PRECAUTION, A
NOVEL.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
‘Be wise to-day, ’tis
madness to defer--
To-morrow’s caution may
arrive too late.’ ”
Although the affections
of Jane had sustained a heavy blow, her pride had received a greater, and no
persuasions of her mother or sister, could induce her to leave her room; she
talked but little, but once or twice she yielded to the affectionate attentions
of Emily, and poured out her sorrows into the bosom of her sister; at such
moments, she would declare her intention of never appearing in the world again.
One of these paroxysms of sorrow was witnessed by her mother, and, for the
first time, self-reproach mingled in the grief of the matron; had she trusted
less to appearances, and the opinions of indifferent and ill-judging
acquaintances, her daughter might have been apprised in season, of the
character of the man who had stolen her affections. To the direct exhibition of
misery, Lady Moseley was always sympathetic, and for the moment, alive to its
causes and consequences; but a timely and judicious safeguard against future
moral evils, was a forecast neither her inactivity of mind or abilities were
equal to.
We shall leave Jane to
brood over her lover’s misconduct, while we regret she is without the
consolation, alone able to bear her up against the misfortunes of life, and
return to the other personages of our history.
The visit to Mrs.
Fitzgerald had been postponed in consequence of Jane’s indisposition; but a
week after the Colonel’s departure, Mrs. Wilson thought, as Jane had consented
to leave her room, and Emily really began to look pale from her confinement by
the side of a sick bed, she would redeem the pledge she had given the recluse,
on the following morning. They found the ladies at the cottage happy to see
them, and anxious to hear of the health of Jane, of whose illness they had been
informed by note. After offering her guests some refreshments, Mrs. Fitzgerald,
who appeared labouring under a greater melancholy than usual, proceeded to make
them acquainted with the incidents of her life.
The daughter of an
English merchant at Lisbon, had fled from the house of her father to the
protection of an Irish officer in the service of his Catholic Majesty; they
were united, and the colonel immediately took his bride to Madrid. The
offspring of this union were a son and daughter. The former, at an early age,
had entered into the service of his king, and had, as usual, been bred in the
faith of his ancestors; but the Signora M‘Carthy had been educated, and yet
remained, a protestant, and, contrary to her faith to her husband, secretly
instructed her daughter in the same belief. At the age of seventeen, a
principal grandee of the court of Charles, sought the hand of the general’s
child. The Conde D’Alzada was a match not to be refused, and they were united
in that heartless and formal manner, marriages are too often entered into, in
countries where the customs of society prevent an intercourse between the
sexes. The Conde never possessed the affections of his wife; of a stern and
unyielding disposition his harshness repelled her love; and as she naturally
turned her eyes to the home of her childhood, she cherished all those peculiar
sentiments she had imbibed from her mother. Thus, although she appeared to the
world a catholic, she lived in secret a protestant. Her parents had always used
the English language in their family, and she spoke it as fluently as the
Spanish. To encourage her recollections of this strongest feature, which
distinguished the house of her father from the others she entered, she perused
closely and constantly those books which the death of her mother placed at her
disposal; these were principally protestant works on religious subjects, and
the countess became a strong sectarian, without becoming a christian. As she
was compelled to use the same books in teaching her only child, the Donna
Julia, English, the consequences of the original false step of her grandmother,
were perpetuated in the person of this young lady. In learning English, she
also learnt to secede from the faith of her father, and entailed upon herself a
life, of either persecution or hypocrisy. The countess was guilty of the
unpardonable error of complaining to their child, of the treatment she received
from her husband; and as these conversations were held in English, and were
consecrated by the tears of the mother, they made an indelible impression on
the youthful mind of Julia; who grew up with the conviction, that next to being
a catholic herself, the greatest evil of life, was to be the wife of one.
On her attaining her
fifteenth year, she had the misfortune (if it could be termed one) to lose her
mother, and within the year, her father presented to her a nobleman of the
vicinity as her future husband; how long the religious faith of Julia would
have endured, unsupported by example in others, and assailed by the passions,
soliciting in behalf of a young and handsome cavalier, it might be difficult to
pronounce; but as her suitor was neither very young, and the reverse of very
handsome, it is certain, the more he woo’d, the more confirmed she became in
her heresy, until, in a moment of desperation, and as an only refuge against
his solicitations, she candidly avowed her creed. The anger of her father was
violent and lasting; she was doomed to a convent, as both a penance for her
sins, and a mean of reformation. Physical resistance was not in her power, but
mentally, she determined never to yield. Her body was immured, but her mind
continued unshaken, and rather more settled in her belief, by the aid of those
passions which had been excited by injudicious harshness. For two years she
continued in her noviciate, obstinately refusing to take the vows of the order,
and at the end of that period, the situation of her country had called her father
and uncle to the field, as defenders of the rights of their lawful prince;
perhaps to this, it was owing that harsher measures were not adopted in her
case.
The war now raged
around them in its greatest horrors, until, at length, a general battle was
fought in the neighbourhood, and the dormitories of the peaceful nuns were
crowded with wounded British officers. Amongst others of his nation, was a
Major Fitzgerald, a young man of strikingly handsome countenance, and pleasant
manners; chance threw him under the more immediate charge of Julia; his
recovery was slow, and for a time doubtful, and as much owing to good nursing,
as science. The Major was grateful, and Julia, unhappy as she was beautiful.
That love should be the offspring of this association, will excite no surprise.
A brigade of British encamping in the vicinity of the convent, the young couple
sought its protection from Spanish vengeance, and Romish cruelty. They were
married by the chaplain of the brigade, and for a month they were happy.
As Napoleon was daily
expected in person at the seat of war, his generals were alive to their own
interests, if not to that of their master. The body of troops in which
Fitzgerald had sought a refuge, being an advanced party of the main army, were
surprised and defeated with loss. After doing his duty as a soldier at his
post, the major in endeavouring to secure the retreat of Julia, was
intercepted, and they both fell into the hands of the enemy. They were kindly
treated, and allowed every indulgence their situation admitted of, until a
small escort of prisoners were sent to the frontiers; in this they were
included, and had proceeded to the neighbourhood of the Pyrenees, where, in
their turn, the French were assailed suddenly, and entirely routed; and the captive
Spaniards, of which the party, with the exception of our young couple,
consisted, released. As the French guard made a resistance until overpowered by
numbers, an unfortunate ball struck Major Fitzgerald to the earth--he survived
but an hour, and died where he fell, on the open field. An English officer, the
last of his retiring countrymen, was attracted by the sight of a woman weeping
over the body of a fallen man, and approached them. In a few words Fitzgerald
explained his situation to this gentleman, and exacted a pledge from him to
guard his Julia, in safety, to his mother in England.
The stranger promised
every thing the dying husband required of him, and by the time death had closed
the eyes of Fitzgerald, had procured from some peasants a rude conveyance, into
which the body, with its almost equally lifeless widow, were placed. The party
which intercepted the convoy of prisoners, had been out from the British camp
on other duty, but its commander hearing of the escort, had pushed rapidly into
a country covered by the enemy to effect their rescue; and his service done,
was compelled to a hasty retreat to insure his own security; to this was owing
the indifference, which left the major to the care of the Spanish peasantry who
had gathered to the spot, and the retreating troops had got several miles on
their return, before the widow and her protector commenced their journey; it
was impossible to overtake them, and the inhabitants acquainting the gentleman
that a body of French dragoons were already harassing their rear, he was
compelled to seek another route to the camp; this, with some trouble, and no
little danger, he at last effected, and the day following the skirmish, Julia
found herself lodged in a retired Spanish dwelling, several miles within the
advanced posts of the British army. The body of her husband was respectfully
interred, and Julia left to mourn her irretrievable loss, uninterrupted by any
but hasty visits of the officer in whose care she had been left, which he stole
from his more important duties as a soldier.
A month glided by in
this melancholy manner, leaving to Mrs. Fitzgerald the only consolation she
would receive--her incessant visits to the grave of her husband. The cells of
her protector, however, became more frequent; and at length he announced to her
his intended departure for Lisbon, on his way to England. A small covered
vehicle, drawn by one horse, was to convey them to the city, at which place he
promised to procure her a female attendant, and necessaries for the voyage
home. It was no time or place for delicate punctilio; and Julia quietly, but
with a heart nearly broken, prepared to submit to the wishes of her late
husband. After leaving the dwelling, the manners of her guide sensibly altered:
he became complimentary and assiduous to please, but in a way rather to offend
than conciliate; until his attentions became so irksome, that Julia actually
meditated stopping at some of the villages through which they passed, and
abandoning the attempt of visiting England entirely. But the desire to comply
with Fitzgerald’s wish, she would console his mother for the loss of an only
child, and the dread of the anger of her relatives, determined her to persevere
until they reached Lisbon, where she was resolved to separate forever from this
disagreeable and unknown guardian, chance had thrown her into the keeping of.
The last day of their
weary ride, in passing a wood, the officer so far forgot his own character and
Julia’s misfortunes, as to offer personal indignities. Grown desperate from her
situation, Mrs. Fitzgerald had sprung from the vehicle, and by her cries, had
attracted the notice of an officer, who was riding express on the same road
with themselves. He advanced to her assistance at speed, but as he arrived near
them, a pistol fired from the carriage brought his horse down, and the
treacherous friend was enabled to escape undetected. Julia endeavoured to
explain her situation to her rescuer; and by her distress and appearance,
satisfied him at once of its truth. Within a short time, a strong escort of
light dragoons came up, and the officer despatched some for a conveyance, and
others in pursuit of that disgrace to the army, the villanous guide; the former
was soon obtained, but no tidings could be had of the latter. The carriage was
found at a short distance, without the horse and with the baggage of Julia, but
no vestige of its owner. She never knew his name, and either accident or art
had so completely enveloped him in mystery, that all efforts to unfold it then,
were fruitless, and had continued so ever since.
On their arrival in
Lisbon, every attention was shown to the disconsolate widow the most refined
delicacy could dictate, and every comfort and respect procured for her, which
the princely fortune, high rank, and higher character, of the Earl of
Pendennyss, could command. It was this nobleman, who, on his way from head
quarters with despatches for England, had been the means of preserving Julia
from a fate worse than death. A packet was in waiting for the earl, and they
proceeded in her for home. The Donna Lorenza was the widow of a subaltern
Spanish officer, who had fallen under the orders and near Pendennyss, and the
interest he took in her brave husband, had induced him to offer her, in the
destruction of her little fortune by the enemy, his protection: for near two
years he had maintained her at Lisbon, and now judging her a proper person, had
persuaded her to accompany Mrs. Fitzgerald to England for a time.
On the passage, which
was very tedious, the earl became more intimately acquainted with the history
and character of his young friend, and by a course of gentle, yet powerful
expedients, had drawn her mind gradually from its gloomy contemplation of
futurity, to a just sense of good and evil. The peculiarity of her religious
persuasion, being a Spaniard, afforded an introduction to frequent discussions
of the real opinions of that church, to which Julia had hitherto belonged,
although ignorant of all its essential and vital truths. These conversations,
which were renewed repeatedly in their intercourse while under the protection
of his sister in London, laid the foundations of a faith, which left her
nothing to hope for, but the happy termination of her earthly probation.
The mother of
Fitzgerald was dead, and as he had no near relative left, Julia found herself
alone in the world; her husband had taken the precaution to make a will in
season; it was properly authenticated, and his widow, by the powerful
assistance og Pendennyss, was put in quiet possession of a little independency.
It was while waiting the decision of this affair, that Mrs. Fitzgerald resided
for a short time near Bath; as soon as it was terminated, the earl and his
sister had seen her settled in her present abode, and once since had they visited
her; but delicacy had kept him away from the cottage, although his attempts to
serve her had been constant, but not always successful. He had, on his return
to Spain, seen her father, and interceded with him on her behalf, but in vain;
his anger remained unappeased, and for a season she did not renew her efforts;
but having heard that her father was indisposed, she had employed the earl once
more to make her peace with him, without prevailing. The letter the ladies had
found her weeping over, was from Pendennyss, informing her of his want of
success on that occasion.
The substance of the
foregoing narrative was related by Mrs. Fitzgerald to Mrs. Wilson, who repeated
it to Emily in their ride home. The compassion of both ladies was strongly
moved in behalf of the young widow, yet Mrs. Wilson did not fail to point out
to her niece the consequences of deception, and chiefly the misery which had
followed from an abandonment of one of the primary duties of life--disobedience
and disrespect to her parent. Emily, though keenly alive to all the principles
inculcated by her aunt, found so much to be pitied in the fate of her friend,
that her failings lost their proper appearance in her eyes; and for a while,
she could think of nothing but Julia and her misfortunes. Previously to their
leaving the cottage, Mrs. Fitzgerald, with glowing cheeks, and some hesitation,
informed Mrs. Wilson she had yet another important communication to make, but
would postpone it until her next visit, which Mrs. Wilson promised should be on
the succeeding day.
Emily threw a look of
pleasure on Denbigh, as he handed her from the carriage, which would have said,
if looks could talk, “in the principles you have displayed on more than one
occasion, I have a pledge of your worth.” As he led her into the house, he
laughingly informed her, he had that morning received a letter which would make
his absence from L--necessary for a short time, and that he must remonstrate
against these long and repeated visits to a cottage, where all attendants of
the male sex were excluded, as they encroached greatly on his pleasures--and
improvements, bowing, as he spoke, to Mrs. Wilson. To this Emily replied,
gayly, that possibly, if he conducted himself to their satisfaction, they would
intercede for his admission. Expressing his pleasure for the promise, as Mrs.
Wilson thought rather awkwardly, Denbigh changed the conversation. At dinner,
he repeated to the family what he had mentioned to Emily of his departure, and
also his expectation of meeting with Lord Chatterton during his journey.
“Have you heard from
Chatterton lately, John?” inquired Sir Edward of his son.
“Yes sir, to-day; he
had left Denbigh Castle a fortnight since, and writes, he is to meet his
friend, the duke, at Bath.”
“Are you connected with
his grace, Mr. Denbigh?” asked Lady Moseley.
A smile of indefinite
meaning played on the expressive face of Denbigh as he answered slightly,
“On the side of my
father, madam.”
“He has a sister,”
continued Lady Moseley, willing to know more of Chatterton’s friends and
Denbigh’s relatives.
“He has, my lady,” was
the brief reply.
“Her name is Harriet,”
observed Mrs. Wilson--Denbigh bowed his assent in silence, as Emily timidly
remarked,
“Lady Harriet Denbigh?”
“Lady Harriet Denbigh,
Miss Emily; will you do me the favour to take wine?”
The manner of the
gentleman during this dialogue, had not been in the least unpleasant, but
peculiar; it prohibited any thing further on the subject, and Emily was obliged
to be content without knowing who Marian was; or whether her name was to be
found in the Denbigh family or not. Emily was not in the least jealous, but she
wished to know all to whom her lover was dear.
“Do the dowager and the
young ladies accompany Chatterton?” asked Sir Edward, as he turned to John, who
was eating his fruit in silence.
“Yes, sir--I hope--that
is, I believe she will,” was the answer.
“Who will, my son?”
“Grace Chatterton,”
said John, starting from his meditations; “did you not ask me about Grace, Sir
Edward?”
“Not particularly, I
believe,” said the baronet dryly. Denbigh again smiled; it was a smile
different from any Mrs. Wilson had ever seen on his countenance, and gave an
entirely novel expression to his face; it was full of meaning--it was
knowing--spoke more of the man of the world than any thing she had before
noticed in him, and left on her mind, one of those vague impressions she was
often troubled with, that there was something about Denbigh in character, or
condition, or both, that was mysterious.
The spirit of Jane was
too great to leave her a pining or a pensive maiden; yet her feelings had
sustained a shock that time alone could cure. She appeared again amongst her
friends, but the consciousness of her expectations, with respect to the
colonel, being known to them, threw around her a hauteur and distance, very
foreign to her natural manner. Emily alone, whose every movement sprung from
the spontaneous feelings of her heart, and whose words and actions were
influenced by the finest and most affectionate delicacy, such as she was not
conscious of possessing herself, won upon the better feelings of her sister so
far, as to restore between them the usual exchange of kindness and sympathy.
But Jane admitted no confidence; she found nothing consoling--nothing solid, to
justify her attachment to Egerton; nothing, indeed, excepting such external
advantages as she was now ashamed to admit, had ever the power over her, they
in reality had possessed. The marriage of the fugitives, in Scotland, had been
announced; and as the impression that Egerton was to be connected with the
Moseleys, was destroyed of course, their every day acquaintances, feeling the
restraints removed such an opinion had once imposed, were free in their
comments on his character. Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were astonished to find
how many things to his disadvantage were generally known; that he
gambled--intrigued-- and was in debt--were no secrets, apparently, to any body,
but those who were most interested in knowing the truth; while Mrs. Wilson saw
in these facts, additional reasons for examining and judging for ourselves; the
world uniformly concealing from the party and his friends, their honest
opinions of his character. Some of these insinuations had reached the ears of
Jane: her aunt had rightly judged, that the surest way to destroy Egerton’s
power over the imagination of her niece, was to strip him of his fictitious
qualities, and had suggested the expedient to Lady Moseley; and some of their
visiters had thought, as the colonel had certainly been attentive to Miss
Moseley, it would give her pleasure to know that her rival had not made the
most eligible match in the kingdom. The project of Mrs. Wilson succeeded in a
great measure; but although Egerton fell, Jane did not find she rose in her own
estimation; and her friends wisely concluded, that time only would be the
remedy that could restore her to her former serenity.
In the morning Mrs.
Wilson, unwilling to have Emily present at a conversation she intended to hold
with Denbigh, with a view to satisfy her annoying doubts as to some minor
points in his character, after excusing herself to her niece, invited the
gentleman to a morning ride; he accepted her invitation cheerfully; and Mrs.
Wilson saw, it was only as they drove from the door without Emily, that he
betrayed the faintest reluctance to the jaunt. When they had got a short
distance from the lodge, she acquainted him with her intention of presenting
him to Mrs. Fitzgerald, whither she had ordered the coachman to drive. Denbigh
started as she mentioned the name, and after a few moments of silence, desired
Mrs. Wilson to allow him to stop the carriage; he was not very well--was sorry
to be so rude--but with her permission, he would alight and return to the
house. As he requested in an earnest manner, that she would proceed without
him, and by no means disappoint her friend, Mrs. Wilson complied; yet somewhat
at a loss to account for his sudden illness, she turned her head to see how the
sick man fared, a short time after he left her, and was not a little surprised
to see him talking very composedly with John, who had met him on his way to the
fields with his gun. Love-sick--thought Mrs. Wilson, with a smile; and as she
rode on, she came to the conclusion, that, as Denbigh was to leave them soon,
Emily would have an important communication to make on her return. “Well,”
thought Mrs. Wilson with a sigh, “if it is to happen, it may as well be done at
once.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald was
expecting her, and appeared rather pleased than otherwise, that she had come
alone. After some introductory conversation, the ladies withdrew by themselves,
and Julia acquainted Mrs. Wilson with a new source of uneasiness. The day the
ladies had promised to visit her, but had been prevented by the arrangements
for the ball, the Donna Lorenza had driven to the village to make some
purchases, attended, as usual, by their only man servant, and Mrs. Fitzgerald
was sitting in the little parlour in momentary expectation of her friends by
herself. The sound of footsteps drew her to the door, which she opened for the
admission of--the wretch, whose treachery to her dying husband’s requests, had
given her so much uneasiness. Horror--fear--surprise--altogether, prevented her
from making any alarm at the moment, and she sunk into a chair. He stood
between her and the door, as he endeavoured to draw her into a conversation; he
assured her she had nothing to fear, that he loved her, and her alone; that he
was about to be married to a daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, but would give her
up, fortune, every thing, if she would consent to become his wife --That the
views of her protector, he doubted not, were dishonourable--that he, himself,
was willing to atone for his former excess of passion, by a life devoted to
her.
How much longer he
would have gone on, and what further he would have offered, is unknown; for
Mrs. Fitzgerald having recovered herself a little, darted to the bell on the
other side of the room; he tried to prevent he ringing it, but was too late; a
short struggle followed, when the sound of the footsteps of the maid compelled
him to retreat precipitately. Mrs. Fitzgerald added, that his assertion
concerning Miss Moseley, had given her incredible uneasiness, and prevented her
making the communication yesterday; but she understood this morning through her
maid, that a Colonel Egerton, who had been supposed to be engaged to one of Sir
Edward’s daughters, had eloped with another lady; that Egerton was her
persecutor, she did not now entertain a doubt, but that it was in the power of
Mrs. Wilson probably to make the discovery, as in the struggle between them for
the bell, a pocket book had fallen from the breast pocket of his coat, and his
retreat was too sudden to recover it.
As she put the book
into the hands of Mrs. Wilson, she desired she would take means to return it to
its owner; its contents might be of value, but she had not thought it correct
to examine into it. Mrs. Wilson took the book, and as she dropped it into her
work-bag, smiled at the Spanish punctilio of her friend, in not looking into
her prize, under the peculiar circumstances.
A few questions as to
the place and year of his first attempts, soon convinced her it was Egerton,
whose unlicensed passion had given so much trouble to Mrs. Fitzgerald. He had
served but one campaign in Spain, and in that year, and that division of the
army; and surely his principles were no restraint upon his conduct. Mrs.
Fitzgerald begged the advice of her more experienced friend as to the steps she
ought to take; to which the former inquired, if she had made Lord Pendennyss
acquainted with the occurrence: the young widow’s cheek glowed as she answered,
that at the same time she felt assured the base insinuation of Egerton was
unfounded, it had created a repugnance in her, to troubling the early any more
than was necessary in her affairs; and as she kissed the hand of Mrs. Wilson,
she added--“besides, your goodness, my dear madam, renders any other adviser
unnecessary to me now.” Mrs. Wilson pressed her hand affectionately, as she
assured her of her good wishes and unaltered esteem. She commended her
delicacy, and plainly told the young widow, that however unexceptionable the
character of Pendennyss might be, a female friend was the only one a woman in
her situation could repose her confidence in, without justly incurring the
sarcasms of the world.
As Egerton was now
married, and would not probably offer any further molestation to Mrs.
Fitzgerald, for the present, at least, it was concluded to be unnecessary to
take any immediate measures of precaution; and Mrs. Wilson thought, the purse
of Mr. Jarvis might be made the means of keeping him within proper bounds in
future. The merchant was prompt, and not easily intimidated, and the slightest
intimation of the truth would, she knew, be sufficient to engage him on their
side, heart and hand.
The ladies parted, with
a request and promise of meeting soon again, and an additional interest in each
other by the communication of that and the preceding day.
Mrs. Wilson had ridden
half the distance between the cottage and the lodge, before it occurred to her,
they had not absolutely ascertained by the best means in their possession, the
identity of Colonel Egerton with Julia’s persecutor. She accordingly took the
pocket book from her bag, and opened it for examination; a couple of letters
fell from it into her lap, and conceiving their direction would establish all
she wished to know, as they had been read, she turned to the superscription of
one of them, and saw---“George Denbigh, Esq.” in the well known hand-writing of
Dr. Ives.---Mrs. Wilson felt herself overcome to a degree that compelled her to
lower a glass of the carriage for air. She sat gazing on the letters until the
characters swam before her eyes in undistinguished confusion; and with
difficulty she rallied her thoughts to the necessary point of investigation. As
soon as she found herself equal to the task, she examined the letters with the
closest scrutiny, and opened them both to be sure there was no mistake. She saw
the dates, the “dear George” at the commencements, and the doctor’s name
subscribed, before she would believe they were real: it was then the truth
appeared to break upon her in a flood of light. The aversion of Denbigh to
speak of Spain, or his services in that country---his avoiding Sir Herbert
Nicholson, and that gentleman’s observations respecting him---Colonel Egerton’s
and his own manners---his absence from the ball, and startling looks on the
following morning, and at different times before and since---his displeasure at
the name of Pendennyss on various occasions---and his cheerful acceptance of
her invitation to ride until he knew her destination, and singular manner of
leaving her---were all accounted for by this dreadful discovery, and Mrs.
Wilson found the solution of her doubts rushing on her mind with a force and
rapidity that sickened her.
The misfortunes of Mrs.
Fitzgerald--- the unfortunate issue to the passion of Jane ---were trifles in
the estimation of Mrs. Wilson, compared to the discovery of Denbigh’s
unworthiness. She revolved in her mind his conduct on various occasions, and
wondered how one who could behave so well in common, could thus yield to
temptation on a particular occasion. His recent attempts--- his
hypocrisy---however, proved his villany was systematic, and she was not weak
enough to hide from herself the evidence of his guilt, or its enormity. His
interposition between Emily and death, she attributed now to natural courage,
and perhaps in some measure, chance; but his profound and unvarying reverence for
holy things---his consistent charity---his refusing to fight---to what were
they owing? And Mrs. Wilson mourned the weakness of human nature, while she
acknowledged to herself, there might be men, qualified by nature, and even
disposed by reason and grace, to prove ornaments to religion and the world, who
fell beneath the maddening influence of their besetting sins. The superficial
and interested vices of Egerton, vanished before these awful and deeply seated
offences of Denbigh; and the correct widow saw at a glance, that he was the
last man to be entrusted with the happiness of her niece; but how to break this
heart-rending discovery to Emily, was a new source of uneasiness to her, and
the carriage stopt at the door of the lodge, ere she had determined on the
first step her duty required of her.
Her brother handed her
from it; and, filled with the dread that Denbigh had availed himself of the
opportunity of her absence, to press his suit with Emily, she inquired after
him: she was rejoiced to hear he had returned with John for a fowling piece,
and together they had gone in pursuit of game, although she saw in it a
convincing proof, that a desire to avoid Mrs. Fitzgerald, and not
indisposition, had induced him to leave her. As a last alternative, she resolved
to have the pocket book returned to him in her presence, to see if he
acknowledged it to be his property; and accordingly she instructed her own man
to hand it to him while at dinner, simply saying he had lost it.
The open and
unsuspecting air with which her niece met Denbigh on his return, gave Mrs.
Wilson an additional shock, and she could hardly command herself sufficiently,
to extend the common courtesies of good-breeding, to Mr. Benfield’s guest.
While sitting at the
dessert, her servant handed the pocket book, as directed by his mistress to its
owner, saying, “your pocket book, I believe, Mr. Denbigh.” Denbigh took the
book, and held it in his hand for a moment in surprise, and then fixed his eye
keenly on the man, as he inquired where he found it, and how he knew it was
his: these were interrogatories Francis was not prepared to answer, and in his
confusion he naturally turned his eyes on his mistress. Denbigh followed their
direction with his own, and in encountering the looks of the lady, he asked in
a stammering manner, and with a face of scarlet,
“Am I indebted to you,
madam, for my property?”
“No, sir; it was given
me by some one who found it, to restore to you,” said Mrs. Wilson gravely in
reply, and the subject was dropt, both appearing willing to say no more. Yet
Denbigh was abstracted and absent during the remainder of the repast, and Emily
spoke to him once or twice without obtaining an answer. Mrs. Wilson caught his
eye several times fixed on her with an inquiring and doubtful expression, that
convinced her, he was alarmed. If any confirmation of his guilt had been
wanting, the consciousness he betrayed during this scene afforded it; and she
sat seriously about considering the shortest and best method of interrupting
his intercourse with Emily, before he had drawn from her an acknowledgment of
her love.
On withdrawing to her
dressing-room after dinner, attended by Emily, Mrs. Wilson commenced her
disagreeable duty, of removing the veil from the eyes of her niece, by recounting
to her the substance of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s last communication. To the innocence
of Emily, such persecution could excite no other sensations but surprise and
horror; and as her aunt omitted the part, concerning the daughter of Sir Edward
Moseley, she naturally expressed her wonder at who the wretch could be.
“Possibly, aunt,” she
said, with an involuntary shudder, “some of the many gentlemen we have lately
seen, and one who has had art enough to conceal his real character from the
world.”
“Concealment, my love,”
replied Mrs. Wilson, “would be hardly necessary; such is the fashionable laxity
of morals, that I doubt not many of his associates would laugh at his
misconduct, and that he would still continue to pass with the world as an
honourable man.”
“And ready,” cried her
niece, “to sacrifice human life, in the defence of any ridiculous punctilio of
that honour.”
“Or,” added Mrs.
Wilson, striving to draw nearer to her subject, “with a closer veil of
hypocrisy wear even an affectation of principle and moral feeling, that would
seem to forbid such a departure from duty in favour of custom.”
“Oh! no, dear aunt,”
exclaimed Emily, with glowing cheeks, and eyes dancing with pleasure, “he would
hardly dare to be so very base--it would be profanity.” Mrs. Wilson sighed
heavily as she witnessed the confiding esteem of Emily, which would not permit
her even to suspect, that an act, which in Denbigh had been so warmly
applauded, could, even in another, proceed from unworthy motives; and found it
would be necessary to speak in the plainest terms, to rouse her suspicion of
his demerits;--willing, however, to come gradually to the distressing truth,
she replied--
“And yet, my dear, men
who pride themselves greatly on their morals, nay, even some who wear the mask
of religion, and perhaps deceive themselves, admit and practice this very
appeal to arms; such inconsistencies are by no means uncommon; and why then
might there not, with equal probability, be others, who would revolt at murder,
and yet not hesitate being guilty of lesser enormities; this is in some measure
the case of every man; and it is only to consider killing in unlawful
encounters, as murder, to make it one in point.”
“Hypocrisy is so mean a
vice, I should not think a brave man would stoop to it,” said Emily, “and Julia
admits he was brave.”
“And would not a brave
man revolt at the cowardice of insulting an unprotected woman; and your hero
did that too,” replied Mrs. Wilson bitterly, losing her self-command in
indignation.
“Oh! do not call him my
hero, I beg of you, dear aunt,” said Emily, starting; and then losing the
unpleasant sensations, in the delightful consciousness of the superiority of
the man on whom she bestowed her admiration.
“In fact, my child,”
continued her aunt, “our natures are guilty of the grossest
inconsistencies--the vilest wretch has generally some property on which he
values himself; and the most perfect are too often frail on some tender point;
long and tried friendships are those only which can be trusted to, and these oftentimes
fail.”
Emily looked at her
aunt in surprise, to hear her utter such unusual sentiments; for Mrs. Wilson,
at the same time she had, by divine assistance, deeply impressed her niece with
the frailty of her nature, had withheld the disgusting representation of human
vices from her view, as unnecessary to her situation, and dangerous to her
humility.
After a short pause,
Mrs. Wilson continued, “marriage is a fearful step in a woman; and one she is
compelled, in some measure, to adventure her happiness on, without fitting
opportunities always, of judging of the merit of the man she confides in; Jane
is an instance, and I hope you are not doomed to be another.”
While speaking, Mrs.
Wilson had taken the hand of Emily, and by her looks and solemn manner, had
succeeded in creating an alarm in her niece, of some apprehended evil, although
Denbigh was yet farthest from her thoughts as connected with danger to herself;
the aunt reached her a glass of water, and willing to get rid of the hateful
subject, she continued, “did you not notice the pocket-book Francis gave Mr.
Denbigh?” Emily fixed her inquiring eyes on her aunt, wildly, as she added, “it
was the one Mrs. Fitzgerald gave me to-day.” Something like an indefinite
glimpse of the facts crossed the mind of Emily--and as it most obviously
involved a separation from Denbigh, she sunk lifeless into the extended arms of
her aunt. This had been anticipated by Mrs. Wilson, and a timely application of
restoratives soon brought her back to a consciousness of her misery. Mrs.
Wilson, unwilling any one but herself should witness the first burst of the
grief of her charge, succeeded in getting her to her own room and in bed. Emily
made no lamentations--shed no tears--asked no questions--her eye was fixed, and
her every faculty appeared oppressed with the load on her heart. Mrs. Wilson
knew her situation too well, to intrude with unseasonable consolation or
useless reflections, but sat patiently by her side, waiting anxiously for the
moment she could be of service; at length the uplifted eyes and clasped hands
of Emilly, assured her she had not forgotten herself or her duty, and she was
rewarded for her labour and forbearance by a flood of tears; greatly relieved,
Emily was now able to listen to a more full statement, of the reasons her aunt
had for believing in the guilt of Denbigh; and she felt as if her heart was
frozen up forever, as the proofs followed each other until they amounted to
demonstration; as there was some indications of fever from her agitated state
of mind, her aunt required she should remain in her room until morning, and
Emily feeling every way unequal to a meeting with Denbigh, gladly assented;
after ringing for her maid to sit in the adjoining room, Mrs. Wilson went
below, and announced to the family the indisposition of her charge, and her
desire to obtain a little sleep. Denbigh looked anxious to inquire after the
health of Emily, but there was a visible restraint on all his actions, since
the return of his book, that persuaded Mrs. Wilson, he apprehended a detection
of his conduct had taken place. He did venture to ask, when they were to have
the pleasure of seeing Miss Moseley again--hoping it would be that evening, as
he had fixed the morning for his departure; and when he learnt that Emily had retired
for the night, his anxiety was sensibly increased, and he instantly withdrew.
Mrs. Wilson was alone in the drawing-room, and about to join her niece, as
Denbigh entered it with a letter in his hand; he approached her with a
diffident and constrained manner, as he commenced with saying--
“My anxiety and
situation will plead my apology for troubling Miss Moseley at this time--may I
ask you, madam, to deliver this letter--I dare not ask you for your good
offices in my favour.”
Mrs. Wilson took the
letter as she coldly replied, “certainly, sir, and I sincerely wish I could be
of any real service to you.”
“I perceive, madam,”
said Denbigh, hesitatingly, “I have forfeited your good opinion --that
pocket-book--”
“Has made a dreadful
discovery,” echoed Mrs. Wilson, shuddering.
“Will not one offence
be pardoned, dear madam?” cried Denbigh, with warmth; “if you knew my
circumstances---the cruel reasons---why---why did I neglect the paternal advice
of Doctor Ives.”
“It is not yet too
late, sir,” said Mrs. Wilson, more midly, “for your own good--but as for us,
your deception--”
“Is unpardonable--I see
it--I feel it,” cried he, with the accent of despair; “yet Emily--Emily may
relent--you will give her my letter--any thing is better than this suspense.”
“You shall have an
answer from Emily this evening, and entirely unbiassed by me,” said Mrs.
Wilson; and as she closed the door, she observed Denbigh standing gazing on her
retiring figure, with a countenance of despair, that mingled a feeling of pity,
with her detestation of his vices.
On opening the door of
Emily’s room, she found her in tears, and her anxiety for her health was
alleviated; she knew or hoped, that if she could once call in the assistance of
her judgment and piety to lessen her sorrows, Emily, however she might mourn,
would become resigned to her situation; and the first step to attain this was
the exercise of those faculties, which had at first been, as it were,
annihilated. Mrs. Wilson kissed her with tenderness, as she placed in her hand
the letter, and told her within an hour she would call for her answer.
Employment, and the necessity of acting, would be, she thought, the surest
means of reviving her energies; nor was she disappointed. When the aunt
returned for the expected answer, she was informed by the maid in the
antichamber, Miss Moseley was up, and had been writing she believed. On
entering, Mrs. Wilson stood a moment in admiration of the picture before her.
Emily was on her knees, and by her side, on the carpet, lay the letter and its
answer; her face was hid by her hair, and her hands were closed in the fervent
grasp of petition; in a minute she rose, and approaching her aunt, with an air
of profound resignation, but great steadiness, handed her the letters, her own
unsealed: “read them, madam, and if you approve of mine, I will thank you to
deliver it.” Her aunt folded her in her arms, until Emily finding herself
yielding under the effects of sympathy, begged her to leave her alone. On
withdrawing to her own room, Mrs. Wilson read the contents of the two letters.
“I rely greatly on the
goodness of Miss Moseley, to pardon the liberty I am taking, at a moment she is
so unfit for such a subject; but my departure--my feelings--must plead my
apology--From the moment of my first acquaintance with you, I have been a
cheerful subject to your loveliness and innocence; I feel, I know I am not
deserving of such a blessing; but knowing you, as I do, it is impossible not to
strive to win you--you have often thanked me as the preserver of your life, but
you little knew the deep interest I had in its safety--without it my own will
be unhappy; and it is by accepting my offered hand, you will place me amongst
the happiest, or rejecting it, the most wretched of men.”
To this note, which was
unsigned, and evidently written under great agitation of mind, Emily had penned
the following reply:
“Sir --It is with much
regret that I find myself reduced to the possibility of giving uneasiness to
one I am under such heavy obligations to: It will never be in my power to
accept the honour you have offered me; and I beg you to receive my thanks for
the compliment conveyed in your request, as well as my good wishes for your
happiness in future, and prayers you may be ever found worthy of it.-- Your
humble servant, “Emily Moseley.”
Perfectly satisfied
with this answer of her niece, Mrs. Wilson went below in order to deliver it at
once; she thought it probable, as Denbigh had already sent his baggage to a
tavern, preparatory to his intended journey, they would not meet again; and as
she felt a strong wish, both on account of Doctor Ives, and out of respect to
his services, to conceal his conduct from the world entirely, she was in hopes
his absence would make any disclosure unnecessary. He took the letter from her
with a trembling hand, and casting one of his very expressive looks at her, as
if to read her thoughts, he withdrew.
Emily had fallen asleep
free from fever, and Mrs. Wilson descended to the supper room; as Mr. Benfield
was first struck with the absence of his favourite--an inquiry after Denbigh
was instituted, and it was while they were waiting his appearance, to be seated
at the table, a servant handed Mr. Benfield a note--“From whom?” cried the old
gentleman, in surprise. “Mr. Denbigh, sir;” and the bearer withdrew.
“Mr. Denbigh!”
exclaimed Mr. Benfield, in added amazement, “no accident I hope-- I remember
when Lord Gosford--here, Peter, your eyes are young, do you read it for me--
read aloud.”
As all but Mrs. Wilson
were anxiously waiting to know the meaning of this message, and Peter had many
preparations to go through before his youthful eyes could make out its
contents; John hastily caught it out of his hand, saying he would save him the
trouble, and in obedience to his uncle’s wishes, read aloud:
“Mr. Denbigh, being
under the necessity of leaving L-- immediately, and unable to endure the pain
of taking leave, avails himself of this means of tendering his warmest thanks
to Mr. Benfield, for his hospitality, and his amiable guests for their many kindnesses;
as he contemplates leaving England, he desires to wish them all a long and
affectionate farewell.”
“Farewell,” cried Mr.
Benfield, “farewell--does he say farewell, John? here, Peter, run--no, you are
too old--John, run--bring my hat, I’ll go myself to the village--some love
quarrel--Emmy sick--and Denbigh going away--yes---yes, I did so myself---Lady
Juliana, poor dear soul, she was a long time before she could forget it---but
Peter”---Peter Peter had disappeared the instant the letter was finished, and
was quickly followed by John. Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were both lost in
amazement at this sudden and unexpected movement of Denbigh, and the breast of
each of the affectionate parents was filled with a vague apprehension, that the
peace of mind of another child was at stake. Jane felt a renewal of her woes,
in the anticipation of something similar for her sister-- for the fancy of Jane
was yet alive, and she did not cease to consider the defection of Egerton, a
kind of unmerited misfortune and fatality, instead of a probable consequence of
want of principles; like Mr. Benfield, she was in danger of making an ideal
idol to worship, and to spend the remainder of her days in devotion to
qualities, rarely, if ever found, and identified with a person that never had
an existence. The old gentleman was now entirely engrossed by a different
object; and having in his own opinion decided there must have been one of those
misunderstandings which sometimes had occurred to himself and Lady Juliana, he
quietly composed himself to eat his sallad at the supper table; on turning his
head, however, in quest of his first glass of wine, he observed Peter standing
quietly by the sideboard with the favourite goggles over his eyes. Now Peter
was troubled with two kinds of weakness about his organs of vision; one was age
and weakness, and the other, was also a weakness---of the heart however; this
his master knew, and he took the alarm---again the wine glass dropt from his
nerveless hand, as he said in a trembling tone---“Peter, I thought you went”--
“Yes, master,” said
Peter laconically in reply.
“You saw him, Peter--he
will return?” Peter was busily occupied at his glasses, although no one was
dry.
“Peter,” repeated Mr.
Benfield, rising from his seat, “is he coming in time for supper,”
Peter, thus assailed,
was obliged to reply, and deliberately uncasing his eyes, and blowing his nose,
he was on the point of opening his mouth, as John came into the room, and threw
himself into a chair, with an air of great vexation; Peter pointed to him in
silence, and retired.
“John,” cried Sir
Edward, “where is Denbigh?”
“Gone, Sir,”
“Gone!”
“Yes, my dear father,”
said John, “gone without saying good-by to one of us--without telling us
whither, or when to return--it was cruel in him--unkind--I’ll never forgive him”--and
John, whose feelings were strong, and unusually excited, hid his face between
his hands on the table.--As he raised his head to reply to a question of Mr.
Benfield--“of how he knew he had gone, for the coach did not go until daylight?”
Mrs. Wilson saw evident marks of the tears; such emotion excited in John
Moseley by the loss of his friend, gave her the pleasure to know, if she had
been deceived, it was by a concurrence of circumstances and depth of hypocrisy,
almost exceeding belief; self-reproach added but little to her uneasiness of
the moment.
“I saw the inn-keeper,
uncle,” said John, “who told me Mr. Denbigh left there at eight o’clock, in a
post-chaise and four; but I will go to London in the morning myself;” and he
immediately commenced his preparations for the journey. The family separated
that evening with melancholy hearts; and the host and his privy counsellor were
closeted for half an hour ere they retired to their night’s repose. John took
his leave of them, and left the lodge for the inn, with his man, in order to be
ready for the mail. Mrs. Wilson looked in upon Emily before she withdrew
herself, and found her awake, but perfectly calm and composed; she said but
little--appeared desirous of avoiding all allusions to Denbigh; and after
simply acquainting her with his departure, and her resolution to conceal the
cause, the subject was dropped. Mrs. Wilson, on entering her own room, thought
deeply on the discoveries of the day; it had interfered with her favourite
system of morals--baffled her ablest calculations upon causes and effects, but
in no degree had impaired her faith or reliance on providence--she knew one
exception did not destroy a rule; she was certain without principles there was
no security for good conduct, and the case of Denbigh proved it; to discover
these principles, might be a difficult, but was an imperious task required at
her hands, ere she yielded the present and future happiness of her pupil to the
power of any man.
The day had not yet
dawned, as John Moseley was summoned to take his seat in the mail for London;
three of the places were already occupied, and John was compelled to get a seat
for his man on the outside; an intercourse with strangers is particularly
irksome to an Englishman, and none appeared disposed to break the silence. The
coach had left the little village of L--far behind it, before any of the
rational beings it contained, had thought it prudent or becoming, to bend in
the least to the charities of our nature, in a communication with a fellow
creature, whose name or condition they happened to be ignorant of. This reserve
is unquestionably characteristic of our nation; to what is it owing?--modesty?
did not our national and deep personal vanity appear at once to refute the
assertion, we might enter into an investigation of it. The good opinion of
himself in an Englishman is more deeply seated, though less buoyant, than that
of his neighbours; in them it is more of manners, in us more of feeling; and
the wound inflicted on the self-love of the two, is very different in effect--
The Frenchman wonders at its rudeness, but soon forgets the charge; while an
Englishman broods over it in silence and mortification. It is said this
distinction in character is owing to the different estimation of principles and
morals, of the two nations. The solidity and purity of our ethics and religious
creeds, may have given a superior tone to our moral feeling--but has that man a
tenable ground to value himself on either, whose respect to sacred things,
grows out of a respect to himself; on the other hand, is not humility the very
foundation of the real christian. For our part, we would be glad to see this
national reserve lessened, if not done away; we believe it is founded in pride
and uncharitableness, and would wish to see men thrown accidentally together on
the roads of our country, mindful that they are travelling also in company, the
highway of life, and that the goal of their destination is alike attainable by
all.
John Moseley was
occupied with thoughts very different from any of his fellow-travellers, as
they proceeded rapidly on their route, and it was only when roused from his
meditations by the accidentally coming in contact with the hilt of a sword, he
looked up, and in the glimmerings of the morning’s light, recognised the person
of Lord Henry Stapleton; their eyes met, and--“my lord”--“Mr. Moseley”---were
repeated in mutual surprise. John was eminently a social being, and he was
happy to find recourse against his gloomy thoughts in the conversation of the
dashing young sailor. His frigate had entered the bay the night before, and he
was going to town to the wedding of his sister; the coach of his brother the
marquis, was to meet him about twenty miles from town, and the ship was ordered
round to Yarmouth, where he was to rejoin her.
“But how are your
lovely sisters, Moseley?” cried the young sailor, in a frank and careless
manner, “I should have been half in love with one of them, if I had time--and
money;--both are necessary to marriage now-a-days, you know.”
“As to time,” said
John, with a laugh, “I believe that may be dispensed with, but money is a
different thing.”
“Oh, time too,” replied
his lordship; “I have never time enough to do any thing as it ought to be done--always
hurried--I wish you could recommend me a lady who would take the trouble off my
hands.”
“It might be done, my
lord,” said John, with a smile, and the image of Kate Chatterton crossed his
brain, but was soon succeeded by that of her more lovely sister. “But how do
you manage on board your ship--hurried there too?”
“Oh! never there,”
replied the captain, gravely; “that’s duty, you know, and every thing must be
regular of course; but on shore it is a different thing--there I am only a
passenger; but L--has a charming society, Mr. Moseley--a week or ten days ago I
was shooting, and came to a beautiful cottage about five miles from the vilage,
that was the adobe of a much more beautiful woman --a Spaniard--a Mrs.
Fitzgerald--I am positively in love with her--so soft--so polished --so
modest--”
ldquo;How came your
lordship acquainted with her?” inquired Moseley, interrupting him in a little
surprise.
“Chance, my dear
fellow--chance--I was thirsty, and approached for a drink of water; she was
sitting in the piazza, and being hurried for time, you know--saved the trouble
of introduction--I expect she is troubled with the same complaint, for she
managed to get rid of me in no time, and with a great deal of
politeness--however, I found out her name at the next house.”
During this rattle,
John had fixed his eyes on the face of one of the passengers who sat opposite
to him--he appeared to be about fifty years of age, strongly pock-marked, with
a stiff military air, and the dress and exterior of a gentleman--his face was
much sun-burnt, though naturally very fair, and his dark, keen eye, was
intently fixed on the sailor, as he continued his remarks--“Do you know such a
lady, Moseley?”
