerfully assented. During the evening, Mrs. Wilson observed
Egerton in familiar conversation with Miss Jarvis, and as she had been 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 neighbour, 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 half even, it would be no
difficult task to admire him.”
Denbigh was standing
leaning on the back of a chair, in a situation where he could view the animated
countenance of Emily as she spoke, and Mrs. Wilson noticed an uneasiness and
changing of colour in him, that appeared uncommon from so trifling an
excitement. Is it possible, she thought, Denbigh can harbour 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 vist 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 would be made; to this the
recluse assented; and Emily prepared for the ball with a recollection of
melancholy pleasure, of the consequences which grew out of the last one she
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 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 would 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 with the baronet’s family,
and engaged the hand of Emily for the first dance. His frank and gentlemanlike
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 noble sailor, in the
course of which, he spoke of his cruising on the coast of Spain, and by
accident 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 hope
for. 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 gayety--listlessness--dancing--gaping, and heart-burnings, 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 gentleman, 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 neighbour, Sir Edgar Egerton; he is here dancing and
mis-spending 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 a twelvemonth.” “He plays, then?” “Sadly; he is,
on the whole, a 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.
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 avert her
unpleasant information until the last moment.
“I wished to say
something to you, brother, relating to my charge, and other matters; 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 favours his views, or not?”
“Neither Emily or
myself, my dear brother, wish ever to question your right, not only to inquire
into, but 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 what I feel for my
daughter.”
“I trust,” continued
Mrs. Wilson, “Emily is too deeply impressed with her duty to forget the
impressive mandate, ‘to honour 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 alter 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, a promise made at the altar to love a man she felt averse to,
or honour one she could not esteem, as a breach of a duty, paramount to all
earthly ones,” 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 this subject
of marrying the girls.”
Mrs. Wilson replied,
with a good-humoured smile, “you have made Anne so good a husband, baronet, 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 what 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 was 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 lesser duties of life.”
“Women ought to marry,”
observed the baronet, musing.
“Marriage is certainly
the natural and most desirable state for a woman,” rejoined his sister; “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 excuse, 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 reconcilable
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 ones; with the other sex especially,
their acquaintance should be very guarded and select.”
“You would make many
old maids, sister,” cried Sir Edward, with a laugh.
“I doubt it greatly,
brother; it would rather bring female society in demand. I often regret that
selfishness, cupidity, and a 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 themselves 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
indulgent 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 it is their right.”
“It is true,” said Mrs.
Wilson, “Clara has done well, though under circumstances of but little risk;
she might have jumped into your fishpond and escaped with life, but the chances
are she would drown; nor do I dispute their right to choose for themselves; but
I say their rights extend to their 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 as she communicated what she had
overheard that evening. Although the impressions of the baronet were not as
vivid or deep as those of his sister, his parental love was too great not to
make him extremely uneasy under the intelligence; and after thanking his sister
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 parlour, 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 the 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, endeavouring 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 left the house, leaving word the Miss Moseleys had sent for her to
breakfast for a 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
proceeded instantly to the lodge in quest of his daughter; of their elopement there
now remained no doubt, and an examination into the state of the colonel’s room,
who had been thought 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 colour, 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,
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 fails 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 day-light; 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 his attentions to Jane, in such a manner as
to deceive those ladies, caused no little surprise; but it was obvious it was
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
apologised 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; with many promises of making an
attentive husband, and an affectionate son;--they were on the road to Scotland,
whence they intended immediately to return to London, and 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.
END OF VOLUME I.