“Yes” said John, “very
slightly; she is visited by one of my sisters, and--”
“Yourself,” cried Lord
Henry, with a laugh.
“Myself, once or twice,
my lord, certainly,” answered John, gravely, “but a lady visited by Emily
Moseley and Mrs. Wilson, is a proper companion for any one--Mrs Fitzgerald is
very retired in her manner of living, and chance made us acquainted with her;
but not being like your lordship, in want of time, we have endeavoured to
cultivate her acquaintance, as we have found it agreeable.”
The countenance of the
stranger underwent several changes during this speech of John’s, and at its
close rested on him with a softer expression, than generally marked its rigid
and compressed muscles.--Willing to change a discourse which was growing too
delicate for a mail-coach, John addressed himself to the opposite passengers,
while his eye yet dwelt on the face of the military stranger.
“We are likely to have
a fine day, gentlemen;” the soldier bowed stiffly, as he smiled his assent, and
the other passenger humbly answered, “very, Mr. John,” in the well known tones
of honest Peter Johnson-- Moseley started, as he turned his face for the first
time on the lank figure, which was modestly compressed into the smallest
possible compass in a corner of the coach, in such a way as not to come in
contact with any of its neighbours.
“Johnson” exclaimed
John, in astonishment, “you here--where are you going--to London?”
“To London, Mr. John,”
replied Peter, with a look of much importance; and then, as if to silence
further interrogatories, he added, “on my master’s business, sir.”
Both Moseley and Lord
Henry, examined him closely as he spoke; the former wondering what could take
the steward, at the age of seventy, for the first time into the vortex of the
capital; and the latter in admiration at the figure and equipments of the old
man before him--Peter was in full costume, with the exception of the goggles,
and was in reality a subject to be gazed at by most people; but nothing relaxed
the muscles, or attracted the particular notice of the soldier, who having
regained his set form of countenance, appeared drawn up in himself, waiting
patiently for the moment he was expected to act; nor did he utter more than as
many words, in the course of the first fifty miles of their journey. His
dialect was singular, and such as put his hearers at a loss to determine his
country. Lord Henry stared at him every time he spoke, as if to say, what
country-man are you? until at length he suggested to John he was some officer,
whom the downfall of Bonaparte had driven into retirement; “indeed, Moseley,”
he added, as they were about to resume their carriage after a change of horses,
“we must draw him out, and see what he thinks of his master now--but
delicately, you know.” The soldier was, however, impervious to his lordship’s
attacks, until he finally abandoned the project in despair. Peter was too
modest to talk in the presence of Mr. John Moseley, and a lord; so the young
men had most of the discourse to themselves. At a village fifteen miles from
London, a fashionable carriage and four, with the coronet of a marquis, was in
waiting for Lord Henry; John refused his invitation to take a seat with him to
town, as he had traced Denbigh from stage to stage, and was fearful of losing
sight of him, unless he persevered in the manner he had commenced; they were put
down safely at an inn, in the Strand, and Moseley hastened to make his
inquiries after the object of his pursuit; such a chaise had arrived an hour
before, and the gentleman had ordered his trunk to a neighbouring hotel; after
obtaining the address, and ordering a hackney coach, he hastened to the house,
and on inquiring for Mr. Denbigh, to his great mortification, was told they
knew of no such gentleman; John turned away from the person he was speaking to,
in visible disappointment, as a servant in a livery respectfully inquired, if
the gentleman had not come from L--, in Norfolk, that day-- “he had,” was the
reply; “then follow me, sir, if you please”--they knocked at a door of one of
the parlours, and the servant entered; he returned, and John was shown into a
room, where was sitting Denbigh with his head resting on his hand, and
apparently musing; on seeing who it was that required admittance, he sprang
from his seat as he exclaimed, “Mr. Moseley! do I see aright?” “Denbigh,” cried
John, as he stretched out his hand to him, “was this kind--was it like
yourself--to leave us so unexpectedly, and for so long a time as your note
mentioned;” Denbigh waved his hand to the servant to retire, and handed a chair
to his friend; “Mr. Moseley,” said he, struggling with his feelings, “you
appear ignorant of my proposals to your sister.”
“Perfectly,” answered
John.
“And her rejection of
them.”
“Is it possible,” cried
the brother, pacing up and down the room; “I acknowledge I did expect you to
offer, but not to be refused.”
Denbigh placed in his
hand the letter of Emily, which having read, he returned, with a sigh; “this
then is the reason you left us,” continued he; “Emily is not capricious--it
cannot be a sudden pique--she means as she says.”
“Yes, Mr. Moseley,” said
Denbigh, mournfully, “Your sister is faultless--but I am not worthy of her---my
deception”---here the door again opened to the admission of Peter Johnson--both
the gentlemen rose at the sudden interruption, and the steward advancing to the
table, once more produced the formidable pocket-book--the spectacles--and a
letter--he ran over its direction--“For George Denbigh, Esquire, London, by the
hands of Peter Johnson, with care and speed;” and then delivered it to its
lawful owner, who opened it, and rapidly perused its contents; he was much
affected with whatever they might be, and kindly took the steward by the hand,
as he thanked him for this renewed instance of the interest he took in him; if
he would tell him where a letter would find him in the morning, he would send
it to him, in reply to the one he had received; Peter gave his address, but
appeared unwilling to go, until assured the answer would be as he
wished--taking a small account-book out of his pocket, and referring to its
contents, he said, “Master has with Coutts & Co. £ 7,000; in the bank, £
5,000; it can be easily done, sir, and never felt by us.” Denbigh smiled in
reply, as he assured the steward he would take proper notice of his master’s
offers in his letter. The door again opened, and the military stranger was
admitted to their presence--he bowed---appeared not a little surprised to find
two of his mail-coach companions there, and handed Denbigh a letter, in quite
as formal, although more silent manner, than the steward. He was invited to be
seated, and the letter perused (after apologising to his guests) by their host.
As soon as he ended it, he addressed the stranger, in a language, which John
rightly judged to be Spanish, and Peter took to be Greek. For a few minutes the
conversation was maintained between them with great earnestness; and his
fellow-travellers marvelled at the garrulity of the soldier; he soon, however,
rose to retire, as the door was thrown open for the fourth time, and a voice
cried out,
“Here I am, George,
safe and sound--- ready to kiss the bridesmaids, if they will let me--and I can
find time---bless me, Moseley!---old marling-spike!---general!---whew ---where
is the coachman and guard?”---it was Lord Henry Stapleton---the Spaniard bowed
again in silence and withdrew---while Denbigh threw open the door of an
adjoining room, and excused himself, as he desired Lord Henry to walk in there
for a few minutes.
“Upon my word,” cried
the heedless sailor, as he complied, “we might as well have stuck together---we
were bound to one port, it seems.”
“You know Lord Henry?”
said John, as he withdrew.
“Yes,” said Denbigh,
and he again required of Peter his address, which was given, and the steward
departed. The conversation between the two friends did not return to the course
it was taking, when they were interrupted, as Moseley felt a delicacy in making
any allusion to the probable cause of his sister’s refusal. He had, however,
began to hope it was not irremoveable, and, with a determination of renewing
his visit in the morning, he took his leave, in order Denbigh might attend to
his acquaintance, Lord Henry Stapleton.
About twelve on the
following morning, John and the steward met at the door of the hotel Denbigh
lodged in; both in quest of his person. The latter held in his hand the answer
to his master’s letter, but wished particularly to see its writer. On inquiring
for him, to their mutual surprise they were told, the gentleman had left there
early in the morning, having discharged his lodgings, and they were unable to
say whither he had gone. To hunt for a man without some clue by which to
discover him, in the city of London, is time misspent. Of this Moseley was
perfectly sensible, and disregarding a proposition made by Peter, he returned
to his own lodgings. The proposal of the steward’s, if it did not do much
credit to his sagacity, honoured his perseverance and enterprise not a little.
It was no other than this; John should take one side of the street, and he the
other, and they would thus inquire at every house, until the fugitive was
discovered. “Sir,” said Peter, with great simplicity, “when our neighbour White
lost his little girl, this was the way we found her, although we went nearly
through L--before we succeeded, Mr. John.” Peter was obliged to abandon this
expedient for want of an associate, and as no message was at the lodgings of
Moseley, he started with a heavy heart on his return to Benefield Lodge. But
Moseley’s zeal was too warm in the cause of his friend, notwithstanding his
unmerited desertion, not to continue his search for him. He sought out the town
residence of the Marquess of Eltringham, the brother of Lord Henry, and was
told, both the Marquess and his brother had left town early that morning for
his seat in Devonshire, to attend the wedding of their sister.
“Did they go alone?”
asked John, musing.
“There were two
chaises, the Marquess’ and his Grace’s.”
“Who was his Grace?”
inquired John.
“Why, the Duke of
Derwent, to be sure.”
“And the Duke? was he
alone?”
“There was a gentleman
with his Grace, but they did not know his name.”
As nothing further
could be learnt, John withdrew. There was a good deal of irritation mixed with
the vexation of Moseley at his disappointment, for Denbigh, he thought,
evidently wished to avoid him. That he was the companion of his kinsman, the
Duke of Derwent, he had now no doubt, and entirely relinquished all
expectations of finding him in London or its environs. While retracing his
steps, in no enviable state of mind, to his lodgings, with a resolution of
returning immediately to L--, his arm was suddenly taken by his friend
Chatterton. If any man could have consoled John at that moment, it was the
Baron. Questions and answers were rapidly exchanged between them, and with
increased satisfaction, John learnt that in the next square, he could have the
pleasure of paying his respects to his kinswomen, the Dowager Lady Chatterton,
and her daughters. Chatterton inquired warmly after Emily, and in a
particularly kind manner concerning Mr. Denbigh, but with undisguised astonishment
learnt his absence from the Moseley family.
Lady Chatterton had
disciplined her feelings upon the subject of Grace and John, into such a state
of subordination, that the fastidious jealousy of the young man now found no
ground of alarm, in any thing she said or did. It cannot be denied the Dowager
was delighted to see him again--and, if it were fair to draw any conclusions
from colouring --palpitations--and other such little accompaniments of female
feeling--Grace was not excessively sorry. It is true, it was the best possible
opportunity to ascertain all about her friend Emily and the rest of the family;
and Grace was extremely happy to have so direct intelligence of their general
welfare, as was afforded by this visit of Mr. Moseley. Grace looked all she
expressed--and perhaps rather more--and John thought she looked very
beautifully.
There was present an
elderly gentleman, of apparently indifferent health, although his manners were
extremely lively, and his dress particularly studied. A few minutes observation
convinced Moseley this gentleman was a candidate for the favour of Kate, and as
a game of chess was introduced, he also saw he was one thought worthy of
peculiar care and attention. He had been introduced to him as Lord Herriefield,
and soon discovered by his conversation, that he was a peer, of but little
probability of rendering the house of incurables more convalescent, than it was
before his admission. Chatterton mentioned him as a distant connexion of his
mother; a gentleman who had lately returned from filling an official situation
in the East-Indies, to take his seat among the lords, by the death of his
brother. He was a bachelor and reputed rich, much of his wealth being personal
property, acquired by himself abroad. The dutiful son might have added, if
respect and feeling had not kept him silent--That his offers of settling a
large jointure upon his elder sister had been accepted, and that the following
week was to make her the bride of the emaciated debauchee, who now sat by her
side. He might also have said, that when the proposition was made to himself
and Grace, both had shrunk from the alliance with disgust; and that both had
united in humble, though vain remonstrances to their mother, against the
sacrifice, and in petitions to their sister, that she would not be accessary to
her own misery. There was no pecuniary sacrifice they would not make to her, to
avert such a connexion; but all was fruitless--Kate was resolved to be a
viscountess--and her mother that she should be rich.
A day elapsed between
the departure of Denbigh and the appearance of Emily again amongst her friends.
An indifferent observer would have thought her much graver and less animated
than usual. A loss of the rich colour which ordinarily glowed on her healthful
cheek might be noticed; but the same placid sweetness and graceful composure
which regulated her former conduct, pervaded all she did or uttered--not so
Jane: her pride had suffered more than her feelings-- her imagination had been
more deceived than her judgment--and although too well bred and soft by nature,
to become rude or captious, she was changed from a communicative--to a
reserved; from a confiding---to a suspicious companion. Her parents noticed
this alteration with an uneasiness, that was somewhat imbittered by the
consciousness of a neglect of some of those duties that experience now seemed
to indicate, could never be forgotten with impunity.
Francis and Clara had
arrived from their northern tour, so happy in each other, and contented with
their lot, that it required some little exercise of fortitude in both Lady
Moseley and her daughters, to expel unpleasant recollections while they
contemplated it. Their relation of the little incidents of their tour, had,
however, an effect to withdraw the attention of their friends in some degree
from late occurrences; and a melancholy and sympathising kind of association,
had taken place of the the unbounded confidence and gayety, which had lately
prevailed at Benfield Lodge. Mr. Benfield mingled with his solemnity an air of
mystery; and was frequently noticed by his relatives looking over old papers,
and apparently employed in preparations that indicated movements of more than
usual importance.
The family were
collected in one of the parlours on an extremely unpleasant day, the fourth of
the departure of John, when the thin personage of Johnson stalked in amongst
them. All eyes were fixed on him in expectation of what he had to communicate,
and all apparently dreading to break the silence, from an apprehension his
communication would be an unpleasant one. In the mean time Peter, who had
respectfully left his hat at the door, proceeded to uncase his body from the
multiplied defences the wary steward had taken against the inclemency of the
weather. His master stood erect, with an outstretched hand, ready to receive
the reply to his epistle, and Johnson having liberated his body from thraldom,
produced the black leather pocket-book, and from its contents a letter, as he
read aloud--Roderic Benfield, Esq. Benfield Lodge, Norfolk; favoured by
Mr.--here Peter’s modesty got the better of his method; he had never been
called Mr. Johnson by any body old or young; all knew him in that neighbourhood
as Peter Johnson---and he had very nearly been quilty of the temerity of
arrogating to himself another title in the presence of those he most respected.
A degree of self-elevation he had escaped from with the loss of a small piece
of his tongue. Mr. Benfield took the letter with an eagerness that plainly
indicated the deep interest he took in its contents, while Emily, with a
tremulous voice and flushed cheek, approached the steward with a glass of wine,
as she said,
“Peter, take this, it
will do you good.”
“Thank you, Miss Emmy,”
said Peter, casting his eyes from her to his master, as the latter having
finished his letter, exclaimed with a strange mixture of consideration and
disappointment,
“Johnson, you must
change your clothes immediately, or you will take cold; you look now, like old
Moses, the Jew beggar.” Peter sighed heavily as he listened to this comparison,
and saw in it a confirmation of his fears; for he well knew, that to his being
the bearer of unpleasant tidings, was he indebted to a resemblance to any thing
unpleasant to his master---and Moses was the old gentleman’s aversion.
The baronet followed
his uncle from the room to his library, and entered it at the same moment with
the steward, who had been summoned by his master to an audience; pointing to a
chair for his nephew, Mr. Benfield commenced with saying,
“Peter, you saw Mr.
Denbigh; how did he look?”
“As usual, master,”
said Peter laconically, and a littled piqued at being likened to old Moses.
“And what did he say to
the offer? did he not make any comments on it? he was not offended at it, I hope,”
cried Mr. Benfield.
“He said nothing but
what he has written to your honour,” replied the steward, losing a little of
his constrained manner in real good feeling to his master.
“May I ask what the
offer was?” inquired Sir Edward of his uncle, who, regarding him a moment in
silence, said, “certainly, you are nearly concerned in his welfare; your
daughter”--the old man stopped as he turned to his letter book, and handed the
baronet the copy of the epistle he had sent to Denbigh for his perusal; it read
as follows:
Dear Friend, Mr.
Denbigh,
I have thought a great
deal on the reason of your sudden departure from a house I had began to hope,
you thought your own; and by calling to mind my own feelings when Lady Juliana
became the heiress to her nephew’s estate, take it for granted you have been
governed by the same sentiments; which I know, both by my own experience and
that of the bearer, Peter Johnson, is a never-failing accompaniment of pure
affection. Yes, my dear Denbigh, I honour your delicacy in not wishing to
become indebted to a stranger, as it were, for the money on which you subsist,
and that stranger your wife---who ought in reason to look up to you, instead of
your looking up to her; which was the true cause Lord Gosford would not marry
the countess--- on account of her great wealth, as he assured me himself;
notwithstanding envious people, said it was because her ladyship loved Mr.
Chaworth better: so in order to remove these impediments of your delicacy, I
have to make three propositions---that I bring you into parliament the next
election for my borough---that you take possession of the lodge the same day
you marry Emmy, while I will live, for the little time I have to stay here, in
the large cottage built by my uncle--- and that I give you your legacy of ten
thousand pounds down, to prevent trouble hereafter.
“As I know it is
nothing but delicacy which has driven you away from us, I make no doubt you
will find all objections removed, and that Peter will bring the joyful
intelligence of your return to us, as soon as the business you left us on, is
completed.--- Your uncle, that is to be,
“Roderic Benfield.”
“N.B. As Johnson is a
stranger to the ways of the town, I wish you to advise his inexperience,
particularly against the arts of designing women, Peter being a man of
considerable estate.”
“There, nephew,” cried
Mr. Benfield, as the baronet finished reading the letter aloud, “is it not
unreasonable to refuse my offers? now read his answer.”
“Words are wanting to
express the sensations which have been excited by Mr. Benfield’s letter; but it
would be impossible for any man to be so base as to avail himself of such
liberality; the recollection of it, together with his many virtues, will long
continue deeply impressed on the heart of him, who Mr. Benfield would, if
within the power of man, render the happiest amongst human beings.”
The steward listened
eagerly to this answer, but after it was done was as much as a loss to know its
contents, as before its perusal. He knew it was unfavourable to their wishes,
but could not comprehend its meaning or expressions, and immediately attributed
their ambiguity, to the strange conference he had witnessed between Denbigh and
the military stranger.
“Master,” exclaimed
Peter, with something of the elation of a discoverer, “I know the cause, it
shows itself in the letter; there was a man talking Greek to him while he was
reading your letter.”
“Greek!” exclaimed Sir
Edward in astonishment.
“Greek?” said the
uncle, “Lord Gossford read Greek; but I believe never conversed in that
language.”
“Yes, Sir Edward--yes,
your honour--pure wild Greek; it must have been something of that kind,” added
Peter with positiveness, “that would make a man refuse such offers-- Miss
Emmy---the lodge---£ 10,000” ---and the steward shook his head with much
satisfaction at at having discovered the cause.
Sir Edward smiled at
the simplicity of Johnson, but disliking the idea attached to the refusal of
his daughter, said, “perhaps, after all, uncle, there has been some
misunderstanding between Emily and Denbigh, which may have driven him from us
so suddenly.”
Mr. Benfield and his
steward exchanged looks, and a new idea broke upon them at the instant; they
had both suffered in that way, and after all, it might prove, Emily was the one,
whose taste or feelings had subverted their schemes. The impression once made
was indelible--and the party separated--the master thinking alternately on Lady
Juliana and his niece, while the man--after heaving one heavy sigh to the
memory of Patty Steele, proceeded to the usual occupations of his office.
Mrs. Wilson thinking a
ride would be of service to Emily, and having the fullest confidence in her
self-command and resignation, availed herself of a fine day to pay a visit to
their friend in the cottage. Mrs. Fitzgerald received them in her usual manner,
but a single glance of her eye, sufficed to show the aunt, that she noticed the
altered appearance of Emily and her manners, although without knowing its true
reason, which she did not deem it prudent to explain---Julia handed her friend
a note she stated to have received the day before, and desired their counsel
how to proceed in the present emergency; as Emily was to be made acquainted
with its contents, her aunt read aloud as follows:
“My Dear Niece,
“Your father and myself
had been induced to think you were leading a disgraceful life, with the
officer, your husband had consigned you to the care of; for hearing of your
captivity, I had arrived with a band of Guerillas, on the spot where you were
rescued, early the next morning, and there learnt of the peasants your
misfortunes and retreat; the enemy pressed us too much to deviate from our
route at the time; but natural affection and the wishes of your father, have
led me to a journey to England, to satisfy our doubts as regards your conduct.
I have seen you--heard your character in the neighbourhood, and after much and
long search, found out the officer, and am satisfied, that, so far as concerns
your deportment, you are an injured woman. I have therefore to propose to you,
on my own behalf, and that of the Condé, that you adopt the faith of your
country, and return with me to the arms of your parent, whose heiress you will
be, and whose life you may be the means of prolonging. Direct your answer to me,
to the care of our ambassador; and as you decide, I am your mother’s brother,
“Louis M‘Carthy y
Harrison.”
“On what point is it
you wish my advice,” said Mrs. Wilson kindly, after she finished reading the
letter, “and when do you expect to see your uncle?”
“Would you have me to
accept the offer of my father, dear madam, or am I to remain separated from him
for the short residue of his life?” Mrs. Fitzgerald was affected to tears, as
she asked this question of her friend, and waited her answer, in silent dread
of its nature.
“Is the condition of a
change of religion, an immoveable one?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, in a thoughtful
manner.
“Oh! doubtless,”
replied Julia, shuddering, “but I am deservedly punished for my early
disobedience, and bow in submission to the will of providence--I feel now all
that horror of a change of my religion, I once only affected--I must live and
die a protestant, madam.”
“Certainly, I hope so,
my dear,” said Mrs. Wilson, “I am not a bigot, and think it unfortunate you
were not, in your circumstances, bred a pious catholic. It would have saved you
much misery, and might have rendered the close of your father’s life more
happy; but as your present creed, embraces doctrines too much at variance with
the Romish church, to renounce the one, or adopt the other, with your views, it
will be impossible to change your church, without committing a heavy offence,
against the opinions and practice of every denomination of christians; I should
hope a proper representation of this to your uncle, would have its weight, or
they might be satisfied with your being a christian, without becoming a
catholic.”
“Ah! my dear madam,”
answered Mrs. Fitzgerald, despairingly, you little know the opinions of my
countrymen on this subject.”
“Surely, surely,” cried
Mrs. Wilson, “parental affection is a stronger feeling than bigotry.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald shook
her head, in silence, and in a manner which bespoke both her apprehensions and
filial regard.
“Julia, ought
not---must not---desert her father, dear aunt,” said Emily, as her face glowed
with the ardency of her feelings.
“And ought she to
desert her heavenly father, my child?” asked the aunt, mildly.
“And are the duties
conflicting?” said Emily.
“The Condé makes them
so,” rejoined Mrs. Wilson; “Julia is, I trust, in sincerity a christian, and
with what face can she offer up her daily petitions to her creator, while she
wears a mask to her earthly father; or how can she profess to honour doctrines,
that she herself believes to be false, or practice customs she is impressed are
improper.”
“Never, never,”
exclaimed Julia, with fervour; “the struggle is dreadful, but I submit to the
greater duty.”
“And you decide right,
my friend,” said Mrs. Wilson, soothingly; “but you need relax no efforts to
convince the Condé of your wishes; the truth and nature will finally conquer.”
“Ah!” cried Mrs.
Fitzgerald, “the sad consequences of one false step in early life.”
“Rather,” added Mrs.
Wilson, “the sad consequences of one false step in generations gone by; had
your grandmother listened to the voice of prudence and duty, she never would
have deserted her parents for a comparative stranger, and entailed upon her
descendants a train of evils, which yet exist in your person.”
“It will be a sad blow
to my poor uncle, too,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “he who loved me so much once.”
“When do you expect to
see him?” inquired Emily--Julia informed them, she expected him hourly, as
fearful a written statement of her views, would drive him from the country
without paying her a visit before he departed, she had earnestly intreated him
to see her without delay.
On taking their leave,
the ladies promised to obey her summons whenever called to meet the general, as
Mrs. Wilson thought she might be better able to give advice to her friend, in
future, by knowing more of the character of her relatives, than she could do
with her present information.
One day intervened, and
was spent in the united society of Lady Moseley and her daughters; while Sir
Edward and Francis rode to a neighbouring town on business; and on the
succeeding, Mrs. Fitzgerald apprised them of the arrival of General M‘Carthy.
Immediately after breakfast, Mrs. Wilson and Emily drove to the cottage, the
aunt both wishing the latter as a companion in her ride, and believing the
excitement would have a tendency to prevent her niece from indulging in
reflections, dangerous to her peace of mind, and at variance with her duty.
Our readers have
probably anticipated, that the stage companion of John Moseley, was the Spanish
general, who had then been making those inquiries into the manner of his niece’s
living, which terminated in her acquittal in his judgment. With that part of
her history which relates to the injurious attempts on her before she arrived
at Lisbon, he appears to have been ignorant, or his interview with Denbigh
might have terminated very differently from the manner already related.
A description of the
appearance of the gentleman presented to Mrs. Wilson is unnecessary, as it has
been given already, and the discerning matron thought she read through the
rigid and set features of the soldier, a shade of kinder feelings, which might
be wrought into an advantageous intercession on behalf of Julia. The General
was evidently endeavouring to keep his feelings within due bounds, before the
decision of his niece might render it proper for him to indulge in that
affection for her, his eye plainly shewed existed under the cover of his
assumed manner.
It was an effort of
great fortitude on the part of Julia to acquaint her uncle with her resolution;
but as it must be done, she seized a moment after Mrs. Wilson had at some
length defended her adhering to her present faith, until religiously impressed
with its errors, to inform him such was her unalterable resolution;--he heard her
patiently, and without anger, but in visible surprise; he had construed her
summons to her house, as a preparatory measure to accepting his conditions; yet
he betrayed no emotion, after the first expression of his wonder; he told her
distinctly, a renunciation of her heresy was the only condition her father
would own her, either as his heiress or his child. Julia deeply regretted the
decision, but was firm---and her friends left her to enjoy uninterruptedly for
one day, the society of so near a relative. During this day, every doubt as to
the propriety of her conduct, if any yet remained, was removed by a relation of
her little story to her uncle, and after it was completed, he expressed great
uneasiness to get to London again; in order to meet a gentleman he had seen
there, under a different impression as to his merits, than what now appeared to
be just;--who the gentleman was, or what the impressions were, Julia was left
to conjecture--taciturnity being a favourite property in the general.
The sun had just risen
on one of the loveliest vales of Caernarvonshire, as a travelling chaise and
six swept proudly up to the door of a princely mansion, which was so situated
as to command a prospect of the fertile and extensive domains, whose rental filled
the coffers of its owner, with a beautiful view of the Irish channel in the
distance.
Every thing around this
stately edifice bespoke the magnificence of its ancient possessors and taste of
its present master--It was irregular, but built of the best materials, and
tastes of the different ages in which its various parts had been erected; and
now in the nineteenth century, preserved the baronial grandeur of the
thirteenth, mingled with the comforts of this later period.
The lofty turrets of
its towers were tipt with the golden light of the sun, and the neighbouring
peasantry had commenced their daily labours, as the different attendants of the
equipage we have mentioned, collected around it at the great entrance to the
building. The beautiful black horses, with coats as shining as the polished
leather with which they were caparisoned--the elegant and fashionable finish of
the vehicle--with its numerous grooms, postilions, and footmen, all wearing the
livery of one master, gave evidence of his wealth and rank.
In attendance there
were four outriders, walking leisurely about, awaiting the appearance of those
for whose comforts and pleasures they were kept to contribute; while a fifth,
who, like the others, was equipped with a horse, appeared to bear a doubtful
station--his form was athletic and apparently drilled into a severer submission
than could be seen in the movements of the liveried attendants; his dress was
peculiar--it was neither menial nor military--- but partook of both; his horse
was heavier and better managed than those of the others, and by its side was a
charger, that was prepared for the use of no common equestrian. Both were coal
black, as were all the others of the cavalcade; but the pistols of the two
latter, and housings of their saddles, bore the aspect of use and elegance
united.
The postilions were
mounted and listlessly waiting with their comrades the pleasure of their
superiors; when the laughs and jokes of the menials were instantly succeeded by
a respectful and profound silence, as a gentleman and lady appeared on the
portico of the building. The former was a young man of commanding stature, and
genteel appearance; and his air---although that of one used to command,
softened by a character of benevolence and gentleness, that might be rightly
judged as giving birth to the willing alacrity, to which all his requests or
orders were attended.
The lady was also
young, and resembled him greatly both in features and expression--both were
noble---both were handsome---the former was attired for the road---the latter
had thrown a shawl around her elegant form, and by her morning dress, showed a
separation of the two was about to happen---taking the hand of the gentleman
with both her own, as the pressed it with fingers interlocked, the lady said,
in a voice of music, and with great affection:
“Then, my dear brother,
I shall certainly hear from you within the week, and see you next?”
“Certainly,” replied
the gentleman, as he tenderly paid his adieus, and throwing himself into the
chaise, it dashed from the door, like the passage of a meteor---the horsemen
followed, the unridden charger, obedient to the orders of his keeper, wheeled
gracefully into his station, and in an instant they were all lost amidst the
wood, through which the road to the park gates conducted them.
After lingering without
until the last of her brother’s followers had receded from her sight, the lady
retired through the ranks of liveried footmen and maids, whom curiosity or
respect, had collected as spectators to the departure of their master.
It might be relevant to
relate the subject of the young man’s reflections; who wore a gloom on his
expressive features amidst the pageantry that surrounded him, which showed the
insufficiency of wealth and honours to fill the sum of human happiness. As his
carriage rolled proudly up an eminence ere he had reached the confines of his
extensive park, his eye rested for a moment, on a scene, in which meadows-
forests--fields, waving with golden corn--comfortable farm houses, surrounded
with innumerable cottages, were to be seen, in almost endless variety, and
innumerable groups--all these owned him for their lord, and one quiet smile of
satisfaction beamed on his face as he gazed on the unlimited view before
him---could the heart of that youth have been read, it would at that moment
have told a story different from the feelings such a scene is apt to excite; it
would have spoken the consciousness of well-applied wealth---the gratification
of contemplating its own meritorious deeds, and a heartfelt gratitude to the
being, which had enabled him to become the dispenser of happiness to so many of
his fellow-creatures.
“Which way, my lord, so
early,” cried a gentleman in a phaeton, as he drew up, to pay his own parting
compliments, on his way to a watering place.
“To Eltringham, Sir
Owen, to attend the marriage of my kinsman, Mr. Denbigh, to one of the sisters
of the marquess.” A few more questions and answers, and the gentlemen
exchanging friendly adieus, pursued each his own course---Sir Owen Ap Rice, for
Cheltenham, and the Earl of Pendennyss to act as grooms-man to his cousin.
The gates of Eltringham
were open to the admission of many an equipage on the following day, and the
heart of the Lady Laura beat quick, as the sound of wheels, at different times,
reached her ears; at last an unusual movement in the house drew her to a window
of her dressing-room, and the blood rushed to her heart, as she beheld the
equipages which were rapidly approaching, and through the mist which stole over
her eyes, saw alight from the first, the Duke of Derwent and the
bride-groom---the next contained the Lord Pendennyss---and the last the bishop
of --; Lady Laura waited to see no more, but with a heart filled with
terror---hope---joy and uneasiness, threw herself into the arms of one of her
sisters.
“Ah!” exclaimed Lord
Henry Stapleton, about a week after the wedding of his sister, as he took John
by the arm, suddenly, while the latter was taking his morning walk to the
residence of the dowager Lady Chatterton, “Moseley, you dissipated youth, in
town yet; you told me you should stay but a day, and here I find you at the end
of a fortnight.” John blushed a little at the consciousness of his reasons for
sending a written, instead of carrying a verbal report, of the result of his
journey, as he replied,
“Yes, my lord, my
friend Chatterton unexpectedly arrived, and so--and so--”
“And so you did not go,
I presume you mean,” cried Lord Henry, with a laugh.
“Yes,” said John, “and
so I staid--but where is Denbigh?”
“Where?--why with his
wife, where every well-behaved man should be, especially for the first month,”
rejoined the sailor gayly.
“Wife!” echoed John, as
soon as he felt able to give utterance to his words--“wife! is he married?”
“Married,” cried Lord Henry,
imitating his manner, “are you yet to learn that; why did you ask for him?”
“Ask for him,” said
Moseley, yet lost in astonishment; “but when--how--where did he marry--my lord?”
Lord Henry looked at
him for a moment, with a surprise little short of his own, as he answered more
gravely.
“When?--last Tuesday;
how? by special license, and the Bishop of --; where? --at Eltringham;--yes, my
dear fellow,” continued he, with his former gayety, “George is my brother
now--and a fine fellow he is.”
“I really wish your
lordship much joy,” said John, struggling to command his feelings.
“Thank you--thank you,”
replied the sailor; “a jolly time we had of it, Moseley --I wish, with all my
heart, you had been there--no bolting or running away, as soon as spliced, but
a regularly constructed, old fashioned wedding--all my doings--I wrote Laura
that time was scarce, and I had none to throw away on fooleries; so dear, good
soul, she consented to let me have every thing my own way--we had Derwent and
Pendennyss, the marquess, Lord William, and myself, for grooms-men, and my
three sisters --ah, that was bad, but there was no helping it--Lady Harriet
Denbigh, and an old maid, a cousin of ours, for brides-maids--could not help
the old maid either, upon my honour, or I would.”
How much of what he
said Moseley heard, we cannot say, for had he talked an hour longer he would
have been uninterrupted-- Lord Henry was too much engaged with his description
to notice his companions taciturnity or surprise, and after walking a square or
two together they parted; the sailor being on the wing for his frigate at
Yarmouth.
John continued his
course, musing on the intelligence he had just heard--that Denbigh could forget
Emily so soon, he would not believe, and he greatly feared he had been driven
into a step, from despair, that he might hereafter repent of--his avoiding
himself, was now fully explained--but would Lady Laura Stapleton accept a man
for a husband at so short a notice? and for the first time a suspicion that
something in the character of Denbigh was wrong, mingled in his reflections on
his sister’s refusal of his offers.
Lord and Lady
Herriefield were on the eve of their departure for the continent, (for
Catherine had been led to the altar the preceding week,) as a southern climate
was prescribed by his physicians as necessary to his constitution; and the
dowager and Grace were about to proceed to a seat of the baron’s within a
couple of miles of Bath-- Chatterton himself had his own engagements, but
promised to be there in company with his friend Derwent within a fortnight;
their former visit having been postponed by the marriages in their respective
families.
John had been assiduous
in his attentions, during the season of forced gayety which followed the
nuptials of Kate; and as the dowager’s time was monopolised with the
ceremonials of that event, Grace had risen greatly in his estimation--if Grace
Chatterton was not more unhappy than usual, at what she thought was the
destruction of her sister’s happiness, it was owing to the presence and evident
affections of John Moseley.
The carriage of Lord
Herriefield was in waiting as John rang for admittance; on opening the door and
entering the drawing-room, he saw the bride and bride-groom, with their mother
and sister, accoutred for an excursion amongst the shops of Bond-street; for
Kate was dying to find a vent for some of her surplus pin-money--her husband to
show his handsome wife in the face of the world-- the mother to witness the
success of her matrimonial schemes---and Grace was forced to obey her mother’s
commands, in accompanying her sister as an attendant, not to be dispensed with
at all, in her circumstances.
The entrance of John at
that instant, though nothing more than what occurred every day at that hour,
deranged the whole plan: the dowager, for a moment, forgot her resolution, and
forgot the necessity of Grace’s appearance, as she exclaimed with evident
satisfaction,
“Here is Mr. Moseley
come to keep you company, Grace, so after all you must consult your head-ache
and stay at home. Indeed, my love, I never can consent you should go out. I not
only wish, but insist you remain within this morning.”
Lord Herriefield looked
at his mother-in-law in some surprise as he listened to her injunctions, and
threw a suspicious glance on his own rib at the moment, which spoke as plainly
as looks can speak.
“Is it possible I have
been taken in after all.”
Grace was unused to
resist her mother’s commands, and throwing off her hat and shawl, reseated
herself with more composure than she would have done, had not the attentions of
Moseley been more delicate and pointed of late than formerly.
As they passed the
porter, Lady Chatterton observed to him significantly--“ nobody at home,
Willis:”--“Yes, my lady,” was the laconic reply, and Lord Herriefield, as he
took his seat by the side of his wife in the carriage, thought she was not as
handsome as usual.
Lady Chatterton that
morning unguardedly laid the foundation of years of misery for her eldest
daughter; or rather the foundations were already laid in the ill-assorted, and
heartless, unprincipled union she had laboured with success to effect. But she
had that morning stripped the mask from her own character prematurely, and
excited suspicions in the breast of her son-in-law, time only served to confirm
and memory to brood over.
Lord Herriefield had
been too long in the world not to understand all the ordinary arts of
match-makers and match-hunters. Like most of his own sex, who have associated
freely with the worst part of the other, his opinions of female excellencies
were by no means extravagant or romantic. Kate had pleased his eye; she was of
a noble family; young, and at that moment interestingly quiet, having nothing
particularly in view. She had a taste of her own, and Lord Herriefield was by
no means in conformity with it; consequently she expended none of those pretty
little arts upon him she occasionally practised, and which his experience would
immediately have detected. Her disgust he had attributed to disinterestedness,
and as Kate had fixed her eye on a young officer lately returned from France,
and her mother, on a Duke who was mourning the death of his third wife,
devising means to console him with a fourth--the Viscount had got a good deal
enamoured with the lady, before either she or her mother, took any particular
notice there was such a being in existence. His title was not the most
elevated--but it was ancient. His paternal acres were not numerous--but his
East-India shares were. He was not very young--but he was not very old; and as
the Duke died of a fit of the gout in his stomach--and the officer run away
with a girl in her teens from a boarding-school-- the Dowager and her daughter,
after thoroughly scanning the fashionable world, determined, for want of a better,
he would do.
It is not to be
supposed that the mother and child held any open communications with each
other, to this effect. The delicacy and pride of both would have been greatly
injured by such a suspicion; yet they arrived simultaneously at the same
conclusion, and at another of equal importance to the completion of their
schemes on the person of the Viscount. It was to adhere to the same conduct
which had made him a captive, as most likely to ensure the victory.
There was such a
general understanding between the two, it can excite no surprise they
co-operated so harmoniously, as it were by signal.
For two people,
correctly impressed with their duties and responsibilities, to arrive at the
same conclusion in the government of their conduct, would be merely a matter of
course; and so with those who are more or less under the dominion of the world.
They will pursue their plans with a degree of concurrence amounting nearly to
sympathy; and thus had Kate and her mother-- until this morning, kept up the
masquerade so well, that the Viscount was as confiding as a country
Corydon--when he first witnessed the Dowager’s management with Grace and John,
and his wife’s careless disregard of a thing, which appeared too much a matter
of course, to be quite agreeable to his newly awakened distrust.
Grace Chatterton both
sang and played exquisitely; it was, however, seldom she could sufficiently
overcome, her desire to excel, when John was her auditor, to appear to her
usual advantage.
As the party went down
stairs, and Moseley had gone with them part of the way, she threw herself
unconsciously on a seat, and began a beautiful song, fashionable at the time.
Her feelings were in consonance with the words--and Grace was very happy in
both execution and voice.
John had reached the
back of her seat before she was sensible of his return, and Grace lost her self
command immediately. She rose and took her seat on a sopha, whither the young
man took his by her side.
“Ah Grace,” said John,
and the lady’s heart beat high, “you do sing as you do every thing, admirably.”
“I am happy you think
so, Mr. Moseley,” returned Grace, looking every where but in his face.
John’s eyes ran over
her beauties, as with palpitating bosom and varying colour, she sat confused at
the warmth of his language. and manner.
Fortunately, a
remarkably striking likeness of the Dowager, which graced the room, hung
directly over their heads--and John, taking her unresisting hand, continued: “Dear
Grace, you resemble your brother very much in features, and, what is better, in
character.”
“I would wish,” said
Grace, venturing to look up, “to resemble your sister Emily in the latter.”
“And why not to be her
sister, dear Grace,” said he with ardor. “You are worthy to become her sister.
Tell me, Grace-- dear Miss Chatterton--can you--will you make me the happiest
of men--may I present another inestimable daughter to my parents.”
As John paused for an
answer, Grace looked up, and he waited her reply in evident anxiety; but as she
continued silent--now pale as death, and now the colour of the rose--he added:
“I hope I have not
offended you, dearest Grace--you are all that is desirable to me-- my hopes--my
happiness--are centered in you--unless you consent to become my wife, I must be
wretched.”
Grace burst into a
flood of tears, as her lover, interested deeply in their cause, gently drew her
towards him--her head sunk upon his shoulder, as she faintly whispered
something, that was inaudible--but which her lover interpreted into every thing
he most wished to hear. John was in extacies--- every unpleasant feeling of
suspicion had left him---of Grace’s innocence of manoeuvring, he never doubted,
but John did not relish the idea of being entrapped into any thing, even a step
which he desired---an uninterrupted communication, between the young people,
followed; it was as confiding as their affections--and the return of the
dowager and her children, first recalled them to the recollection of other
people.
One glance of the eye
was enough for Lady Chatterton--she saw the traces of tears on the cheeks and
in the eyes of Grace, and the dowager was satisfied; she knew his friends would
not object; and as Grace attended her to her dressing room, she cried, on
entering it, “well, child, when is the wedding to be? you will wear me out in
so much gayety.”
Grace was shocked, but
did not, as formerly, weep over her mother’s interference in agony and
dread--John had opened his whole soul to her, observing the greatest delicacy
to her mother, and she now felt her happiness placed in the keeping of a man,
whose honour, she believed, far exceeded that of any other human being.
The seniors of the
party at Benfield Lodge were all assembled one morning in a parlour, when its
master and the Baronet were occupied in the perusal of the London papers. Clara
had persuaded her sisters to accompany her and Francis in an excursion as far
as the village.
Jane yet continued
reserved and distant to most of her friends, while Emily’s conduct would have
escaped unnoticed, did not her blanch’d cheek and wandering looks, at times,
speak a language not to be misunderstood. With all her relatives she maintained
the same affectionate intercourse she had always supported; but not even to her
aunt did the name of Denbigh pass her lips. But in her most private and humble
petitions to her God, she never forgot to mingle with her requests for
spiritual blessings on herself, one fervent prayer for the conversion of the
preserver of her life.
Mrs. Wilson, as she sat
by the side of her sister at their needles, first discovered an unusual
uneasiness in their venerable host, while he turned his paper over and over, as
if unwilling or unable to comprehend some part of its contents, until he rang
the bell violently, and bid the servant send Johnson to him without a moment’s
delay.
“Peter,” said Mr.
Benfield doubtingly, as he entered, “read that--your eyes are young.”
Peter took the paper,
and after having adjusted his spectacles to his satisfaction, proceeded to obey
his master’s injunctions. But the same defect of vision as suddenly seized on
the steward, as had affected his master. He turned the paper sideways, and
appeared to be spelling the matter of the paragraph to himself. Peter would
have given his three hundred a year, to have had the impatient John Moseley at
hand, to have relieved him from his task; but the anxiety of Mr. Benfield,
overcoming his fear of the worst, he inquired in a tremulous tone--
“Peter?”--hem!--“Peter,
what do you think?”
“Why, your honour,”
replied the steward, stealing a look at his master, “it does seem so indeed.”
“I remember,” said the
master, “when Lord Gosford saw the marriage of the Countess announced, he--.”
Here the old gentleman was obliged to stop, and rising with dignity and leaning
on the arm of his faithful servant, he left the room.
Mrs. Wilson immediately
took up the paper, and her eye catching the paragraph at a glance, she read
aloud as follows to her expecting friends:--
“Married, by special
licence, at the seat of the Most Noble, the Marquess of Eltringham, in
Devonshire, by the Rt. Rev. Lord Bishop of --, George Denbigh, Esq. Lt. Col. of
his Majesty’s -- regiment of dragoons, to the Rt. Hon. Lady Laura Stapleton,
eldest sister of the Marquess. Eltringham was honoured on the present happy
occasion with the presence of his Grace of Derwent, and the gallant Lord
Pendennyss, kinsmen of the bridegroom, and Capt. Lord Henry Stapleton, of the
Royal Navy. We understand the happy couple proceed to Denbigh Castle
immediately after the honey-moon.”
Although Mrs. Wilson
had given up the expectation of ever seeing her niece the wife of Denbigh, she
felt an indescribable shock as she read this paragraph. The strongest feeling
was horror at the nearness of Emily to an alliance with such a man. His
avoiding the ball, at which he knew Lord Henry was expected, was explained to
her by his marriage. For, with John, she could not believe a woman like Lady
Laura Stapleton was to be won in the short space of one fortnight, or indeed
less. There was, too evidently, a mystery yet to be developed, and she felt
certain one, that would not elevate his character in her opinion.
Neither Sir Edward or
Lady Moseley had given up the expectation of seeing Denbigh again, as a suitor
for Emily’s hand, and to both of them this certainty of his loss was a heavy
blow. The Baronet took up the paper, and after perusing to himself the article,
muttered in a low tone, as he wiped the tears from his eyes:--“ Heaven bless
him--I sincerely hope she is worthy of him.” Worthy of him, thought Mrs.
Wilson, with a feeling of indignation, as taking up the paper, she retired to
her own room, whither Emily, at that moment returned from her walk, had
proceeded. As her niece must hear this news, she thought the sooner the better.
The exercise, and unreserved conversation of Francis and Clara, had restored,
in some degree, the bloom to the cheek of Emily, as she saluted her aunt on
joining her; and Mrs. Wilson felt it necessary to struggle with herself, before
she could summon sufficient resolution, to invade the returning peace of her
charge. However, having already decided on her course, she proceeded to the
discharge of what she thought her duty.
“Emily--my child,” she
whispered, pressing her affectionately to her bosom, “you have been all I could
wish, and more than I expected, under your arduous struggles. But one more
pang, and I trust your recollections on this painful subject, will be done
away.”
Emily looked at her
aunt in anxious expectation of what was coming, and quietly taking the paper,
followed the direction of Mrs. Wilson’s finger, to the article on the marriage
of Denbigh.
There was a momentary
struggle in Emily for self-command. She was obliged to find support in a chair.
The returning richness of colour, excited by her walk, vanished--But recovering
herself, she pressed the hand of her anxious guardian, and gently waving her
back, proceeded to her own room.
On her return to the
company, the same control of her feelings, which had distinguished her conduct
of late, was again visible; and although her aunt most narrowly watched her
movements, looks, and speeches, she could discern no visible alteration, by
this confirmation of Denbigh’s misconduct. The truth was, that in Emily
Moseley, the obligations of duty were so imperative--her sense of her
dependence on providence so humbling, and yet so confiding, that, as soon as
she was taught to believe her lover unworthy of her esteem, that moment an
insuperable barrier separated them. His marriage could add nothing to the
distance between them. It was impossible they could be united; and although a
secret lingering of the affections, over his fallen character, might and did
exist, it existed without any romantic expectations of miracles in his favour,
or vain wishes of reformation, in which self was the prominent feeling. She
might be said, to be keenly alive to all that concerned his welfare or
movements, if she did not harbour the passion of love; but it showed itself, in
prayers for his amendment of life, and the most ardent petitions for his future
and eternal happiness. She had set about, seriously, and with much energy, the
task of erasing from her heart, sentiments which, however delightful she had
found it to harbour in times past, were now, in direct variance with the path
of her duty. She knew, that a weak indulgence of such passions, would tend to
draw her mind from, and disqualify her to discharge, those various calls on her
time and exertions, which could alone enable her to assist others, or effect in
her own person, the great purposes of her creation. It was never lost sight of
by Emily Moseley, that her existence here, was preparatory to an immensely more
important one hereafter. She was consequently in charity with all mankind, and
if grown a little more doubtful of the intentions of her fellow-creatures, it
was a mistrust, bottomed in a clear view of the frailties of our nature; and
self-examination, was amongst the not unfrequent speculations she made, on his
hasty marriage of her former lover.
Mrs. Wilson saw all
this, and was soon made acquainted by her niece in terms, with her views of her
own condition, and although she had to, and did, deeply regret, that all her
caution had not been able to guard against deception in character, where it was
most important for her to guide aright; yet she was cheered with the reflection
that her previous care, with the blessings of providence, had admirably fitted
her charge to combat and overcome the consequences of their mistaken
confidence.
The gloom which this
little paragraph excited, extended to every individual in the family; for all
had placed Denbigh by the side of John, in their affections, ever since his
weighty services to Emily.
A letter from John
announcing his intention of meeting them at Bath, as well as his new relation
with Grace, relieved in some measure their depression of spirits.---Mr Mr.
Benfield alone found no consolation in these approaching nuptials. John he
regarded as his nephew, and Grace he thought a very good sort of young woman;
but neither of them beings of the same description with Emily and Denbigh.
“Peter,” said he one
day, after they had both been expending their ingenuity, in vain efforts to
discover the cause of this so-much-desired marriage being so unexpectedly
frustrated, “have I not often told you, fate governed these things, in order
men might be humbled in this life. Now, Peter, had the Lady Juliana wedded with
a mind congenial to her own, she might have been mistress of Benfield Lodge to
this very hour.”
“Yes, your honour--but
there’s Miss Emmy’s legacy;” and Peter withdrew, thinking what would have been
the consequences, had Patty Steele been more willing, when he wished to make
her Mrs. Peter Johnson; an association by no means uncommon in the mind of the
steward; for if Patty had ever a rival in his affections, it was in the person
of Emily Moseley, though indeed with very different degrees and colouring of
esteem.
The rides to the
cottage had been continued by Mrs. Wilson and Emily, and as no gentleman was
now in the family to interfere with their communications, a general visit to
the young widow had been made, by the Moseleys, including Sir Edward and Mr.
Ives.
The Jarvises had gone
to London to receive their children, now penitent in more senses than one; and
Sir Edward learnt with pleasure, that Egerton and his wife had been admitted
into the family of the merchant.
Sir Edgar had died
suddenly, and the entailed estates had fallen to his successor the colonel, now
Sir Harry--but the bulk of his wealth being in convertible property, he had given
by will to his other nephew, a young clergyman, and son of a younger
brother.---Mary, as well as her mother, were greatly disappointed, by this
deprivation, of what they considered their lawful splendour--but found great
consolation in the new dignity of the Lady Egerton; who’s greatest wish now was
to meet the Moseleys, in order that she might precede them, in or out, of some
place where such ceremonials are observed---the sound of, Lady Egerton’s
carriage stops the way--was a delight ful one, and never failed to be used on
all occasions, although her ladyship was mistress of no such vehicle.
A slight insight into
the situation of things, amongst them, may be found in the following narrative
of their views, and a discussion which took place about a fortnight after the
re-union of the family under one roof.
Mrs. Jarvis was
mistress of a very handsome coach, the gift of her husband for her own private
use--after having satisfied herself, the baronet (a dignity he had enjoyed just
twenty-four four hours) did not possess the ability to furnish his lady, as she
termed her daughter, with such a luxury, she magnanimously determined to
relinquish her own, in support of the new-found elevation of her
daughter--accordingly a consultation on the alterations which were necessary,
took place between the ladies--“ the arms must be altered, of course,” Lady
Egerton observed, “and Sir Harry’s, with the bloody hand and six quarterings,
put in their place--then the liveries they must be changed.”
“Oh, mercy--my lady--if
the arms are altered, Mr. Jarvis will be sure to notice it-- and he would never
forgive me--and perhaps--”
“Perhaps what?”
exclaimed the new made lady, with a disdainful toss of her head.
“Why,” replied the
mother, warmly, “not give me the hundred pounds, he promised, to have it new
lined and painted.”
“Fiddlestick with the
painting, Mrs. Jarvis,” cried the lady with great dignity, “no carriage shall
be called mine that does not bear my arms and the bloody hand.”
“Why your ladyship is
unreasonable, indeed you are,” said Mrs. Jarvis, coaxingly, and then after a
moment’s thought, she continued, “is it the arms or the baronetcy you want, my
dear?”
“Oh, I care nothing for
the arms, but I am determined, now I am a baronet’s lady, Mrs. Jarvis, to have
the proper emblem of my rank.”
“Certainly, my lady,
that’s true dignity ---well then---we will put the bloody hand on your father’s
arms, and he will never notice it, for he never sees such things.” The
arrangement was happily completed, and for a few days, the coach of Mr. Jarvis
bore about the titled dame---her mother and sister, with all proper
consideration for the dignity of the former---until one unlucky day---the
merchant, who, occasionally, went on change, when any great bargain in the
stocks was to be made, arrived at his own door suddenly, to procure a
calculation he had made on a leaf of his prayer-book, the last Sunday during
sermon--this he obtained after some search; in his haste, he drove to his
broker’s in the carriage of his wife, to save time, it happening to be in
waiting at the moment, and the distance not great--in his hurry, Mr. Jarvis
forgot to order the man to return, and for an hour it stood in one of the most
public places in the city--the consequence was, when Mr. Jarvis undertook to
examine into his gains, with the account rendered of the transaction by his
broker, he was astonished to read, “Sir Timothy Jarvis, Bart. in account with
John Smith, Dr.”--Sir Timothy examined the account in as many different ways as
Mr. Benfield had the marriage of Denbigh, before he would believe his eyes, and
when assured of the fact, immediately caught up his hat, and went to find the
man, who had dared to insult him, as it were, in defiance of the formality of
business--he had not proceeded one square in the city, before he met a friend
who spoke to him by the title ---an explanation of the mistake followed, and
the ci-devant barouet proceeded to his stables; here by examination he detected
the fraud---an explanation, with his consort followed---and the painter’s brush
soon defaced the self-created dignity, from the pannels of the coach---all this
was easy, but with his waggish companions on change, and in the city, (where,
notwithstanding his wife’s fashionable propensities, he loved to resort,) he
was Sir Timothy still.
Mr. Jarvis was a man of
much modesty, but one of great decision, and determined to have the laugh on
his side---a newly purchased borough of his, sent up an address, flaming with
patriotism--it was presented by his hands. The merchant seldom kneeled to his
creator, but on this occasion he humbled himself dutifully before his prince,
and left the presence, with a legal right to the appellation, his old
companions had affixed to him sarcastically.
The rapture of Lady
Jarvis may be more easily imagined than faithfully described; the christian
name of her husband alone, threw any alloy into the enjoyment of her elevation;
but by a license of speech, she ordered, and addressed in her own practice, the
softer and more familiar appellation of---Sir Timo--two servants were
discharged the first week, because unused to titles, they had addressed her as
mistress---and her son, the captain, then at a watering place, was acquainted
express with the joyful intelligence.
All this time Sir Henry
Egerton was but little seen amongst his new made relatives; he had his own
engagements and haunts, and spent most of his time at a fashionable gaming
house in the West End. As, however, the town was deserted, Lady Jarvis and her
daughters having condescended to pay a round of city visits, to show off her
airs and dignity to her old friends, persuaded Sir Timo---the hour for their
visit to Bath had arrived, and they were soon comfortably settled in that city.
Lady Chatterton and her
youngest daughter had arrived at the seat of her son; and John Moseley, as
happy as the certainty of love--returned, and the approbation of his friends
could make him, was in lodgings in the town--Sir Edward had notified his son of
his approaching visit to Bath, and John had taken proper accommodations for the
family, which he occupied for a few days by himself as locum tenens.
Lord and Lady
Herriefield had departed for the south of France; and Kate removed from the
scenes of her earliest enjoyments, and the bosom of her own family, to the protection
of a man she neither loved nor respected, began to feel the insufficiency of a
name or a fortune, to constitute felicity in her own, or indeed, any other
circumstances. Lord Herriefield was of a suspicious and harsh temper by nature;
the first propensity was greatly increased by his former associations, and the
latter, was not removed by the humility of his eastern dependants.---But the
situation of her child gave no uneasiness at present to her managing mother,
who thought her placed in the high road to happiness, and was gratified at the
result of her labours---once or twice her habits had overcome her caution, so
much, as to endeavour to promote, a day or two sooner than had been arranged,
the wedding of Grace---But her imprudence was checked instantly, by the
recoiling of Moseley from her insinuations in disgust, and the absence of the
young man for twenty-four hours, gave her timely warning of the danger of such
an interference, with one of such fastidious feelings---John punished himself
as much as the dowager on these occasions, but the smiling face of Grace, with
her hand frankly placed in his own at his return, never failed to do away the
unpleasant sensations created by her mother’s care.
The Chatterton and
Jarvis families met in the rooms, soon after the arrival of the latter, when
the lady of the knight approached the dowager with a most friendly salute of
recognition, followed by both her daughters---Lady Chatterton, really forgetful
of the person of her B-- acquaintance, and disliking the vulgarity of her air,
drew up into an appearance of great dignity as she hoped the lady was well. The
merchant’s wife felt the consciousness of rank too much to be repulsed in this
manner, and believing the dowager had forgotten her face, added, with a simpering
smile, in imitation of what she had seen better bred people practice with
success,
“Lady Jarvis--my
lady---your ladyship dont remember me---Lady Jarvis of the Deanery, B--,
Northamptonshire, and my daughters, Lady Egerton and Miss Jarvis.” Lady Egerton
bowed stiffly to the recognising smile the dowager now condescended to bestow,
but Sarah remembering a certain handsome lord in the family, was more urbane,
determining at the moment to make the promotion of her mother and sister
stepping-stones to greater elevation for herself.
“I hope my lord is
well,” continued the city lady, “I regret Sir Timo---and Sir Harry---and
Captain Jarvis, are not here this morning to pay their respects to your
ladyship, but as we shall see a good deal of each other, it must be deferred to
a more fitting opportunity.”
“Certainly, madam,”
replied the dowager, as passing her compliments with those of Grace, she drew
back from so open a conversation with creatures, of such doubtful standing in
the fashionable world---There is no tyranny more unyielding or apparently more
dreaded than that of fashion---one half the care to observe she laws of our
maker, that is given, to adhere to the arbitrary decrees of this worldly
tribunal, would make us, unexceptionable in morals, and useful in society; its
influence is felt from the highest to the lowest;--without it---virtue goes
unnoticed; and with it---vice unpunished; it is oscillatory, unreasonable, and
capricious--- subjects men and morals, to the government of the idle, the vain,
and the foolish---and takes its rise, from the error, of making man instead of
God, the judge of our conduct and opinions.
On taking leave of Mrs.
Fitzgerald, Emily and her aunt settled a plan of correspondence; the deserted
situation of this young woman, having created a great interest in the breasts
of her new friends. General M‘Carthy had returned to Spain without receding
from his original proposal, and his niece was left to mourn in solitude, her
early departure from one of the most solemn duties of life, though certainly
under circumstances of great mitigation and temptation.
Mr. Benfield, thwarted
in one of his most favourite schemes of happiness for the residue of his life,
obstinately refused to make one of the party to Bath; and Ives and Clara having
returned to Bolton, the remainder of the Moseleys arrived at the lodgings of
John, a very few days after the interview of the preceding chapter, with hearts
but ill qualified to enter into the gayeties of the place; but in obedience to
the wishes of Lady Moseley, to see and be seen once more on that great theatre
of fashionable amusement.
The friends of the
family who had known them in times past, were numerous, and glad to renew their
acquaintance, with those they had always esteemed; so that they found
themselves immediately surrounded by a circle of smiling faces and dashing
equipages.
Sir William Harris, the
proprietor of the deanery, and a former neighbour, with his showy daughter,
were amongst the first to visit them. Sir William was a man of handsome estate
and unexceptionable character, but entirely governed by the whims and desires
of his only child. Caroline Harris neither wanted sense or beauty, but
expecting a fortune, had placed her views too high. She at first aimed at the
peerage, and while she felt herself entitled to suit her taste as well as her
ambition, had failed of her object by her ill concealed efforts to attain it.
She had justly acquired the reputation of the reverse of a coquette or yet a
prude; still she had never an offer, and at the age of twenty-six, had now
began to lower her thoughts to the commonalty. Her fortune would have easily
got her a husband here, but she was determined to pick amongst these lower
supporters of the aristocracy of the nation. With the Moseleys she had been
early acquainted, though some years their senior---a circumstance, however, she
took care never unnecessarily to allude to.
The meeting between
Grace and the Moseleys was tender and sincere. John’s countenance glowed with
delight, as he witnessed his future wife, folded successively in the arms of
those he loved, and Grace’s tears and blushes added twofold charms to her
native beauty. Jane relaxed from her reserve to receive her future sister, and
determined with herself to appear in the world, in order to shew Sir Henry
Egerton, that she did not feel the blow he had inflicted, as severely, as the
truth would have proved.
The Dowager found some
little occupation for a few days, in settling with Lady Moseley the
preliminaries of the wedding; but the latter had suffered too much through her
youngest daughters, to enter into these formalities with her ancient spirit.
All things were, however, happily settled, and Ives, making a journey for the
express purpose, John and Grace were united privately, at the altar of one of
the principal churches in Bath, by the consent of its rector. Chatterton had
been summoned on the occasion, and the same paper which announced the nuptials,
contained, amongst the fashionable arrivals -the names of the Duke of Derwent
and his sister---the Marquess of Eltringham and sisters, amongst whom was to be
found Lady Laura Denbigh; her husband--Lady Chatterton, carelessly remarking,
in the presence of her friends, she heard was summoned to the death-bed of a relative,
from whom he had great expectations. Emily’s colour did certainly change as she
listened to this news, but not allowing her thoughts to dwell on the subject,
she was soon enabled to recall at least her serenity of appearance.
But Jane and Emily were
delicately placed. The lover of the former, and the wives of the lovers of
both, were in the way of daily, if not hourly meetings; and it required all the
energies of the young women to appear with composure before them. The elder was
supported by pride---the junior by principle.--- The first was
restless---haughty---distant, and repulsive. The last---mild---humble---
reserved, but eminently attractive. The one was suspected by all around
her---the other, was unnoticed by any, but her nearest and dearest friends.
The first rencontre
with these dreaded guests, occurred at the rooms one evening where the elder
ladies had insisted on the bride’s making her appearance. The Jarvis’s were
there before them, and at their entrance caught the eyes of the group. Lady
Jarvis approached immediately, filled with exultation---her husband, with
respect. The latter was received with cordiality---the former, politely, but
with distance. The young ladies and Sir Henry bowed distantly, and the
gentleman soon drew off into another part of the room: his absence kept Jane
from fainting. The handsome figure of Egerton standing by the side of Mary
Jarvis, as her acknowledged husband, was near proving too much for her pride to
endure; and he looked so like the imaginary being she had set up as the object
of her worship, that her heart was in danger of rebelling also.
“Positively, Sir Edward
and my lady, both Sir Timo---and myself, and I dare say Sir Harry and Lady
Egerton too, are delighted to see you at Bath among us. Mrs. Moseley, I wish
you much happiness; Lady Chatterton too, I suppose your ladyship recollects me
now---I am Lady Jarvis. Mr. Moseley, I regret, for your sake, my son, Captain
Jarvis, is not here; you were so fond of each other, and both so lov’d your
guns.”
“Positively, my Lady
Jarvis,” said Moseley dryly in reply, “my feelings on the occasion are as
strong as your own; but I presume the captain is much too good a shot for me by
this time.”
“Why, yes; he improves
greatly in most things he undertakes,” rejoined the smiling dame, “and I hope
he will soon learn like you, to shoot with the arrows of Cupid---I hope the
Honourable Mrs. Moseley is well.”
Grace bowed mildly, as
she answered to the interrogatory--and smiled as she thought of Jarvis, in
competition with her husband, in this species of archery; when a voice
immediately behind where they sat, caught the ears of the whole party; all it
said was--
“Harriet, you forgot to
show me Marian’s letter.”
“Yes, but I will
to-morrow,” was the reply.
It was the tone of
Denbigh---Emily almost fell from her seat as it first reached her, and the eyes
of all but herself, were immediately turned in quest of the speaker. He had
approached to within a very few feet of them, and supported a lady on each arm;
a second look wass necessary to convince the Moseley’s they were mistaken. It
was not Denbigh--but a young man whose figure, face and air, resembled him
strongly, and whose voice possessed the same soft, melodious tones, which had
distinguished that of Denbigh. As they seated themselves within a very short
distance of the Moseleys, they continued their conversation.
“Your Ladyship heard
from the Colonel to-day too, I believe,” continued the gentleman, turning to
the lady, who sat next to Emily.
“Yes, he is a very
punctual correspondent ---I hear every other day,” was the answer.
“How is his uncle,
Laura?” inquired her female companion.
“Rather better; but I
will thank your grace to find the Marquess and Miss Howard.”
“Bring them to us,”
rejoined the other.
“Yes, duke,” said the
former lady with a laugh, “and Eltringham will thank you too, I dare say.”
In an instant the duke
returned, accompanied by a gentleman of thirty, and an elderly lady, who might
have been safely taken for fifty, without offence to any thing but--herself.
During these speeches,
their auditors had listened with very different emotions of curiosity or
surprise, or some more powerful sensation. Emily had stolen a glance which
satisfied her it was not Denbigh himself, and it greatly relieved her, but discovered
with surprise that it was his wife by whose side she sat, and when an
opportunity offered, dwelt on her amiable, frank countenance, with a melancholy
satisfaction--at least she thought, he may yet be happy, and I hope penitent.
It was a mixture of
love and gratitude which prompted this wish, both sentiments not easily gotten
rid of, when once ingrafted in our better feelings. John eyed them with a
displeasure he could not account for, and saw, in the ancient lady, the
brides-maid, Lord Henry had so unwillingly admitted to that distinction.
Lady Jarvis was
astounded with her vicinity to so much nobility, and drew back to her family,
to study its movements to advantage; while Lady Chatterton sighed heavily, as
she contemplated the fine figures of an unmarried Duke and Marquess--and she
without a single child to dispose of. The remainder of the party viewed them
with curiosity, and listened with interest to what they said.
Two or three young
ladies had now joined them, attended by a couple of gentlemen, and their
conversation became general The ladies declined dancing entirely, but appeared
willing to throw away an hour in comments on their neighbours.
“Oh! Willian!” exclaims
one of the young ladies, “there is your old messmate, Col. Egerton.”
“Yes! I observe him,”
replied her brother, “I see him;” but, smiling significantly, he continued, “we
are messmates no longer.”
“He is a sad character,”
said the Marquess; with a shrug. “William, I would advise you to be cautious of
his acquaintance.”
“I thank you, Marquess,”
replied Lord William. “But I believe I understand him thoroughly.”
Jane had manifested
strong emotion, during these remarks; while Sir Edward and his wife averted
their faces, from a simultaneous feeling of self-reproach--their eyes met--and
mutual concessions were contained in the glance they exchanged--yet their
feelings were unnoticed by their companions --over the fulfilment of her often
repeated forewarnings of neglect of duty to our children--Mrs. Wilson had
mourned in sincerity ---but she had forgot to triumph.
“But when are we to see
Pendennyss?” inquired the Marquess, “I hope he will be here, with George---I
have a mind to beat up his quarters in Wales this season---what say you,
Derwent?”
“I intend it, my lord,
if I can persuade Lady Harriet to quit the gayeties of Bath so soon---what say
you, sister, will you be in readiness to attend me so early?” this question was
asked in an arch tone, and drew the eyes of her friends on the person to whom
it was addressed.
“Oh, yes, I am ready
now, Frederick, if you wish,” answered the sister, hastily, and colouring
excessively as she spoke.
“But where is
Chatterton? I thought he was here---he had a sister married here last week,”
inquired Lord William Stapleton, addressing no one in particular.
A slight movement in
their neighbours, excited by this speech, attracted the attention of the party.
“What a lovely young
woman,” whispered the duke to Lady Laura, “your neighbour is.”
The lady smiled her
assent, and as Emily overheard it, she rose with glowing cheeks, and proposed a
walk round the room.
Chatterton soon after
entered---the young peer had acknowledged to Emily, that deprived of hope as he
had been by her firm refusal of his hand, his efforts had been directed to the
suppression of a passion, which could never be successful---but his
esteem---his respect---remained in full force. He did not touch at all on the
subject of Denbigh, and she supposed that with her, he thought his marriage was
a step that required justification.
The Moseleys had
commenced their promenade round the room, as the baron came in---he paid his
compliments to them as soon as he entered, and walked on in their party ---the
noble visitors followed their example, and the two parties met--Chatterton was
delighted to see them---the duke was particularly fond of him, and had one been
present of sufficient observation, the agitation of his sister, the lady
Harriet Denbigh, would have accounted for the doubts of her brother, as
respects her willingness to leave Bath.
A few words of
explanation passed; the duke and his friends appeared to urge something on
Chatterton---who acted as their ambassador--and the consequence was, an
introduction of the two parties to each other. This was conducted with the ease
of the present fashion---it was general, and occurred, as it were incidentally,
in the course of the evening.
Both Lady Harriet and
Lady Laura Denbigh were particularly attentive to Emily. They took their seats
by her, and manifested a preference for her conversation that struck Mrs.
Wilson as remarkable---could it be, that the really attractive manners and
beauty of her niece had caught the fancy of these ladies---or was there a
deeper seated cause for the desire to draw Emily out, both of them evinced?
Mrs. Wilson had heard a rumour, that Chatterton was thought attentive to Lady
Harriet, and the other was the wife of Denbigh; was it possible the quondam
suitors of her niece, had related to their present favourites, the situation
they had stood in as regarded Emily---it was odd, to say no more, and the widow
dwelt on the innocent countenance of the bride with pity and admiration---Emily
herself was not a little abashed at the notice of her new acquaintances,
especially Lady Laura---but as their admiration appeared sincere, as well as
their desire to be on terms of intimacy with the Moseleys, they parted, on the
whole, mutually pleased.
The conversation
several times was embarrassing to the baronet’s family, and at moments,
distressingly so to their daughter.
At the close of the
evening they formed one group at a little distance from the rest of the
company, and in a situation to command a view of it.
“Who is that vulgar
looking woman,” cried Lady Sarah Stapleton, “seated next to Sir Henry Egerton,
brother?”
“No less a personage
than my Lady Jarvis,” replied the Marquess, gravely, “and the mother-in-law of
Sir Harry and wife to Sir Timo--;” this was said with an air of great
importance, and a look of drollery that showed the marquess a bit of a quiz.
“Married!” cried Lord
William, “mercy on the woman, who is Egerton’s wife---he is the greatest
latitudinarian amongst the ladies, of any man in England--nothing---no
nothing---would tempt me to let such a man marry a sister of mine”---ah,
thought Mrs. Wilson, how we may be deceived in character, with the best
intentions after all; in what are the open vices of Egerton, worse than the
more hidden ones of Denbigh.
These freely expressed
opinions on the character of Sir Henry, were excessively awkward to some of the
listeners---to whom they were connected with unpleasant recollections, of
duties neglected, and affections thrown away.
Sir Edward Moseley was
not disposed to judge his fellow creatures harshly, and it was as much owing to
his philanthropy as to his indolence, that he had been so remiss in his
attention to the associates of his daughters-- but the veil once removed, and
the consequences brought home to him through his child---no man was more alive
to the necessity of caution on this important particular; and Sir Edward formed
many salutary resolutions for the government of his future conduct, in relation
to those, whom an experience nearly fatal in its results, had greatly qualified
to take care of themselves:---but to resume our narrative---Lady Laura had
maintained with Emily, a conversation which was enlivened by occasional remarks
from the rest of the party, in the course of which the nerves as well as the
principles of Emily were put to a severe trial.
“My brother Henry,”
said Lady Laura, “who is a captain in the navy, once had the pleasure of seeing
you, Miss Moseley, and in some measure made me acquainted with you before we
met.”
“I dined with Lord
Henry at L--, and was much indebted to his polite attentions in an excursion on
the water, in common with a large party;” replied Emily simply.
“Oh, I am sure his
attentions were exclusive,” cried the sister; “indeed he told us that nothing
but the want of time, prevented his being deeply in love---he had even the
audacity to tell Denbigh, it was fortunate for me he had never seen you, or I
should have been left to lead Apes.”
“And I suppose you
believe him now,” cried Lord William, laughing, as he bowed to Emily.
His sister laughed in
her turn, but shook her head, in the confidence of conjugal affection, as she
replied--
“It is all conjecture,
for the Colonel said he had never the pleasure of meeting Miss Moseley, so I
will not boast of what my powers could have done---Miss Moseley,” continued
Lady Laura, blushing slightly at her inclination to talk of an absent husband--so
lately her lover; “I hope to have the pleasure of presenting Colonel Denbigh to
you soon.”
“I think,” said Emily,
with a horror of deception, and a mighty struggle to suppress her feelings, “Colonel
Denbigh was mistaken in saying we never met--he was of material service to me
once, and I owe him a debt of gratitude, that I only wish I could properly
repay.”
Lady Laura listened in
surprise; but as Emily paused, she could not delicately, as his wife, remind
her further of the obligation, by asking what the service was--and hesitating a
moment, continued--
“Henry quite made you
the subject of conversation amongst us--Lord Chatterton too, who visited us for
a day, was equally warm in his eulogiums--I really thought they created a
curiosity, in the Duke and Pendennyss, to behold their idol.”
“A curiosity that would
be ill rewarded in its indulgence,” said Emily, abashed by the personality of
the discourse.
“So says the modesty of
Miss Moseley,” said the Duke of Derwent, in the peculiar tone which distinguished
the softer keys of Denbigh’s voice--Emily’s heart beat quick as she heard
them---and she was afterwards vexed to remember with how much pleasure she
listened to this opinion of the duke;---was it the sentiment?---or was it the
voice?---she, however, gathered strength to answer, with a dignity that
repressed further praises,
“Your Grace is willing
to devest me of what little I possess.”
“Pendennyss is a man of
a thousand,” continued Lady Laura, with the privilege of a married woman; “I do
wish he would join us at Bath--is there no hope, duke?”
“I am afraid not,”
replied his Grace, “he keeps himself immured in Wales with his sister--who is
as much of a hermit as himself.”
“There was a story of
an inamorata in private, somewhere,” cried the Marquess; “why at one time, it
was said, he was privately married to her.”
“Scandal, my lord,”
said the Duke gravely, “the Earl is of unexceptionable morals--and and the lady
you mean, the widow of Major Fitzgerald- -whom you knew---Pendennyss never sees
her, and by accident, was once of very great service to her.”
Mrs. Wilson breathed
freely again, as she heard the explanation of this charge, and thought if the
Marquess knew all---how differently would he judge Pendennyss, as well as
others.
“Oh! I have the highest
opinion of Lord Pendennyss,” cried the Marquess.
The Moseleys were not
sorry, the usual hour of retiring, put an end to both the conversation and
their embarrassments.
For the succeeding
fortnight the intercourse between the Moseley’s and their new acquaintances
increased daily. It was rather awkward at first on the part of Emily, and her
beating pulse and changing colour too often showed the alarm of feelings not
yet overcome, when any allusions were made to the absent husband of one of the
ladies. Still, as her parents encouraged the cequaintance, and her aunt thought
the best way to get rid of the remaining weakness of humanity, with respect to
Denbigh, was not to shrink from even an interview with the gentleman himself;
Emily succeeded in conquering her reluctance; and as the high opinion
entertained by Lady Laura of her husband, was expressed in a thousand artless
ways, an interest was created in her by her affections, and the precipice over
which, both Mrs. Wilson and her niece thought, she was suspended.
Egerton carefully
avoided all collision with the Moseley’s. Once, indeed, he endeavoured to renew
his acquaintance with John, but a haughty repulse drove him instantly from the
field.
What representations he
had thought proper to make to his wife, we are unable to say, but she appeared
to resent something--as she never approached the dwelling or persons of her
quondam associates, although in her heart she was dying to be on terms of
intimacy with their titled friends. Her incorrigible mother was restrained by
no such or any other consideration, and had contrived to fasten on the Dowager
and Lady Harriet, a kind of bowing acquaintance, which she made great use of at
the rooms.
The Duke sought out the
society of Emily wherever he could obtain it; and Mrs. Wilson thought her niece
admitted his approaches with less reluctance, than that of any others of the
gentlemen around her.
At first she was
surprised, but a closer observation betrayed the latent cause to her.
Derwent resembled
Denbigh greatly in person and voice, although there were distinctions, easily
to be made, on an acquaintance. The Duke had an air of command and hauteur that
was never to be seen in his cousin. But his admiration of Emily he did not
attempt to conceal, and, as he ever addressed her in the respectful language
and identical voice of Denbigh, the observant widow easily perceived, that it
was the remains of her attachment to the one, that induced her niece to listen,
with such evident pleasure, to the conversation of the other.
The Duke of Derwent
wanted many of the indispensable requisites of a husband, in the eyes of Mrs.
Wilson; yet, as she thought Emily out of all danger, at the present, of any new
attachment, she admitted the association, under no other restraint, than the
uniform propriety of all that Emily said or did.
“Your niece will one
day be a Dutchess, Mrs. Wilson,” whispered Lady Laura--as Derwent and Emily
were running over a new poem one morning, in the lodgings of Sir Edward; the
former--reading a fine extract aloud, in the air and voice of Denbigh, in so
striking a manner, as to call all the animation of the unconscious Emily, into
her expressive face.
Mrs. Wilson sighed, as
she reflected on the strength of those feelings, which even principles and
testimony, had not been able wholly to subdue, as she answered---
“Not of Derwent, I
believe. But how wonderfully the Duke resembles your husband, at times,” she
added, thrown off her guard.
Lady Laura was
evidently surprised as she answered: “yes---at times, he does; they are brother’s
children, you know; the voice in all that connection is remarkable. Pendennyss,
though a degree farther off in blood, possesses it; and Lady Harriet, you
perceive, has the same characteristic; there has been some syren in the family
in days past.”
Sir Edward and Lady
Moseley saw the attentions of the Duke with the greatest pleasure; though not
slaves to the ambition of wealth and rank, they were certainly no objections in
their eyes; and a proper suitor, Lady Moseley thought the most probable means
of driving the recollection of Denbigh from the mind of her daughter; this
consideration had great weight in leading her to cultivate an acquaintance, so
embarrassing on many accounts.
The Colonel, however,
had written his wife the impossibility of his quitting his uncle while he
continued so unwell, and the bride was to join him, under the escort of Lord
William.
The same tenderness
distinguished Denbigh on this occasion, that had appeared so lovely, when
exercised to his dying father. Yet, thought Mrs. Wilson, how insufficient are
good feelings to effect, what can only be the result of good principles.
Caroline Harris was
frequently of the parties of pleasure---walks---rides---and dinners, which the
Moseley’s were compelled to join in; and as the Marquess of Eltringham had
given her one day some little encouragement, she determined to make an expiring
effort at the peerage, before she condescended to enter into an examination of
the qualities of Capt. Jarvis; who, his mother had persuaded her, was an
Apollo, and who she had great hopes of seeing one day a Lord, as both the
Captain and herself had commenced laying up a certain sum quarterly, for the
purpose of buying a title hereafter. An ingenious expedient of Jarvis to get
into his hands a portion of the allowance of his mother.
Eltringham was strongly
addicted to the ridiculous, and, without committing himself in the least, drew
the lady out on divers occasions, for the amusement of himself and the
Duke---who enjoyed, without practising that species of joke.
The collisions between
ill-concealed art, and as ill-concealed irony, had been practised with impunity
by the Marquess for a fortnight; and the lady’s imagination began to revel in
the delights of her triumph, when a really respectable offer was made to the
acceptance of Miss Harris, by a neighbour of her father’s in the country, one
she would rejoice to have received a few days before, but which, in consequence
of hopes created by the following occurrence, she haughtily rejected.
It was at the lodgings
of the Baronet, that Lady Laura exclaimed one day:--
“Marriage is a lottery,
certainly, and neither Sir Henry or Lady Egerton appear to have drawn prizes.”--Here
Jane stole from the room.
“Never, sister,” cried
the Marquess. “I will deny that. Any man can select a prize from your sex, if
he only knows his own taste.”
“Taste is a poor
criterion, I am afraid,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, “to bottom matrimonial
felicity upon.”
“What would you refer
the decision to, my dear madam?” inquired Lady Laura.
“Judgment.”
Lady Laura shook her
head, doubtingly, as she answered,
“You remind me so much
of Lord Pendennyss. Every thing, he wishes to bring under the subjection of
judgment and principles.”
“And is he wrong, Lady
Laura?” asked Mrs. Wilson, pleased to find such correct views existed, in one
she thought so highly of.
“Not wrong, my dear
madam, only impracticable. What do you think, Marquess, of choosing a wife in
conformity to your principles, and without consulting your taste.”
Mrs. Wilson shook her
head, with a laugh, as she disclaimed any such statement of the case---but the
Marquess, who disliked one of John’s didactic conversations very much, gaily
interrupted her by saying--
“Oh! taste is every
thing with me. The woman of my heart against the world--if she suits my fancy,
she satisfies my judgment too.”
“And what is this fancy
of your Lordship’s,” said Mrs. Wilson, willing to gratify his relish for
trifling. “What kind of woman do you mean to choose? How tall, for instance?”
“Why, madam,” cried the
Marquess, rather unprepared for such a catechism, and looking round him, until
the outstretched neck and eager attention of Caroline Harris caught his eye, he
added, with an air of great simplicity--“about the height of Miss Harris.”
“How old?” said Mrs.
Wilson with a smile.
“Not too young, ma’am,
certainly. I am thirty-two--my wife must be five or six and twenty. Am I old
enough, do you think, Derwent?” he added, in a whisper to the Duke.
“Within ten years,” was
the reply.
Mrs. Wilson continued--
“She must read and
write, I suppose?”
“Why, faith,” said the
Marquess, “I am not fond of a bookish sort of a woman, and least of all, of a
scholar.”
“You had better take
Miss Howard,” whispered his brother. “She is old enough-- never reads---and
just the height.”
“No, no, William,”
rejoined the brother. “Rather too old, that. Now, I admire a woman who has
confidence in herself.--One that understands the proprieties of life, and has,
if possible, been at the head of an establishment, before she takes charge of
mine.”
The delighted Caroline
wriggled about in her chair, and unable to contain herself longer, inquired:--
“Noble blood, of
course, you would require, my Lord?”
“Why, no! I rather
think the best wives are to be found in a medium. I would wish to elevate my
wife myself. A Baronet’s daughter, for instance.”
Here Lady Jarvis, who
had entered during the dialogue, and caught the topic they were engaged in,
drew near, and ventured to ask if he thought a simple Knight too low. The
Marquess, who did not expect such an attack, was a little at a loss for an
answer; but recovering himself, answered gravely--under the apprehension of
another design on his person, “he did think that would be forgetting his duty
to his descendants.”
Lady Jarvis sigh’d, as
she fell back in disappointment, and Miss Harris, turning to the nobleman, in a
soft voice, desired him to ring for her carriage. As he handed her down, she
ventured to inquire if his Lordship had ever met with such a woman as he had
described.
“Oh, Miss Harris,” he
whispered, as he handed her into the coach, “how can you ask such a question.
You are very cruel-- Drive on, coachman.”
“How, cruel, my Lord,”
said Miss Harris, eagerly. “Stop John.--How, cruel, my Lord;” and she stretch’d
her neck out of the window as the Marquess, kissing his hand to her, ordered
the man to proceed.--“Don’t you hear your lady, sir.”
Lady Jarvis had
followed them down, also with a view to catch any thing which might be said-
-Having apologised for her hasty visit; and as the Marquess handed her politely
into her carriage, she begged “he would favour Sir Timo--and Sir Henry with a
call;” which, being promised, Eltringham returned to the room.
“When am I to salute a
Marchioness of Eltringham,” cried Lady Laura to her brother, on his entrance, “one,
on the new standard set up by your Lordship.”
“Whenever Miss Harris
can make up her mind to the sacrifice,” replied the brother very gravely; “ah
me! how very considerate some of your sex are, upon the modesty of ours.”
“I wish you joy with
all my heart, my Lord Marquess,” exclaimed John Moseley; “I was once favoured
with the notice of the lady for a week or two, but a viscount saved me from
capture.”
“I really think,
Moseley,” said the duke innocently, but speaking with animation, “an intriguing
daughter, worse than a managing mother.”
John’s gayety for the
moment vanished, as he replied in a low key, “O yes, much worse.”
Grace’s heart was in
her throat, until, by stealing a glance at her husband, she saw the cloud
passing over his fine brow, and happening to catch her affectionate smile, his
face was lighted into a look of pleasantry as he continued,
“I would advise
caution, my Lord; Caroline Harris has the advantage of experience in her trade,
and was expert from the first.”
“John---John---” said
Sir Edward with warmth, “Sir William is my friend, and his daughter must be
respected.”
“Then, baronet,” cried
the Marquess, “she has one recommendation I was ignorant of, and as such, I am
silent: but ought not Sir William to teach his daughter to respect herself. I
view these husband-hunting ladies as pirates on the ocean of love, and lawful
objects for any roving cruiser, like myself, to fire at. At one time I was
simple enough to retire as they advanced, but you know, madam,” turning to Mrs.
Wilson with a droll look, “flight only encourages pursuit, so I now give battle
in self-defence.”
“And I hope
successfully, my lord,” observed the lady, “Miss Harris’ brother, does appear
to have grown desperate in her attacks, which were formerly much more masqued
than at present. I believe it is generally the case, when a young woman throws
aside the delicacy and feelings which ought to be the characteristics of her
sex, and which teach her studiously to conceal her admiration, she either
becomes in time, cynical and disagreeable to all around her from
disappointment, or presevering in her efforts; as it were, runs a muck for a
husband. Now, in justice to the gentlemen, I must say, baronet, there are strong
symptoms of the Malay, about Caroline Harris.”
“A muck---a muck”---cried
the marquess, as, in obedience to the signal of his sister, he rose to
withdraw.
Jane had retired to her
own room, in mortification of spirit she could ill conceal, during this conversation,
and felt a degree of humiliation, which almost drove her to the desperate
resolution of hiding herself forever from the world: the man she had so fondly
enshrined in her heart, to be so notoriously unworthy, as to be the subject of
unreserved censure in general company, was a reproach to her delicacy---her
observation---her judgment---that was the more severe, from being true; and she
wept in bitterness over her fallen happiness, with a determination never again
to expose herself to a danger, against which, a prudent regard to the plainest
rules of caution would have been a sufficient safeguard.
Emily had noticed the
movement of Jane, and waited anxiously the departure of the visiters to hasten
to her room. She knocked two or three times before her sister replied to her
request for admittance.
“Jane, my dear Jane,”
said Emily, soothingly, “will you not admit me?” Jane could not resist any
longer the affection of her sister, and the door was opened; but as Emily
endeavoured to take her hand, she drew back coldly, and cried---
“I wonder you, who are
so happy, will leave the gay scene below for the society of a humbled wretch
like me;” and overcome with the violence of her emotion, she burst into tears.
“Happy!” repeated Emily
in a tone of anguish---“Happy, did you say, Jane?---Oh little do you know my
sufferings, or you would never speak so cruelly to me.”
Jane, in her turn,
surprised at the strength of Emily’s language, considered her now weeping
sister, for a moment, with commisseration, and then her thoughts recurring to
her own case, she continued with energy,
“Yes, Emily, happy; for
whatever may have been the reason of Denbigh’s conduct, he is respected; and if
you do, or did love him, he was worthy of it.---But I,” said Jane wildly, “threw
away my affections on a wretch--a mere impostor--and I am miserable forever.”
“No, dear Jane,”
rejoined Emily, having recovered her self possession--“not miserable --nor for
ever. You have many--very many sources of happiness yet within your reach--
even in this world. I--I do think, even our strongest attachments may be
overcome by energy, and a sense of duty. And oh! how I wish I could see you
make the effort.” For a moment the voice of the youthful moralist had failed
her, but her anxiety on behalf of her sister overcame her feelings, and she
ended the sentence with great earnestness.
“Emily,” said Jane,
with obstinacy, and yet in tears, “you don’t know what blighted affections
are:---To endure the scorn of the world, and see the man you once thought near
being your husband, married to another, who is showing herself in triumph
before you, wherever you go.”
“Hear me, Jane, before
you reproach me further, and then judge between us.” Emily paused a moment, to
acquire nerve to proceed, and then related to her astonished sister the little
history of her own disappointments. She did not affect to conceal her
attachment to Denbigh. With glowing cheeks she acknowledged, that she found a
necessity for all her efforts, to keep her rebellious feelings yet in subjection;
and as she recounted generally his conduct to Mrs. Fitzgerald, she concluded by
saying: “But, Jane, I can see enough to call forth my gratitude; and although,
with yourself, I feel at this moment as if my affections were sealed forever, I
wish to make no hasty resolutions, or act in any manner as if I were unworthy
of the lot Providence has assigned me.”
“Unworthy? no!--you
have no reasons for self-reproach. If Mr. Denbigh has had the art to conceal
his crimes from you, he did it to the rest of the world also, and has married a
woman of rank and character. But how differently are we situated. Emily--I--I
have no such consolation.”
“You have the
consolation, my sister, of knowing there is an interest made for you where we
all require it most, and it is there I endeavour to seek my support,” said
Emily, in a low and humble tone. “A review of our own errors takes away the
keenness of our perception of the wrongs done us, and by placing us in charity
with the rest of the world, disposes us to enjoy, calmly, the blessings within
our reach. Besides, Jane, we have parents, whose happiness is locked up in that
of their children, and we should-- we must overcome those feelings which
disqualify us for our common duties, on their account.”
“Ah!” cried Jane, “how can
I move about in the world, while I know the eyes of all are on me, in curiosity
to discover how I bear my disappointments. But you, Emily, are unsuspected. It
is easy for you to affect gayety you do not feel.”
“I neither affect or
feel any gayety,” said her sister, mildly. “But are there not the eyes of one
on us, of infinitely more power to punish or reward, than what may be found in
the opinions of the world? Have we no duties? For what is our wealth---our
knowledge--- our time given us, but to improve our own, and the eternal welfare
of those around us? Come, then, my sister, we have both been deceived--let us
endeavour not to be culpable.”
“I wish, from my soul,
we could leave Bath,” cried Jane. “The place--the people are hateful to me.”
“Jane,” said Emily, “rather
say you hate their vices, and wish for their amendment. But do not
indiscriminately condemn a whole community, for the wrongs you have sustained
from one of its members.”
Jane allowed herself to
be consoled, though by no means convinced, as to her great error, by this
effort of her sister; and they both found a temporary relief by the
unburthening of the r hearts to each other, that in future brought them more
nearly together, and was of mutual assistance in supporting them in the promiscuous
circles they were obliged to mix in.
With all her fortitude
and principle, one of the last things Emily would have desired was an interview
with Denbigh; and she was happily relieved from the present danger of it, by
the departure of Lady Laura and her brother, to the residence of the Colonel’s
sick uncle.
Both Mrs. Wilson and
Emily suspected that a dread of meeting them had detained him from his intended
journey to Bath, and neither were sorry to perceive, what they considered as
latent signs of grace, which Egerton appeared entirely to be without. “He may
yet see his errors, and make a kind and affectionate husband,” thought Emily;
and then, as the image of Denbigh rose in her imagination, surrounded with the
domestic virtues, she roused herself from the dangerous reflection, to the
exercise of duties, in which she found a refuge from unpardonable wishes.
Nothing material
occurred after the departure of Lady Laura, for a fortnight;--the Moseleys
entering soberly into the amusements of the place, and Derwent and Chatterton
becoming more pointed every day in their attentions--the one to Emily, and the
other to Lady Harriet--when the dowager received a pressing intreaty from
Catherine to hasten to her at Lisbon, where her husband had taken up his abode
for a time, after much doubt and indecision as to his place of residence; Lady
Herriefield stated generally in her letter, that she was miserable, and without
the support of her mother could not exist under her present grievances; but
what was the cause of those grievances, or what grounds she had for her misery,
she left unexplained.
Lady Chatterton was not
wanting in maternal regard, and promptly determined to proceed to Portugal in
the next packet. John felt inclined for a little excursion with his bride, and
out of compassion to the baron, who was in a dilemma between his duty and his
love, (for Lady Harriet about that time was particularly attractive,) offered
his services.
Chatterton allowed
himself to be persuaded by the good-natured John, that his mother could safely
cross the ocean, under the protection of the latter--accordingly, at the end of
the before mentioned fortnight, the dowager, John, Grace, and Jane, commenced
their ride to Falmouth.
Jane had offered to
accompany Grace, as a companion in her return, (it being expected Lady
Chatterton would remain in the country with her daughter,) and her parents
appreciating her motives, permitted the excursion, with a hope it would draw
her thoughts from past events.
Although Grace shed a
few tears at parting with Emily and her friends, it was impossible for Mrs.
Moseley to be long unhappy, with the face of John smiling by her side; and they
pursued their route uninterruptedly. In due season, they reached the port of
their embarkation.
The following morning
the packet got under weigh, and a favourable breeze soon wafted them out of
sight of their native shores. The ladies were too much indisposed the first day
to appear on the deck; but the weather becoming calm, and the sea smooth, Grace
and Jane ventured out of the confinement of the state-room they shared between
them, to respire the fresh air above.
There were but few
passengers, and those chiefly ladies--the wives of officers on foreign
stations, on their way to join their husbands; as these had been accustomed to
moving in the world, their care and disposition to accommodate soon removed the
awkwardness of a first meeting, and our travellers begun to be at home in their
novel situation.
While Grace stood
leaning on the arm of her husband, and clinging to his support, both from her
affections and dread of the motion of the vessel, Jane had ventured with one of
the ladies to attempt a walk round the deck of the ship; unaccustomed to such
an uncertain foothold, the walkers had been prevented falling, by the kind
interposition of a gentleman, who, for the first time, had shown himself among
them, at that moment. The accident, and their situation, led to a conversation
which was renewed at different times during their passage, and in some measure
created an intimacy between our party and the stranger. He was addressed by the
commander of the vessel as Mr. Harland; and Lady Chatterton exercised her
ingenuity in the investigation of his history, and destination in his present
journey--by which she made the following discovery:
The Rev. and Hon. Mr.
Harland was the younger son of an Irish earl, who had early embraced his sacred
profession in that church in which he held a valuable living in the gift of his
father’s family; his father was yet alive, and then at Lisbon with his mother
and sister, in attendance on his elder brother, who had been sent there in a
deep decline, by his physicians, a couple of months before. It had been the
wish of his parents to have taken all their children with them; but the sense
of duty in the young clergyman had kept him in the exercise of his office until
a request of his dying brother, and the directions of his father, had caused
him to hasten thither to witness the decease of the one, and afford the solace
within his power to the others.
It may be easily
imagined, the discovery, of the rank of this accidental acquaintance, with the
almost certainty that existed, of his being heir to his father’s honours, in no
degree impaired his consequence in the eyes of the dowager; and it is certain,
his visible anxiety and depressed spirits --unaffected piety, and disinterested
hopes, for his brother’s recovery, no less elevated him in the opinions of her
companions.
There was, at the
moment, a kind of sympathy between Harland and Jane, notwithstanding the
melancholy which gave rise to it proceeded from such very different causes; and
as the lady, although with diminished bloom, retained all her personal charms,
rather heightened than otherwise, by the softness of low spirits--the young
clergyman sometimes relieved his apprehensions of his brother’s death, by
admitting the image of Jane in his moments of solitary reflection.
Their voyage was
tedious, and some time before it was ended the dowager had given Grace an
intimation of the probability there was of Jane’s becoming, at some future day,
a countess. Grace sincerely hoped that whatever she became, she would be as
happy as she thought all allied to John deserved to be.
They entered the bay of
Lisbon early in the morning; and as the ship had been expected for some days, a
boat came alongside with a note for Mr. Harland, before they had anchored; it
apprised him of the death of his brother. The young man threw himself
precipitately into it, and was soon employed in one of the loveliest offices of
his vocation---that of healing the wounds of the afflicted.
Lady Herriefield
received her mother in a sort of sullen satisfaction; and her companions, with
an awkwardness she could ill conceal. It required no great observation in the
travellers to discover, that their arrival was entirely unexpected to the
viscount--if it were not equally disagreeable; indeed, one day’s residence
under his roof assured them all, that no great degree of domestic felicity was
ever an inmate of the dwelling.
From the moment Lord
Herriefield became suspicious, that he had been the dupe of the management of
Kate and her mother, he viewed every act of her’s with a prejudiced eye. It was
easy, with his knowledge of human nature, to detect the selfishness and
wordly-mindedness of his wife; for as these were faults she was unconscious of
possessing, so she was unguarded in her exposure of them; but her designs, in a
matrimonial point of view, having ended with her marriage, had the viscount
treated her with any of the courtesies due her sex and station, she might, with
her disposition, have been contented in the enjoyment of rank and possession of
wealth; but their more private hours were invariably rendered unpleasant, by
the overflowings of her husband’s resentment, at having been deceived in his
judgment of the female sex.
There is no point upon
which men are more tender than their privilege of suiting themselves in a
partner for life, although many of both sexes are influenced, in this important
selection, more by the wishes and whims of others than we suspect generally-yet
as they imagine, what is the result of contrivance and management, is the
election of free will and taste, so long as they are ignorant---they are
contented. But Lord Herriefield wanted the bliss of ignorance; and with his
contempt of his wife, was mingled anger at his own want of foresight.
There are very few
people who can tamely submit to self reproach; and as the cause of his
irritated state of mind, was both present and completely within his power, the
viscount seemed determined to give her as little reason to exult in the success
of her plans as possible--jealous he was of her, from temperament-from bad
association--and the want of confidence in the principles of his wife---and the
freedom of foreign manners had a tendency to excite this baneful passion to an
unusual degree. It was thus abridged in her pleasures--reproached with motives
she was incapable of harbouring, and disappointed in all those enjoyments, her
mother had ever led her to believe as the invariable accompaniments of married
life, where proper attention had been paid to the necessary qualifications of
riches and rank--- that Kate had written to the dowager, with the hope, her
presence might restrain, or her advice teach her successfully to oppose, the
unfeeling conduct of the viscount.
As the Lady Chatterton
had never implanted any of her favourite systems in her daughter so much by
precept as the force of example in her own person, and indirect eulogiums on
certain people who were endowed with those qualities and blessings she most
admired--so, on the present occasion, Catherine did not unburthen herself in
terms to her mother, but by a regular gradation of complaints, aimed more at
the world than her husband--she soon let the knowing dowager see their
application, and thus completely removed the veil from her domestic grievances.
The presence of John
and Grace, with their example, for a short time awed the peer into dissembling
of his disgusts for his spouse--but the ice once broken--their being auditors,
soon ceased to affect either its frequency, or the severity of his remarks,
when under its influence.
From such exhibitions
of matrimonial discord, Grace shrunk timidly into the retirement of her room,
and Jane, with dignity, would follow her example, while John, at times became a
listener, with a spirit barely curbed within the bounds of prudence, and at
others, sought in the company of his wife and sister, relief from the violence
of his feelings.
John never admired
Catherine, or respected her, for the want of those very qualities, he chiefly
loved in her sister; yet, as she was a woman, and one nearly connected with
him--he found it impossible to remain quietly a spectator to the unmanly
treatment she often received from her husband; he therefore made preparations
for his return to England by the first packet, abridging his intended residence
in Lisbon more than a month.
Lady Chatterton
endeavoured all within her power to heal the breach between Kate and her husband,
but it greatly exceeded her abilities; it was too late to implant such
principles in her daughter, as by a long course of self-denial and submission,
might have won the love of the viscount---had the mother been acquainted with
them herself-- so that having induced her child to marry with a view to
obtaining precedence and a jointure, she once more sat to work to undo part of
her former labours, by bringing about a decent separation between them, in such
a manner as to secure to her child the possession of her wealth, and the esteem
of the world.
The latter, though
certainly a somewhat difficult undertaking, was greatly lessened by the
assistance of the former.
John was determined to
seize the opportunity of his stay, to examine the environs of the city. It was
in one of these daily rides, they met with their fellow traveller, Mr. now Lord
Harland. He was rejoiced to find them again, and hearing of their intended
departure, informed them of his being about to return to England, in the same
vessel-- his parents and sister, contemplating ending the winter in Portugal.
The intercourse between
the two families was kept up with a show of civilities between the noblemen,
and much real goodwill on the part of the juniors of the circle, until the day
arrived for the sailing of the packet.
Lady Chatterton was
left with Catherine, as yet unable to circumvent her schemes with prudence--it
being deemed by the world, a worse offence to separate, than to join together
our children in the bands of wedlock.
The confinement of a
vessel, is very propitious to those intimacies which lead to attachments; the
necessity of being agreeable is a check upon the captious, and the desire to
lessen the dulness of the scene, a stimulus to the lively; and though the noble
divine and Jane could not possibly be ranked in either class--yet the effect
was the same; the nobleman was much enamoured, and Jane unconsciously
gratified---it is true, love had never entered her thoughts in its direct and
unequivocal form--but admiration is so consoling, to those labouring under
self-condemnation, and flattery of a certain kind so very soothing to all, it
is not to be wondered, she listened with increasing pleasure, to the
interesting conversation of Harland on all occasions, and more particularly, as
often happened, when exclusively addressed to herself.
Grace had, of late,
reflected more seriously on the subject of her eternal welfare, than she had
been accustomed to, in the house of her mother; and the example of Emily, with
the precepts of Mrs. Wilson, had not been thrown away upon her---it is a
singular fact, that more women feel a disposition to religion soon after
marriage, than at any other period of life--and whether it is, that having
attained the most important station this life affords the sex, they are more
willing to turn their thoughts to a provision for the next; or whether it be
owing to any other cause, Mrs. Moseley was included in the number--she became
sensibly touched with her situation, and as Harland was both devout and able,
as well as anxious, to instruct, one of the party, at least, had cause to
rejoice in the journey, for the remainder of her days--but precisely as Grace
increased in her own faith, so did her anxiety after the welfare of her husband
receive new excitement--and John, for the first time, became the cause of
sorrow to his affectionate companion.
The deep interest
Harland took in the opening conviction of Mrs. Moseley, did not so entirely
engross his thoughts, as to prevent, the too frequent contemplation of the
charms of her friend, for his own peace of mind-- and by the time the vessel
had reached Falmouth, he had determined to make a tender of his hand and title,
to the acceptance of Miss Moseley.--Jane did not love Egerton; on the contrary,
she despised him--but the time had been, when all her romantic feelings--every
thought of her brilliant imagination, had been filled with his image, and Jane
felt it a species of indelicacy to admit the impression of another so soon, or
even at all-- these objections would, in time, have been overcome, as her
affections became more and more enlisted on behalf of Harland, had she admitted
his addresses--but there was one impediment, Jane considered as insurmountable
to a union with any man.
She had communicated
her passion to its object--there had been the confidence of approved love, and
she had now no heart for Harland, but one, that had avowedly been a slave to
another--to conceal this from him would be unjust, and not reconcilable to good
faith--to confess it, humiliating, and without the pale of probability---it was
the misfortune of Jane to keep the world too constantly before her, and lose
sight too much, of her really depraved nature, to relish the idea of humbling
hereself so low, in the opinion of a fellow-creature; and the refusal of
Harland’s offer was the consequence---although although she had begun to feel
an esteem for him, that would, no doubt, have given rise to an attachment, in
time, far stronger and more deeply seated than her fancy for Colonel Egerton had
been.
If the horror of
imposing on the credulity of Harland, a wounded heart, was creditable to Jane,
and showed an elevation of character, that under proper guidance would have
placed her in the first ranks of her sex; the pride which condemned her to a
station nature did not design her for, was irreconcilable with the humility, a
view of her condition could not fail to produce; and the second sad consequence
of the indulgent weakness of her parents, was confirming their child in
passions directly at variance with the first duties of a christian.
We have so little right
to value ourselves on any thing, that we think pride a sentiment of very
doubtful service, and certainly unable to effect any useful results which will
not equally flow from good principles.
Harland was
disappointed and grieved, but prudently judging that occupation and absence
would remove recollections, which could not be very deep, they parted at
Falmouth, and our travellers proceeded on their journey for B--, whither,
during their absence, Sir Edward’s family had returned to spend a month, before
they removed to town for the residue of the winter.
The meeting of the two
parties was warm and tender, and as Jane had many things to recount, and John
as many to laugh at, their arrival threw a gayety round Moseley Hall it had for
months been a stranger to.
One of the first acts
of Grace, after her return, was to enter strictly into the exercise of all
those duties, and ordinances, required by her church, and the present state of
her mind--and from the hands of Dr. Ives she received her first communion at
the altar.
As the season had now
become far advanced, and the fashionable world had been some time assembled in
the metropolis, the Baronet commenced his arrangements to take possession of
his town-house, after an interval of nineteen years. John proceeded to the
capital first, and the necessary domestics procured---furniture supplied---and
other arrangements, usual to the appearance of a wealthy family in the world,
completed; he returned with the information that all was ready for their
triumphal entrance.
Sir Edward feeling a
separation for so long a time, and at such an unusual distance, in the very
advanced age of Mr. Benfield, would be improper, paid him a visit, with the
design of persuading him to make one of his family, for the next four months.
Emily was his companion, and their solicitations were happily crowned with a
success they had not anticipated---for averse to a privation of Peter’s
society, the honest steward was included in the party.
“Nephew,” said Mr.
Benfield, beginning to waver in his objections to the undertaking, “there are
instances of gentlemen, not in parliament, going to town in the winter, I
know--you you are one yourself, and old Sir John Cowel, who never could get in,
although he run for every city in the kingdom, never missed his winter in Soho.
Yes, yes--the thing is admissible--but had I known your wishes before, I would
certainly have kept my borough for the appearance of the thing-- besides,”
continued the old man shaking his head, “his Majesty’s ministers require the
aid of some more experienced members, in these critical times--what should an
old man like me, do in the city, unless, aid his country with his advice?”
“Make his friends happy
with his company, dear uncle,” said Emily, taking his hand between both her
own, and smiling affectionately on the old gentleman, as she spoke,
“Ah! Emmy dear?”--cried
Mr. Benfield, looking on her with melancholy pleasure:-- “You are not to be
resisted--just such another as the sister of my old friend Lord Gosford. She
could always coax me out of any thing. I remember now, I heard the Earl, tell
her once, he could not afford to buy a pair of diamond ear-rings; and she
looked so-- only look’d--did not speak! Emmy!--that I bought them, with intent
to present them to her myself.
“And did she take them!
Uncle?” said his niece, in a little surprise.”
“Oh yes! When I told
her if she did not, I would throw them in the river, as no one else should wear
what had been intended for her--poor soul! how delicate and unwilling she was.
I had to convince her they cost, three hundred pounds, before she would listen
to it, and then she thought it such a pity to throw away a thing of so much
value. It would have been wicked, you know, Emmy dear. And she was much opposed
to wickedness and sin in any shape.”
“She must have been a
very unexceptionable character indeed,” cried the Baronet, with a smile, as he
proceeded to make the necessary orders for their journey. But we must resume
our narrative with the party we left at Bath.
The letters of Lady
Laura informed her friends, that herself and Col. Denbigh, had decided to
remain with his uncle, until his recovery was perfect, and then proceed to
Denbigh Castle, to meet the Duke and his sister, during the approaching
holy-days.
Emily was much relieved
by this postponement of an interview, she would gladly have avoided for ever;
and her aunt sincerely rejoiced that her niece was allowed more time to
eradicate impressions, she saw, with pain, her charge had yet a struggle to
overcome.
There were so many
points to admire in the character of Denbigh; his friends spoke of him with
such decided partiality; Dr. Ives, in his frequent letters, alluded to him with
so much affection, that Emily had frequently detected herself, in weighing the
testimony of his guilt, and indulging the expectation, that circumstances had
deceived them all, in their judgment of his conduct. Then his marriage would
cross her mind, and, with the conviction of the impropriety of admitting him to
her thoughts at all, would come the collective mass of testimony, which had
accumulated against him.
Derwent served greatly
to keep alive the recollections of his person, however; and, as Lady Harriet
seemed to live only in the society of the Moseley’s, not a day passed without
giving the Duke some opportunity of indirectly preferring his suit.
Emily not only
appeared, but in fact was, unconscious of his admiration, and entered into
their amusements with a satisfaction that took its rise in the belief, the
unfortunate attachment her cousin Chatterton had once professed for herself,
was forgotten in the more certain enjoyments of a successful love.
Lady Harriet was a
woman of very different manners and character from Emily Moseley; yet, had she
in a great measure erased the impressions made by the beauty of his kinswoman,
from the bosom of the Baron.
Chatterton, under the
depression of his first disappointment, it will be remembered, had left B--in
company with Mr. Denbigh.
The interest of the
Duke had been unaccountably exerted to procure him the place he had so long
solicited in vain, and gratitude required his early acknowledgments for the
favour.
His manner, so very
different from a successful applicant for a valuable office, had struck both
Derwent and his sister as singular. Before, however, a week’s intercourse had
passed between them, his own frankness, had made them acquainted with the
cause, and a double wish prevailed in the bosom of Lady Harriet--to know the
woman who could resist the beauty of Chatterton, and to relieve him, from the
weight imposed on his spirits, by disappointed affection.
The manners of Lady
Harriet Denbigh, were not in the least forward or masculine; but they had the
freedom of high rank and condition, with a good deal of the ease of fashionable
life.
Mrs. Wilson would have
noticed, moreover, in her conduct to Chatterton, a something exceeding the
interest of ordinary communications in their situation, which might possibly
have been attributed to feeling, more than manner. It is certain, one of his
surest methods to drive Emily from his thoughts, was to dwell on the
perfections of some other lady; and Lady Harriet was so constantly before him
in his visit into Westmoreland-- so soothing--so evidently pleased with his
presence, that the Baron made rapid advances in attaining his object.
He had alluded, in his
letter to Emily, to the obligation he was under to the services of Denbigh, in
erasing his unfortunate partiality for her.--
But what those services
were, we are unable to say, unless the usual arguments of the plainest dictates
of good sense, on such occasions, enforced in the singularly, insinuating, and
kind manner which distinguished that gentleman. In fact, Lord Chatterton was not
formed by nature to lovelong, deprived of hope---or to resist long, the
flattery of a preference from such a woman as Harriet Denbigh.
On the other hand,
Derwent was warm in his encomiums on Emily, to all but herself; and Mrs. Wilson
had again thought it prudent, to examine into the state of her feelings, in
order to discover if there was danger of his unremitted efforts to please,
drawing Emily into a connection, neither her religion or prudence could wholly
approve.
Derwent was a man of
the world--and a christian only in name; and the cautious widow determined to
withdraw in season, should she find grounds, for her apprehensions to rest
upon.
It was about ten days
after the departure of the Dowager and her companions, that Lady Harriet
exclaimed, in one of her morning visits:--“Lady Moseley! I have now hopes of
presenting to you soon, the most polished nobleman in the kingdom?”
“As a husband! Lady
Harriet?” inquired the other, with a smile.
“Oh no!--only a
cousin!--a second cousin! madam!” replied Lady Harriet, blushing a little, and
looking in the opposite direction to the one Chatterton was placed in.
“But his name?--You
forget our curiosity!--What is his name?” cried Mrs. Wilson; entering into the
trifling for the moment.
“Pendennyss, to be
sure, my dear madam; who else can I mean,” said Lady Harriet, recovering her
self-possession.
“And you expect the
Earl at Bath?” said Mrs. Wilson, eagerly.
“He has given us
hopes--and Derwent has written him to-day, pressing the journey,” was the
answer.
“You will be
disappointed--I am afraid, sister,” said the Duke. “Pendennyss has become so
fond of Wales of late, that it is difficult to get him out of it.”
“But,” said Mrs.
Wilson, “he will take his seat in parliament during the winter, my Lord?”
“I hope he will, madam;
though Lord Eltringham holds his proxies in my absence, in all important
questions before the house.”
“Your Grace will
attend, I trust,” said Sir Edward. “The pleasure of your company is amongst my
expected enjoyments in the town.”
“You are very good, Sir
Edward;” replied the Duke, looking at Emily. “It will somewhat depend on
circumstances, I believe.”
Lady Harriet smiled,
and the speech seemed understood by all, but the lady most concerned in it, as
Mrs. Wilson proceeded:--
“Lord Pendennyss is an
universal favourite”--“and deservedly so,” cried the Duke. “He has set an
example to the nobility, which few are equal to imitating. An only son, with an
immense estate,---he has devoted himself to the profession of a soldier, and
gained great reputation by it in the world; nor has he neglected any of his
private duties as a man--”
“Or a christian, I
hope,” said Mrs. Wilson, delighted with the praises of the earl.
“Nor of a christian, I
believe,” continued the duke; “he appears consistent, humble, and sincere;
three requisites, I believe, for his profession.”
“Does not your grace
know,” said Emily, with a benevolent smile---Derwent coloured slightly as he
answered,
“Not as well as I
ought; but”---lowering his voice for her ear alone, he added, “under proper
instruction, I think I might learn.”
“Then I would recommend
that book to you, my lord,” rejoined Emily, with a blush, pointing to a pocket
bible which lay near her, and still ignorant of the allusion he meant to
convey.
“May I ask the honour
of an audience of Miss Moseley,” said Derwent, in the same low tone, “whenever
her leisure will admit of her granting the favour.”
Emily was surprised;
but from the previous conversation, and the current of her thoughts at the
moment, supposing his communication had some reference to the subject before
them, rose from her chair, and unobtrusively, but certainly with an air of
perfect innocence and composure, went into the adjoining room, the door of
which was open very near them.
Caroline Harris had
abandoned all ideas of a coronet, with the departure of the Marquess of
Eltringham and his sisters for their own seat; and as a final effort of her
fading charms, had begun to calculate the capabilities of Captain Jarvis, who
had at this time honoured Bath with his company.
It is true, the lady
would have greatly preferred her father’s neighbour, but that was an
irretrievable step--he had retired, disgusted with her haughty dismissal of his
hopes, and was a man who, although he greatly admired her fortune, was not to
be recalled by any beck or smile which might grow out of her caprice.
Lady Jarvis had,
indeed, rather magnified the personal qualifications of her son, but the
disposition they had manifested, to devote some of their surplus wealth, to the
purchasing a title, had great weight; for Miss Harris would cheerfully, at any
time, have sacrificed one half her own fortune to be called my lady. Jarvis
would make but a shabby looking lord, ’tis true; but then what a lord’s wife
would she not make herself:---His father was a merchant, to be sure, but then
merchants were always immensely rich, and a few thousand pounds, properly
applied, might make the merchant’s son a baron--- she therefore resolved to
inquire, the first opportunity, into the condition of the sinking fund of his
plebeianism---and had serious thoughts of contributing her mite towards the
advancement of the desired object, did she find it within the bounds of
probable success. An occasion soon offered, by the invitation of the Captain,
to accompany him, in an excursion in the tilbury of his brother in law.
In this ride they
passed the equipages of Lady Harriet and Mrs. Wilson, with their respective
mistresses taking an airing. In passing the latter, Jarvis had bowed, (for he
had renewed his acquaintance at the rooms without daring to visit at the
lodgings of Sir Edward,) and Miss Harris had taken notice of both parties as
they dashed by them.
“You know the Moseleys,
Caroline?” said Jarvis, with the freedom her own and his manners had established
between them.
“Yes,” replied the
lady, drawing her head back from a view of the carriages, “what fine arms those
of the Duke’s are---and the coronet, it is so noble--so rich--I am sure if I
were a man,” laying great emphasis on the word--“I would be a Lord.”
“If you could, you
mean,” cried the Captain, with a laugh.
“Could--why money will
buy a title, you know--only most people are fonder of their cash than honour.”
“That’s right,” said
the unreflecting Captain, “money is the thing after all--now what do you
suppose our last mess-bill came to?”
“Oh dont talk of eating
and drinking,” cried Miss Harris, in affected aversion, “it is beneath the
consideration of nobility.”
“Then any one may be a
Lord for me,” said Jarvis, drily, “if they are not to eat and drink---why what
do we live for, but such sort of things.”
“A soldier lives to
fight, and gain honour and distinction”--for his wife--Miss Harris would have
added, had she spoken all she thought.
“A poor way that, of
spending a man’s time,” said the Captain; “now there is a Captain Jones in our
regiment, they say, loves fighting as much as eating; but if he does, he is a
blood-thirsty fellow.”
“You know how intimate
I am with your dear mother,” continued the lady, bent on her principal object, “she
has made me acquainted with her greatest wish.”
“Her greatest wish!”
cried the Captain, in astonishment, “why what can that be--a new coach and
horses?”
“No, I mean one much
dearer to us--I should say, her--than any such trifles; she has told me of the
plan.”
“Plan,” said Jarvis,
still in wonder, “what plan?”
“About the fund for the
peerage, you know--of course the thing is scared with me --as, indeed, I am
equally interested with you all, in its success.”
Jarvis eyed her with a
knowing look, and as she concluded, rolling his eyes in an expression of
significance, he said--
“What, serve Sir
William some such way, eh?”
“I will assist a
little, if it be necessary, Henry,” said the lady, tenderly, “although my mite
cannot amount to a great deal.”
During this speech, the
Captain was wondering what she could mean, but, having had a suspicion from
something that had fallen from his mother, the lady was intended for him as a
wife, and she might be as great a dupe as the former, he was resolved to know
the whole, and act accordingly.
“I think it might be
made to do,” he replied, evasively, to discover the extent of his companion’s
information.
“Do,” cried Miss
Harris, with fervour, “it cannot fail--how much do you suppose will be wanting
to buy a barony, for instance?”
“Hem!” said Jarvis, “you
mean more than we have already?”
“Certainly.”
“Why, about a thousand
pounds, I think, will do it, with what we have,” said Jarvis, affecting to
calculate.
“Is that all,” cried
the delighted Caroline; and the captain grew in an instant, in her estimation,
three inches higher;--quite noble in his air, and, in short, very tolerably
handsome.
From that moment, Miss
Harris, in her own mind, had fixed the fate of Captain Jarvis; and had
determined to be his wife, whenever--she could persuade him to offer himself--a
thing she had no doubt of accomplishing with comparative ease;--not so the
Captain--like all weak men, there was nothing he stood more in terror of than
ridicule; he had heard the manœuvres of Miss Harris laughed at by many of the
young men in Bath, and was by no means disposed to add himself to the food for
mirth to these wags; and, indeed, had cultivated her acquaintance; with a kind
of bravado to some of his bottle companions, of his ability to oppose all her arts,
when most exposed to them--for, it is one of the greatest difficulties, to the
success of this description of ladies, that their characters soon become
suspected, and do them infinitely more injury, than all their skill in the art,
does them good in their vocation.
With these views in the
respective champions, the campaign opened, and the lady on her return,
acquainted his mother, with the situation of the privy purse, that was to
promote her darling child to the enviable distinction of the peerage--indeed,
Lady Jarvis was for purchasing a baronetcy with what they had, under the
impression, that when ready for another promotion, they would only have to pay
the difference, as they did in the army, when he received his captaincy ---as,
however, the son was opposed to any arrangement, that might make the producing
the few hundred pounds he had obtained from his mother’s folly, necessary---she
was obliged to postpone the wished-for day, until their united efforts could
compass the means of effecting it---as an earnest, however, of her spirit in
the cause, she gave him a fifty pound note, that morning obtained from her
husband; and which the Captain lost at one throw of the dice, to his
brother-in-law, the same evening.
During the preceding
events, Egerton had either studiously avoided all danger of collision with the
Moseleys, or his engagements confined him to such very different scenes--- they
never met.
The Baronet had felt
his presence a reproach, and Lady Moseley, rejoiced that Egerton yet possessed
sufficient shame to keep him from insulting her with his company.
It was a month after
the departure of Lady Chatterton, that Sir Edward returned to B--; as related
in the preceding chapter---and the arrangements for the London winter were
commenced.
The day preceding their
leaving Bath, the engagements of Chatterton with Lady Harriet were made public
amongst their mutual friends---and an intimation given that their nuptials
would be celebrated, before the family of the Duke left his seat for the
capital.
Something of the
pleasure, she had for a long time been a stranger to, was felt by Emily
Moseley, as the well-remembered tower of the village church of B-- struck her
sight, on their return from their protracted excursion in pursuit of
pleasure--- more than four months had elapsed, since they had commenced their
travels, and in that period, what change of sentiments had she not witnessed in
others---of opinions of mankind in general, and of one individual in
particular, had she not experienced in her own person--the benevolent smiles,
the respectful salutations they received, in passing the little group of houses
which, clustered round the church, had obtained the name of “the village,”
conveyed a sensation of delight, that can only be felt by the deserving and
virtuous--and the smiling faces, in several instances glistening with tears,
which met them at the Hall, gave ample testimony to the worth, of both the
master and his servants.
Francis and Clara were
in waiting to receive them, and a very few minutes had elapsed, before the
rector and Mrs. Ives, having heard they had passed, drove in also-- in saluting
the different members of the family, Mrs. Wilson noticed the startled look of
the Doctor, as the change in Emily’s appearance first met his eyes--her bloom,
if not gone, was greatly diminished, and it was only when under the excitement
of strong emotions, that her face possessed that character of joy and feeling,
which had so eminently distinguished it, before her late journey.
“Where did you last see
my friend George?” said the Doctor to Mrs. Wilson, in the course of the first
afternoon, as he took a seat by her side, apart from the rest of the family.
“At L--,” said Mrs.
Wilson, gravely, in reply.
“L--,” cried the
doctor, in evident amazement---“Was he not at Bath, then, during your stay
there?”
No--I understand he was
in attendance on some sick relative, which detained him from his friends there,”
said Mrs. Wilson, wondering why the Doctor chose to introduce, so delicate a
topic, between them--his guilt in relation to Mrs. Fitzgerald, he was doubtless
ignorant of, but surely not of his marriage.
“It is now sometime
since I heard from him,” continued the Doctor, regarding Mrs. Wilson
expressively, but to which the lady only replied with a gentle inclination of
the body--and the Rector, after pausing a moment, continued:
“You will not think me
impertinent, if I am bold enough to ask, has George ever expressed a wish to
become connected with your niece, by other ties than those of friendship?”
“He did,” answered the
widow, after a little hesitation.
“He did, and--”
“Was refused,”
continued Mrs. Wilson, with a slight feeling for the dignity of her sex, which
for a moment, caused her to lose sight of justice to Denbigh.
Dr. Ives was
silent--but manifested, by his dejected countenance, the interest he had taken
in this anticipated connection---and as Mrs. Wilson had spoken with
ill-concealed reluctance on the subject at all, the Rector did not attempt a
renewal of the disagreeable subject, though she saw for some time afterwards,
whenever the baronet or his wife mentioned the name of Denbigh, the eyes of the
Rector were turned on them in intense interest.
“Stevenson has
returned, and I certainly must hear from Harriet,” exclaimed the sister of
Pendennyss, with great animation, as she stood at a window, watching the return
of a servant, from the neighbouring post-office.
“I am afraid,” rejoined
the Earl, who was seated by the breakfast table, waiting the leisure of the
lady to give him his dish of tea--- “You find Wales very dull, sister. I
sincerely hope both Derwent and Harriet will not forget their promise of
visiting us this month.”
The lady slowly took
her seat at the table, engrossed in her own reflections, as the man entered
with his budget of news; and having deposited sundry papers and letters,
respectfully withdrew. The Earl glanced his eyes over the directions of the
epistles, and turning to his servants, said, “answer the bell, when called.”
Three or four liveried footmen deposited their silver salvers, and different
implements of servitude, and the peer and his sister were left by themselves.
“Here is one from the
Duke to me, and one for your ladyship from his sister,” said the brother
smiling; “I propose they be read aloud for our mutual advantage;” to which the
lady, whose curiosity to hear the contents of Derwent’s letter, greatly
exceeded his interest in that of the sister, cheerfully acquiesced, and her
brother first broke the seal of his, and read aloud its contents as follows:
“Notwithstanding my
promise of seeing you this month in Caernarvonshire, I remain here yet--my dear
Pendennyss--unable to tear myself from the attractions I have found in this
city; although the pleasure of their contemplation, has been purchased at the
expense of mortified feelings, and unrequited affections. It is a truth,
(though possibly difficult to be believed,) this mercenary age has produced a
female, disengaged, young, and by no means very rich, who has refused a
jointure of six thousand a year, with the privilege of walking at a coronation,
within a dozen of royalty itself.”
Here, the accidental
falling of a cup from the hands of the fair listener, caused some little
interruption to the reading of the brother; but as the lady, with a good deal
of trepidation, and many blushes, apologised hastily for the confusion her
awkwardness had made, the Earl continued to read---“I could almost worship her
independence; for I know the wishes of both her parents were for my success. I
confess to you freely, that my vanity has been a good deal hurt, as I really
thought myself agreeable to her; she certainly listened to my conversation, and
admitted my approaches, with more satisfaction, than those of any of the other
men around her; and when I ventured to hint to her this circumstance, as some
justification for my presumption, she frankly acknowledged the truth of my
impression, and without explaining the reasons for her conduct, deeply
regretted the construction I had been led to place upon the circumstance. Yes,
my lord, I felt it necessary to apologise to Emily Moseley, for presuming to
aspire to the honour of possessing so much loveliness and virtue. The
accidental advantages of rank and wealth, lose all their importance, when
opposed to her delicacy, ingenuousness, and unaffected principles.
“I have heard it
intimated lately, that George Denbigh was, in some way or other, instrumental
in saving her life once, and that to her gratitude, and my resemblance to the
colonel, am I indebted to a consideration with Miss Moseley, which, although it
has been the means of buoying me up with false hopes, I can never regret, from
the pleasure her society has afforded me. I have remarked, on my mentioning his
name to her, she showed unusual emotion; and as Denbigh is already a husband,
and myself rejected, the field is now fairly open to your lordship. You will
enter on your enterprise with great advantage, as you have the same flattering
resemblance; and, if any thing, the voice, which I am told is our greatest recommendation
with the ladies, in greater perfection than either George or your humble
servant.”
Here the reader stopped
of his own accord, and was so intently absorbed in his meditations, that the
almost breathless curiosity of his sister, was obliged to find relief by
desiring him to proceed: roused by the sound of her voice, the earl changed
colour sensibly, and continued:
“But to be serious on a
subject of great importance to my future life, (for I sometimes think, her
negative has made Denbigh a duke,) the lovely girl did not appear happy at the
time of our interview, nor do I think enjoys at any time, the spirits nature
has evidently given her. Harriet is nearly as great an admirer of Miss Moseley,
and takes her refusal at heart as much as myself---she even attempted to
intercede with her, on my behalf. But the charming girl, though mild, grateful,
and delicate, was firm and unequivocal, and left no grounds for the remotest
expectation of success, from perseverance on my part.
“As Harriet had
received an intimation, that both Miss Moseley and her aunt, entertained
extremely rigid notions on the score of religion, she took occasion to
introduce the subject in her conference with the former, and was told in reply,
‘that other considerations would have determined her to decline the honour I
intended her; but, that under any circumstances, a more intimate knowledge of
my principles would be necessary, before she could entertain a thought of
accepting my hand, or indeed that of any other man.’ Think of that---Pendennyss.
The principles of a Duke!--now a dukedom and forty thousand a year, would
furnish a character with most people, for a Nero.
“I trust the important
object I have kept in view here, is a sufficient excuse for my breach of
promise to you; and I am serious when I wish you, (unless the pretty Spaniard
has, as I sometimes suspect, made a captive of you) to see, and endeavour to
bring me in some degree, connected with the charming family of Sir Edward
Moseley.
“The aunt, Mrs. Wilson,
often speaks of you with the greatest interest, and from some cause or other,
is strongly enlisted in your favour, and Miss Moseley hears your name mentioned
with evident pleasure. Your religion or principles, cannot be doubted. You can
offer larger settlements---as honourable, it not as elevated a title---a far
more illustrious name, purchased by your own services--and personal merit,
greatly exceeding the pretensions of your assured friend and relative,
DERWENT.” Both brother and sister
were occupied with their own reflections, for several minutes after the letter
was ended; and the silence was broken first, by the latter saying, with a low
tone to her brother---
“You must endeavour to
become acquainted with Mrs. Wilson; she is, I know, very anxious to see you,
and your friendship for the General requires it of you.”
“I owe Gen. Wilson
much,” replied the brother in a melancholy voice; “and when we go to Annerdale
House, I wish you to make the acquaintance with the ladies of the Moseley
family, should they be in town this winter---but you have the letter of Harriet
to read yet.” After first hastily running over its contents, the lady commenced
the fulfilment of her part of the agreement.
“Frederic has been so
much engrossed of late with his own affairs, that he has forgotten there is
such a creature in existence as his sister, or indeed, any one else, but a Miss
Emily Moseley, and consequently I have been unable to fulfil my promise of a
visit, for want of a proper escort to see me into Wales, and---and---perhaps
some other considerations, not worth mentioning in a letter, I know you will
read to the earl.
“Yes, my dear cousin,
Frederic Denbigh, has supplicated the daughter of a country baronet, to become
a dutchess; and hear it, ye marriage-seeking nymphs and marriage-making dames!
has supplicated in vain!
“I confess to you, when
the thing was first in agitation, my aristocratic blood roused itself a little
at the anticipated connexion; but finding, on examination, Sir Edward was of no
doubtful lineage, and the blood of the Chattertons runs in his veins, and
finding the young lady every thing that I could wish in a sister, my proud
scruples soon disappeared with the folly that engendered them.
“There was no necessity
for any alarm, for the lady very decidedly refused the honour offered her by
Derwent, and what makes the matter worse, refused the solicitations of his
sister also.
“I have fifty times
been surprised at myself, for my condescension, and to this moment am at a loss
to know, whether it was to the lady’s worth--my brother’s happiness--or the
Chatterton blood--that I finally yielded. Heigho! this Chatterton is certainly
much too handsome for a man; but I forget, you have never seen him.” (Here an
arch smile stole over the features of the listener, as his sister continued)---“to
return to my narration--I had half a mind to send for a Miss Harris there is
here, to learn the most approved fashion of a lady’s preferring a suit, but as
fame said she was just now practising on a certain hero, yclep’d Captain Jarvis,
heir to Sir Timo---of of that name, it struck me her system might be rather too
abrupt, so I was fain to adopt the best plan, that of trusting to nature and my
own feelings for words.
“Nobility is certainly
a very pretty thing, (for those who have it,) but I would defy the old
Margravine of --, to keep up the semblance of superiority with Emily Moseley.
She is so very natural---so very beautiful---and and withal at times a little
arch, that one is afraid to set up any other distinctions, than such as can be
fairly supported.
“I commenced with
hoping her determination, to reject the hand of Frederic was not an unalterable
one. (Yes, I called him Frederic, what I never did out of my own family before
in my life.) There was a considerable tremor in the voice of Miss Moseley, as
she replied, ‘I now perceive, when too late, that my indiscretion has given
reason to my friends to think, that I have entertained opinions of his Grace
and thoughts for the future. I entreat you to believe me, Lady Harriet, I am
innocent of---indeed---indeed as any thing more than an agreeable acquaintance,
I have never allowed myself to think of your brother’--and from my soul I
believe her--we continued our conversation for half an hour longer---and such
was the ingenuousness--delicacy--and high religious feeling displayed by the
charming girl, that if I entered the room with a spark of regret, I was
compelled to solicit another to favour my brother’s love---I left it with a
stronger feeling that my efforts had been unsuccessful---Yes! thou peerless
sister of the more peerless Pendennyss! I once thought of your ladyship for a
wife to Derwent--”
A glass of water was
necessary, to enable the reader to clear her voice, which grew husky from
speaking so long.
“But I now openly
avow--neither your birth---your hundred thousand pounds---or your merit---would
put you on a footing, in my estimation, with my Emily---you may form some idea
of her power to captivate, and indifference to her conquests--when I mention
that she once refused---but, I forget, you don’t know him, and therefore cannot
be a judge--the thing is finally decided, and we shortly go into Westmoreland,
and next week, the Moseleys return to Northamptonshire---I don’t know when I
shall be able to visit you, and think I may now safely invite you to Denbigh
Castle, although a month ago I might have hesitated--love to the Earl, and kind
assurances to yourself, of unalterable regard.
“Harriet Denbigh.” “P.S. I
believe I forgot to mention, that Mrs. Moseley, a sister of Lord Chatterton,
has gone to Portugal, and that the Baron himself, is to go into the country,
with us-- there is, I suppose, a fellow-feeling between them just now--though I
do not think Chatterton looks so very miserable as he might. ---Adieu.”
On the ending this second
epistle, the same silence, which had succeeded the reading of the first,
prevailed, until the lady, with an arch expression, interrupted it by saying,
“Harriet will, I think,
soon grace the peerage.”
“And happily, I trust,”
replied the brother.
“Do you know Lord
Chatterton?”
“I do; he is very
amiable, and admirably calculated to contrast with the lively gayety of Harriet
Denbigh.”
“You believe in loving
our opposites, I see,” rejoined the Lady; and then affectionately stretching
out her hand to him, she added, “but Pendennyss, you must give me for a sister,
one as nearly like yourself as possible.”
“That might please your
affections,” answered the Earl with a smile, “but how would it comport with my
tastes---will you suffer me to describe the kind of man you are to select for
your future lord---unless you have decided the point already.”
The lady coloured
violently, and appearing anxious to change the subject, tumbled over two or
three unopened letters on the table, as she cried eagerly,
“Here is one from the
Donna Julia.” The Earl instantly broke the seal, and read aloud--no secrets
existing between them in relation to their mutual friend.
“My Lord,
“I hasten to write to
you, what I know will give you pleasure to hear, concerning my future prospects
in life. My uncle, General M‘Carthy, has written me the cheerful tidings, that
my father has consented to receive his only child, without any other sacrifice,
than a condition, of attending the public service of the Catholic
Church--without any professions on my side, or even an understanding, that I am
conforming to its peculiar tenets---this may be, in some measure, irksome at
times, and, possibly, distressing--but the worship of God, with a proper
humiliation of spirit, I have learnt to consider as a privilege to us
here---and I owe a duty to my earthly father, of penitence and care, in his
later years, that will justify the measure in the eyes of my heavenly one.---I
have, therefore, acquainted my uncle in reply, that I am willing to attend the
Condé’s summons, at any moment he will choose to make them, and thought it a
debt due your care and friendship, to apprise your lordship of my approaching
departure from this country; indeed, I have great reasons for believing, that
your kind and unremitted efforts to attain this object, have already prepared
you to expect this result.
“I feel it will be
impossible to quit England without seeing yourself and sister---to thank you
for the many--very many favours, of both a temporal and eternal nature, you
have been the agents of confering on me; the cruel suggestions, which I
dreaded, and which it appears, had reached the ears of my friends in Spain,
have prevented my troubling your lordship, of late, with my concerns
unnecessarily.---The consideration, of a friend to your character, (Mrs.
Wilson,) has removed the necessity of my inexperience applying for your advice
---She, and her charming niece, Miss Emily Moseley, have been, next to
yourselves, the greatest solace I have had in my exile--and united, you will be
remembered in my prayers--I will merely mention here, defering the explanation
until I see you in London, that I have been visited by the wretch, from whom
you delivered me in Portugal, and the means of ascertaining his name have
fallen into my hands---you will be the best judge of the proper steps to be
taken--- but I wish, by all means, something may be done, to prevent his
attempting to see me in Spain---should it be discovered to my relations there,
it would certainly terminate in his death, and, possibly, my
disgrace.---Wishing you, and your kind sister, all possible happiness, I remain
your Lordship’s obliged friend,
“Julia Fitzgerald.”
“Oh!” cried the sister
as concluding the letter, “we must certainly see her before she goes--what a
wretch that persecutor of her must be--how persevering in his villainy.”
“He does exceed my
ideas of effrontery,” said the Earl, in great warmth--“but he may offend too
far; the laws shall interpose their power to defeat his schemes, should he ever
repeat them.”
“He attempted to take
your life, brother,” said the lady, shuddering--“if I remember the tale aright.”
“Why, I have
endeavoured to free him from that imputation,” rejoined the brother musing--“he
certainly fired a pistol, but it hit my horse at such a distance from myself,
that I believe his object was to disable me from pursuit, and not murder;--his
escape has astonished me;--he must have fled by himself into the woods, as
Harmer was but at a short distance behind me, admirably mounted, on one of my
chargers, and the escort was up, and in full pursuit, within ten minutes; after
all, it may be for the best he was not taken, for I am persuaded the dragoons
would have sabred him on the spot--and he may have parents of respectability,
or a wife to kill, by the knowledge of his misconduct.”
“This Emily Moseley
must be a faultless being,” cried his sister, as she run over the contents of
Julia’s letter to herself. “Three different letters, and each one containing
her praises.”
The Earl made no reply,
but opening the Duke’s letter again, appeared to be closely studying its
contents. His colour slightly changed as he dwelt on the sense of its passages,
and turning to his sister, he inquired with a smile, “if she had a mind to try
the air of Westmoreland, for a couple of weeks or a month.”
“As you say, my Lord”--replied
the lady with cheeks of scarlet.
“Then I say, we will
go. I wish much to see Derwent, and I somewhat think, there will be a wedding
during our visit.” He rang the bell, and the almost untasted breakfast was
removed in a few minutes. A servant announced his horse in readiness. The Earl
wished his sister a friendly good morning, and proceeded to the door, where was
standing one of the noble black horses before mentioned, held by a groom, and
the military looking attendant, ready mounted, on the other.
Throwing himself into
the saddle, the young peer rode gracefully from the door, followed by no one
but his attendant horseman. During this ride, the master suffered his steed to
take whatever course most pleased himself, and his follower looked up in
surprise more than once, to see the careless manner the Earl of Pendennyss,
confessedly one of the best horsemen in Spain, managed the noble animal he
rode. Having, however, got without the gates of his own park, and into the
vicinity of numberless cottages and farm houses, the master recovered his
recollection, and the man ceased to wonder.
For three hours the
equestrians pursued their course through the beautiful vale, which opened
gracefully opposite one of the fronts of the castle; and if faces of smiling
welcome-- inquiries after his own and his sisters welfare, which evidently
sprung from the heart-- or the most familiar but respectful representations of
their own prosperity or misfortunes, gave any testimony of the feelings
entertained by the tenantry of this noble estate for their landlord, the
situation of the young nobleman might be justly considered one to be envied.
As the hour for dinner
approached, they turned the heads of their horses towards home; and on entering
the park, removed from the scene of industry and activity, without, the Earl
relapsed into his fit of musing. But a short distance from the house he
suddenly called, “Harmer;” the man threw his spurs into the loins of his horse,
and in an instant was by the side of his master, which he signified by raising
his hand to his cap with the palm opening outward. “You must prepare to go to
Spain, when required, in attendance on Mrs. Fitzgerald.”
The man received his
order, with the indifference of one used to adventures and movements, and
having laconically signified his assent, drew his horse back again, into his
station in the rear.
The day succeeding the
arrival of the Moseley’s, at the seat of their ancestors, Mrs. Wilson observed
Emily silently putting on her pelisse, and walking out unattended by either of
the domestics, or any of the family. There was a peculiar melancholy in her air
and manner, that inclined the cantious aunt, to suspect her charge was bent on
the indulgence of some ill-judged weakness; more particularly, as the direction
she took led to the arbour--a theatre where Denbigh had been so conspicuous an
actor. Hastily throwing a cloak over her own shoulders, Mrs. Wilson followed
Emily, with the double purpose of ascertaining her views, and, if necessary,
interposing her own authority against the repetition of similar excursions.
As Emily approached the
arbour, whither in truth she had directed her steps, its faded vegetation and
chilling aspect, so different from its verdure and luxuriance, when she last
saw it, came over her heart as a symbol of her own blighted prospects and
deadened affections;--the recollections of Denbigh’s conduct on that spot--his
general benevolence and assiduity to please, herself in particular, being
forcibly recalled to her mind at the instant--forgetful of her object in
visiting the arbour, Emily yielded for the moment to her sensibilities, and
sunk on the seat, weeping as if her heart would break.
She had not time to dry
her eyes, and collect her scattered thoughts under the alarm of approaching
footsteps, before Mrs. Wilson entered the arbour. Eying her niece for a moment
with a sternness unusual for the one to adopt, or the other to receive--she
said,
“It is a solemn
obligation we owe our religion and ourselves, to endeavour to suppress such
passions as are incompatible with our professions. And there is no weakness
greater than blindly adhering to the wrong, when we are convinced of our
error--it is as fatal to good morals, as it is unjust to ourselves, to
persevere, from selfish motives, in believing those innocent, whom evidence has
convicted as guilty. Many a weak woman has sealed her own misery by such wilful
obstinacy, aided by the unpardonable vanity, of believing herself able to
control a man, the laws of God could not restrain.”
“Oh, dear Madam, speak
not so unkindly to me,” sobbed the weeping girl, “I---I am guilty of no such
weakness, I assure you;” and looking up with an air of profound resignation and
piety, she continued, “Here, on this spot where he saved my life, I was about
to offer up my prayers for his conviction of the error of his ways, and the
pardon of his too--too heavy transgressions.”
Mrs. Wilson, softened
almost to tears herself, viewed her for a moment with a mixture of delight, at
her pious fervor, and pity, for the frailties of nature, which bound her so
closely in the bonds of feeling, as she continued in a milder tone---
“I believe you, my
dear. I am certain, although you may have loved Denbigh much, you love your
Maker and his ordinances more; and I have no apprehensions, that were he a
disengaged man, and you alone in the world---unsupported by any thing but your
sense of duty---you would ever so far forget yourself, as to become his wife.
But does not your religion---does not your own usefulness in society, require
you wholly to free your heart, from the power of a man, who has so unworthily
usurped a dominion over it.”
To this Emily replied
in a hardly audible voice, “Certainly---and I pray constantly for it.”
“It is well, my love,”
said the aunt soothingly, “you cannot fail with such means, and your own
exertions, finally to prevail over your own worst enemies---your passions. The
task our sex has to sustain is, at the best, an arduous one; but so much the
greater is our credit---if we do it well.”
“Oh! how is an unguided
girl ever to judge right in her choice, if,” cried Emily, clasping her hands
and speaking with great energy---and she would have said,---“one like Denbigh
in appearance, be so vile.” But shame kept her silent.
“Few men can support
such a veil of hypocrisy, as with which I sometimes think Denbigh must deceive
even himself. His case is an extraordinary exception to a very sacred rule---‘that
the tree is known by its fruits,”’ replied her aunt. “There is no safer way of
judging of characters, your opportunities will not admit of more closely
investigating, than by examining into, and duly appreciating, early
impressions. The man or woman, who have constantly seen the practice of piety
before them, from infancy to the noon of life, will seldom so far abandon the
recollection of virtue, as to be guilty of great enormities. Even divine truth
has promised, that his blessings or his curses, shall extend to many
generations. It is true, that with our most guarded prudence, we may be
deceived.” Mrs. Wilson paused and sighed heavily, as her own case, connected
with the loves of Denbigh and her niece, occurred strongly to her mind: “yet,”
she continued, “we may lessen the danger much, by guarding against it; and it
seems to me, no more than self-preservation requires, in a young woman. But for
a religious parent to neglect it, is a wilful abandonment of a most solemn
duty.”
As Mrs. Wilson
concluded, her neice, who had recovered the command of her feelings, pressed
her hand in silence to her lips, and shewed a disposition to retire from a
spot, she found recalled too many recollections of a man, whose image it was
her imperious duty to banish, on every consideration, of propriety or religion.
Their walk into the
house was a silent one ---and their thoughts drawn from the unpleasant topic,
by finding a letter from Julia, announcing her intended departure from this
country, and her wish of taking her leave of them in London, before she sailed.
As she had mentioned the probable day of that event, both the ladies were
delighted to find it was posterior to the time, fixed by Sir Edward, for their
own visit to the capital.
Had Jane, instead of
Emily, been the one that suffered through the agency of Mrs. Fitzgerald,
however innocently on the part of the lady, her violent and uncontrolled
passions, would have either blindly united the innocent with the guilty, in her
resentments, or, if a sense of justice had vindicated the lady in her judgment,
yet her pride, and ill-guided delicacy, would have felt her name a reproach,
that would have forbidden any intercourse with her, or any belonging to her.
Not so with her sister.
The sufferings of Mrs. Fitzgerald had taken a strong hold on her youthful
feelings, and a similarity of opinions and practices, on the great object of
their lives, had brought them together, in a manner no misconduct in a third
person, could weaken. It is true, the recollection of Denbigh was intimately
blended with the fate of Mrs. Fitzgerald. But Emily sought her support against
her feelings, from a quarter, that rather required an investigation of them,
than a desire to drown care, with thought.
She never indulged in
romantic reflections in which the image of Denbigh was associated. This she had
hardly done in her happiest moments; and his marriage, if nothing else had
interfered, now absolutely put it out of the question. But, although a
christian, and a humble and devout one, Emily Moseley was a woman, and had
loved ardently---confidingly---and gratefully. Marriage is the business of life
with most of her sex---with all, next to a preparation for a better---and it
cannot be supposed that a first passion, in a bosom like that of our heroine,
was to be erased, and leave no vestiges of its existence.
Her partiality to the
society of Derwent--- her meditations, in which she sometimes detected herself
drawing a picture of what Denbigh might have been, if early care had been taken
to impress him with his situation in this world, and from which she generally
retired to her closet and her knees, were the remains of feeling, too strong
and too pure to be torn from her in a moment.
The arrival of John,
with Grace and Jane, had enlivened not only the family, but the neighbourhood.
Mr. Haughton and his numerous friends poured in on the young couple with their
congratulations, and a few weeks stole by insensibly, before the already
mentioned journies of Sir Edward and his son --the one to Benfield Lodge--and
the other to St. James’s Square.
On the return of the
travellers, a few days before they commenced their journey to the capital--John
laughingly told his uncle, “although he himself greatly admired the taste of
Mr. Peter Johnson in dress, yet he doubted whether the present style of
fashions, would not be scandalized, in the metropolis, by the appearance of the
honest steward.” John had, in fact, noticed in their former visit to London
together, a mob of mischievous boys eyeing Peter with gestures and other
indications of rebellious movements, which threatened the old man’s ease with a
violent disturbance, and from which he had retreated by taking a coach, and now
made the suggestion from pure good nature, to save him any future trouble from
a similar cause.
They were at dinner as
Moseley made the remark, and the steward, in his place, at the sideboard---for
his master was his home--- drawing near at the mention of his name ---and,
after casting an examination over his figure to see if all was decent, Peter
respectfully broke silence, in reply, determined to defend his own cause.
“Why! Mr. John!---Mr.
John Moseley? ---if I might judge---for an elderly man--- and a serving man---,”
said the steward, bowing humbly, “I am no disparagement to my friends, or even
my honoured master.”
Johnson’s vindication
of his wardrobe, drew the eyes of the family upon him, and an involuntary smile
passed from one to the other, as they admired his starched figure and drab
frock; or rather doublet with sleeves and skirts. And Sir Edward, being of the
same opinion with his son, observed---
“I do think with John,
Uncle Benfield, there might be an improvement in the dress of your steward,
without much trouble to the ingenuity of his tailor.”
“Sir Edward
Moseley---honourable sir,” said the steward, beginning to grow alarmed for the
fate of his old companions; “If I may be so bold---you, young gentlemen, may
like your gay clothes, but as for me and his honour, we are used to such as we
wear, and what we are used to, we love.” The old man spoke with great
earnestness, and drew the particular attention of his master to a review of his
attire. After reflecting; in his own mind, that no gentleman in the house had
been attended by any servitor in such a garb, Mr. Benfield thought it time to
give his sentiments on the subject.
“Why, I remember that
my Lord Gosford’s gentleman, never wore a livery, nor can I say that he dressed
exactly after the manner of Johnson. Every member had his body servant, and
they were not unfrequently taken for their masters. Lady Juliana, too, she had,
after the death of her nephew, one or two attendants out of livery, and in a
different fashion from your attire. Peter, I think with John Moseley there; we
must alter you a little, for the sake of appearance.”
“Your honour?”---stammered
out Peter, in increased terror, seeing the way his master was inclining; “for
Mr. John Moseley, and Sir Edward, and youngerly gentlemen like, ---dress may
do. Now, your honour, if---” and Peter, turning to Grace, bowed nearly to the
floor; ---“I had such a sweet---most beautiful young lady, to smile on me, I
might wish to change; but, sir, my day has gone by,” and Peter sigh’d as the
recollection of Patty Steele, and his youthful love, floated across his brain.
Grace blushed and thanked him for the compliment, as she gave her opinion, his
gallantry deserved a better costume.
“Peter,” said his
master decidedly, “I think Mrs. Moseley is right. If I should call on the
Viscountess, (the Lady Juliana, who yet survived, an ancient dowager of
seventy) I will want your attendance, and in your present garb, you cannot fail
to shock her delicate feelings. You remind me now, I think every time I look at
you, of old Harry, the Earl’s game-keeper; one of the most cruel men I ever
knew.”
This decided the
matter. Peter well knew that his master’s antipathy to old Harry, arose from
his having pursued a poacher one day, in place of helping the Lady Juliana over
a stile, in her flight from a bull, that was playing his gambols in the same
field; and not for the world would the faithful steward retain even a feature,
if it brought unpleasant recollections to his kind master; however, he at one
time thought of closing his innovations on his wardrobe, with a change of his
nether garment; as, after a great deal of study, he could only make out the resemblance
between himself and the obnoxious game-keeper, to consist in the leather
breeches. But fearful of some points escaping his memory in forty years, he
tamely acquiesced in all John’s alterations, and appeared at his station three
days afterwards, newly deck’d from head to foot, in a more modern suit of
snuff-colour.
The change once made,
Peter admired himself in a glass greatly, and thought, that could he have had
the taste of Mr. John Moseley, in his youth, to direct his toilet, the hard
heart of Patty would not always have continued so obdurate.
Sir Edward wished to
collect his neighbours round him once more, before he left them for another
four months; and accordingly the Rector and his wife---Francis and Clara---the
Haughtons, with a few others, dined at the Hall, by invitation, the last day of
their stay in Northamptonshire; they had left the table after dinner to join
the ladies, as Grace came into the drawing room with a face covered with smiles
and beaming with pleasure.
“You look like the bearer
of good news, Mrs. Moseley,” cried the Rector, catching a glimpse of her
countenance as she passed.
“Good---I sincerely
hope and believe,” replied Grace. “My letters from my brother announce his
marriage to have taken place last week, and give us hopes of seeing them all in
town within the month.”
“Married,” exclaimed
Mr. Haughton, casting his eyes unconsciously on Emily, “my Lord Chatterton
married---may I ask the name of the bride, my dear Mrs. Moseley.”
“To Lady Harriet
Denbigh--and at Denbigh Castle, in Westmoreland---but very privately, as you
may suppose, from seeing Moseley and myself here,” answered Grace, with cheeks
yet glowing with surprise and pleasure at the intelligence.
“Lady Harriet Denbigh?”
echoed Mr. Haughton, “what! a kinswoman of our old friend?---your
friend?---Miss Emily,” the recollection of the service he had performed her at
the arbour, fresh in his memory. Emily commanded herself sufficiently to reply:
“Brother’s children, I believe, sir.”
“But a lady---how came
she my lady,” continued the good man, anxious to know the whole, and ignorant
of any reasons for delicacy where so great a favourite as Denbigh was in the
question.
“She is a daughter of
the late Duke of Derwent,” said Mrs. Moseley, as willing as himself to talk of
her new sister.
“How happens it that
the death of old Mr. Denbigh, was announced, as plain Geo. Denbigh, Esqr. if he
was the brother of a Duke,” said Jane, forgetting, for a moment, the presence
of Dr. and Mrs. Ives, in her yet surviving passion for genealogy; “should he
not have been called Lord George, or honourable?”
This was the first time
any allusion had been made to the sudden death in the church by any of the
Moseley’s, in the hearing of the rector’s family; and the speaker sat in
breathless terror at her own inadvertency, as Dr. Ives, observing a profound
silence to prevail, soon as Jane ended, answered mildly, but in a way to
prevent any further comments---
“The late Duke
succeeded a cousin-german in his title, was the reason, I presume. But, Emily,
I am to hear from you, by letter, I hope, after you enter into the gayeties of
the metropolis?” This Emily cheerfully promised, and the conversation took
another turn
Mrs. Wilson had
carefully avoided all communications with the rector, concerning his youthful
friend, and the Doctor appeared unwilling to commence any thing, which might
lead to his name being mentioned. He is disappointed in him as well as
ourselves, thought the widow, and it must be unpleasant to him to have his
image recalled. He saw his attentions to Emily, and he knows of his marriage to
Lady Laura, of course--- and he loves us all, and Emily in particular, too
well, not to feel hurt by his conduct.
“Sir Edward!” cried Mr.
Haughton, with a laugh---“Baronets are likely to be plenty. Have you heard how
near we were to having another in the neighbourhood lately”--- and as Sir
Edward answered in the negative, his neighbour continued--
“Why, no less a man
than Capt. Jarvis promoted to the bloody hand.”
“Capt. Jarvis?”
exclaimed five or six at once---“explain yourself, Mr. Haughton.”
“My near neighbour,
young Walker, has been to Bath on an unusual business---his health---and, for
the benefit of the country, has brought back a pretty piece of scandal, with
some surprising news. It seems that Lady Jarvis, as I am told she is since she
left here, wished to have her hopeful heir made a Lord, and that the two united
for some six months, in forming a kind of savings’ bank between themselves, to
enable them at some future day to bribe the minister, to honour the peerage
with such a prodigy. After a while, the daughter of our late acquaintance, Sir
William Harris, became an accessary to the plot, and a contributor too, to the
tune of a couple of hundred pounds. Some circumstances, however, at length made
this latter lady suspicious, and she wished to audit the books. The Captain
prevaricated---the lady remonstrated---until the gentleman, with more truth
than manners, told her she was a fool--the money he had expended or lost at
dice; and that, he did not think the ministers quite so silly as to make him a
lord--or himself, as to make her his wife---so the whole thing exploded.”
John listened to the
story with a delight but little short of what he had felt, when Grace owned her
love, and anxious to know all, inquired--
“But, is it true?---how
was it found out?”
“Oh, the lady
complained of part---and the Captain tells all, to get the laugh on his side;
so that Walker says, the former is the derision, and the latter the contempt,
of all Bath.”
“Poor Sir William,”
said the Baronet, with feeling; “he is much to be pitied.”
“I am afraid he has
nothing to blame but his own weak indulgence,” remarked the Rector.
“But you don’t know the
worst of it,” cried Mr. Haughton. “We poor people are made to suffer---Lady
Jarvis wept, and fretted Sir Timo--out of his lease, which has been given up,
and a new house is to be taken in another part of the kingdom, where neither
Miss Harris or the story is known.”
“Then Sir William has a
new tenant to procure,” said Lady Moseley, not in the least regretting the loss
of the old one.
“No! my Lady?”
continued Mr. Haughton, with a smile. “Walker is, you know, an attorney, and
does some business, occasionally, for Sir William. When Jarvis gave up the
lease, the Baronet, who finds himself a little short of money, offered the
deanery for sale, it being a useless place to him--and the very next day, while
Walker was with Sir William, a gentleman called, and without higgling, agreed
to pay down at once, his thirty thousand pounds for it.”
“And who is he?”
inquired Lady Moseley eagerly.
“The Earl of
Pendennyss.”
“Lord Pendennyss!”
exclaimed Mrs. Wilson in rapture.
“Pendennyss!” cried the
Rector, eying the aunt and Emily with a smile.
“Pendennyss!” echoed
all in the room in amazement.
“Yes,” said Mr.
Haughton, “it is now the property of the Earl, who says he has bought it for
his sister.”
Mrs. Wilson found time
the ensuing day to ascertain, before they left the hall, the truth of the tale
related by Mr. Haughton. The deanery had certainly changed its master, and a
new steward had already arrived, to take possession in the name of his lord.
What could induce Pendennyss to make this purchase, she was entirely at a loss
to conceive; most probably some arrangement between himself and Lord Bolton;
but whatever might be his motive, it in some measure insured his becoming for a
season their neighbour; and Mrs. Wilson felt a degree of pleasure at the
circumstance she had been a stranger to for a long time; and which was greatly
heightened as she dwelt on the lovely face of her companion, who occupied the
other seat in her travelling chaise.
The road to London led
by the gates of the deanery, and near them they passed a servant in the livery,
she thought, of those she had once seen following the equipage of the Earl;
anxious to know any thing which might hasten her acquaintantance with this so
long admired nobleman, Mrs. Wilson stopped her carriage, as she inquired,
“Pray, sir, whom do you
serve?”
“My Lord Pendennyss, ma’am,”
replied the man, respectfully taking off his hat.
“The Earl is not here?”
asked Mrs. Wilson with interest.
“Oh no, madam; I am
here in waiting on his steward. My lord is in Westmoreland, with his grace and
Colonel Denbigh, and the ladies.”
“Does he remain there
long?” continued the anxious widow, desirous of knowing all she could learn.
“I believe not, madam;
most of our people have gone to Annerdale-House, and my lord is expected in
town with the Duke and the Colonel.”
As the servant was an
elderly man, and appeared to understand the movements of his master so well,
Mrs. Wilson was put in unusual spirits by this prospect, of a speedy
termination to her anxiety, to meet Pendennyss.
“Annerdale-House is the
Earl’s town residence?” inquired Emily with a feeling for her aunt’s
partiality.
“Yes; he got the
fortune of the last Duke of that title, but how I do not exactly know. I
believe, however, through his mother. General Wilson did not know his family:
indeed, Pendennyss bore a second title during his lifetime; but did you observe
how very civil his servant was, and the one John spoke to before, a sure sign
their master is a gentleman.”
Emily smiled as she
witnessed the strong partialities of her aunt in his favour, and replied,
“Your handsome chaise
and attendants will draw respect from most men in his situation, dear aunt, be
their masters as they may.”
The expected pleasure
of meeting the Earl was a topic frequently touched upon between her aunt and
Emily during their journey. The former, beginning to entertain hopes, she would
have laughed at herself for, could they have been fairly laid before her; and
the latter entertaining a profound respect for his character, but chiefly
governed by a wish to gratify her companion.
The third day they
reached the baronet’s handsome house in St. James’s square, and found, that the
forethought of John, had provided every thing for them in the best and most
comfortable manner.
It was the first visit
of both Jane and Emily to the metropolis, and under the protection of their
almost equally curious mother, and escorted by John, they wisely determined to
visit the curiosities, while their leisure yet admitted of the opportunity; and
for the first two weeks, their time had been chiefly employed in the indulgence
of this unfashionable and vulgar propensity; which, if it had no other
tendency, served greatly to draw the thoughts of both the young women from the
recollection of the few last months.
While her sister and
nieces were thus employed in amusing themselves, Mrs. Wilson, assisted by
Grace, was occupied in getting things in preparation to do credit to the
baronet’s hospitality.
The second week after
their arrival, Mrs. Moseley was delighted by seeing advance upon her
unexpectedly through the door of the breakfast parlour, her brother, with his
bride leaning on his arm. After the most sincere greetings and congratulations,
Lady Chatterton cried out gayly, “you see, my dear Lady Moseley, I am
determined to banish ceremony between us, and so instead of sending you a card,
have come myself, to notify you of my arrival. Chatterton would not suffer me
even to swallow my breakfast, he was so impatient to show me off.”
“You are placing things
exactly on the footing I wish to see ourselves with all our connexions,”
replied Lady Moseley kindly; “but what have you done with the Duke, is he in
your train?”
“Oh! he is gone to
Canterbury, with George Denbigh, madam,” cried the lady, shaking her head
reproachfully, though affectionately, at Emily; “his grace dislikes London just
now excessively he says, and the Colonel being obliged to leave his wife on
regimental business, Derwent was good enough to keep him company during his
exile.”
“And Lady Laura, do we
see her?” inquired Lady Moseley.
“She came with
us--Pendennyss and his sister follow immediately; so, my dear madam, the
dramatis personæ will soon all be on the stage.”
“Cards and visits now
began to accumulate on the Moseleys, and their time no longer admitted of that
unfettered disposal of it, which they had enjoyed at their entrance on the
scene. Mrs. Wilson, for herself and charge, had adopted a rule for the
government of her manner of living, which was consistent with her duties and
profession. They mixed in general society sparingly, and with great moderation;
and above all, they rigidly adhered to their obedience to the injunction, which
commanded them to keep the sabbath day holy--a duty of no trifling difficulty
to perform in fashionable society in the city of London, or indeed any other
place, where the influence of fashion has supplanted the laws of God.
Mrs. Wilson was not a
bigot; but she knew and performed her duty rigidly. It was a pleasure to her to
do so. It would have been misery to have to do otherwise. In the singleness of
heart, and deep piety of her niece, she had a willing pupil to her system of
morals, and a rigid follower of her religious practices. As they both knew the
temptations to go astray were greater in town than in the country, they kept a
strict guard over their tendency to err, and in watchfulness found their
greatest security.
John Moseley, next to
his friends, loved his bays: indeed, if the aggregate of his affections for
these and Lady Herrifield had been put in opposite scales, we strongly suspect
the side of the horses would preponderate.
One early Sunday, after
being domesticated, John, who had soberly attended morning service with the
ladies, came into a little room, where the more reflecting part of the family
were assembled, occupied with their books, in search of his wife.
Grace, we have before
mentioned, had become a real member of that church in which she had been
educated, and entered, under the direction of Dr. Ives and Mrs. Wilson, into an
observance of its wholesome ordinances. Grace was certainly piously inclined,
if not devout--her feelings on the subject of religion, had been sensibly
awakened during their voyage to Lisbon; and at the period we write of, Mrs.
Moseley was as sincerely disposed to perform her duty as her powers admitted
of. To the request of her husband, that she would take a seat in his phaeton,
while he drove her round the park once or twice, Grace gave a mild refusal by
saying “it is Sunday, my dear Moseley.”
“Do you think I don’t
know that,” cried John gayly, “there will be every body there, and, the better
day--the better deed.” Now Moseley, if he had been asked to apply this speech
to the case before them, would have frankly owned his inability, but his wife
did not make the trial--she was contented with saying, as she laid down her
book, to look on a face she so tenderly loved,
“Ah! Moseley, you
should set a better example to those below you in life.”
“I wish to set an
example,” returned her husband with an affectionate smile, “to all above as
well as below me--to find out the path to happiness, by exhibiting to the world
a model of a wife in yourself, dear Grace.”
As this was uttered
with a sincerity which distinguished the manner of Moseley, his wife was more
pleased with the compliment, than she would have been willing to have known;
and John spoke no more than he thought, for a desire to show his handsome wife
was a ruling passion for a moment.
The husband was too
pressing, and the wife too fond, not to yield the point; and Grace took her
seat in the carriage with a kind of half-formed resolution, to improve the
opportunity, by a discourse on serious subjects--a resolution which terminated
as all others do, that postpone one duty to discharge another of less
magnitude--it was forgotten.
The experiment of
Grace, to leave her own serious occupations, in hopes by joining in the gayety
of another, to bring him to her own state of mind, ended in her becoming a
convert to his feelings, in place of his entering into hers.
Mrs. Wilson had
listened with interest to the efforts of John, to prevail on his wife to take
the ride, and on her leaving the room to comply she observed to Emily, with
whom she now remained alone:
“Here is a consequence
of a difference in religious views between man and wife, my child--John, in
place of supporting Grace in the discharge of her duties, has been the actual
cause of her going astray.”
Emily felt the force of
her aunt’s remark, and saw its justice--yet her love for the offender, induced
her to say--
“John will not lead her
openly astray from her path--for he has a respect for religion, and this
offence is not unpardonable, dear aunt.”
“The offence is
assuredly not unpardonable,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “and to infinite mercy, it is
hard to say what is--but it is an offence--and directly in the face of an
express ordinance of the Lord--it is even throwing off the appearance of
keeping the Sabbath-day holy--much less observing the substance of the
commandment--and as to John’s respect for holy things--in this instance it was
injurious to his wife--had he been an open deist, she would have shrunk from
the act in his company, in suspicion of its sinfulness--either John must become
a Christian, or, I am afraid Grace will fall from her undertaking”---and Mrs.
Wilson shook her head mournfully, as she concluded, while Emily offered up a
silent petition, the first might speedily be the case.
Lady Laura had been
early in her visit to the Moseleys; and, as it now appeared Denbigh had both a
town residence, and a seat in parliament--it appeared next to impossible to
avoid meeting him, or to requite the pressing civilities of his wife, by harsh
refusals, that might prove in the end injurious to themselves, by creating a
suspicion that resentment at his not choosing a partner from amongst them,
governed the conduct of the Moseleys, towards a man, to whom they were under
such a heavy obligation.
Had Sir Edward known as
much as his sister and daughters, he would probably have discountenanced the
acquaintance altogether; but in the ignorance of the rest of her friends, Mrs.
Wilson and Emily, had not only the assiduities of Lady Laura, but the wishes of
their own family to contend with, and consequently submitted to the
association, with a reluctance that was, in some measure, counteracted by their
regard for Lady Laura, and compassion for her abused confidence.
A distant connexion of
Lady Moseley, had managed to collect in her house, a few hundred of her nominal
friends, and as she had been particularly attentive in calling in person on her
venerable relative, Mr. Benfield, soon after his arrival in town, out of
respect to her father’s cousin--or, perhaps, mindful of his approaching end,
and remembering there were such things as codicils to wills--The old man,
flattered by her notice, and yet too gallant to reject the favour of a lady--consented
to accompany the remainder of the family, on the occasion.
Most of their
acquaintances were there, and Lady Moseley soon found herself engaged in a
party at quadrille, and the young people occupied by the usual amusements of
their age, in such scenes--Emily alone, feeling but little desire to enter into
the gayety of general conversation with a host of gentlemen, who had collected
round her aunt and sisters--had offered her arm to Mr. Benfield, on seeing him
manifest a disposition to take a closer view of the company.
They had wandered from
room to room, unconscious of the observation attracted in such a scene, by the
sight of a man in the costume of Mr. Benfield, leaning on the arm of so young
and lovely a woman as his niece--and many an exclamation of surprise
--ridicule--admiration and wonder, had been heard, unnoticed by the pair; until
finding the crowd rather inconvenient to her companion, Emily gently drew him
into one of the apartments, where the card-tables, and the general absence of beauty,
had made room less difficult to be found.
“Ah! Emmy, dear,” said
the old gentleman, wiping his face, from the heat of the rooms, “times are much
changed, I see, since my youth--then you would see no such throngs assembled in
so small a space--Gentlemen shoving ladies---and yes, Emmy---” continued her
uncle, in a lower tone, as if afraid of uttering something dangerous to be
heard, “the ladies themselves, shouldering the men--I remember at a drum given
by Lady Gosford--that, although I may without vanity, say, I was one of the
gallantest men in the rooms---I came in contact with but one of the ladies
during the whole evening, excepting handing the Lady Juliana to a chair
once---and that” said her uncle, stopping short, and lowering his voice to a
whisper, “was occasioned by a mischance in the old Dutchess in rising from her
seat, where she had taken too much strong waters, as she was, at times, a
little troubled with a pain in the chest.”
Emily smiled at the
casualty of her Grace, and they proceeded slowly through the tables, until
their passage was stopped by a party at the game of whist, which by its
incongruous mixture of ages, and character in the players, forcibly drew her
attention.
The party was composed
of a young man of five or six and twenty, who threw down his cards in careless
indifference of the game, and heedlessly played with the guineas which were
either laid on the side of the table as markers, or the fruits of a former
victory; or by stealing hasty and repeated glances through the vista of the
tables, into the gayer scenes of the adjoining rooms--proved he was in duresse,
and waited nothing but opportunity, to make his escape from the tedium of cards
and ugliness, to the life of conversation and beauty.
His partner was a woman
of doubtful age, and one whose countenance rather indicated, that the
uncertainty was likely to continue, until the record of the tomb-stone divulged
the so-often contested circumstance to the world--her eye also wandered at
times to the gayer scenes, but with an expression of censoriousness, mingled
with her longings; nor did she neglect the progress of the game as frequently
as her more heedless partner---a cast of her eye, thrown often on the golden
pair which was placed between her and her neighbour on her right, marked the
importance of the corner, as the precision of that neighbour, had regarded as
necessary an exhibition of the prize, as a quickener of the intellects, or,
perhaps, a mean to remedy the defects of bad memories.
Her neighbour on the
right, was a man of sixty, and his vestments announced him a servant of the
sanctuary---his intentness on the game, proceeded--from his habits of
reflection; --his smile at success,--from charity to his neighbours;--his frown
in adversity--from displeasure at the triumphs of the wicked; for such, in his
heart, he had set down Miss Wigram to be---and his unconquerable gravity in the
employment--from a profound regard to the dignity of his holy office.
The fourth performer in
this trial of memories, was an ancient lady, gayly dressed, and intently eager
on the game; between her and the young man was a large pile of guineas, and
which appeared to be her exclusive property, from which she repeatedly, during
the play, tendered one to his acceptance on the event of a hand or a trick, and
to which she seldom failed, from the inadvertance of her antagonist, to add his
mite, as contributing to accumulate the pile.
“Two double and the
rub, my dear Doctor,” exclaimed the senior lady, in triumph --“Sir William you
owe me ten”--the money was paid as easily as it had been won, and the Dowager
proceeded to settle some bets with her female antagonist.
“Too more, I fancy, ma’am,”
said she, scanning closely the contributions of the maiden.
“I believe it is right,
my Lady,” was the answer, with a look, that said pretty plainly, that or
nothing.
“I beg pardon, my dear,
here are but four --and you remember--two on the corner, and four on the
points--Doctor, I will trouble you for a couple of guineas from Miss Wigram’s
store by you--I am in haste to get to the Countess’s route.”
The Doctor was cooly
helping himself from the said store, under the watchful eyes of its owner, and
secretly exulting in his own judgment in requiring the stakes---as the maiden
replied in great warmth, “your ladyship forgets the two you lost me at Mrs.
Howard’s.”
“It must be a mistake,
my dear, I always pay as I lose,” cried the Dowager, with great spirit,
stretching over the table, and coolly helping herself to the disputed money.
Mr. Benfield and Emily
had stood silent spectators of the whole scene, the latter in astonishment to
meet such manners, in such society, and the former under feelings it would have
been difficult to describe, for, in the face of the Dowager, which was
inflamed, partly from passion, and more from high-living, he recognised the
remains of his--Lady Juliana--now the Viscountess Dowager Haverford.
“Emmy, dear,” said the
old man, with a heavy-drawn sigh, as if awaking from a long and troubled dream,
“we will go”---the phantom of forty years had vanished before the truth; and
the fancies of retirement--- simplicity---and a diseased imagination--- yielded
to the influence of life and common sense.
With Harriet, now
closely connected with them by marriage as well as regard, the Baronet’s family
maintained a most friendly intercourse, and Mrs. Wilson, and Emily, a
prodigious favourite with her new cousin, had consented to pass a day soberly
with her, during an excursion, of her husband to Windsor, on business connected
with his station. They had, accordingly, driven round to an early breakfast;
and Chatterton politely regretting his loss, and thanking their consideration
for his wife, made his bow.
Lady Harriet Denbigh
had brought the Baronet a very substantial addition to his fortune; and as his
sisters were both provided for by ample settlements, the pecuniary distresses
which had existed a twelve-month before had been entirely removed; his income
was now large; his demands upon it small, and they kept up an establishment in proportion
to the rank of both husband and wife.
“Mrs. Wilson,” cried
their hostess, twirling her cup as she followed with her eyes the retreating
figure of her husband to the door, “I am about to take up the trade of Miss
Harris, and become a match maker.”
“Not on your own behalf
so soon, surely,” rejoined the widow, returning her animated smile.
“Oh no, my fortune is
made for life, or not at all,” continued the other gayly, “but in behalf of our
little friend Emily here.”
“Me,” cried Emily,
starting from a reverie, in which the prospect of happiness to Lady Laura was
the subject, “you are very good Harriet, and for whom does your consideration
intend me!” she added with a faint smile.
“Who? why who is good
enough for you, but my cousin Pendennyss. Ah!” she cried laughingly, as she
caught Emily by the hand, “Derwent and myself have both settled the matter long
since, and I know you will yield, when you come to know him.”
“The Duke!” cried the
other with a surprise and innocence, that immediately brought a blush of the
brightest vermillion into her face, as she caught the expression of her
companion.
“Yes, the Duke,” said
Lady Chatterton, “you may think it odd for a discarded lover to dispose of his
mistress so soon in this way, but both our hearts are set upon it. The Earl
arrived last night, and this day himself and sister dine with us in a sober
way: now my dear madam,” turning to Mrs. Wilson “have I not prepared an
agreeable surprise for you?”
“Surprise indeed,” said
the widow, excessively gratified at the probable termination to her anxieties
for this meeting, “but where are they from?”
“From Northamptonshire,
where the earl has already purchased a residence, I understand, in your
neighbourhood too; so, you perceive, he at least begins to think of the thing.”
“A certain evidence,
truly,” cried Emily, “his having purchased the house. But was he without a
residence, that he bought the Deanery.”
“Oh no! he has a palace
in town, and three seats in the country---but none in Northamptonshire, but
this,” said the lady, with a laugh. “To own the truth, he did offer to let
George Denbigh have it for the next summer, but the Colonel chose to be nearer
Eltringham; and I take it, it was only a ruse in the Earl to cloak his own
designs. You may depend upon it, we trump’t your praises to him incessantly in
Westmoreland.”
“And is Col. Denbigh in
town,” said Mrs. Wilson, stealing an anxious glance towards her niece, who, in
spite of all her efforts, sensibly changed colour.
“Oh yes! and Laura as
happy--as happy---as myself,” said Lady Chatterton, with a glow on her cheeks,
as she attended to the request of her housekeeper, and left the room.
Her guests sat in
silence, occupied with their own reflections, while they heard a summons at the
door of the house; it was opened, and footsteps approached the door of their
own room. It was pushed partly open, as a voice on the other side said,
speaking to a servant without,
“Very well. Do not
disturb your lady. I am in no haste.”
At the sound of its
well known tones, both the ladies almost sprang from their seats--here could be
no resemblance, and a moment removed their doubts. The speaker entered. It was
Denbigh.
He stood for a moment
as fixed as a statue. It was evident the surprise was mutual. His face was pale
as death, as his eye first met the countenances of the occupants of the room,
and then instantly was succeeded by a glow of fire. Approaching them, he paid
his compliments, with great earnestness, and in a voice in which his softest
tones preponderated.
“I am happy--very
happy, to be so fortunate in again meeting with such friends, and so
unexpectedly,”--he continued, after his inquiries concerning the Baronet’s
family were ended.
Mrs. Wilson bowed in
silence to his compliment, and Emily, pale as himself had been the moment
before, sat with her eyes fixed on the carpet, without daring to trust her
voice with an attempt to speak.
After struggling with
his mortified feelings a moment, Denbigh rose from the chair he had taken, and
drawing near the sopha on which the ladies were placed, exclaimed with fervour,
“Tell me, dear
madam---lovely--too lovely Miss Moseley, has one act of folly--of wickedness if
you please--lost me your good opinions forever? Derwent had given me hopes that
you yet retained some esteem for my character, lowered as I acknowledge it to
be, in my own estimation.”
“The Duke of Derwent?
Mr. Denbigh!”
“Do not--do not use a
name, dear madam, almost hateful to me,” cried he, in a tone of despair.
“If,” said Mrs. Wilson
gravely, “you have made your own name disreputable, I can only regret it, but”--
“Call me by my
title--oh! do not remind me of my folly---I cannot bear it---and from you”--he
cried, interrupting her hastily.
“Your title!” exclaimed
Mrs. Wilson in a cry of wonder, and Emily turned on him a face, in which the
flashes of colour and succeeding paleness, were as quick, and almost as vivid,
as the glow of lightning, while he caught this astonishment in equal surprise.
“How is this; some
dreadful mistake I am yet in ignorance of,” he cried, taking the unresisting
hand of Mrs. Wilson, and pressing it with warmth between both his own, as he
added, “do not leave me in suspense.”
“For the sake of
truth--for my sake--for the sake of this suffering innocent, say, in sincerity,
who, and what you are?” said Mrs. Wilson in a solemn voice, and gazing on him
in dread of his reply.
Still retaining her
hand, he dropped on his knees before her, as he answered,
“I am the pupil--the
child of your late husband--the companion of his dangers-- sharer of his joys
and griefs--and would I could add, the friend of his widow. I am the Earl of
Pendennyss.”
Mrs. Wilson’s head
dropped on the shoulder of the kneeling youth--her arms were thrown in fervor
around his neck, and she burst into a flood of tears: for a moment, both were
absorbed in their own feelings, but a cry from Pendennyss, aroused the aunt to
the situation of her niece.
Emily had fallen back
senseless on the sofa which supported her.
An hour elapsed, before
her engagements admitted of the return of Lady Chatterton to the breakfast
parlour, where she was surprised to find the breakfast equipage yet standing,
and her cousin, the Earl; looking from one to the other in surprise, the lady
exclaimed,
“Very sociable, upon my
word; how long has your lordship honoured my house with your presence, and have
you taken the liberty to introduce yourself to Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley.”
“Sociability and ease
are the fashion of the day.--I have been here an hour, my dear coz, and have
taken the liberty of introducing myself to Mrs. Wilson and Miss Moseley,”
replied the Earl gravely, although a smile of great meaning lighted his
handsome features, as he uttered the latter part of the sentence, which was
returned by Emily with a look of archness and pleasure, that would have graced
her happiest moments of juvenile joy.
There was such an
interchange of looks, and such a visible alteration in the appearance of her
guests, that it could not but attract the notice of Lady Chatterton; after
listening to the conversation between them for some time in silence, and
wondering what could have wrought so sudden a change below stairs, she broke
forth with saying,
“Upon my word, you are
an incomprehensible party to me--I left you ladies alone, and find a beau with
you. I left you grave-- if not melancholy--and find you all life and gayety. I
find you with a stranger, and you talk with him about walks and rides, and
scenes and acquaintances; will you, madam, or you, my lord, be so kind as to
explain these seeming inconsistencies?”
“No,” cried the Earl
gayly, “to punish your curiosity, I will keep you in ignorance; but Marian is
in waiting for me at your neighbour’s, Mrs. Wilmot, and I must hasten to
her--you will see us both by five,” and rising from his seat he took the offered
hand of Mrs. Wilson, and pressed it to his lips: to Emily, he also extended his
hand, and received hers in return, though with a face suffused with the colour
of the rose. Pendennyss held it to his heart for a moment with fervor, and
kissing it, precipitately left the room to hide his emotions. Emily concealed
her face with her hands, and dissolving in tears, sought the retirement of an
adjoining apartment.
All these unaccountable
movements, filled Lady Chatterton with an amazement; that would have been too
painful for further endurance; and Mrs. Wilson knowing that concealment with so
near a connection would have been impossible, if not unnecessary, entered into
a brief explanation of the Earl’s masquerade, (although ignorant herself of its
cause, or the means of supporting it,) and his present relation with her niece.
“I declare it is
provoking,” cried Lady Chatterton gayly, but with a tear in her eye, “to have
such ingenious plans as Derwent and I had made, all lost from the want of
necessity of putting them in force. Your demure niece, has deceived us all
handsomely; and my rigid cousin too--I will rate him soundly for his deception.”
“I believe he already
repents sincerely of his having practised it,” said Mrs. Wilson with a smile, “and
is sufficiently punished for his errors by its consequence--a life of misery to
a lover, for four months, is a serious penalty.”
“Yes,” said the other
archly in reply, “I am afraid his punishment was not confined to himself alone;
he has made others suffer from his misconduct. Oh! I will rate him famously,
depend upon it I will.”
If any thing, the
interest felt by Lady Chatterton for her friend, was increased by this
discovery of the affections of Pendennyss, and a few hours were passed by the
three, in, we will not say sober delight, for transport would be a better
word--Lady Chatterton declared she would rather see Emily the wife of the Earl
than her brother, for he alone was good enough for her---and Mrs. Wilson felt
an exhiliration of spirits in this completion of her most sanguine wishes, that
neither her years, her philosophy or her religion even, could entirely
restrain: the face of Emily was a continued blush, her eye sparkled with the
lustre of renewed hope, and her bosom was heaving with the purest emotions of
happiness.
At the appointed hour
the rattling of wheels announced the approach of the Earl and his sister, to
fulfil their engagements.
Pendennyss came into
the room with a young woman of great personal beauty, and extremely feminine
manners, leaning on his arm. He first announced her to Mrs. Wilson as his
sister, Lady Marian Denbigh, who received with a frank cordiality that made
them instantly acquainted. Emily, although confiding in the fullest manner, in
the truth and worth of her lover, had felt an inexplicable sensation of
pleasure, as she had heard the Earl speak of his sister by the name of
Marian---love is such an unquiet, and generally such an engrossing passion,
that few avoid unnecessary uneasiness while under its influence, unless so situated
as to enjoy a mutual confidence.
As this once so
formidable Marian approached to salute her, and with an extended hand, Emily
rose from her seat, with a face illumined with pleasure, to receive
her---Marian viewed her for a moment intently, and folding her arms around her,
whispered softly as she pressed her to her heart, “my sister, my only sister.”
Our heroine was
affected to tears, and Pendennyss gently separating the two he loved best in
the world--they soon became calm and attentive to the society they were in.
Lady Marian was
extremely like her brother, and had a family resemblance to her cousin Harriet,
but her manners were softer and more retiring, and she had a slight tinge of a
settled melancholy--when her brother spoke, she was generally silent, not in
fear but in love--she evidently regarded him amongst the first of human beings,
and all her love was amply returned.
Both the aunt and niece
studied the manners of the Earl closely, and found several shades of
distinction between what he was, and what he had been--He was now the perfect
man of the world, without having lost the frank sincerity, which inevitably
caused you to believe all he said.--Had Pendennyss once told Mrs. Wilson with
his natural air and manner, “I am innocent,” she would have believed him, and
an earlier investigation would have saved them months of misery--but the
consciousness of his deception had oppressed him with the curse of the
wicked--to whatever degree we err, so it be proportionate in any manner to our
habits and principles--a guilty conscience; and imagining her displeasure to
arise from a detection of his real name by the possession of his pocket
book--his sense of right would not allow him to urge his defence.
He had lost that air of
embarrassment and alarm, which had so often startled the aunt, even in her
hours of greatest confidence, and which had their original in the awkwardness
of disguise--But he retained his softness --his respect, his modest diffidence
of his opinions--although somewhat corrected now, by his acknowledged
experience and acquaintance with man.
Mrs. Wilson thought the
trifling alterations in manner to be seen were great improvements; but it
required some days and a few tender speeches to reconcile Emily to any change
in the appearance of the Earl, from what she had been fond to admire in
Denbigh.
Lady Marian had ordered
her carriage early, as she had not anticipated the pleasure she had found, and
was engaged to accompany her cousin, Lady Laura, to a fashionable route that
evening. Unwilling to be torn from his newly found friends, the Earl proposed
the three ladies should accompany his sister to Annerdale House, and then
accept himself as an escort to their own residence. To this, Harriet assented,
and leaving a message for Chatterton, they entered the coach of Marian, and
Pendennyss mounting the dickey, they drove off.
Annerdale House was
amongst the best edifices of London. It had been erected within the preceding
century, and Emily for a moment felt as she went through its splendid apartments,
that it threw a chill around her domestic affections; but the figure of
Pendennyss by her side, reconciled her to a magnificence she had been unused
to--he looked the lord indeed, but with so much modesty and softness, and so
much attention to herself, that before she left the house, Emily began to think
it very possible to enjoy happiness even in the lap of splendour.
The names of Colonel
Denbigh and Lady Laura, were soon announced, and this formidable gentleman made
his appearance--he resembled Pendennyss more than the Duke even, and appeared
about the same age.
Mrs. Wilson soon saw
she had no grounds for pitying Lady Laura, in the manner she had done since
their acquaintance. The Colonel was a polished, elegant man, of evident good
sense, and knowledge of the world--and apparently devoted to his wife-- He was
called George frequently by all his relatives, and he, not unfrequently, used
the same term himself, in speaking to the Earl-- something was said of a much
admired bust --and the doors of a large library opened, to view it. Emily was
running over the backs of a case of books, until her eye rested on one; and
half smiling and blushing, she turned to Pendennyss, who watched her every
movement, as she said, playfully:--“Pity me, my Lord, and lend me this volume.”
“What is it you would read,” he asked, as he bowed his cheerful assent. But
Emily hid the book in her handkerchief. Pendennyss noticing an unwillingness,
though an extremely playful one, to let him into the secret, examined the case,
and perceiving her motive, smiled, as he took down another volume and said--
“I am not an Irish, but
an English peer, Emily. You had the wrong volume.” Emily laughed, as with
deeper blushes, she found her wishes detected--while the Earl, opening the
volume he held--the first of Debrett’s Peerage; pointed, with his finger, to
the article concerning his own family, and said to Mrs. Wilson, who had joined
them at the instant--
“To-morrow, dear madam,
I shall beg your attention to a melancholy tale, and which may, in some slight
degree, extenuate the offence I was guilty of, in assuming, or rather
maintaining an accidental disguise.” As he ended, he went to the others, to
draw off their attention while Emily and her aunt examined the paragraph. It
was as follows:--
“George Denbigh--Earl
of Pendennyss --and Baron Lumley, of Lumley Castle-- Baron
Pendennyss--Beaumaris, and Fitzwalter, born--, of --, in the year of --; a
bachelor.” The list of Earls and Nobles occupied several pages, but the closing
article was as follows:--
“George, the 21st Earl,
succeeded his mother Marian, late Countess of Pendennyss, in her own right,
being born of her marriage with George Denbigh, Esqr. a cousin-german to
Frederic, the 9th Duke of Derwent.”
“Heir apparent. The
titles being to heirs general, will descend to his lordship’s sister, Lady,
Marian Denbigh, should the present Earl die without lawful issue.”
As much of the
explanation of the mystery of our tale is involved in the foregoing paragraphs,
we may be allowed to relate in our own language, what Pendennyss made his
friends acquainted with, at different times, and in a manner, suitable to the
subject and his situation.
It was at the close of
that war which lost this country the wealthiest and most populous of her
American colonies, that a fleet of ships were returning from their service,
amongst the islands of the New World, to seek for their worn out, and battered
hulks, and equally weakened crews, the repairs and comforts of England and
home.
That latter, most
endearing to the mariner of all sounds, had, as it were, drawn together by
instinct, a group of sailors on the forecastle of the proudest ship of the
squadron--who gazed with varied emotions on the land which gave them
birth---but with one common feeling of joy, that the day of their attaining it
was at length arrived.
The water curled from
the bows of this castle of the ocean, in increasing waves and growing murmurs,
that at times drew the attention of the veteran tar to their quickening
progress, and who having cheered his heart with the sight---cast his
experienced eye in silence on the swelling sails, to see if nothing more could
be done to shorten the distance between him and his country.
Hundreds of eyes were
fixed on the land of their birth, and hundreds of hearts were beating in that
one vessel with the awakening delights of domestic love, and renewed
affections, but no tongue broke the disciplined silence of the ship, into
sounds that overcame the propitious ripple of the water, they began smoothly
and steadily to glide through.
On the highest summit
of their towering mast, floated a small blue flag--the symbol of authority--and
beneath it paced a man, to and fro the deck--deserted by his inferiors to his
more elevated rank. His square built form, and care-worn features, which had
lost the brilliancy of an English complexion---and and hair whitened
prematurely--spoke of bodily vigour--and arduous services, which had put that
vigour to the severest trials.
At each turn of his
walk, as he faced the land of his nativity, a lurking smile stole over his
sun-burnt features, and then a glance of his eye would scan the progress of the
far-stretched squadron, which obeyed his orders, and which he was now returning
to his superiors, undiminished in numbers, and proud with victory.
By himself stood an
officer in a uniform differing from all around him---his figure was small--his
eye restless, quick, and piercing, and bent on those shores to which he was
unwillingly advancing, with a look of anxiety and mortification, that showed
him the late commander of those vessels around them, which, by displaying their
double flags, manifested to the eye of the seaman, a recent change of masters.
Occasionally the
conqueror would stop, and by some effort of his well-meant but rather uncouth
civility, endeavour to soften the bonds of captivity to his guest; and which
were received with the courtesy of the most punctilious etiquette, but a
restraint, that showed them civilities that were unwelcome.
It was, perhaps, the most
unlucky moment that had occurred, within the two months of their association,
for an exchange of their better feelings. The honest heart of the English tar,
dilated with ill-concealed delight at his approach to the termination of
labours, performed with credit and honour---and his smiles and good humour,
which partly proceeded from the feelings of a father and a friend, were daggers
to the heart of his discomfited rival.
A third personage now
appeared from the cabin of the vessel, and approached the spot where the
adverse admirals were, at the moment, engaged in one of these constrained
conferences
The appearance and
dress of this gentleman differed yet more widely from the two just described.
He was tall, graceful, and dignified; he was a soldier, and clearly of high
rank. His carefully dressed hair, concealed the ravages of time; and on the
quarter-deck of a first-rate, his attire and manners were suited to a field-day
in the park.
“I really insist,
Monsieur,” cried the Admiral, good naturedly, “that you shall take part of my
chaise to London; you are a stranger to the country, and it will help to keep
up your spirits by the way.”
“You are very good,
Monsieur Howell,” replied the Frenchman, with a polite bow, and forced smile’
misconstruing ill-judged benevolence into a wish for his person to grace a
triumph---“but I have accepted the offer Monsieur le General Denbigh was so
good as to make me.”
“The Compte is engaged
to me, Howell,” said the General, with a courtly smile, “and indeed, you must
leave the ship to-night, or as soon as we anchor.---But I shall take day-light,
and to-morrow.”
“Well---well---Denbigh,”
exclaimed the other, rubbing his hands with pleasure, as he viewed the
increasing power of the wind, “only make yourselves happy, and I am contented.”
A few hours yet
intervened before they reached the Bay of Plymouth; and round the table, after
their dinner, were seated the General and English Admiral.--The Compte, under
the pretence of preparing his things for a removal, had retired to his
apartment, for the concealment of his feelings;--and the Captain of the ship
was above, superintending the approach of the vessel to the anchorage-ground.
Two or three well emptied bottles of wine yet remained, but as the healths of
all the branches of the House of Brunswick had been propitiated from their
contents, with a polite remembrance of Louis the XVI., and Marie Antoinette,
from General Denbigh--neither of the superiors were much inclined for action.
“Is the Thunderer in
her station?” said the Admiral, to his signal Lieutenant, who at that moment
came below with a report.
“Yes sir, and has
answered,”--was the reply.
“Very well--make the
signal to prepare to anchor.”
“Ay--ay, sir.”
“And here, Bennett,” to
the retiring Lieutenant--“call the transports all in shore of us.”
“Three hundred and
eighty-four, sir,” said the officer, looking at his signal-book.-- The Admiral
cast his eye at the book, and nodded his assent.
“And let the
Mermaid--Flora--Weasel-- Bruiser, and all the sloops, lie well off, until we
have landed the soldiers; the pilot says the channel is full of luggers, and
Jonathan is grown very saucy.”
The Lieutenant made a
complying bow, and was retiring to execute these orders, as Admiral Howell,
taking up a bottle not yet entirely deserted by its former tenant--cried
stoutly--“Here, Bennet--I forgot--take a glass of wine--drink success to
ourselves, and defeat to the French all over the world.”
The General pointed
significantly to the adjoining cabin of the French Admiral, as he pressed his
hand on his lips for silence.
“Oh!” cried Admiral
Howell, recollecting himself; and continued in a whisper, “but you can drink it
in your heart.”
The signal-officer
nodded, and drank the liquor; as he smacked his lips on going on deck, he thought
to himself, these nabobs drink famous good wine.
Although the feelings
of General Denbigh were under much more command, and disciplined obedience,
than those of his friend, yet was he unusually elated with his return to his
home, and expected honours. If the Admiral had captured a fleet, he had taken
an island;--and hand in hand they had cooperated in unusual harmony, through
the difficulties of an arduous campaign. This rather singular circumstance was
owing to their personal friendship.--From their youth they had been companions,
and although of very different characters and habits, chance had cemented their
intimacy in their more advanced life;--while in subordinate stations, they had
been associated together in service; and the now General and Admiral, in
command of an army, and a fleet, had once before returned to England with
lesser renown, as a Colonel and Captain of a frigate. The great family
influence of the soldier, with the known circumstance of their harmony, had
procured them this later command, and home with its comforts and rewards was
close before them. Pouring out a glass of Madeira, the General, who always
calculated what he said, exclaimed,
“Peter--we have been
friends from boys.”
“To be sure we have,”
said the Admiral, looking up in a little surprise, at this unexpected
commencement--“and it will not be my fault, if we do not die such, Frederic.”
Dying was a subject the
General did not much delight in, although of conspicuous courage in the field;
and he proceeded to his more important purpose--
“I could never find,
although I have looked over our family tree so often, that we are in any manner
related, Howell.”
“I believe it is too
late to mend that matter now,” said the Admiral, musing.
“Why no--hem--I think
not, Howell,-- take a glass of this Burgundy.” The Admiral shook his head with
a stubborn resolution to taste nothing French--but helped himself to a
bountiful stock of Madeira, as he replied,
“I should like to know
how you can bring it about, this time a-day, Denbigh.”
“How much money will
you be able to give that girl of yours, Peter?” said his friend, evading the
point.
“Forty thousand down,
my good fellow, and as much more when I die,” cried the open-hearted sailor,
with a nod of exultation.
“George, my youngest
son, will not be rich--but Francis will be a Duke, and have a noble estate--yet”
said the General, meditating---“he is so unhappy in his disposition, and
uncouth in his manners, I cannot think of offering him to your daughter as a
husband.
“Isabel shall marry a good-natured
man, like myself, or not at all,” said the Admiral positively, but not in the
least suspecting the drift of his friend--who was influenced by any thing but a
regard to the lady’s happiness.
Francis, his first
born, was, in truth, as he had described---but his governing wish was to
provide for his favourite George-- Dukes could never want wives--but
unportioned Captains in the Guards might.
“George is one of the
best tempers in the world,” said his father, with strong feeling, “and the
delight of all--I could wish he had been the heir to the family honours.”
“That it is certainly
too late to help,” cried the Admiral, wondering if the ingenuity of his friend
could devise a remedy for this evil too.
“Yes, too late, indeed,”
said the other, with a heavy sigh, “but Howell, what say you to matching Isabel
with my favourite George.”
“Denbigh,” cried the
sailor, eyeing him keenly, “Isabel is my only child--and a dutiful, good
girl--one that will obey orders if she breaks owners, as we sailors say--now. I
did think of marrying her to a seaman, when a proper man came athwart my
course; yet, your son is a soldier, and that is next to being in the
navy--if-so-be you had made him come aboard me, when I wanted you to, there
would have been no objection at all--however, when occasion offers, I will
overhaul the lad, and if I find him staunch, he may turn in with Bell and
welcome.”
This was uttered in
perfect simplicity, and no intention of giving offence; and partook partly of
the nature of a soliloquy--so the General, greatly encouraged, was about to
proceed to push the point, as a gun was fired from their own ship.
“There’s some of them
lubberly transports won’t mind our signals--they have had these soldiers so
long on board, they get as clumsy as the red-coats themselves,” muttered the
Admiral, as he hapened on deck to enforce his commands.
A shot or two, sent
significantly, in the direction of the wanderers, but so as not to hit them,
restored order; and within an hour, forty line of battle ships, and an hundred
transports, were disposed in the best manner for convenience and safety.
On their presentation
to their sovereign, both veterans were embellished with the ribbon of the Bath,
and as their exploits filled the mouths of the news-mongers, and columns of the
public prints of the day--- the new Knights began to think seriously of
building a monument to their victories, in an union between their children; the
Admiral, however, determined to do nothing with his eyes shut, and demanded a
scrutiny.
“Where is the boy who
is to be a Duke?” exclaimed he, one day, his friend had introduced the point
with a view to a final arrangement. “Bell has good blood in her veins---is a
tight built little vessel---clean heel’d and trim, and would make as good a
Duchess as the best of them; so, Denbigh, I will begin by taking a survey of
the senior”---to this the General had no objection, as he well knew, Francis
would be wide of pleasing the tastes of an open-hearted, simple man, like the
sailor---they met accordingly, for what the General facetiously called their
review, and the Admiral, innocently termed, his survey---at the house of the
former, and the young gentlemen were submitted to his inspection.
Francis Denbigh was
about four and twenty, of a feeble body, and face marked with the small-pox, to
approaching deformity; his eye was brilliant and piercing, but unsettled, and,
at times, wild--his manner awkward--constrained and timid; there would seem, it
is true, an intelligence and animation, which occasionally lighted his
countenance into gleams of sunshine, that caused you to overlook the lesser
accompaniments of complexion and features, in the expression--but they were
transient, and inevitably vanished, whenever his father spoke, or in any manner
mingled in his pursuits.
An observer, close as
Mrs. Wilson, would have said--the feelings of the father and son, were not such
as ought to exist between parent and child.
But the Admiral, who
regarded model and rigging, a good deal, satisfied himself with muttering, as
he turned his eyes on the junior.
“He may do for a
Duke---but I would not have him for a cockswain.”
George was a year
younger than Francis; in form---stature, and personal grace, the counterpart of
his father; his eye was less keen, but more attractive, than that of his
brother---his air open---polished and manly.
“Ah!” thought the
sailor, as he ended his satisfactory survey of the youth---“what a thousand
pities Denbigh did not send him to sea.”
The thing was soon
settled, and George was to be the happy man; Sir Peter concluded to dine with
his friend, in order to arrange and settle preliminaries over their bottle, by
themselves--the young men and their mother, being engaged to their uncle the
Duke.
“Well, Denbigh,” cried
the Admiral, as the last servant withdrew, “when do you mean to have the young
couple spliced?”
“Why,” replied the wary
soldier, who knew he could not calculate on obedience to his mandates, with as
great a certainty, as his friend--“the better way is to bring the young people
together, in order they may become acquainted, you know.”
“Acquainted--together--”
cried his companion, in a little surprise, “what better way is there to bring
them together, than to have them up before a priest--or to make them
acquainted, than by letting them swing in the same hammock?”
“It might answer the
end, indeed,” said the General, with a smile, “but, some how or other, it is
always the best method to bring young folks together, to let them have their
own way in the affair, for a time.”
“Own way!” rejoined Sir
Peter, bluntly, “did you ever find it answer to let a woman have her own way,
Sir Frederic?”
“Not common women,
certainly, my good friend,” said the general, “but such a girl as my intended
daughter is an exception.”
“I don’t know,” cried
the sailor, “Bell is a good girl, but she has her quirks and whims, like all
the sex.”
“You have had no
trouble with her, as yet, I believe, Howell,” said Sir Frederic, cavalierly,
but throwing an inquiring glance on his friend.
“No, not yet--nor do I
think she will ever dare to mutiny--but there has been one wishing to take her
in tow already, since we got in.”
“How!” said the other,
in alarm--” who-- what is he--some officer in the navy, I suppose.”
“No, he was a kind of a
chaplain--one Parson Ives--a good sort of a youth enough, and a prodigious
favourite with my sister, Lady Hawker.”
“Well, what did you
answer, Peter?” cried his companion, in increasing uneasiness, “did you put him
off?”
“Off! to be sure I
did--do you think I wanted a barber’s clerk for a son-in-law---no
--no--Denbigh, a soldier is bad enough, without having a preacher.”
The General compressed
his lips, at this direct attack on a profession, he thought most honourable of
any in the world, in some resentment---but remembering the eighty thousand
pounds---and accustomed to the ways of the other, he curbed his temper, and
inquired--
“But Miss Howell--your
daughter--how did she stand affected to this said priest?”
“How?--why--how?--why I
never asked her.”
“Did not?”
“No--never asked--she is
my daughter, you know---and bound to obey my orders, and I did not choose she
should marry a parson--but once for all, when is the wedding to be?”
General Denbigh had
indulged his younger son, too blindly, and too fondly, to expect that implicit
obedience, the Admiral calculated to a certainty on, and with every prospect of
not being disappointed, from his daughter --Isabel Howell was pretty--mild and
timid, and unused to oppose any of her father’s commands--but George Denbigh
was haughty---positive and self-willed, and unless the affair could be so
managed, as to make him a willing assistant in the courtship--his father knew
it might be abandoned at once--he thought he might be led, but not driven---
and relying on his own powers for managing, the General saw his only safety in
executing the scheme, in postponing his advances for a regular seige to the
lady’s heart.
Sir Peter chafed and
swore at this circumlocution---the thing could be done as well in a week as in
a year; and the veterans, who had, for a miracle, agreed in their rival
stations, and in doubtful moments of success--- were near splitting, on the
point of marrying a girl of nineteen.
As Sir Peter both loved
his friend, and had taken a prodigious fancy to the youth--he was fain to
submit to a short probation.
“You are always for
going a round-about way to do a thing,” said the admiral, as he yielded the
point, “now when you took that battery-- had you gone up in front as I advised
you---you would have taken it in ten minutes, instead of five hours”---“Yes,”
said the other, with a friendly shake of the hand, at parting, “and lost fifty
men, in place of one, by the step.”
The Hon. General
Denbigh was the youngest of three sons. His seniors, Francis and George, were
yet bachelors. The death of a cousin had made Francis a Duke, while a child,
and both he and his favourite brother George, had decided on lives of
inactivity and sluggishness.
“When I die, brother,”
the oldest would say, “you will succeed me, and Frederic can provide heirs for
the name hereafter.”
This arrangement had
been closely adhered to, and the brothers had reached the ages of fifty-five
and fifty-six, without altering their condition. In the mean time, Frederic had
married a young woman of rank and fortune, and the fruits of their union, were
the two young candidates for the hand of Isabel Howell.
Francis Denbigh, the
eldest son of the General, was diffident of himself by nature, and in addition
thereto, it was his misfortune to be the reverse of captivating in his external
appearance. The small pox sealed his doom;---ignorance, and the violence of his
attack, left him indelibly impressed with the ravages of that dreadful
disorder. On the other hand, his brother escaped without any vestiges of the
complaint, and his spotless skin, and fine open countenance, met the gaze of
his mother, as contrasted with the deformed lineaments of his elder brother.
Such an occurrence is sure to excite one of two feelings in the breast of every
beholder---pity or disgust---and, unhappily for Francis, maternal tenderness
was unable to counteract the latter sensation in his case. George became a
favourite, and Francis a neutral. The effect was now easy to be seen---it was
rapid, as it was indelible.
The feelings of Francis
were tensitive to an extreme---he had more quickness---more sensibility---more
real talents than George--- and all these enabled him to perceive, and the more
acutely to feel, the partiality of his mother, to his own prejudice.
As yet, the engagements
and duties of the General, had kept his children, and their improvements, out
of his sight; but at the ages of eleven and twelve, the feelings of a father,
began to pride themselves in the possession of his sons.
On his return from a
foreign station, after an absence of two years, his children were ordered from
school to meet him. Francis had improved in stature, but not in beauty---
George had flourished in both.
The natural diffidence
of the former was increased, by perceiving himself no favourite, and the effects
began to show itself in his manners, at no time engaging. He met his father
with doubts as to his impressing him favourably, and he saw with anguish, that
the embrace received by his brother far exceeded in warmth, what had been
bestowed on himself.
“Lady Margaret,” said
the General to his wife, as he followed the retiring boys with his eyes from
the dinner table, “it is a thousand pity’s George had not been the elder. He
would have graced a dukedom or a throne. Frank is only fit for a parson.”
This ill-judged speech
was uttered sufficiently loud to be overheard by both the sons; on the younger,
it made a pleasurable sensation for the moment. His father---his dear father,
had thought him fit to be a king---and his father must be a judge, whispered
his native vanity---but all this time the connexion between the speech and his
brother’s rights did not present themselves to his mind.--- George loved this
brother too well---too sincerely, to have injured him even in thought; and so
far as Francis was concerned, his vanity was as blameless, as it was natural.
The effect produced on
the mind of Francis, was both different in substance and degree. It mortified
his pride---alarmed his delicacy---and wounded his already morbid sensibility
to such an extent, as to make him entertain the romantic notion of withdrawing
from the world, and yielding a birthright to one so every way more deserving of
it than himself.
From this period, might
be dated the opinion of Francis, which never afterwards left him; that he was
doing injustice to another, and that other, a brother whom he ardently loved,
by continuing to exist. Had he met with fondness in his parents, or sociability
in his play-fellows, these fancies would have left him as he grew into life.
But the affections of his parents were settled on his more promising brother,
and his manners, daily increasing in their repulsive traits, drove his
companions to the society of others, more agreeable to their own buoyancy and
joy.
Had Francis Denbigh, at
this age, met with a guardian, clear-sighted enough to fathom his real
character, and competent to direct his course onward, to his great and
prominent duties in life, he would yet have become an ornament to his name and
country, and a useful member of society. But no such guide existed. His natural
guardians, in his particular case, were his worst enemies---and the boys left
school for college four years afterwards, each advanced in their respective
properties of attraction and repulsion.
Irreligion is hardly a
worse evil in a family than favouritism; when once allowed to exist,
acknowledged, in the breast of the parent, though hid apparently from all other
eyes--- its sad consequences begin to show themselves --effects are produced,
and we look in vain for the cause. The awakened sympathies of reciprocal
caresses and fondness, are mistaken for uncommon feelings, and the forbidding
aspect of deadened affections miscalled native insensibility.
In this manner the evil
increases itself, until manners are formed, and characters created, that must
descend, with their possessor, to the tomb.
In the peculiar
formation of the mind of Francis Denbigh, the evil was doubly injurious. His
feelings required sympathy and softness, when they met only with coldness and
disgust. George alone was an exception to the rule. He did love his brother;
but even his gayety and spirits, soon tired of the dull uniformity of the
diseased habits of his elder.
The only refuge Francis
found in his solitude, amidst the hundreds of the university, was in his muse
and powers of melody. The voice of his family has been frequently mentioned in
these pages. And if, as Lady Laura had intimated, there had ever been a syren
in the race, it was a male one. He wrote prettily, and would sing these efforts
of his muse, to music of his own, that would often draw crowds around his
windows, in the stillness of the night, to listen to sounds, as melodious as
they were mournful. His poetical efforts partook of the distinctive character
of the man, and were melancholy-- wild--and sometimes pious.
George was always
amongst the most admiring of his brother’s auditors, and would feel a yearning
of his heart towards him at such moments, that was painful. But George was too
young, and too heedless, to supply the place of a monitor, or a guide, for
Francis, to draw his thoughts into a more salutary train. This was the duty of
his parents, and should have been their task. But the world --his rising
honours--and his professional engagements, occupied the time of his father; and
fashion, parties and pleasure, killed the time of his mother--when they did
think of their children, it was of George--the painful image of Francis, was as
seldom admitted to disturb their serenity as possible.
George Denbigh was
open-hearted, without suspicion, and a favourite. The first taxed his
generosity--the second subjected him to fraud--and the third supplied him with
the means. But these means sometimes failed. The fortune of the General, though
handsome, was not more than competent to the support of his style of living. He
expected to be a duke himself one day, and was anxious to maintain an
appearance now, that would not disgrace his future elevation. A system of
strict but liberal economy had been adopted in the case of his sons. They had,
for the sake of appearance, a stated and equal allowance for each.
The Duke had offered to
educate the heir himself, and under his own eye. But to this Lady Margaret had
found some ingenious excuse in objection, and one that seemed to herself and
the world, as honourable to her natural feeling; but had the offer been made to
George, these reasons would have vanished in the desire to advance his
interests, or gratify his propensities. Such decisions are by no means
uncommon; as parents having once decided on the merits and abilities of their
children, frequently decline the interference of third persons, as the
improvement of their denounced offspring might bring their own judgment into
question, if it did not convey an indirect censure on their justice.
The heedlessness of
George, had brought his purse to a state of emptiness. His last guinea was
gone, and two months was wanting to the end of his quarter. George had played
and been cheated. He had ventured to apply to his mother for small sums, when
his dress or some trifling indulgence required an advance; and always with
success. But here were sixty guineas gone at a blow--and his pride--his
candour, forbade his concealing the manner of his loss, if he made the
application. This was dreadful--his own conscience reproached him--and he had
so often witnessed the violence of his mother’s resentments against Francis,
for faults which appeared to him very trivial, not to stand in the utmost dread
of her more just displeasure in his present case.
Entering the apartment
of his brother, in this disturbed condition, George threw himself into a chair,
and with his face concealed between his hands, sat brooding over his forlorn
situation.
“George!” said his
brother, soothingly, “you are distressed at something?---can I relieve you in
any way?”
“Oh!
no---no---no---Frank; it is entirely out of your power.”
“Perhaps not, my dear
brother”---continued the other, endeavouring to draw his hand into his own.
“Entirely!---entirely!”
said George. And then, springing up in despair, he exclaimed: “But I must
live---I cannot die.”
“Live!---die!”---cried
Francis, recoiling in horror. “What do you mean by such language. Tell me,
George, am I not your brother?---Your only brother and best friend?”
Francis felt he had
none, if George was not that friend, and his face grew pale with emotion, as
the tears flowed rapidly down his cheeks.
George could not resist
such an appeal. He caught the hand of his brother, and made him acquainted with
his losses and his wants.
Francis mused some
little time over his narration, ere he broke silence with---
“It was all you had?”
“The last shilling,”
cried George, beating his head with his hand.
“And how much will you
require to make out the quarter?”
“Oh I must have at
least fifty guineas, or how can I live at all.”--The ideas of life in George
were connected a good deal with the manner it was to be enjoyed--His brother
appeared struggling with himself, and then turning to the other, continued,
“But surely, under
present circumstances you could make less do.”
“Less, never--hardly
that”--interrupted George vehemently; “If Lady Margaret did not enclose me a
note now and then, how could we get along at all--dont you find it so yourself,
brother?’
“I don’t know,” said
Francis, turning pale--
“Don’t know,” cried
George, catching a view of his altered countenance--“you get the money though.”
“I do not remember it,”
said the other, sighing heavily.
“Francis,” cried
George, comprehending the truth, “you shall share every shilling I receive in
future--you shall--indeed you shall.”
“Well, then,” rejoined
Francis with a smile, “it is a bargain, and you will receive from me a supply
in your present necessities.”
Without waiting for an
answer, Francis withdrew into an inner apartment, and brought out the required sum
for his brother’s subsistence for two months--George remonstrated--but Francis
was positive; he had been saving, and his stock was ample for his simple habits
without it.
“Besides, you forget we
are partners, and in the end I shall be a gainer.” George yielded to his wants
and his brother’s entreaties, although he gave him credit for the
disinterestedness of the act--several weeks passed over without any further
allusion to this disagreeable subject--which had at least the favorable result
to make George more guarded and a better student in future.
The brothers, from this
period, advanced gradually in the acquiring those distinctive qualities which
were to mark the future men-- George daily improving in grace and attraction
--Francis in an equal ratio, receding from those very attainments, which it was
only his too great desire to possess. In the education of his sons, General
Denbigh had preserved the appearance of impartiality; his allowance to each was
the same, they were at the same college--they had been at the same school-- and
if Frank did not improve as much as his younger brother, it was his own
obstinacy and stupidity, and surely not want of opportunity or favour.
Such, then, were the
artificial and accidental causes, which kept a noble, a proud, an acute but
diseased mind much below in acquirements, another, every way its inferior,
excepting in the happy circumstance, of wanting those very excellencies, the
excess and indiscreet management of which proved the ruin, instead of blessing
of their possessor.
The Duke would
occasionally rouse himself from his lethargy, and complain to the father, that
the heir of his honours was far inferior to his younger brother in
acquirements, and remonstrate against the course which produced such an
unfortunate inequality; on these occasions a superficial statement of his
system, from the General, met the objection: they cost the same money, and he
was sure he not only wished, but did, every thing an indulgent parent could, to
render Francis worthy of his future honours-- another evil of the admission of
feelings of partiality, in the favour of one child, to the prejudice of
another, is that the malady is contagious, as well as lasting: it exists
without our own knowledge, and it seldom fails by its influence to affect those
around us. The uncle soon learnt to distinguish George as the hope of the
family, yet Francis must be the heir of its honours, and consequently its
wealth.
The Duke and his
brother were not much addicted to action, hardly to reflection--but if any
thing could rouse them to either, it was the reputation of the house of
Denbigh. Their ideas of reputation, it is true, were of their own forming, but
constant dropping wears away the stone.--So long and confirmed habits were
unsettled by incessant broodings on the character of their heir; matrimony
became less formidable in their eyes, but the importance of the step still held
them in suspence.
The hour at length drew
near when George expected a supply from the ill-judged generosity of his
mother; it came, and with a heart beating with pleasure, the youth flew to the
room of Francis, with a determination to force the whole of his twenty pounds
on his acceptance. On throwing open his door, he saw his brother evidently
striving to conceal something behind some books. It was at the hour of
breakfast, and George had intended for a novelty to share his brother’s morning
repast. They always met at dinner, but their other meals were made in their own
rooms. George looked in vain for the usual equipage of the table; the truth
began to dawn upon him, he threw aside the books, and a crust of bread and
glass of water met his eye--it now flashed upon him in all its force.
“Francis, my brother,
to what has my extravagance reduced you,” exclaimed the contrite George, with a
heart nearly ready to burst with his emotion. Francis endeavored to explain,
but a sacred regard to the truth held him tongue-tied, until dropping his head
on the shoulder of George, he sobbed out-- “It is a trifle, nothing to what I
would do for you, my brother.”
George felt all the
horrors of remorse, and was too generous to conceal his error any longer; he
wrote a circumstantial account of the whole transaction to Lady Margaret.
Francis for a few days
was a new being-- he had acted nobly, his conscience approved of his motives,
and his delicate concealment of them; he in fact began to think there were in
himself the seeds of usefulness, as his brother, who from this moment began to
understand his character better, attached himself more closely to him as a
companion.
The eye of Francis met
that of George with the look of acknowledged affection, his mind became less
moody, and his face sometimes embellished with a smile.
The reply of their
mother to the communication of George threw a damp on these revived hopes of
the senior, and drove him back into himself, with tenfold humility.
“I am shocked, my
child, to find you have lowered yourself, and forgot the family you belong to,
so much as to frequent those gambling houses, which ought not to be suffered in
the neighbourhood of the universities; when at a proper age and in proper
company, your occasional indulgence at cards I could not object to, as both
your father and myself, sometimes resort to it as an amusement, but never in
low company; the consequence of your mingling in such society is, that you were
cheated, and such will always be your lot, unless you confine yourself to
associates, more becoming your rank and illustrious name.
“As to Francis, I see
every reason to condemn the course he has taken. He should, being the senior by
a year, have taken the means to prevent your falling into such company; and he
should have acquainted me immediately, with your loss, in place of wounding
your pride, by subjecting you to the mortification of receiving a pecuniary
obligation, from one so little older than yourself, and exposing his own health
by a diet on bread and water, as you wrote me, for a whole month. Both the
General and myself are seriously displeased with him, and think of separating
you, as you thus connive at each others follies.”
George was too
indignant to conceal this letter, and the reflections of Francis on it were
dreadful.
For a short time he
actually meditated suicide, as the only method of removing a child, from the
way of impeding the advancement of his more favoured brother, to the wishes of
their common parents.
Had not George been
more attentive and affectionate than formerly, the awful expedient might have
been resorted to.
From college, the young
men went, one into the army, and the other to the mansion of his uncle. George
became an elegant--- gay---open-hearted---admired--captain in the guards; and
Francis stalked through the halls of his ancestors, their acknowledged future
Lord, but a misanthrope---hateful to himself, and disagreeable to all around
him.
This picture may be
highly wrought, and the effects in the case of Francis, increased by the
peculiar tone of his diseased state of mind. But the indulgence of favouritism
always brings its sad consequences, in a greater or less degree, and seldom
fails to give sorrow and penitence to the bosom of the parents.
No little art and
management had been necessary, to make the Admiral auxiliary to the indirect
plan, proposed by his friend, to bring George and Isabel together. This however
effected, the General turned his whole movements, to the impression to be made
on the heart of the young gentleman.
Sir Frederic Denbigh
had the same idea of the virtue of management, as were entertained by the
Dowager, Lady Chatterton-- but understood human nature better.
Like a prudent officer,
his attacks were all masked, and like a great officer, seldom failed in their
success.
The young couple were
thrown in each other’s way--and as Isabel was extremely attractive--somewhat
the opposite to himself in ardour of temperament and vivacity --modest and
sensible, it cannot be expected, the association was maintained by the youth
with perfect impunity. Within a couple of months, he fancied himself
desperately in love with Isabel Howell; and in truth he had some reason for his
supposition.
The General noticed
every movement of his son with a wary and watchful eye-- occasionally adding
fuel to the flame, by drawing his attention to projects of matrimony, in other
quarters, until George began to think, he was soon to undergo the trial of his
constancy--and in consequence, armed himself with a double portion of
admiration for his Isabel, to enable him to endure the persecution; while the
Admiral several times endangered the success of the whole enterprise, by his
volunteer contributions to the hopes of the young man, which only escaped
producing an opposite effect to what they were intended for, by being mistaken
for the overflowings of good nature and friendship.
After suffering his son
to get, as he thought, sufficiently entangled in the snares of cupid, Sir
Frederic determined to fire a volley from one of his masked batteries, which he
rightly judged would bring on a general engagement. They were sitting by the
table after dinner, by themselves, as the General took the advantage of the
name of Miss Howell being accidentally mentioned, to say--
“By-the-by, George, my
friend the Admiral, said something yesterday on the subject of your being so
much with his daughter.--- I wish you to be cautious, not to give the old
sailor offence in any way, as he is my particular friend.”
“He need be under no
violent apprehensions,” cried George in reply, colouring highly with shame and
pride, “I am sure a Denbigh, is no unworthy match, for a daughter of Sir Peter
Howell.”
“Oh! to be sure not,
boy--we are as old a house as there is in the kingdom, and as noble too; but
the Admiral has queer notions, and perhaps, has some cub of a sailor in his eye
for a son-in-law. Be prudent boy-- be prudent, is all I ask of you.” And the
General, satisfied with the effect he had produced, carelessly arose from his
seat, and joined Lady Margaret in her drawing-room.
George remained for
several minutes musing on his father’s singular request, and the Admiral’s caution--when
he sprang from his seat, caught up his hat and sword, and in ten minutes rung
at Sir Peter’s door, in Grosvenor-Square. He was admitted, and on ascending to
the drawing-room, met the Admiral on his way out. Nothing was farther from the
thoughts of the veteran, than a finesse like the General’s; and delighted to
see George on the battle ground, he pointed significantly with his finger, over
his shoulder, towards the door of the room Isabel was in, as he exclaimed with
a good-natured smile,
“There she is, my
hearty--lay her along side--and hang me, if she don’t strike.---I say, George,
faint heart never won a fair lady; remember that, my boy---no, nor a French
ship.”
George would have been
at some loss to have reconciled this speech to his father’s caution, if time
had been allowed him to think at all, but as the door was open, he entered, and
found Isabel endeavouring to hide her tears.
The Admiral,
dissatisfied from the beginning, with the tardy method of dispatching
things--had thought he might be of use in breaking the ice for George, by
trumpeting his praises, on divers occasions, to his daughter. Under all
circumstances, he thought she might be learning to love the man, as he was to
be her husband; and speeches like the following, had been frequent of late,
from the parent to the child: “There’s that youngster George Denbigh, now,
Bell, is he not a fine looking lad?--then I know he is brave. His father before
him was good stuff, and a true Englishman. What a proper husband he would make
for a young woman, he loves his king and country so-- none of your new-fangled
notions about religion and government--but a sober, religious, churchman--that
is, as much so, girl, as you can expect in the guards. No Methodist, to be
sure;--it’s a great pity he was’nt sent to sea, don’t you think so? but cheer
up, girl, one of these days he may be taking a liking to you yet.”
Isabel, whose fears
taught her the meaning of these eloquent praises of Captain Denbigh, listened
to his harangues in silence, and often meditated on their import, by herself,
in tears.
George approached the
sopha on which the lady was seated, before she had time to conceal the traces
of her sorrow, and in a voice softened by emotion, took her hand gently, as he
said,
“What can have occasioned
this distress to Miss Howell? if any thing in my power to remove, or a life
devoted to her service, can mitigate, she has only to command me, to find a
cheerful obedience.”
“The trifling causes of
sorrow in a young woman,” replied Isabel, endeavouring to smile, “will hardly
require such serious services to remove them.”
But the lady was
extremely interesting at the moment. George was goaded by his father’s caution,
and urged on by his own feelings; with great sincerity, and certainly much
eloquence, he proffered his love and hand, to the acceptance of his mistress.
Isabel heard him in
painful silence; she respected him, and dreaded his power over her father; but
unwilling to abandon hopes to which she yet clung, as to her spring of
existence--she with a violent effort, determined to throw herself on the
generosity of her lover.
During the late absence
of her father, Isabel had, as usual, since the death of her mother, been left
with his sister, and had formed an attachment for a young clergyman, a younger
son of a baronet, and the present Dr. Ives;--their inclinations had been
mutual, and as Lady Hawker knew her brother to be perfectly indifferent to
money, she could see no possible objection to its indulgence.
Oh his return, Ives had
made his proposals as related, and although warmly backed by the
recommendations of the aunt, refused, out of delicacy. The wishes of Isabel had
not been mentioned by her clerical lover, and the Admiral supposed he had only
complied with his agreement with the General, without, in any manner affecting
the happiness of his daughter, by his answer. But the feelings which prompted
the request, still remained in full vigour in the lovers; and Isabel now, with
many blushes, and some hesitation of utterance, made George fully acquainted
with the state of her heart, giving him at the same time to understand, that he
was the only obstacle to her happiness.
It cannot be supposed
that George heard her without pain, and some mortification.---The struggle with
self-love, was a severe one, but his better feelings prevailed, and he assured
the anxious Isabel, that from his importunities she had nothing to apprehend in
future.---The grateful girl overwhelmed him with her thanks, and George had to
fly --ere he repented of his own generosity.
Miss Howell intimated,
in the course of her narrative, that a better understanding existed between
their parents, than the caution of the General had discovered to his
unsuspecting child; and George was determined to know the worst, at once.
At supper he mentioned,
as if in rememberance of his father’s injunction, that he had been to take his
leave of Miss Howell, since he found his visits gave uneasiness to her friends.
“On the whole,” he added, endeavouring to yawn carelessly, “I believe I shall
visit there no more.”
“Nay--nay---” returned
Sir Fredric, a little displeased at his son’s indifference, “I meant no such
thing; neither the Admiral or myself, have the least objection to your visiting
in moderation; indeed, you may marry the girl, with all our hearts, if you can
agree.”
“But we can’t agree, I
take it,” said George, looking up at the wall.
“Why not---what
hinders?” cried his father, hastily.
“Only---only I don’t
like her,” said the son, tossing off a glass of wine, which nearly strangled
him.
“You don’t,” cried the
General, with great warmth, thrown off his guard by this unexpected
declaration, “and may I presume to ask the reason why you do not like Miss
Howell, Sir?”
“Oh! you know one never
pretends to give a reason for these sort of feelings, my dear sir,” said George
cooly.
“Then,” cried his
father, with increasing heat, “you must allow me to say, my dear sir, that the
sooner you get rid of these sort of feelings the better. I choose you shall not
only like, but love Miss Howell; and this I have promised to her father.”
“I thought,” said the
youth drily, “that the Admiral was displeased with my coming to his house so
much---or did I not understand you this morning.”
“I know nothing of his
displeasure, and care less,” rejoined his father. “He has agreed Isabel shall
be your wife, and I have passed my word to the engagement; and if, sir, you
wish to be considered as my son, you will prepare to comply.”
George was expecting to
discover some management on the part of his father, but by no means so settled
an arrangement, and his anger was in proportion to the deception.
To annoy Isabel any
farther, was out of the question---to betray her---base;---and the next morning
he sought an audience with the Duke. To him, he mentioned his wish for actual
service, but hinted the maternal fondness of Lady Margaret, was averse to his
seeking it. This was true--and George now pressed his uncle to assist him in
effecting an exchange.
The boroughs of the
Duke of Derwent were represented by loyal members of parliament--his two
brothers being cotemporary with Mr. Benfield in that honour. And a request from
a man who sent six members to the commons, besides a seat in the lords, in his
own person, must be listened to.
Within the week, George
ceased to be a captain in the guards, and became lieutenant-colonel of a
regiment, under orders for America.
Sir Frederic soon
became sensible of the error his warmth had led him into, and endeavoured, by
soothing and indulgence, to gain the ground he had so unguardedly lost. But
terrible was his anger, and bitter his denunciations, when his son acquainted
him with his approaching embarkation with his new regiment for America. They
quarrelled--and as the favourite child had never, until now, been thwarted, or
spoken harshly to, they parted in mutual disgust. With his mother, George was
more tender; and as Lady Margaret had never thought the match such as the
descendant of two lines of Dukes was entitled to form, she almost pardoned the
offence in the cause.
“What’s this here I
see!” cried Sir Peter Howell, as he ran over a morning paper at the breakfast
table: “Capt. Denbigh, late of the guards, has been promoted to the Lieut.
Colonelcy of the--foot, and sails to-morrow to join that regiment, now on its
way to America.”
“It’s a lie! Bell?--its
all a lie? not but what he ought to be there, too, serving his king and
country, but he never would serve you so.”
“Me?” said Isabel, with
a heart throbbing with the contending feelings of admiration for George’s
generosity, and delight at her own deliverance. “What have I to do with the
movements of Mr. Denbigh?”
“What?” cried her
father in astonishment! “a’nt you to be his wife, an’t it all agreed
upon---that is, between Sir Frederic and me, which is the same thing you know.”--
Here he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of the General, who had just
learnt the departure of his son, and hastened, with the double purpose of
breaking the intelligence to his friend, and making his own peace.
“See here, Denbigh,”
exclaimed the Admiral abruptly, pointing to the paragraph, “what do you say to
that?”
“Too true---too true,
my dear friend,” replied the General, shaking his head mournfully.
“Hark ye, Sir Frederic
Denbigh,” cried the Admiral fiercely; “did you not say your son George was to
marry my daughter?”
“I certainly did,
Peter,” said the other mildly, “and am sorry to say, that in defiance of my
intreaties and commands, he has deserted his home, and in consequence, I have
discarded him for ever.”
“Now, Denbigh,” said
the Admiral, a good deal mollified by this declaration:--- “have I not always
told you, that in the army you know nothing of discipline. Why, Sir, if he was
a son of mine, he should marry blind-folded, if I chose to order it. I wish,
now, Bell had an offer, and dared to refuse it.”
“There is the barbers’s
clerk, you know,” said the General, a good deal irritated by the contemptuous
manner of his friend.
“And what of that, Sir
Frederic,” said the sailor sternly, “if I choose her to marry a quill-driver,
she shall comply.”
“Ah! my good friend,”
said the General, willing to drop the disagreeable subject, “I am afraid we
will both find it more difficult to control the affections of our children,
than we at first imagined.”
“You do, General
Denbigh,” said the admiral with a curl of contempt on his lip, and ringing the
bell violently, he bid the servant send his young lady to him. On the
appearance of Isabel, her father inquired with an air of settled meaning, where
young Mr. Ives resided. It was only in the next street, and a messenger was
sent to him, with Sir Peter Howell’s compliments, and a request to see him
without a moment’s delay.
“We’ll see, we’ll see,
my old friend, who keeps the best discipline,” muttered the Admiral, as he
paced up and down the room, in eager expectation of the return of his
messenger.
The wondering general
gazed on his friend, to see if he was out of his senses. He knew he was quick
to decide, and excessively obstinate; but he did not think him so crazy, as to
throw away his daughter in a fit of spleen. It never occurred to Sir Frederic,
that the engagement with himself, was an act of equal injustice and folly,
because it was done with more form and deliberation; which, to the eye of sober
reason, would rather make the matter worse. Isabel sat in trembling suspense of
the issue of the scene, and lves in a few minutes made his appearance in no
little alarm.
On entering, the
admiral addressed him abruptly, by inquiring if he still wished to marry that
girl, pointing to his daughter: the reply was an eager affirmative. Sir Peter
beckoned to Isabel, who approached covered with blushes; and her father having
placed her hand in that of her lover--with an air of great solemnity gave them
his blessing. The young people withdrew to another room at Sir Peter’s request,
as he turned to his friend, delighted with his own decision and authority, and
exclaimed,
“There Frederic
Denbigh, that is what I call being minded.”
The General had
penetration enough to see the result was agreeable to both the young people, a
thing he had apprehended before; and being glad to get rid of the affair in any
way, that did not involve him in a quarrel with his old comrade, gravely
congratulated the Admiral on his good fortune, and retired.
“Yes, yes,” said Sir
Peter to himself, as he paced up and down his room, “Denbigh is mortified
enough, with his joy, and felicity, and grand children. I never had any opinion
of their manner of discipline at all--too much bowing and scraping--I’m sorry
though he is a priest; not but what a priest may be as good a man as
another---but let him behave ever so well, he can only get to be a bishop at
the most. Heaven forbid, he should ever get to be a Pope--after all, his boys
may be admirals, if they behave themselves,” and he went to seek his daughter,
having in imagination, manned her nursery, with vice and rear admirals in
embryo, by the half dozen.
Sir Peter Howell
survived the marriage of his daughter, but eighteen months; yet that was
sufficient to become attached to his invaluable son-in-law. Mr. Ives insensibly
led the Admiral, during his long indisposition, to a more correct view of
sacred things, than he had been wont to indulge; and the old man breathed his
last, blessing both his children for their kindness, and with a humble hope of
future happiness. Some time before his death, Isabel, whose conscience had
always reproached her with the deception practised on her father, and the
banishment of George from his country and home; threw herself at the feet of
Sir Peter, and acknowledged her transgression.
The Admiral heard her
in astonishment, but not in anger--his opinions of life had sensibly changed,
and his great cause of satisfaction with his new son, removed all motives for
regret for any thing, but the fate of poor George. With the noble forbearance
and tenderness of the young man to his daughter, the hardy veteran was sensibly
touched; and his intreaties with Sir Frederic, made his peace with a father,
already longing for the return of his only hope.
The Admiral left Colonel
Denbigh his blessing, and his favourite pistols, as a remembrance of his
esteem; but did not live to see the reunion with his family.
George had soon learnt,
deprived of hope, and in the midst of novelty, to forget those passions which
could no longer be prosperous; and two years from his departure, returned to
England, glowing in health, and improved in person and manners, by a more
extensive knowledge of the world and mankind.
During the time
occupied by the foregoing events, Francis had continued a gloomy inmate of his
uncle’s house. The Duke and his brother George, were too indolent and inactive
in their minds to pierce the cloud, that mortification and deadened affections,
had drawn around the real character of their nephew; and although he was
tolerated as the heir, he was but little loved as a man.
In losing his brother,
Francis lost the only human being, with whom he possessed any sympathies in
common; and he daily drew more and more into himself, in gloomy meditation, on
his forlorn situation, in the midst of wealth and expected honours. The
attentions he received, were paid to his rank; and Francis had penetration
enough to perceive it. His visits to his parents were visits of ceremony, and
in time, all parties came to look to their termination with pleasure, as the
discontinuance of heartless and forced civilities.
Affection even in the
young man, could not endure, repulsed as his feelings were, forever; and in the
course of three years, if his attachments were not alienated from his parents,
his ardour had become much abated.
It is a dreadful truth,
that the bonds of natural affection, can be broken by injustice and contumely;
and it is yet more to be deplored; that where, from such causes, we loosen the
ties habit and education have drawn around us, that a re-action in our feelings
commences--we seldom cease to love, but we begin to hate. Against such awful
consequences, it is one of the most solemn duties of the parent to provide in
season; and what surer safeguard is there, than to inculcate those feelings,
which teach the mind to love God, and in so doing, induces love to the whole
human family.
Sir Frederic and Lady
Margaret attended the church regularly--repeated the responses with much
decency--toasted the church next to the king--even appeared at the altars of
their God--and continued sinners. From such sowings, no good fruit could be
expected to flourish: yet Francis was not without his hours of devotion; but
his religion was, like himself, reserved--superstitious--ascetic and gloomy. He
never entered into social worship: if he prayed, it was with an ill-concealed
wish, to end this life of care. If he returned thanks, it was with a bitterness
that mock’d the throne he was prostrate before. Such pictures are revolting; but
their originals have, and do exist; for what enormity is there, that human
frailty, unchecked by divine assistance, may not be guilty of?
Francis received an
invitation to visit a brother of his mother’s, at his seat in the country,
about the time of the expected return of George from America; in compliance
with the wishes of his uncles, he accepted it. The house was thronged with
visiters, and many of them were ladies; to these, the arrival of the unmarried
heir of the house of Derwent, was a subject of no little interest: his
character had, however, preceded him, and a few days of his awkward and, as
they conceived, sullen deportment, drove them back to their former beaux, with
the exception of one fair; and she was not only amongst the fairest of the throng,
but decidedly of the highest pretensions, on the score of birth and fortune.
Marian Lumley, was the
only surviving child of the last Duke of Annerdale, with whom had expired the
higher honours of his house. But the Earldom of Pendennyss, with numerous
ancient baronies, were titles in fe; and together with his princely estates,
had descended to his daughter, as heir general to the family. A peeress in her
own right, with an income far exceeding her utmost means of expenditure, the
lovely Countess of Pendennyss, was a prize aimed at by all the young nobles of
the empire.
Educated in the mids of
flatterers and dependants, she had become haughty, vain, and supercilious;
still she was lovely--and no one knew better how to practise the most winning
arts of her sex, when whim or interest prompted her to the trial.
Her host was her
guardian and relative; and through his agency, she had rejected, at the age of
twenty, numerous suitors for her hand. Her eyes were fixed on the ducal
coronet; and unfortunately for Francis Denbigh, he was at the time, the only
man of the proper age, who could elevate her to that enviable distinction, in
the kingdom; and an indirect measure of her own, had been the means of his
invitation to the country.
Like the rest of her
young companions, Marian was greatly disappointed on the view of her intended
captive, and for a day or two, with them, she abandoned him to his melancholy
and himself. But ambition was her idol; and to its powerful rival, love, she
was yet a stranger. After a few struggles with her inclinations, the
consideration, that their united fortunes and family alliances, would make one
of the wealthiest and most powerful houses in the kingdom, prevailed; such
early sacrifices of the inclinations in a woman of her beauty, youth, and
accomplishments, may excite surprise-- but where the mind is left uncultivated
by the hand of care--the soul untouched by the love of goodness, the human
heart seldom fails to set up an idol of its own to worship. And, in the
Countess of Pendennyss, it was pride.
The remainder of the
ladies, from ceasing to wonder at the manners of Francis, had made them the
subject of their mirth; and, nettled at his apparent indifference to their
society, which they erroneously attributed to his sense of his importance, they
overstepped the bounds of good-breeding, in manifesting their displeasure.
“Mr. Denbigh,” cried
one of the most thoughtless and pretty of the gay tribe, to him one day, as
Francis sat in a corner abstracted from the scene around him, “when do you mean
to favour the world with your brilliant ideas in the shape of a book?”
“Oh! no doubt soon,”
said a second,” and I expect they will be homilies, or another volume to the
Whole Duty of Man.”
“Rather,” cried a
third, with bitter irony, “another canto to the Rape of the Lock --his ideas
are so vivid and full of imagery.”
“Or, what do you think,”
said a fourth, speaking in a voice of harmony, and tones of the most soothing
tenderness “of pity and compassion, for the follies of those inferior minds,
who cannot enjoy the reflections of a good sense and modesty, peculiarly his
own.”
This might also be
irony--and Francis thought it so; but the tones were so soft and conciliating,
that with a face pale with his emotions, he ventured to look up, and met the
eye of Marian, fixed on him in an expression that changed his death-like hue
into the colour of vermilion.
He thought of this
speech--he reasoned on it--he dreamt of it; but for the looks which accompanied
it, like the rest of the party, he would have thought it the cruellest cut of
them all. But that look--those eyes --that voice--what a commentary on her
language did they not afford.
Francis was not left
long in suspense; the next morning a ride was proposed, which included all but
himself in its arrangements. He was either too reserved, or too proud, to offer
services which were not required, by even a hint, that they would be agreeable.
Several gentlemen had
contended for the honour of driving the Countess, in a beautiful phaeton of her
own. They grew earnest in their claims: one had been promised by its mistress,
with an opportunity of trying the ease of the carriage--another, with the
excellent training of her hourses; in short, all had some particular claim to
the distinction, which were urged with a warmth and pertinacity, proportionate
to the value of the prize to be obtained. Marian heard the several claimants
with an ease and indifference natural to her situation, and ended the dispute
by saying--
“Gentlemen, as I have
made so many promises, from the dread of giving offence, I must throw myself on
the mercy of Mr. Denbigh, who alone, with the best claims, from his modesty,
does not urge them; to you, then,” continued she, approaching him with the whip
which was to be given the victor, “I adjudge the prize, if you will condescend
to accept it.” This was uttered by one of her most attractive smiles, and
Francis received the whip with an emotion that he with difficulty could
controul.
The gentlemen were glad
to have the contest decided, by adjudging the prize to one so little dangerous,
and the ladies sneered at her choice, as they proceeded in their ride.
There was something so
soothing in the manners of Lady Pendennyss--she listened to the little he said,
with such a respectful attention--was so anxious to have him give his opinions,
that the unction of flattery, so sweetly applied, and for the first time, could
not fail of its wonted effects.
The communications thus
commenced were continued---it was so easy to be attentive, by being simply
polite, to one unused to notice of any kind, that Marian found the fate of the
young man in her hands, almost as soon as she attempted to controul it.
A new existence opened
upon Francis, as day after day she insensibly led him to a display of powers he
was unconscious, until now, of possessing himself. His self-respect began to
increase--his limited pleasures to multiply, and he could now look around him
with a sense of participation in the delights of life, as he perceived himself
of consequence to this much admired woman.
Trifling incidents,
managed on he part with consummate art, had led him to the daring inference, he
was not entirely indifferent to her; and Francis returned the incipient
affection of his mistress, with a feeling but little removed from adoration.
Week flew by after week, and still he lingered at the residence of his kinsman,
unable to tear himself from a society of one, become so valuable, and yet
afraid to take a step, which might involve him in disgrace or ridicule.
The condescension of
the Countess increased, and she had indirectly given him the most flattering
assurance of his success, when George just arrived from America, having first
paid his greetings to his reconciled parents, and the happy couple of his
generosity; flew to the arms of his brother in Suffolk.
Francis was overjoyed
to see George, and George delighted in the visible improvement of his brother.
Still Francis was far, very far behind his juniors in graces of mind and body.
Few men in England were more adapted by nature and education for female
society, than Colonel Denbigh was at the period we write of.
Marian witnessed all
his attractions and deeply felt their influence--for the first time she felt
the emotions of passion, and after having sported in the gay world, and trifled
with the feelings of others for a course of years, the Countess in her turn
became an unwilling victim to its power. George met her flame with a
corresponding ardor, and the struggle between ambition and love became
severe--the brothers unconsciously were rivals.
Had George for a moment
suspected the situation of the feelings of Francis, his very superiority in the
contest, would have taxed his generosity to a retreat from the unnatural
rivalry. Had the elder dreamt of the views of his junior, he would have
abandoned his dearest hopes, in despair for their success; he had so long been
accustomed to consider George as his superior in every thing, a competition
with him would have appeared desperate. Marian contrived to keep both in hopes,
undecided herself which to choose, and perhaps ready to yield to the first
applicant. A sudden event, however, removed all doubts, and decided the fate of
the three.
The Duke of Derwent and
his batchelor brother, became so dissatisfied with the character of their
future heir, that they as coolly set about providing themselves with wives as
they performed any other ordinary transaction of life; they married cousins,
and on the same day, the choice of the ladies was assigned between them by
lots, and if his Grace got the prettier, his brother certainly got the richest;
under the circumstances, a very tolerable distribution of fortune’s favours.
These double marriages
dissolved the charms of Francis, and Lady Pendennyss determined to consult her
wishes--a little pointed encouragement brought out the declaration of George,
and he was accepted.
Francis, who had never
communicated his feelings to any one but the lady, and that only indirectly,
was crushed by the blow--he continued in public until the day of their union,
was present, composed, and silent-- but it was the silence of a mountain whose
volcanic contents had not reached the surface. The same day he disappeared, and
every inquiry proved fruitless, search was baffled, and for seven years it was
not known what had become of the General’s eldest son.
George, on marrying,
resigned his commission, at the earnest entreaties of his wife, and retired to
one of her seats, to the enjoyment of ease and domestic love: the countess was
enthusiastically attached to him, and as motives for the indulgence of her
coquetry were wanting. her character became gradually improved, by the
contemplation of the excellent qualities of her generous husband.
A lurking suspicion of
the cause of Francis’s sudden disappearance, rendered her uneasy at times; but
Marian was too much beloved, too happy, in the enjoyment of too many honours
and too great wealth, to be open to the convictions of conscience: it is in our
hours of pain and privation that we begin to feel its sting; if we are
prosperous, we fancy we reap the fruits of our merit, but if we are
unfortunate, the voice of truth seldom fails to remind us that we are deserving
of our fate. A blessed provision of Providence that often makes the saddest
hours of our earthly career, the morn of a day, that is to endure forever.
General Denbigh and
Lady Margaret both died within five years of the marriage of their favourite
child, although both lived to see their descendant, in the person of the infant
Lord Lumley.
The Duke and his
brother George, were each blessed with offspring, and in these several
descendants, of the different branches of the family of Denbigh, may be seen
the different personages of our history. On the birth of her youngest child,
the Lady Marian, the Countess of Pendennyss, sustained a shock in her health
from which she never wholly recovered; she became nervous, and lost most of her
energy of both mind and body; her husband was her solace--his tenderness
remained unextinguished, his attention increased
As the fortune of Ives
and his Isabel put the necessity of a living, out of the question, and as no
cure offered for his acceptance, he was happy to avail himself of an offer to
become domestic chaplain to his now intimate friend Mr. Denbigh; for the first
six years they were inmates of Pendennyss Castle; the rector of the parish was
infirm and averse to a regular assistant; but the unobtrusive services of Mr.
Ives, were not less welcome to the pastor than to his parishioners.
Employed in the duties
which of right fell to the incumbent, and intrusted with the spiritual
guardianship of the dependants of the castle, our young clergyman had ample
occupation for all his time, if not a sufficient theatre for his usefulness.
Isabel and himself remained the year round in Wales, and the first dawnings of
education received by Lord Lumley, were those he acquired conjointly with
Francis cis from the care of the latter’s father. They formed, with the
interval of the time spent by Mr. Denbigh and Lady Pendennyss, in town in winter,
but one family. To the gentleman, the attachment of the grateful Ives was as
strong as it was lasting. Mrs. Ives never ceased to consider him as the
selfdevoted victim to her happiness, and although a far more brilliant lot had
awaited him by the change, yet they could not think it a more happy one.
The birth of Lady
Marian had already, in its consequences, begun to throw a dark gloom round the
domestic comforts of Denbigh, when he was to sustain another misfortune in a
separation from his friends.
Mr. now Dr. Ives, had
early announced his firm intention, whenever an opportunity was afforded him,
to enter into the fullest functions of his ministry, as a matter of duty-- such
an opportunity now offered at B--, and the Doctor became its rector about the
period Sir Edward became possessor of his paternal estate.
Denbigh tried every
inducement within his power to keep the Dr. in his own society; if as many
thousands, as his living would give him hundreds, would effect it, they would
have been at his service; but Denbigh understood the character of the divine
too well, to offer such an inducement; he however urged the claims of
friendship to the utmost, but without success. The Doctor acknowledged the hold
both himself and family had gained upon his affections, but he added--
“Consider, my dear Mr.
Denbigh, what we would have thought, of one of the earlier followers of our
Saviour, who from motives of convenience or worldly mindedness, could have
deserted his sacred calling: although the changes in the times, may have
rendered the modes of conducting them differently, necessary, the duties remain
the same. The minister of our holy religion who has once submitted to the calls
of his divine Master, must allow nothing but ungovernable necessity, to turn
him from the path he has entered on; and should he so far forget himself, I
greatly fear he would plead, when too late to remedy the evil, his worldly
duties, his cares, or even his misfortunes, in vain. Solemn and arduous are his
obligations to labour, but when faithfully he has discharged these duties-- oh!
how glorious must be his reward.”
Before such opinions of
duty, every barrier must fall, and the Doctor entered into the cure of his
parish, without further opposition, though not without unceasing regret on the
part of his friend: their intercourse was however maintained by letter, and
they also frequently met at Lumley Castle, a seat of the Countess, within two
days’ ride of the Doctor’s parish, until her increasing indisposition rendered
her journeying impossible; then, indeed, the Doctor extended his rides into
Wales, but with longer intervals between his visits, though with the happiest
effects to the objects of his journey.
Mr. Denbigh, worn down
with watching and blasted hopes, under the direction of the spiritual
watchfulness of the rector of B--, became an humble, sincere, and pious
christian; although the spring of his sorrows bowed him down in years to the
grave, he sunk into it with the hope of a joyful resurrection.
It has been already
mentioned, that the health of Lady Pendennyss suffered a severe shock, in
giving birth to a daughter--change of scene was prescribed as a remedy for her
disorder, and Denbigh and his wife were on their return from a fruitless
excursion amongst the northern lakes, in pursuit of amusement and relief for
the latter, as they were compelled to seek a shelter from the fury of a sudden
gust, in the first building that offered; it was a farm house of the better
sort; and the attendants, carriages, and appearance of their guests, caused no
little confusion to its simple inmates--a fire was lighted in the best parlour,
and every effort made by the inhabitants to contribute to the comforts of the
travellers.
The Countess and her
husband were sitting, in that kind of listless melancholy, which had been too
much the companion of their later hours, when in the interval of the storm, a
male voice in an adjoining room commenced singing the following ballad--the
notes were low--monotonous, but unusually sweet, and the enunciation so
distinct, as to render every syllable intelligible:
Oh! I have liv’d, in
endless pain,
And I have liv’d, alas!
in vain,
For none regard my woe-- No
Father’s care, convey’d the truth,
No Mother’s fondness,
bless’d my youth,
Ah! joys too great to know-- And
Marian’s love, and Marian’s pride,
Have crush’d the heart
that would have died,
To save my Marian’s tears-- A
Brother’s hand, has struck the blow,
Oh! may that Brother
never know,
Such madly sorrowing years. But
hush my griefs--and hush my song,
I’ve mourn’d in vain--I’ve
mourn’d too long,
When none have come to soothe-- And
dark’s the path, that lies before,
And dark have been the
days of yore,
And all was dark in youth. The
maidens employed around the person of their comfortless mistress--the valet of
Denbigh engaged in arranging a dry coat for his master--all suspended their
employments to listen in breathless silence, to the mournful melody of the
song.
But Denbigh, himself,
had started from his seat, as the first notes struck his ear, and continued
until the voice ceased, gazing in vacant horror, in the direction of the
sounds. A door opened from the parlour to the room of the musician--he rushed
through it, and there---in a kind of shed to the building---which which hardly
sheltered him from the fury of the tempest---clad in the garments of the
extremest poverty--with an eye roving in madness, and a body rocking to and
fro, from mental inquietude, he beheld, seated on a stone, the remains of his
long lost brother, Francis.
The language of the
song, was too plain to be misunderstood. The truth glared around George, with a
violence that dazzled his brains---but he saw it all---he felt it all--- and
rushing to the feet of his brother, he exclaimed, in horror, pressing his hands
between his own:
“Francis--my own
brother--do you not know me?”
The maniac regarded him
with a vacant gaze, but the voice and the person, recalled the compositions of
his more reasonable moments to his recollection--pushing back the hair of
George, so as to expose his fine forehead to his view, he contemplated him for
a few moments, and then continued to sing, in a voice still rendered sweeter
than before by his faint impressions.
His raven locks, that
richly curl’d,
His eye, that proud
defiance hurl’d,
Have stole my Marian’s love! Had
I heen blest by nature’s grace,
With such a form, with
such a face,
Could I so treach’rous prove? And
what is man--and what is care--
That he should let such
passions tear
The bases of the soul?
Oh! you should do, as I
have done--
And having pleasure’s
summit won,
Each bursting sob controul. On
ending the last stanza, the maniac released his brother, and broke into the
wildest laugh of madness.
“Francis!- -Oh!
Francis, my brother”--- cried George, in bitterness of sorrow--- a piercing
shriek drew his eye to the door he had passed through---on its threshold lay
the senseless body of his wife--the distracted husband forgot every thing, in
the situation of his Marian---and raising her in his arms, he exclaimed,
“Marian---my Marian,
revive---look up--- know me.”
Francis had followed
him, and now stood by his side---gazing intently on the lifeless body---his
looks became more soft--- his eye glanced less wildly---he cried,
“Marian---My Marian,
too.”
There was a mighty
effort---nature could endure no more---he broke a blood-vessel, and fell at the
feet of George---they flew to his assistance, giving the Countess to her
women---he was dead.
For seventeen years,
Lady Pendennyss survived the shock; but having reached her own abode, during
that long period, she never left her room.
In the confidence of
his reviving hopes, Doctor Ives and his wife were made acquainted with the real
cause, of the grief of their friend--but the truth went no further.-- Denbigh
was the guardian of his three young cousins--The Duke, his sister, and young
George Denbigh; these, with his son, Lord Lumley, and daughter, Lady Marian,
were removed from the melancholy of the Castle, to scenes better adapted to
their opening prospects in life--yet Lumley was fond of the society of his
father, and finding him a youth endowed beyond his years--the care of his
parent, was early turned to the most important of his duties in that sacred
office; and when he yielded to his wishes to go into the army--he knew he went
a youth of sixteen, possessed of principles and self-denial, that would become
a man of five and twenty.
General Wilson
completed the work, his father had begun; and Lord Lumley formed a singular
exception to the character of his companions.
At the close of the
Spanish war, he returned home, and was just in time to receive the parting
breath of his mother.
A few days before her
death, the Countess requested her children might be made acquainted with her
history and misconduct, and she placed in the hands of her son, a letter, with
directions, for him to open it after her decease--it was addressed to both
children, and after recapitulating generally, the principal events of her life,
continued:
“Thus, my children, you
perceive the consequences of indulgence and hardness of heart, which made me
insensible to the sufferings of others, and regardless of the plainest dictates
of justice--self, was my idol--the love of admiration, which was natural to me,
was increased by the flatterers who surrounded me--and had the customs of our
country, suffered royalty to descend in their unions, to a grade in life below
their own, your uncle would have escaped the fangs of my baneful coquetry.
“Oh! Marian, my child,
never descend so low as to practice those arts, which have degraded your
unhappy mother--I would impress on you, as a memorial of my parting affection,
these simple truths--that coquetry, stands next the want of chastity, in the
scale of female vices--it is in fact, a kind of mental prostitution--it is
ruinous to all that delicacy of feeling, which gives added lustre to female
charms--it is almost destructive to modesty itself--A woman who has been
addicted to its practice, may strive long, and in vain, to regain that
singleness of heart, which can bind her up so closely in her husband and
children, as to make her a good wife, or a mother; and if it should have
degenerated into habit, may lead to the awful result of infidelity to her
marriage vows.
“It is in vain for a
coquette to pretend to religion--its practice involves hypocrisy, falsehood,
and deception--every thing that is mean --every thing that is debasing--in
short, as it is bottomed on selfishness and pride, where it has once possessed
the mind, it will only yield to the truth-displaying banners of the cross--
this, and this only, can remove the evil; for without it, she, whom the charms
of youth and beauty, have enabled to act the coquette, will descend into the
vale of life, altered, it is true, but not amended--as she will find the world,
with its allurements, cling around her parting years, in vain regrets for days
that are flown, and mercenary views for her descendants. Heaven bless you, my
children--console and esteem your inestimable father, while he yet remains with
you; and place your reliance on that Heavenly Parent, who will never desert
those, who seek him in sincerity and love.--
Your dying mother, “M.
Pendennyss.”
This letter, evidently
written under the excitement of deep remorse, for the errors of the writer,
made a great impression on both her children; in Lady Marian it was pity,
regret, and abhorrence of the fault, which had been the principal cause of the
wreck of her mother’s peace of mind; but in her brother, now Earl of
Pendennyss, these feelings were united with a jealous dread of his own probable
lot, in the chances of matrimony.
His uncle had been the
supposed heir to a more elevated title than his own, but he was now the actual
possessor of as honourable a name, and much larger revenues. The great wealth
of his maternal grandfather, and considerable estate of his own father, were,
or would soon be, centered in himself; and if a woman as amiable, as faultless,
as his affection had taught him to believe his mother to be, could yield, in
her situation, to the lure of wordly honours--had he not great reason to dread,
a hand might be bestowed, at some day, upon himself, when the heart would point
out some other destination, if the real wishes of its owner were consulted.
Pendennyss was modest
by nature, and humble from principle--though by no means distrustful; yet the
shock of discovering his mother’s fault--the gloom of her death, and his father’s
declining health, sometimes led him into a train of reflections, which at
others, he would have fervently deprecated.
A short time after the
decease of the Countess, Mr. Denbigh, finding his constitution bending fast,
under the wasting of a decline he had been in for a year, resolved to finish
his days in the abode of his Christian friend, Doctor Ives. For several years
they had not met; increasing duties and infirmities on both sides having
interrupted their visits.
By easy stages he left
the residence of his son in Wales, and accompanied by both his children, he
reached Lumley Castle much exhausted; here he took a solemn and final leave of
Marian, unwilling she should so soon witness again the death of another parent,
and dismissing the Earl’s equipage and attendants, a short day’s ride from B--,
they proceeded alone to the rectory.
A letter had been
forwarded, acquainting the Doctor of his approaching visit, wishing it to be
perfectly private, but not alluding to its object, and fixing the day, a week
later than the one he arrived on; this he had altered, on perceiving the torch
of life more rapidly approaching the socket, than he had at first supposed.
Their unexpected appearance and reception are known. Denbigh’s death and the
departure of his son followed. Francis was his companion, to the tomb of his
ancestors in Westmoreland.
The Earl had a
shrinking delicacy under the knowledge of his family, history, that made him
anxious to draw all eyes from the contemplation of his mother’s conduct--how
far the knowledge of it, had extended in society, he could not know, but he
wished it buried with her in the tomb. The peculiar manner of his father’s
death would attract notice, and might recall attention to the prime cause of
his disorder; they were unknown as yet, and he wished the Doctor’s family to
let them remain so; it was impossible the death of a man of Mr. Denbigh’s rank,
should be unnoticed in the prints, and the care of Francis, dictated the simple
truth, without comments, as it appeared: what was more natural, than that the
son of Mr. Denbigh, should also be Mr. Denbigh.
In the presence of the
Rector’s family, no allusions were made to their friends, and the villagers and
the neighbourhood spoke of them as old and young Mr. Denbigh.
The name of Lord
Lumley, now Earl of Pendennyss, was known to the whole British nation; but the
long. retirement of his father and mother, had driven them almost from the
recollection of their friends. Even Mrs. Wilson supposed her favourite hero a
Lumley. Pendennyss castle had been for centuries the proud residence of that
family; and the change of name in its possessor, was forgotten with the circumstances
that led to it. When, therefore, Emily met the Earl so unexpectedly the second
time at the rectory, she, of course, with all her companions, spoke of him as
Mr. Denbigh.
Pendennyss had called
in proper person, in expectation of meeting his kinsman, Lord Bolton; but,
finding him absent, could not resist his desire to visit the
rectory---accordingly he sent his carriage and servants on to London, leaving
them at a convenient spot, and arrived on foot at the house of Dr. Ives. From
the same motives which had influenced him before---a wish to indulge,
undisturbed by useless ceremony, his melancholy reflections---he desired his
name might not be mentioned.
This was an easy task;
both Doctor and Mrs. Ives had called him when a child, George or Lumley, and
were unused to his new appellation, of Pendennyss; indeed, it rather recalled
painful recollections to them all.
It may be remembered,
circumstances removed the necessity of any introduction to Mrs. Wilson and her
party; and the difficulty in that instance was happily got rid of.
The Earl had often
heard Emily Moseley spoken of by his friends, and in their letters they
frequently mentioned her name, as connected with their pleasures and
employments, always with an affection, Pendennyss thought exceeding that which
they manifested--for their son’s wife; and Mrs. Ives, the evening before, to
remove unpleasant thoughts, had given him a lively description of her person
and character. The Earl’s curiosity had been a little excited to see this
paragon of female beauty and virtues; and, unlike most curiosity on such
subjects, he was agreeably disappointed by the examination. He wished to know
more, and made interest with the doctor, to assist him to continue the
incognito, accident had favoured him with.
The Doctor objected on
the ground of principle, and the Earl desisted; but the beauty of Emily, aided
by her character, had made an impression not to be easily shaken off, and
Pendennyss returned to the charge.
His former jealousies
were awakened in proportion to his admiration; and after some time, he threw
himself on the mercy of the divine, by declaring his new motive, but without
mentioning his parents. The Doctor pitied him, for he scanned his feelings
thoroughly, and consented to keep silent, but laughingly declared, it was bad
enough for a divine, to be accessory to, much less aiding in a deception; and
that he knew if Emily and Mrs. Wilson, learnt his imposition, he would lose
ground in their favour by the discovery.
“Surely, George,” said
the doctor with a laugh, “you don’t mean to marry the young lady as Mr.
Denbigh?”
“Oh no! it is too soon
to think of marrying her at all,” replied the Earl with a smile, “but--somehow--I
should like to see, what my reception in the world will be, as plain Mr. Denbigh--unprovided
for and unknown.”
“No doubt, my Lord,”
said the Rector archly, “in proportion to your merits very unfavourably indeed;
but then your humility will be finely elevated, by the occasional praises, I
have heard Mrs. Wilson lavish on your proper character, of late.”
“I am much indebted to
her partiality,” continued the Earl mournfully; then throwing off his gloomy
thoughts, he added; “I wonder, my dear Doctor, your goodness did not set her
right in the latter particular.”
“Why she has hardly
given me an opportunity--delicacy and my own feelings, have kept me very silent
on the subject of your family to any of that connexion; they think, I believe,
I was a rector in Wales, instead of your father’s chaplain, and somehow,”
continued the Doctor, smiling on his wife, “the association with your late
parents, was so connected in my mind, with my most romantic feelings; that
although I have delighted in it---I have seldom alluded to it in conversation
at all. Mrs. Wilson has never spoken of you but twice in my hearing, and that
since she has expected to meet you--your name has undoubtedly recalled the
remembrance of her husband.”
“I have many--many
reasons to remember the General with gratitude,” cried the Earl with fervour--“but
Doctor, do not forget my incognito; only call me George, I ask no more.”
The plan of Pendennyss
was put in execution---day after day he lingered in Northamptonshire, until his
principles and character had grown upon the esteem of the Moseleys, in the
manner we have mentioned.
His frequent
embarrassments were from the dread and shame of a detection---with Sir Hubert
Nicholson, he had a narrow escape; and Mrs. Fitzgerald and Lord Henry Stapleton
he of course avoided; for having gone so far, he was determined to persevere to
the end. Egerton he thought knew him, and he disliked his character and
manners.
When Chatterton
appeared most attentive to Emily, the candour and good opinion of the young
nobleman made the Earl acquainted with his wishes and his situation. Pendennyss
was too generous not to meet his rival on fair grounds. His cousin, the Duke,
was requested to use their influence secretly, for the desired station for the
Baron--the result is known, and Pendennyss trusted his secret to Chatterton; he
took him to London, gave him in charge to Derwent, and returned to prosecute
his own suit. His note from Bolton Castle was a ruse, to conceal his character,
as he knew the departure of the baronet’s family to an hour, and had so timed
his visit to the Earl, as not to come in collision with the Moseleys.
“Indeed, my Lord,”
cried the Doctor to him one day, “your scheme goes on swimmingly, and I am only
afraid when your mistress finds the imposition, you will find your rank
producing a different effect, from what you have apprehended.”
But Dr. Ives was
mistaken--had he seen the sparkling eyes, and glowing cheeks of Miss
Moseley--the smile of satisfaction and happiness, which played on the usually
thoughtful face of Mrs. Wilson, when the Earl handed them into his own
carriage, as they left his house, on the evening of the discovery; the Doctor
would have gladly acknowledged the failure of his prognostics. In truth, there
was no possible event, that under the circumstances, could have given both aunt
and niece such heartfelt pleasure, as the knowledge that Denbigh and the Earl
were the same person.
Pendennyss stood
holding the door of the carriage in his hand, irresolute how to act, when Mrs.
Wilson said,
“Surely, my Lord, you
sup with us.”
“A thousand thanks, my
dear Madam, for the privilege,” cried the Earl, as he sprang into the
coach--the door was closed, and they drove off.
“After the explanation
of this morning, my Lord,” said Mrs. Wilson, willing to remove all doubts
between him and Emily, and perhaps anxious to satisfy her own curiosity, “it
will be fastidious to conceal our desire to know more of your movements. How
came your pocket-book in the possession of Mrs. Fitzgerald?”
“Mrs. Fitzgerald!”
cried Pendennyss, in astonishment, “I lost the book in one of the rooms of the
Lodge, and supposed it had fallen into your hands, and betrayed my disguise, by
Emily’s rejection of me, and your own altered eye. Was I mistaken then in both?”
Mrs. Wilson now, for
the first time, explained their real grounds of refusing his offers, which, in
the morning, she had loosely mentioned, as owing to a misapprehension of his
just character, and recounted the manner of the book’s falling into the hands
of Mrs. Fitzgerald.
The Earl listened in
amazement, and after musing with himself, exclaimed, “I remember taking it from
my pocket, to show Col. Egerton some singular plants I had gathered, and think
I first missed it, when returning to the place I had then laid it--it was gone;
in some of the side-pockets were letters from Marian, addressed to me,
properly; and I naturally thought they had met your eye.”
Mrs. Wilson and Emily
immediately thought Egerton the real villain, who had caused both themselves
and Mrs. Fitzgerald so much uneasiness, and the former mentioned her suspicions
to the Earl.
“Nothing more probable,
dear Madam,” cried he, “and this explains to me his startling looks when we
first met, and evident dislike to my society, for he must have seen my person,
though the carriage hid him from my sight.”
That Egerton was the
wretch, and through his agency, the pocket-book had been carried to the
Cottage, they all now agreed, and turned to more pleasant subjects.
“Master!--her--Master,”
said Peter Johnson, as he stood at a window of Mr. Benfield’s room, stirring a
gruel for the old gentleman’s supper, and stretching his neck, and straining
his eyes, to distinguish by the light of the lamps--“I do think there is Mr.
Denbigh, handing Miss Emmy from a coach, covered with gold, and two foot-men,
all dizzined with pride like.”
The spoon fell from the
hands of Mr. Benfield--he rose briskly from his seat, and adjusting his dress,
took the arm of the steward, as he proceeded to the drawing-room. While these
several movements were in operation, which consumed some time, the old bachelor
relieved the tedium of Peter’s impatience, by the following speech:
“Mr. Denbigh!--what,
back?--I thought he never could let that rascal John shoot him, and forsake
Emmy after all; (here the old gentleman suddenly recollected Denbigh’s
marriage) but now, Peter, it can do no good either.--I remember, that when my
friend, the Earl of Gosford--(and again he was checked by the image of the
card-table, and the Viscountess,) “but Peter,” he said, with great warmth, “we
can go down and see him though.”
“Mr. Denbigh!”
exclaimed Sir Edward, in astonishment, as he saw the companion of his sister
and child, enter the drawing-room, “you are welcome once more to your old
friends; your sudden retreat from us, gave us much pain, but we suppose Lady
Laura had too many attractions, to allow us to keep you any longer in Norfolk.”
The good Baronet
sighed, as he held out his hand, to the man he had once hoped to receive as a
son.
“Neither Lady Laura,
nor any other lady, my dear Sir Edward,” cried the Earl, as he took the Baronet’s
hand, “drove me from you, but the frowns of your own fair daughter; and here
she is, ready to acknowledge her offence--and, I hope, atone for it.”
John, who knew of the
refusal of his sister, and was not a little displeased with the cavalier treatment
he had received at Denbigh’s hands, felt indignant at such improper levity, as
he thought he now exhibited, being a married man, and approached with--
“Your servant, Mr.
Denbigh--I hope my Lady Laura is well.”
Pendennyss understood
his look, and replied very gravely, “Your servant, Mr. John Moseley--my Lady
Laura is, or certainly ought to be, very well, as she has this moment gone to a
route, accompanied by her husband.”
The quick eye of John
glanced from the Earl---to his aunt---to Emily; a lurking smile was on all
their features--the heightened colour of his sister--the flashing eyes of the
young man--the face of his aunt--all told him, something uncommon was about to
be explained; and yielding to his feelings, he caught the hand, Pendennyss extended
to him, as he cried,
“Denbigh, I see--I
feel--there is some unaccountable mistake--we are--”
“Brothers!” said the
Earl, emphatically. “Sir Edward--dear Lady Moseley, I throw myself on your
mercy--I am an impostor-- when your hospitality received me into your house, it
is true, you admitted George Denbigh, but he is better known as the Earl of
Pendennyss.”
“The Earl of
Pendennyss!” exclaimed Lady Moseley, in a glow of delight, as she saw at once
through some juvenile folly---a deception, which promised both happiness and
rank to one of her children; “is it possible, my dear Charlotte, this is your
unknown friend.”--
“The very same, Anne,”
replied the smiling widow, “and guilty of a folly, that at all events, removes
the distance between us a little, by showing he is subject to the failings of
mortality. But the masquerade is ended, and I hope you and Edward will not only
treat him as an Earl, but receive him as a son.”
“Most willingly--most
willingly,” cried the Baronet, with great energy; “be he prince --peer--or
beggar--he is the preserver of my child, and as such, he is always welcome.”
The door now slowly
opened, and the venerable bachelor appeared on its threshold.
Pendennyss, who had
never forgotten the good will manifested to him by Mr. Benfield, met him with a
look of pleasure, as he expressed his happiness at seeing him again and in
London.
“I never have forgotten
your goodness in sending honest Peter, such a distance from home, or the object
of his visit. I now regret a feeling of shame occasioned my answering your
kindness so laconically;” turning to Mrs. Wilson, he added, “for a time, I knew
not how to write a letter even-- afraid to sign my proper appellation, and
ashamed to use my adopted one.”
“Mr. Denbigh, I am
happy to see you. I did send Peter, it is true, to London, on a message to
you--but it is all over now,”-- and the old man sighed--“Peter, however,
escaped the snares of this wicked place; and if you are happy, I am content. I
remember when the Earl of--”
“Pendennyss!” exclaimed
the other, “imposed on the hospitality of a worthy man, under an assumed
appellation, in order to pry into the character of a lovely female, who was
only too good for him, and who now is willing to forget his follies, and make
him, not only the happiest of men, but the nephew of Mr. Benfield.”
During this speech, the
countenance of Mr. Benfield had manifested evident emotion-- he looked from one
to another, until he saw Mrs. Wilson smiling near him; pointing to the Earl
with his finger, he stood unable to speak, as she answered, simply,
“Lord Pendennyss.”
“And Emmy dear--will
you--will you marry him?” cried Mr. Benfield, suppressing his feelings, to give
utterance.
Emily felt for her
uncle, and blushing deeply, with great frankness, put her hand in that of the
Earl, who pressed it with rapture again and again to his lips.
Mr. Benfield sunk into
a chair, and with a heart softened by his emotions, burst into tears. “Peter,”
he cried, struggling with his feelings, “I am now ready to depart in peace--I
shall see my darling Emmy, happy, and to her care, I shall commit you.”
Emily, deeply affected
with his love, threw herself into his arms in a torrent of tears, and was
removed from them by Pendennyss, in consideration for the feelings of both.
Jane felt no emotions
of envy for her sister’s happiness; on the contrary, she rejoiced in common
with the rest of their friends in her brightening prospects, and they took
their seats at the supper table, as happy a group, as was contained in the wide
circle of the Metropolis; a few more particulars served to explain the mystery
sufficiently, until a more fitting opportunity made them acquainted with the
whole of the Earl’s proceedings.
“My Lord Pendennyss,”
said Sir Edward, pouring out a glass of wine, and passing the bottle to his
neighbour: “I drink your health-- and happiness to yourself and my darling
child.”
The toast was drank by
all the family, and the Earl replied to them with his thanks and smiles, while
Emily could only notice them, with her blushes and tears.
But this was an
opportunity not to be lost by the honest steward, who had, from affection and
long services, been indulged in familiarities, exceeding any other of his
master’s establishment. He very deliberately helped himself to a glass of wine,
and drawing near the seat of the bride-elect, with a humble reverence,
commenced his speech as follows:
“My dear Miss
Emmy:--Here’s hoping you’ll live to be a comfort to your honoured father, and
your honoured mother, and my dear honoured master, and yourself, and Madam
Wilson.” The steward paused to clear his voice, and cast his eye round the
table to collect the names; “and Mr. John Moseley, and sweet Mrs. Moseley, and
pretty Miss Jane,” (Peter had lived too long in the world to compliment one
handsome woman in the presence of another, without qualifying his speech a
little) “and Mr. Lord Denbigh--Earl like, as they say he now is, and” --Peter
stopped a moment to deliberate, and then making another reverence, he put the
glass to his lips; but before he had got half through its contents, recollected
himself, and replenishing to the brim, with a smile, acknowledging his
forgetfulness, continued, “and the Rev. Mr. Francis Ives, and the Rev. Mrs.
Francis Ives.” Here the unrestrained laugh of John interrupted him; and
considering with himself that he had included the whole family, he finished his
bumper. Whether it was pleasure at his eloquence, in venturing on so long a
speech, or the unusual allowance, that affected the steward, he was evidently
much satisfied with himself, and stepped back, behind his master’s chair, in
great good humour.
Emily, as she thanked
him, noticed with a grateful satisfaction, a tear in the eye of the old man, as
he concluded his oration, that would have excused a thousand breaches of
fastidious ceremony. But Pendennyss rose from his seat, and took him kindly by
the hand, as he returned his own thanks for his good wishes.
“I owe you much good
will, Mr. Johnson, for your two journies in my behalf, and trust I never shall
forget the manner in which you executed your last mission, in particular. We
are friends, I trust, for life.”
“Thank you--thank your
honour’s lordship,” said the steward, almost unable to utter; “I hope you may
live long, to make dear little Miss Emmy as happy--as I know she ought to be.”
“But really, my lord,”
cried John, observing that the steward’s affection for his sister, had affected
her to tears, “it was a singular circumstance, the meeting of the four
passengers of the stage, so soon at your hotel?” and Moseley explained his
meaning to the rest of the company.
“Not so much so as you
imagine,” said the Earl in reply; “yourself and Johnson were in quest of me;
Lord Henry Stapleton was under an engagement to meet me that evening at the
hotel, as we were both going to his sister’s wedding--I having arranged the
thing with him, by letters previously;-- and the General, M‘Carthy, was also in
search of me, on business relating to his niece, the Donna Julia. He had been
to Annerdale House, and through my servants, heard I was at a hotel. It was the
first interview between us, and not quite as amicable an one as he has since
paid me in Wales. In my service in Spain, I saw the Conde, but not the General.
The letter he gave me, was from the Spanish ambassador, claiming a right to
require Mrs. Fitzgerald from our government, and deprecating my using an
influence, to counteract his exertions”--
“Which you refused,”
said Emily, eagerly.
“Not refused,” answered
the Earl, smiling at her warmth, at the same time he admired her friendly zeal,
“for it was unnecessary-- there is no such power vested in the ministry; but I
explicitly told the General, I would oppose any violent measures to restore her
to her country and a convent. From the courts, I apprehended nothing for my fair
friend.”
“Your honour--my Lord,”
said Peter, who had been listening with great attention, “if I may presume,
just to ask two questions, without offence.”
“Say on, my good
friend,” said Pendennyss, with an encouraging smile.
“Only,” continued the
steward--hemming, to give proper utterance to his thoughts--“I wish to know,
whether you staid in that same street, after you left the hotel--for Mr. John
Moseley and I, had a slight difference in opinion about it.”
The Earl smiled, as he
caught the arch expression of John, and replied--
“I believe I owe you an
apology, Moseley, for my cavalier treatment--but guilt makes us all cowards. I
found you were ignorant of my incognito, and I was equally ashamed to continue
it, or become the relator of my own folly. Indeed,” he continued, smiling on
Emily as he spoke, “I thought your sister had pronounced the opinions of all
reflecting people on my conduct. I went out of town, Johnson at day-break. What
is your other query?”
“Why, my lord,” said
Peter, a little disappointed at finding his first surmise untrue, “that
outlandish tongue, your honour used--”
“Was Spanish,” cried
the Earl.
“And not Greek, Peter,”
said his master, gravely. “I thought, from the words you endeavoured to repeat
to me, you had made a mistake. You need not be disconcerted, however, for I
know several members of the parliament of this realm, who could not talk the
Greek language--that is, fluently. So it can be no disgrace, to a serving man
to be ignorant of it.”
Somewhat consoled to
find himself as well off as the representatives of his country, Peter resumed
his station in silence, when the carriages began to announce the return from
the opera. The Earl took his leave, and the party retired to rest.
The thanksgivings of
Emily that night, ere she laid her head on her pillow, were the purest offering
of mortal innocence. The prospect before her was unsullied by a cloud, and she
poured out her heart in the fullest confidence of pious love and heartfelt
gratitude.
As early on the
succeeding morning as good-breeding would allow, and much earlier than the hour
sanctioned by fashion, the Earl and Lady Marian stopped in the carriage of the
latter, at the door of Sir Edward Moseley. Their reception was the most
flattering that could be offered to people of their stamp;
sincere--cordial--and, with a trifling exception in Lady Moseley, unfettered
with any of the useless ceremonies of high life.
Emily felt herself
drawn to her new acquaintance, with a fondness, which doubtless grew out of her
situation with her brother, but which soon found reasons enough in the soft,
lady-like, and sincere manners of Lady Marian, to justify her attachment on her
own account.
There was a very
handsome suite of drawing-rooms in Sir Edward’s house, and the doors communicating,
were carelessly open. Curiosity to view the furniture, or some such trifling
reason, induced the Earl to find his way, into the one adjoining that, in which
the family were seated. It was unquestionably a dread of being lost in a
strange house, that induced him to whisper a request to the blushing Emily, to
be his companion; and lastly, it must have been nothing, but a knowledge that a
vacant room was easier viewed, than one filled with company, that prevented any
one from following them; John smiled archly at Grace, doubtless in approbation
of the comfortable time his friend was likely to enjoy, in his musings on the
taste of their mother. How the door became shut, we have ever been at a loss to
imagine.
The company without
were too good natured and well satisfied with each other, to miss the
absentees, until the figure of the Earl appeared at the reopened door,
beckoning, with a face of rapture, to Lady Moseley and Mrs. Wilson. Sir Edward
next disappeared--then Jane--then Grace--then Marian; until John began to think
a tete-a-tete with Mr. Benfield, was to be his morning’s amusement.
The lovely countenance
of his wife, however, soon relieved his ennui, and John’s curiosity was
gratified by an order to prepare for his sister’s wedding the following week.
Emily might have
blushed more than common during this interview, but it is certain she did not
smile less; and the Earl, Lady Marian assured Sir Edward, was so very different
a creature, from what he had been, that she did hardly think it was the same
sombre gentleman, she had passed the last few months with, in Wales and
Westmoreland.
A messenger was
despatched for Dr. Ives, and their friends at B--, to be witnesses to the
approaching nuptials; and Lady Moseley at length found an opportunity of indulging
her taste in splendour, on this joyful occasion.
Money was no
consideration; and Mr. Benfield absolutely pined at the thought, the great
wealth of the Earl, put it out of his power to contribute, in any manner, to
the comfort of his Emmy. However, a fifteenth codicil was framed by the
ingenuity of Peter and his master, and if it did not contain the name of George
Denbigh, it did that of his expected second son, Roderic Benfield Denbigh, to
the qualifying circumstance of twenty thousand pounds, as a bribe for the name.
“And a very pretty
child, I dare say it will be,” said the steward, as he placed the paper in its
repository. “I don’t know I ever saw, your honour, a couple, that I thought,
would make a handsomer pair, like--except”--and Peter’s mind dwelt on his own
youthful form, coupled with the smiling graces of Patty Steele.
“Yes! they are as
handsome as they are good!” replied his master. “I remember now--when our
speaker took his third wife, the world said--they were as pretty a couple as
there was at court. But my Emmy and the Earl will be a much finer pair. Oh!--
Peter Johnson--they are young--and rich-- and beloved--but, after all, it
avails but little, if they be not good.”
“Good!” cried the
steward in astonishment; “they are as good as angels.”
The master’s ideas of
human excellence had suffered a heavy blow, in the view of his Viscountess--but
he answered mildly, “as good as mankind can well be.”
The warm weather had
now commenced, and Sir Edward, unwilling to be shut up in London, at a time the
appearance of vegetation gave the country a new interest, and accustomed for
many years of his life, to devote an hour in his garden each morning, had taken
a little ready furnished cottage a short ride from his residence, with the
intention of frequenting it, until after the birthday: thither then Pendennyss
took his bride from the altar, and a few days were passed by the new married
pair, in this little asylum.
Doctor Ives with
Francis, Clara, and their mother, had obeyed the summons, with an alacrity in
proportion to the joy they had felt on receiving it, and the former had the
happiness of officiating on the occasion. It would have been easy for the
wealth of the Earl to procure a licence to enable them to marry in the drawing
room--the permission was obtained, but neither Emily or himself, felt a wish to
utter their vows in any other spot than at the altar, and in the house of their
maker.
If there was a single
heart that felt the least emotion of regret or uneasiness, it was Lady Moseley,
who little relished the retirement of the cottage, on so joyful an
occasion--but Pendennyss silenced her objections, by good-humouredly replying--
“The Fates have been so
kind to me, in giving me castles and seats, you ought to allow me, my dear Lady
Moseley, the only opportunity, I shall probably ever have, of enjoying love in
a cottage.”
A few days, however,
removed the uneasiness of the good matron, who had the felicity, within the
week, of seeing her daughter initiated mistress of Annerdale-House.--
The morning of their
return to this noble mansion--the Earl presented himself in St. James’s square,
with the intelligence of their arrival, and smiling, as he bowed to Mrs.
Wilson, he continued--“And to escort you, dear Madam, to your new abode.”
Mrs. Wilson started
with surprise, and with a heart beating quick with emotion, required an
explanation of his words.
“Surely, dearest Mrs.
Wilson--more than aunt--my mother--you cannot mean, after having trained my
Emily through infancy to maturity in the paths of her duty--to desert her in
the moment of her greatest trial.--I am the pupil of your husband,” he
continued, taking her hands in his own with reverence and affection, “we are
the children of your joint care--and one home, as there is but one heart, must,
in future, contain us.”
Mrs. Wilson had wished
for, but hardly dared to expect this invitation--it was now urged from the
right quarter, and in a manner that was as sincere as it was gratifying--
unable to conceal her tears, the good widow pressed the hand of Pendennyss to
her lips, as she murmured out her thanks, and her acceptance--Sir Edward was
prepared also to lose his sister, as an inmate, but unwilling to relinquish the
pleasure of her society, he urged her making a common residence between the two
families.
“Pendennyss has spoken
truth, my dear brother” cried she, recovering her voice, “Emily is the child of
my care and my love --the two beings I love best in this world, are now
united--but,” she added, pressing Lady Moseley to her bosom, “my heart is large
enough for you all; you are of my blood, and my gratitude for your affection is
boundless--There shall be but one large family of us, and although our duties
may separate us for a time--we will, I trust, ever meet in tenderness and
love--but with George and Emily I will take up my abode.”
“I hope your house in
Northamptonshire is not to be vacant always,” said Lady Moseley to the Earl,
anxiously.
“I have no house there,
my dear Madam,” he replied; “when I thought myself about to succeed in my suit
before, I directed a lawyer at Bath, where Sir William Harris resided most of
his time, to endeavour to purchase the Deanery, whenever a good opportunity
offered;---in my discomfiture,” he added, smiling, “I forgot to countermand the
order, and he purchased it immediately on its being advertised;---for a short
time it was an incumbrance to me---but it is now applied to its original
purpose---It is the sole property of the Countess of Pendennyss, and I doubt
not you will see it often, and agreeably tenanted.”
This intelligence gave
great satisfaction to his friends, and the expected summer, restored to even
Jane, a gleam of her former pleasure.
If there be bliss in
this life, approaching in any degree to the happiness of the blessed, it is the
fruition of long and ardent love, where youth--innocence--piety--and family
concord, smile upon the union--and all these were united in the case of the
new-married pair;---buth appiness in this world cannot, or does not, in any
situation, exist without alloy --it would seem a wise and gracious ordering of
Providence, to draw our attention to scenes void of care, and free, alike, from
the infirmities and corruption of mortality.
The peace of mind and
fortitude of Emily, were fated to receive a blow, as unlooked for to herself,
as it was unexpected to the world. Buonaparte appeared in France, and Europe
became in motion.
From the moment the
Earl heard the intelligence--he saw his own course decided-- his regiment was
the pride of the army, and that it would be ordered to join the Duke, he did
not entertain a doubt.
Emily was therefore, in
some little measure, prepared for the blow--it is at such moments, as our acts
or events affecting us, become without our controul, that faith in the justice
and benevolence of God, is the most serviceable in a worldly point of view to
the Christian; when others spend their time in useless regrets---he is piously
resigned---it even so happens, that when others mourn, he can rejoice.
The sound of the bugle,
wildly winding its notes, broke on the stillness of the morning, in the little
village in which was situated the cottage tenanted by Sir Edward Moseley
---almost concealed by the shrubbery which surrounded its piazza, stood the
forms of the Countess of Pendennyss, and her sister Lady Marian, watching
eagerly the appearance of those, whose approach, was thus announced.
The carriage of the
ladies, with its idle attendants, were in waiting at a short distance, and the
pale face, but composed resignation of its mistress--indicated a struggle
between conflicting duties.
File, after file, of
heavy horse, passed them in all the pomp of military splendour, and the wistful
gaze of the two females had scanned them in vain for the well-known--
much-beloved countenance, of their leader-- at length a single horseman
approached them, riding deliberately and musing--their forms met his eye--and
in an instant, Emily was pressed to the bosom of her husband.
“It is the doom of a
soldier,” said the earl, dashing a tear from his eye; “I had hoped the peace of
the world would not again be assailed in years, and that ambition and jealousy
would yield a respite to our bloody profession; but, cheer up, my love--hope
for the best---your trust is not in the things of this life, and your happiness
is without the power of man.”
“Ah! Pendennyss---my
husband,” sobbed Emily, sinking on his bosom, “ take with you my prayers---my
love---every thing that can console you---every thing that may profit you---I
will not tell you to be careful of your life---your duty teaches you that---as
a soldier, expose it--as a husband, guard it--- and return to me as you leave
me---a lover --the dearest of men, and a christian.”
Unwilling to prolong
the pain of parting, the Earl gave his wife a last embrace, held Marian
affectionately to his bosom, and mounting his horse, was out of sight in an
instant.
Within a few days of
the departure of Pendennyss---Chatterton was surprised with the entrance of his
mother and Catherine. His reception of them, was that of a respectful child,
and his wife exerted herself to be kind to connexions she could not love, in
order to give pleasure to a husband she adored---their tale was soon
told---Lord and Lady Herriefield were separated; and the Dowager alive to the
dangers of a young woman in Catherine’s situation, and without a single
principle, on which to rest the assurance of her blameless conduct in future---
had brought her to England, in order to keep off disgrace, by residing with her
child herself.
There was nothing in
his wife to answer the expectations with which Lord Herriefield married--she
had beauty, but with that, he was already sated---her simplicity and
unsuspicious behaviour, which had, by having her attention drawn elsewhere, at
first charmed him, was succeeded by the knowing conduct, of a determined
follower of the fashions, and a decided woman of the world.
It had never struck the
Viscount, as impossible, that an artless and innocent girl would fall in love
with his faded and bilious face --but the moment Catherine betrayed the arts of
a manager, he saw at once the artifice that had been practised upon himself---
of course, he ceased to love her.
Men are flattered, for
a season, with the notice of a woman, that has been unsought, but it never
fails to injure her in the opinion of the other sex, in time---without a single
feeling in common, without a regard to any thing but self, in either husband or
wife, it could not but happen that a separation must follow, or their days be
spent in wrangling and misery.
Catherine willingly
left her husband--her husband more willingly got rid of her.
During all these
movements, the Dowager had a difficult game to play--it was unbecoming her to
encourage the strife, and it was against her wishes to suppress it--she
therefore moralized with the peer, and frowned upon her daughter.
The viscount listened
to her truisms, with the attention of a boy, who is told by a drunken father,
how wicked it is to love liquor, and heeded them about as much; while Kate,
mistress, at all events, of two thousand a year--minded her mother’s frowns as
little as she regarded her smiles--both were indifferent to her.
A few days after the
ladies left Lisbon, the Viscount proceeded to Italy, in company with the
repudiated wife of a British naval officer; and if Kate was not guilty, of an
offence of equal magnitude, it was more owing to her mother’s present
vigilance, than to her previous care.
The presence of Mrs.
Wilson was a great source of consolation to Emily in the absence of her
husband; and as their abode in town any longer was useless, the Countess
declining to be presented without the Earl, the whole family decided upon a
return into Northamptonshire.
The deanery had been
furnished by order of Pendennyss immediately on his marriage; and its mistress
hastened to take possession of her new dwelling. The amusement and occupation
of this movement ---the planning of little improvements-- her various duties
under her increased responsibilities, kept Emily from dwelling in her thoughts,
unduly upon the danger of her husband. She sought out amongst the first objects
of her bounty, the venerable peasant, whose loss had been formerly supplied by
Pendennyss on his first visit to B--, after the death of his father; there
might not have been the usual discrimination and temporal usefulness in her
charities in this instance which generally accompanied her benevolent acts; but
it was associated with the image of her husband, and it could excite no
surprise in Mrs. Wilson, although it did in Marian, to see her sister, driving
two or three times a week, to relieve the necessities of a man, who appeared
actually to be in want of nothing.
Sir Edward was again
amongst those he loved, and his hospitable board was once more surrounded with
the faces of his friends and neighbours. The good-natured Mr. Haughton was
always a welcome guest at the hall, and met, soon after their return, the
collected family of the baronet, at a dinner given by the latter to his
children, and one or two of his most intimate neighbours--
“My Lady Pendennyss,”
cried Mr. Haughton, in the course of the afternoon, “I have news from the Earl,
which I know it will do your heart good to hear.”
Emily smiled her
pleasure at the prospect of hearing, in any manner, favourably of her husband,
although she internally questioned the probability of Mr. Haughton’s knowing
any thing of his movements, which her daily letters did not apprise her of.
“Will you favour me
with the particulars of your intelligence, sir?” said the Countess.
“He has arrived safe
with his regiment near Brussels; I heard it from a neighbour’s son who saw him
in that city, enter the house occupied by Wellington, while he was standing in
the crowd without, waiting to get a peep at the duke.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Wilson
with a laugh, “Emily knew that ten days ago; could your friend tell us any
thing of Bonaparte, we are much interested in his movements just now.”
Mr. Haughton, a good
deal mortified to find his news stale, mused a moment as if in doubt to proceed
or not; but liking of all things to act the part of a newspaper, he continued--
“Nothing more than you
see in the prints; but I suppose your ladyship has heard about Captain Jarvis
too?”
“Why, no,” said Emily
laughing, “the movements of Captain Jarvis are not quite as interesting to me,
as those of Lord Pendennyss--has the duke made him an aid-decamp?”
“Oh! no,” cried the
other exculting in his success in having something new, “as soon as he heard of
the return of Boney,--he threw up his commission and got married.”
“Married!” cried John, “not
to Miss Harris, surely.”
“No, to a silly girl he
met in Cornwall, who was fool enough to be caught with his gold lace. He
married one day, and the next, told his disconsolate wife, and panicstruck
mother, the honour of the Jarvis’s must sleep, until the supporters of the name
became sufficiently numerous to risk losing them, in the field of battle.
“And how did Mrs.
Jarvis and Sir Timo’s lady relish the news?” inquired John, expecting something
ridiculous.
“Not at all,” rejoined
Mr. Haughton; “the former sobbed, and said, she had only married him for his
bravery and red coat, and the lady exclaimed against the destruction of his
budding honours.”
“How did it terminate?”
asked Mrs. Wilson.
“Why, it seems while
they were quarrelling about it, the war office cut the matter short by
accepting his resignation. I suppose the commander in chief had learnt his
character; but the matter was warmly contested--they even drove the captain to
declare his principles.”
“And what kind of ones
might they have been, Haughton?” said Sir Edward dryly.
“Republican.”
“Republican!” exclaimed
two or three in surprise.
“Yes, liberty and
equality, he contended, were his idols, and he could not find it in his heart
to fight against Bonaparte.”
“A somewhat singular
conclusion,” said Mr. Benfield musing. “I remember when I sat in the house,
there was a party who were fond of the cry of this said liberty; but when they
got the power, they did not seem to me to suffer people to go more at large
than they went before--but I suppose they were diffident of telling the world
their minds, after they were put in such responsible stations-- for fear of the
effect of example.”
“Most people like
liberty as servants, but not as masters, uncle,” cried John, with a sneer.
“Capt. Jarvis, it
seems, liked it as a preserver against danger,” continued Mr. Haughton; “to
avoid ridicule in his new neighbourhood, he has consented to his father’s
wishes, and turned merchant in the city again.”
“Where I sincerely hope
he will remain,” cried John, who since the accident of the arbour, could not
tolerate the unfortunate youth.
“Amen!” said Emily, in
an under tone, heard only by her smiling brother.
“But Sir Timo---what
has become of Sir Timo---the good, honest merchant?” asked John.
“He has dropt the
title, insists on being called plain Mr. Jarvis, and lives entirely in
Cornwall. His hopeful son-in-law, has gone with his regiment to Flanders, and
Lady Egerton, being unable to live without her father’s assistance, is obliged
to hide her consequence in the west also.”
The subject became now
disagreeable to Lady Moseley, and it was changed. The misfortune of such
conversations, which unavoidably occurred, was, that it made Jane more reserved
aud dissatisfied than ever. She had no one respectable excuse to offer for her
partiality to her former lover, and when her conscience told her of this
mortifying fact, her jealousy was apt to think others remembered it too.
The letters from the
continent, now teemed with the preparations for the approaching contest, and
the apprehensions of our heroine and her friends to increase, in proportion to
the nearness of the struggle, on which hung not only the fate of thousands of
individuals, but of adverse princes, and mighty empires. In this confusion of
interests, and jarring of passions---there were offered prayers almost hourly,
for the safety of Pendennyss, which were as pure and ardent, as the love which
prompted them.
Napoleon had commenced
those daring and rapid movements, which for a time threw the peace of the world
into the scale of fortune, and which nothing but the interposition of a ruling
providence could avert from their threatened success; as the --the Dragoons
wheeled into a field already deluged with English blood, on the heights of
Quartre Bras. The eye of its gallant Colonel saw a friendly battalion falling
beneath the sabres of the enemy’s Cuirassiers. The word was passed--the column
opens--the sounds of the quivering bugle were heard for a moment, over the roar
of the cannon and the shouts of the combatants; the charge sweeping, like a
whirlwind--fell heavy on those treacherous Frenchmen, who to day had sworn
fidelity to Louis, and to-morrow intended lifting their hands in allegiance to
his rival.
“Spare my life in
merey,” cried an officer, already dreadfully wounded, who stood shrinking from
the impending blow of an enraged Frenchman.--An English dragoon dashed at the
Cuirassier, and with one blow severed his arm from his body--
“Thank God,” sighed the
wounded officer, as he sunk beneath the horse’s feet.
His rescuer threw
himself from the saddle to his assistance, and raising the fallen man, inquired
into his wounds--It was Pendennyss--it was Egerton. The wounded man groaned
aloud, as he saw the face of him who had averted the fatal blow--but it was not
the hour for explanations or confessions, other than those with which the dying
soldiers endeavoured to make their tardy peace with their God.
Sir Henry was given in
charge to two slightly wounded British soldiers, and the Earl remounted--the
scattered troops were rallied at the sound of the trumpet--and again and
again--led by their dauntless Colonel, were seen in the thickest of the fray,
with sabres drenched in blood, and voices hoarse with the shouts of victory.
The period between the
battles of Quartre Bras and Waterloo, was a trying one to the discipline and
courage of the British army. The discomfited Prussians on their flank, had been
routed and compelled to retire, and in their front was an enemy, brave,
skilful, and victorious--led by the greatest Captain of the age. The prudent
commander of the English forces fell back with dignity and reluctance to the
field of Waterloo; here the mighty struggle was to terminate, and the eye of
every experienced soldier, looked on those eminences, as the future graves for thousands.
During this solemn
interval of comparative inactivity, the mind of Pendenny ss dwelt on the
affection, the innocence, the beauty and worth of his Emily, until the curdling
blood, as he thought on her lot, should his life be the purchase of the coming
victory, warned him to quit the gloomy subject, for the consolations of that
religion which could only yield him the solace his wounded feelings required.
In his former campaigns, the Earl had been sensible of the mighty changes of
death, and had ever kept in view the preparations necessary to meet it with
hope and joy; but the world clung around him now, in the best affections of his
nature--and it was only as he could picture the happy reunion with his Emily in
a future life, he could look on a separation in this, without despair.
The vicinity of the
enemy admitted of no relaxation in the strictest watchfulness in the British
lines, and the comfortless night of the seventeenth, was passed by the Earl,
and his Lieutenant Colonel, George Denbigh, on the same cloak, and under the
open canopy of Heaven.
As the opening cannon
of the enemy gave the signal for the commencing conflict, Pendennyss mounted
his charger with a last thought on his distant wife; with a mighty struggle he
tore her as it were from his bosom, and gave the remainder of the day to his
country and duty.
Who has not heard of
the events of that fearful hour, on which the fate of Europe hung as it were
suspended in a scale? On one side supported by the efforts of desperate
resolution, guided by the most consummate art; and on the other defended, by a
discipline and enduring courage, almost without a parallel.
The indefatigable
Blucher arrived, and the star of Napoleon sunk.
Pendennyss threw
himself from his horse, on the night of the eighteenth of June, as he gave way
by orders, in the pursuit, to the fresher battalions of the Prussians--with the
languor that follows unusual excitement, and mental thanksgivings that his
bloody work was at length ended. The image of his Emily again broke over the
sterner feelings engendered by the battle, as the first glimmerings of light,
which succeed the awful darkness of the eclipse of the sun; and he again
breathed freely, in the consciousness of the happiness which would await his
now speedy return.
“I am sent for the
Colonel of the--th Dragoons,” said a courier in broken English to a soldier,
near where the Earl lay on the ground, waiting the preparations of his
attendants--“have I found the right regiment, my friend?”
“To be sure you have,”
answered the man, without looking up from his toil on his favourite animal, “you
might have tracked us by the dead Frenchmen, I should think. So you want my
Lord, my lad, do you? do we move again to-night?” suspending his labour for a
moment in expectation of a reply.
“Not to my knowledge,”
rejoined the courier, “my message is to your Colonel, from a dying man; will
you point out his station?” the soldier complied, and the message was soon
delivered, and Pendennyss prepared to obey its summons immediately. Preceded by
the messenger as a guide, and followed by Harmer, the Earl retraced his steps,
over that ground he had but a few hours before been engaged on, in the deadly
strife of man to man, hand to hand.
How different is the
contemplation of a field of battle, during and after the conflict. The
excitement--suspended success--shouts, uproar, and confusion of the former,
prevent any contemplation of the nicer parts, of this confused mass of
movements, charges and retreats; or if a brilliant advance is made, a masterly
retreat effected, the imagination is chained by the splendour and glory of the
act, without resting for a moment, on the sacrifice of individual happiness
with which it is purchased. A battle ground from which the whir wind of the
combat has passed, presents a different sight--it offers the very consummation
of human misery.
There may be
occasionally an individual, who from station, distempered mind, or the
encouragement of chimerical ideas of glory, quits the theatre of life with at
least the appearance of pleasure in his triumphs; if such there be in reality,
if this rapture of departing glory be any thing more than the deception of a
distempered excitement, the subject of its exhibition, is to be greatly pitied.
To the Christian, dying
in peace with both God and man, can it alone be ceded in the eye of reason, to
pour out his existence, with a smile on his quivering lip.
And the warrior, who
falls in the very arms of victory, after passing a life devoted to the world;
even if he sees kingdoms hang suspended on his success, may smile indeed-- may
utter sentiments full of loyalty and zeal-- may be the admiration of the
world--and what is his reward? a deathless name, and an existence of misery, which
knows no termination.
Christianity alone can
make us good soldiers in any cause, for he who knows how to live, is always the
least afraid to die.
Pendennyss and his
companions pushed their way over the ground occupied before the battle by the
enemy, descended into, and through that little valley, in which yet lay in
undistinguished confusion, masses of dead and the dying of either side; and
again over the ridge, on which could be marked the situation of those gallant
Squares, which had so long resisted the efforts of the horse and artillery, by
the groups of bodies, fallen where they had bravely stood, until even the
callous Harmer, sickened with the sight of a waste of life, he had but a few
hours before exultingly contributed to increase.
Appeals to their
feelings as they rode through the field had been frequent, and their progress
much retarded, by their attempts to contribute to the ease of a wounded or a
dying man: but as the courier constantly urged their speed, as the only means
of securing the object of their ride, these halts were reluctantly abandoned.
It was ten o’clock
before they reached the farm house, where lay in the midst of hundreds of his
countrymen, the former lover of Jane.
As the subject of his
confession must be anticipated by the reader, we will give a short relation of
his life, and those acts which more materially affect our history.
Henry Egerton had been
turned early on the world, like hundreds of his countrymen, without any
principle, to counteract the arts of infidelity, or resist the temptations of
life. His father held a situation under government, and was devoted to his rise
in the diplomatic line. His mother, a woman of fashion, who lived for effect,
and idle competition with her sisters in weakness and folly. All he learnt in
his father’s house, was selfishness, from the example of one, and a love of
high life and its extravagance, from the other, of his parents.
He entered the army
young---from choice. The splendour and reputation of the service, caught his
fancy; and he was, by pride and constitution, indifferent to personal danger.
Yet he loved London and its amusements better than glory; and the money of his
uncle, Sir Edgar, whose heir he was reputed to be, had raised him to the rank
of Lieutenant Colonel, without his spending an hour in the field.
Egerton had some
abilities, and a good deal of ardour of temperament, by nature. The former from
indulgence and example, degenerated into the acquiring the art to please in
mixed society; and the latter, from want of employment, expended itself at the
card table. The very irritability of genius, is dangerous to an idle man. It
prompts to mischief, if it be not employed in good.
The association between
the vices is intimate. There really appears to be a kind of modesty in sin,
that makes it ashamed of good company. If we are unable to reconcile a
favourite propensity to our principles, we are apt to abandon the unpleasant
restraint on our actions, rather than admit the incongruous mixture--freed
entirely from the fetters of our morals, what is there our vices will not
prompt us to commit? Egerton, like thousands of others, went on from step to
step in the abandonment of virtue, until he found himself in the world, free to
follow all his inclinations, so he violated none of the decencies of life--and
this consisted in detection--what was hid did no harm.
When in Spain, on
service in his only campaign, he was accidentally, as has been mentioned,
thrown in the way of the Donna Julia, and brought her off the ground, under the
influence of natural sympathy and national feeling--a kind of merit that makes
vice only more dangerous, by making it sometimes amiable. He had not seen his
dependant long, before her beauty, situation, and his passions, decided him to
effect her ruin.
This was an occupation,
his figure, manners and propensities had made him an adept in, and nothing was
farther from his thoughts than the commission of any other, than the crime a
gentleman might be guilty of (in his opinion) with impunity.
It is however the
misfortune of sin, that from being our slave it becomes a tyrant, and Egerton
attempted what in other countries, and where the laws ruled, might have cost
him his life.
The conjecture of
Pendennyss was true-- he saw the face of the officer who had interposed,
between him and his villanous attempt, but was hid himself from view--he aimed
not at his life, but his own escape; happily his first shot succeeded, for the
Earl would have been sacrificed, to preserve the character of a man of honour;
though no one was more regardless of the estimation he was held in by the
virtuous than Colonel Egerton.
In pursuance of his
plans on Mrs. Fitzgerald, the Colonel had sedulously avoided admitting any of
his companions, into the secret of his having a female in his care.
When he left the army
to return home, he remained until a movement of the troops to a distant part of
the country, enabled him to effect his own purposes, without incurring their
ridicule; and when he found himself obliged to abandon his vehicle, for a
refuge in the woods, the fear of detection made him alter his course, and under
the pretence of wishing to be in a battle about to be fought, he secretly
rejoined the army, and the gallantry of Colonel Egerton was mentioned in the
next despatches.
Sir Herbert Nicholson
commanded the advanced guard, at which the Earl arrived with the Donna Julia,
and like every other brave man (unless guilty himself) was indignant at the
villany of the fugitive. The times, confusion and enormities, daily practiced in
the theatre of the war, prevented any close inquiries into the subject, and
circumstances had so enveloped Egerton in mystery, that nothing but an
interview with the lady herself was likely to expose him.
With Sir Herbert
Nicholson he had been in habits of intimacy, and on that gentleman’s alluding
in a conversation in the barracks at F--to the lady, brought into his quarters
before Lishon, he accidentally omitted mentioning the name of her rescuer.
Egerton had never before heard the transaction spoken of, and as he had of
course never mentioned the subject himself, was ignorant of who interfered
between him and his views, also of the fate of Donna Julia; indeed, he thought
it probable that it had not much improved by a change of guardians.
In his object in coming
into Northamptonshire he had several views; he wanted a temporary retreat from
his creditors. Jarvis had an infant fondness for play, without an adequate
skill, and the money of the young ladies, in his necessities, was becoming of
importance; but the daughters of Sir Edward Moseley were of a description more
suited to his taste, and their portions were as ample as the others: he had
become in some degree attached to Jane, and as her imprudent parents, satisfied
with his possessing the exterior and requisite recommendations of a gentleman,
admitted his visits freely, he determined to make her his wife.
When he met Denbigh the
first time, he saw chance had thrown him in the way of a man who might hold his
character in his power; he had never seen Pendennyss, and it will be
remembered, was ignorant of the name of Julia’s friend; he now learnt, for the
first time, that it was Denbigh: uneasy at he knew not what, fearful of some
exposure, he knew not how, when Sir Herbert alluded to the occurrence--with a
view to rebut the charge, if Denbigh should choose to make one; with the near
sightedness of guilt. he pretended to know the occurrence, and under the
promise of secrecy, mentioned that the name of the officer was Denbigh; he had
noticed Denbigh, avoiding Sir Herbert at the ball, and judging others from
himself, thought it was a wish to avoid any allusions to the lady he had
brought into the others quarters that induced the measure; he was in hopes that
if Denbigh was not as guilty as himself, he was sufficiently so, to wish to
keep the transaction from the eyes of Emily: he was however prepared for an
explosion or an alliance with him, when the sudden departure of Sir Herbert
removed the danger of a collision--believing at last they were to be brothers-in
law, and mistaking the Earl for his cousin, whose name he bore, Egerton became
reconciled to the association; while Pendennyss having in his absence heard on
inquiring some of the vices of the Colonel, was debating with himself, whether
he should expose them to Sir Edward or not.
It was in their
occasional interchange of civilities that Pendennyss placed his pocket-book
upon a table, while he exhibited the plants to the Colonel; the figure of Emily
passing the window, drew him from the room, and Egerton having ended his
examination, observing the book, put it in his own pocket, to return it to its
owner when they next met.
The situation; name and
history of Mrs. Fitzgerald were never mentioned by the Moseleys in public; but
Jane, in the confidence of her affections, had told her lover who the inmate of
the cottage was; the idea of her being kept there by Denbigh, immediately
occurred to him, and although he was surprised at the audacity of the thing, he
was determined to profit by the occasion.
To pay this visit, he
staid away from the excursion on the water, as Pendennyss did to avoid his
friend, Lord Henry Stapleton. An excuse of business which served for his
apology, kept the Colonel from seeing Denbigh to return the book, until after
his visit to the Cottage--his rhapsody of love, and offers to desert his
intended wife, were nothing but the common place talk of his purposes; and his
presumption in alluding to his situation with Miss Moseley, proceeded from his
impressions as to Julia’s real character; in this struggle for the bell, the
pocket book of Denbigh accidentally fell from his coat--and the retreat of the
Colonel was too precipitate to enable him to recover it.
Mrs. Fitzgerald was too
much alarmed to distinguish nicely, and Egerton proceeded to the ball room with
the indifference of a hardened offender. When the arrival of Miss Jarvis, to
whom he had committed himself, prompted him to a speedy declaration, and the
unlucky conversation of Mr. Holt brought about a probable detection of his gaming
propensities, the Colonel determined to get rid of his awkward situation and
his debts, by a coup-de-main--he eloped with Miss Jarvis.
What portion of the
foregoing narrative made the dying confession of Egerton to the man he had
lately discovered to be the Earl of Pendennyss, the reader can easily imagine.
The harvest had been
gathered, and the beautiful vales of Pendennyss, were shooting forth a second
crop of verdure. The husbandman was turning his prudent forethought to the
promises of the coming year, while the castle itself exhibited to the gaze of
the wondering peasant, a sight of cheerfulness and animation, which had not
been seen in it since the days of the good duke. Its numerous windows were
opened to the light of the sun--its halls teemed with the happy faces of its
inmates. Servants, in various liveries, were seen gliding through its
magnificent apartments, and multiplied passages. Horses, grooms, and carriages,
with varied costume and different armorial bearings, crowded its spacious
stables and offices.-- Every thing spoke--society--splendour-- and activity
without. Every thing denoted order--propriety--and happiness within.
In a long range of
spacious apartments, were grouped in the pursuit of their morning employments,
or in arranging their duties and pleasures of the day, the guests and owners of
the princely abode.
In one room was John
Moseley, carefully examining the properties of some flints, submitted to his
examination by his attending servant; while Grace, setting by his side,
playfully snatches the stones from his hand, as she cries half
reproachfully--half tenderly--
“You must not devote
yourself to your gun so incessantly, Moseley; it is cruel to kill inoffensive
birds for your amusement only.”
“Ask Emily’s cook, and
Mr. Haughton’s appetite,” said John, cooly, extending his hand towards her for
the flint---“whether no one is gratified but myself. I tell you, Grace, I
seldom fire in vain.”
“That only makes the
matter worse---the slaughter you commit is dreadful,” rejoined his wife, still
refusing to return her prize.
“Oh!” cried John, with
a laugh, “the ci-devant Captain Jarvis is a sportsman to your mind. He would
shoot a month without moving a feather---he was a great friend to,” he
continued, throwing an arch look to his solitary sister, who sat on a sopha at
a distance perusing a book, “Jane’s feathered songsters.”
“But now, Moseley,”
said Grace, yielding the flints, but gently retaining the hand that took them; “
Pendennyss and Chatterton intend driving their wives, like good husbands, to
see the beautiful water-fall in the mountains; and what am I to do this long
tedious morning?”
John stole an inquiring
glance, to see if his wife was very anxious to join the party---cast one look
of regret on a beautiful agate he had selected, and inquired:---
“You don’t wish to ride
very much, Mrs. Moseley?”
“Indeed---indeed, I do,”
said the other eagerly, “if”---
“If what?”
“You will drive me?”
continued she, with a cheek slightly tinged with an unusual vermilion.
“Well them,” answered
John, with deliberation, and regarding his wife with great affection, “I will
go---on one condition.”
“Name it?” cried Grace,
with still increasing colour, from the glow of hope.
“That you will not
expose your health again, in going to the church on a Sunday, if it rains.”
“The carriage is so
close, Moseley,” answered Grace, with a paler cheek than before, and eyes fixed
on the carpet, “it is impossible I can take cold---you see the Earl, and
Countess, and aunt Wilson, never miss public worship, when possibly within
their power.”
“The Earl goes with his
wife; but what becomes of poor me at such times,” said John, taking her hand,
and pressing it kindly. “I like to hear a good sermon---but not in bad weather.
You must consent to oblige me, who only live in your presence.”
Grace smiled faintly,
as John, pursuing the point, said---“But what do you say to my condition?”
“Well, then, if you
wish,” replied Grace, without the look of gaiety, her hopes had first inspired:
“I will not go if it rains.”
John ordered his
phaeton, and his wife went to her room to prepare for the ride, and regret her
own resolution.
In the recess of a
window, in which bloomed a profusion of exotics, stood the figure of Lady
Marian Denbigh, playing with a half blown rose of the richest colours; and
before her stood leaning against the angle of the wall, her kinsman, the Duke
of Derwent.
“You heard the plan at
the breakfast table,” said his Grace,---“to visit the little falls in the
hills. But I suppose you have seen them too often to undergo the fatigue for
the pleasure?”
“Oh no?” rejoined the
lady with a smile, “I love that ride dearly, and should wish to accompany the
Countess in her first visit to it. I had half a mind to ask George to take me
in his phæton with them.”
“My curricle would be
honoured with the presence of Lady Marian Denbigh,” cried the Duke with
animation, “if she would accept me for her Knight on the occasion.”
Marian bowed her
assent, in evident satisfaction to the arrangement, as the Duke proceeded---
“But if you take me as
your Knight, I should wear your ladyship’s colours;” and he held out his hand
towards the budding rose. Lady Marian hesitated a moment---looked out at the
prospect---up at the wall--- turned, and wondered where her brother was; and
still finding the hand of the Duke extended, as his eye rested on her in
admiration.---She gave him the boon, with a cheek that vied with the richest
tints of the flower. They separated to prepare, and it was on their return from
the ride, the Duke seemed uncommonly gay and amusing, and the lady silent with
her tongue, though her eyes danced in every direction, but towards her cousin.
“Really, my dear Lady
Moseley,” said the Dowager, as seated by the side of her companion, her eyes
roved over the magnificence within, and widely extended domains without--“Emily
is well established, indeed--- better even, than my Grace.”
“Grace has an
affectionate husband,” replied the other, gravely, “and one that I hope will
make her happy.”
“Oh! no doubt happy?”
said Lady Chatterton, hastily: “but they say Emily has a jointure of twelve
thousand a year--by-the-bye,” she added, in a low tone, though no one was near
enough to hear what she said, “could not the Earl have settled Lumley Castle on
her, instead of the deanery?”
“Upon my word I never
think of such gloomy subjects, as provisions for widow-hood,” cried Lady
Moseley--but, with a brightening look, “you have been in Annerdale-House--is it
not a princely mausion?”
“Princely, indeed,”
rejoined the Dowager with a sigh: “don’t the Earl intend increasing the rents
of this estate, as the leases fall in--I am told they are very low now?”
“I believe not,” said
the other. “He has enough, and is willing others should prosper --but there is
Clara, with her little boy--is he not a lovely child,” cried the grandmother
with a look of delight, as she rose to take the infant in her arms.
“Oh! excessively
beautiful!” said the Dowager, looking the other way, and observing Catherine
making a movement towards Lord Henry Stapleton--she called to her. “Lady
Herriefield--come this way, my dear --I wish you here.”
Kate obeyed with a
sullen pout of her pretty lip, and entered into some idle discussion about a
cap, though her eyes wandered round the rooms in listless vacancy.
The Dowager had the
curse of bad impressions in youth to contend with, and laboured infinitely
harder now to make her daughter act right, than formerly she had ever done to
make her act wrong.
“Here! uncle Benfield,”
cried Emily, with a face glowing with health and animation, as she approached
his seat with a glass in her hands. “Here is the negus you wished; I have made
it myself, and you must praise it of course.”
“Oh! my dear Lady
Pendennyss,” said the old gentleman, rising politely from his seat to receive
his beverage; “you are putting yourself to a great deal of trouble for an old
bachelor, like me---too much indeed--- too much.”
“Old bachelors are
sometimes more esteemed than young ones,” cried the Earl gaily, as he joined
them in time to hear this speech to his wife. “Here is my friend, Mr. Peter
Johnson, who knows when we may dance at his wedding.”
“My Lord---and my Lady--and
my honoured master,” said Peter gravely in reply, and bowing respectfully where
he stood, with a salver to take his master’s glass--“I am past the age to think
of a wife; I am seventy-three, come next lammas--counting by the old style.”
“What do you intend to
do with your three hundred a year,” said Emily with a smile, “unless you bestow
it on some good woman, for making the evening of your life comfortable?”
“My Lady--hem--my Lady,”
said the steward, blushing; “I had a little thought, with your kind ladyship’s
consent, as I have no relations, chick or child, in the world, what to do with
it.”
“I should be happy to
hear your plan,” said the Countess, observing the steward anxious to
communicate something.
“Why, my Lady, if my
Lord and my honoured master’s agreeable, I did think of putting another codicil
to master’s will in order to dispose of it.”
“Your master’s will,”
said the Earl laughing; “why not your own, my good Peter?”
“My honoured Lord,”
said the steward, with great humility, “it don’t become a poor serving man like
me to make a will.”
“But how will you prove
it,” said the Earl kindly, willing to convince him of his error; “you must be
both dead to prove it.”
“Our wills,” said
Peter, gulping his words, “will be proved on the same day.” His master looked
round at him with great affection, and both the Earl and Emily were too much
struck with his attachment to say any thing. Peter had, however, the subject
too much at heart to abandon it, just as he had broke the ice. He anxiously
wished the Countess’s consent to the scheme, for he would not affront her even
after he was dead.
“My Lady--Miss Emmy,”
said Johnson, eagerly, “my plan is---if my honoured master’s agreeable---to
make a codicil---and give my mite to a little---Lady Emily Denbigh.”
“Oh! Peter, you and
uncle Benfield are both too good,” cried Emily, laughing and blushing, as she
hastened to Clara and her mother.
“Thank you--thank you,”
cried the delighted Earl, following his wife with his eyes, and shaking the
steward cordially by the hand--“and if no better expedient be adopted by us,
you have full permission to do as you please with your money”---and the husband
joined some of his other guests.
“Peter,” said his
master to him, in a low tone, “you should never speak of such things
prematurely--now I remember when the Earl of Pendennyss, my nephew, was first
presented to me, I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of his demeanour--
and the Lady Pendennyss, my niece too--- you never see any thing forward
or--Ah! Emmy, dear,” said the old man tenderly, interupting himself, “you are
too good--to remember your old uncle,” taking one of the fine peaches she
handed him from a plate---the Countess handed the steward one also, though with
an averted face, and expression of archness and shame.
“My Lord,” said Mr.
Haughton to the Earl, “Mrs. Ives and myself, have had a contest about the
comforts of matrimony--- she insists she may be quite as happy at Bolton
Parsonage, as in this noble castle, and with this rich prospect in view.”
“I hope,” said Francis,
“you are not teaching my wife to be discontented with her humble lot--if so,
both, her’s and your visit will be an unhappy one.”
“It would be no easy
task, if our good friend intended any such thing, by his jests,” said Clara,
smiling; “I know my true interests, I trust, too well, to wish to change my
fortune.”
“You are right,” said
Pendennyss; “it is wonderful how little our happiness depends on our temporal
condition---when here, or at Lumley Castle, surrounded by my tenantry, there
are, I confess, moments of weakness, in which the loss of my wealth or rank,
would be missed greatly---but when on service---subjected to great privations,
and surrounded by men superior to me in military rank, and who say unto me--go,
and I go---come, and I come---I find my enjoyments intrinsically the same.”
“That,” said Francis, “may
be owing to your Lordship’s tempered feelings---which have taught you to look
beyond this world for your pleasures and consolation.”
“It has doubtless an
effect,” said the Earl, “but there is no truth I am more fully persuaded of,
than, that our happiness here, does not depend upon our lot in life, so we are
not suffering for necessaries---even changes bring less real misery than they
are supposed to.”
“Doubtless;” cried Mr.
Haughton, “under the circumstances, I would not wish to change, even with your
Lordship, unless, indeed,” he continued, with a smile, and bow to the Countess,
“it were the temptation of your lovely wife.”
“You are quite polite,”
said Emily, laughing, “but I have no desire to deprive Mrs. Haughton of a
companion she has made out so well with these twenty years past.”
“Thirty, my Lady, if
you please.”
“And thirty more, I
hope,” continued Emily, as a servant announced the several carriages at the
door. The younger part of the company now hastened to their different
engagements, and Chatterton handed Harriet; John, Grace; and Pendennyss, Emily,
into their respective carriages; the Duke and Lady Marian following, but at
some little distance from the rest of the party.
As the Earl drove from
the door, the Countess looked up to a window, at which were standing her aunt
and Doctor Ives; and kissed her hand to them, with a face, in which glowed the
mingled expressions of innocence--love and joy.
Before leaving the
Park, the party passed Sir Edward, with his wife leaning on one arm and Jane on
the other--pursuing their daily walk--The Baronet followed the carriages with
his eyes, and exchanged looks of the fondest love with his children, as they
drove slowly and respectfully by him, and if the glance which followed on Jane,
did not speak equal pleasure--it surely denoted its proper proportion of
paternal love.
“You have much reason
to congratulate yourself, on the happy termination of your labours,” said the
Doctor, with a smile, to the widow; “Emily is placed, so far as human foresight
can judge, in the happiest of all stations a female can be in--the pious wife
of a pious husband--beloved, and deserving of it.”
“Yes,” said Mrs.
Wilson, drawing back from following the phaeton with her eyes, “they are as
happy as this world will admit of, and, what is better, they are well prepared
to meet any reverse of fortune which may occur--and discharge the duties they
have entered on;--I do not think,” continued she musing,“that Pendennyss can
ever doubt the affections of such a woman as Emily.”
“I should think not,”
said the Doctor, with a smile, “but what can excite such a thought in your
breast, and one so much to the prejudice of George?”
“The only unpleasant
thing, I have ever observed in him,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, “is the
suspicion which induced him to adopt the disguise he entered our family with.”
“He did not adopt it,
Madam--chance, and circumstances drew it around him accidentally--and when you
consider the peculiar state of his mind from the discovery of his mother’s
misconduct--his own great wealth and rank--it is not surprising he should yield
to a deception, rather harmless than injurious.”
“Dr. Ives,” said Mrs.
Wilson, “is not wont to defend deceit.”
“Nor do I now, Madam,”
replied the Doctor, with a smile, “I acknowledge the offence of George--myself,
wife, and son-- I remonstrated at the time upon principle-- I said the end
would not justify the means-- that a departure from ordinary rules of
propriety, was at all times dangerous, and seldom practised with impunity.”
“And you failed to
convince your hearers,” cried Mrs. Wilson, gayly;“a novelty in your case, my
good rector.”
“I thank you for your
compliment,” said the Doctor, “I did convince them as to the truth of the
principle, but the Earl contended his case might make an innocent exception--he
had the vanity to think, I believe, that by concealing his real name, he
injured himself more than any one else, and got rid of the charge in some such
way--he is, however, thoroughly convinced of the truth of the position by
practice--his sufferings, growing out of the mistake of his real character, and
which could not have happened had he appeared in proper person-- were greater
than he is free to acknowledge.”
“If they study the fate
of the Donna Julia, and his own weakness,” said the widow, “they will have a
salutary moral always at hand, to teach them the importance of two cardinal
virtues at least--obedience and truth.”
“Julia has suffered
much,” replied the Doctor, “and although she has returned to her father, the
consequences of her imprudence are likely to continue--when once the bonds of
mutual confidence and respect are broken--they may be partially restored it is
true; but never with a warmth and reliance, such as existed previously--to
return, however, to yourself--do you not feel a sensation of delight at the
prosperous end of your exertions in behalf of Emily?”
“It is certainly
pleasant to think we have discharged our duties--and the task is much easier
than we are apt to suppose,” said Mrs. Wilson; “it is only to commence the
foundation, so that it will be able to support the superstructure--I have
endeavoured to make Emily a christian--I have endeavoured to form such a taste,
and principles in her--that she would not be apt to admire an improper
suitor--and I have laboured to prepare her to discharge her continued duties
through life, in such a manner and with such a faith, as will, under the
providence of God, result in happiness far exceeding any thing she now
enjoys--in all these, by the blessings of Heaven, I have succeeded--and had
occasion offered, I would have assisted her inexperience through the more
delicate decisions of her sex-- though in no instance would I attempt to
control them.”
“You are right, my dear
madam,” said the Doctor, taking her kindly by the hand, “and had I a daughter,
I would follow a similar course--give her delicacy--religion, and a proper
taste, aided by the unseen influence of a prudent parent’s care--the chances of
women for happiness would be much greater than they are--and I am entirely of
your opinion--“That prevention is at all times better than cure.”
The publisher regrets,
that, owing to a great distance intervening between him and the author, many
errors have crept into the edition-- a short errata is given--but there are
errors in expression and grammar which it is thought the intelligence of most
readers will be able to detect of themselves--such as “is” for “are,” “was” for
“were,” &c.
43. l. 5, for “thanksgiving”
read “thanksgivings.”
44. l. 22, for “a look”
read “looks.”
70. l. 31, for “every”
read “any.”
81. l. 1, omit “own.”
119. l. 22, for “is”
read “are;” for “its” read “theirs.”
160. l. 13, for “his
symmetry,” &c. read “his sympathy had lent his manner the only,” &c.
161. l. 28, for “their”
read “those.”
162. l. 32, for “his
generous” read “her generous.”
167. l. 23, for “petition”
read “partition.”
175. l. 8, for “their”
read “his.”
179. l. 31, for “in
well” read “in a well.”
187. l. 5, for “a
Jarvis” read “Jarvis.”
189. l. 10, omit the
first “a.”
190. l. 13, put “it”
after “of.”
191. l. 7, omit “have
been.”
192. l. 26, for “Sir”
read “Sis--”
194. l. 23, for “basely”
read “bravely.”
196. l. 28, for “tear”
read “tears.”
199. l. 21, a period at
with; and a comma at fever, in the 23d line.
202. l. 7, for “on”
read “of;” line 8, a colon at preserver: and a comma at ever, in the 11th
line--l. 31, for “those” read “these.”
207. l. 14, for “mind”
read “niece.”
210. l. 3, for “natural”
read “nature’s.”
212. l. 22, a dash
after “one”--
214. l. 19, for “owing
to” read “seeing.”
216. l. 16, read “but
impressions.”
221. last line, omit “Mr.”
223. l. 17, omit “good.”
228. l. 8, for “it”
read “hers;” next line, omit “then.”
230. l. 4, for “as”
read “when;” last line, read “morning” for “evening.”
235. l. 30, for “his
family” read “it.”
241. l. 11, for “as”
read “or.”
245. l. 30, for “Gentleman”
read “Gentlemen.”
246. l. 11, for “strode”
read “stood.”
247. l. 13, omit “a;”
line 14, read “conversations;” l. 23, read “a kind.”
256. l. 22, for “evidences”
read “evidence”--for “thought” read “reflection.”
268. l. 2, for “tenacious”
read “fastidious.”
282. l. 21, read “morning”
after “following.”