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

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

“And who is the Mr. Jarvis that is about
to become so near a neighbour to us?” asked
Sir Edward Moseley of his son.

“Why, Sir, I learn he has been a capital
merchant, that has retired from business
with a large fortune; that he has, like yourself,
sir, an only hope for his declining years
in his son, who is an officer in the army;
and, moreover, that he has a couple of fine
daughters; so, sir, he is a man of family,
you see. But,” dropping his voice, “whether

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he is a man of family in your sense, Jane,”
looking at his second sister, “is more than
I could discover.”

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

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

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

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

“And Mr. Jarvis has the great goodness
of money, by John's account,” dryly observed
Mrs. Wilson, a sister of Sir Edward's.

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“Let me tell you, madam,” cried the rector
of the parish, looking around him pleasantly,
“that a great deal of money is a very
good thing in itself, and that a great many
very good things may be done with it.”

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

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

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

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

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

The remainder of the day was passed in
that uninterrupted flow of pleasant

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

Sir Edward Moseley was descended from
one of the most respectable of the creations
of his order by James, and had inherited,
with many of the virtues of his ancestors,
an estate which placed him amongst the
greatest landed proprietors in the county.
But, as it had been an invariable rule never
to deduct a single acre from the inheritance
of the eldest son, and the extravagance of
his mother, who was the daughter of a
nobleman, had much embarrassed the affairs
of his father, Sir Edward, on coming into
possession of his estate, had wisely determined
to withdraw from the gay world, by
renting his house in town, and retiring altogether
to his respectable mansion, about a
hundred miles from the metropolis. Here
he hoped, by a course of systematic, but
liberal economy, to release himself from all
embarrassments, and make such a provision

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for his younger children, the three daughters
already mentioned, as he conceived their
birth entitled them to expect. Seventeen
years had enabled him to accomplish this
plan; and for more than eighteen months
Sir Edward had resumed the hospitality and
appearance usual in his family, and had
even promised his delighted girls to take
possession the ensuing winter, of his house
in St. James's Square. Nature had not qualified
Sir Edward for great or continued
exertions, and the prudent decision he had
taken to retrieve his fortunes, was perhaps
an act of as much forecast and vigour as his
talents or energy would admit of; it was the
step most obviously for his interests, and
safest both in its execution and consequences,
and as such had been adopted: but, had it
required a single particle more of enterprise
or calculation, it would have been beyond
his powers, and the heir might have yet laboured
under the difficulties which distressed
his more brilliant, but less prudent parent.

The baronet was warmly attached to his
wife; and as she was a woman of many valuable
and no obnoxious qualities, civil and
attentive by habit to all around her, and perfectly
disinterested in her attachments to her
own family, nothing in nature could partake
more of perfection in the eyes of her husband
and children than the conduct of this beloved
relative; yet Lady Moseley had her failings,

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although few were disposed to view her
errors with that severity which truth requires,
and a just discrimination of character
renders necessary. Her union had been one
of love, and for a time, objected to by the
friends of her husband, on the score of fortune;
but constancy and perseverance had
prevailed, and the protracted and inconsequent
opposition of his parents, had left no
other effects, than an aversion in their children
to the exercise or even influence of parental
authority, in marrying their own descendants,
which, although equal in degree,
was somewhat differing in effect. In the
husband it was quiescent; but in the wife,
slightly shaded with the female esprit du
corps, of having her daughters comfortably
established, and that in due season. Lady
Moseley was religious, but hardly pious;
she was charitable in deeds; but not always
in opinions; her intentions were pure, but
neither her prejudices or her reasoning powers
suffered her to be at all times consistent;
yet few knew her but loved her, and none
were ever heard to say aught against her
breeding, her morals, or her disposition.

The sister of Sir Edward had been married,
early in life, to an officer in the army,
who, spending much of his time abroad on
service, had left her a prey to that solicitude
to which her attachment to her husband necessarily
exposed her; to find relief from
which, an invaluable friend had pointed out

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the only true course her case admitted of—a
research into her own heart, and the employment
of active benevolence. The death of
her husband, who lost his life in battle,
causing her to withdraw in a great measure
from the world, gave her time for, and induced
those reflections, which led to impressions
on the subject of religion, correct in
themselves, and indispensable as the basis of
future happiness, but slightly tinctured with
the sternness of her vigorous mind, and possibly
at times more unbending than was
compatible with the comforts of this world;
a fault, however, of manner, and not of matter.
Warmly attached to her brother and his
children, Mrs. Wilson, who had never been
a mother herself, had yielded to their earnest
entreaties to become one of the family; and
although left by the late General Wilson
with a large income, she had since his death
given up her establishment, and devoted most
of her time to the formation of the character
of her youngest niece. Lady Moseley had
submitted this child entirely to the control
of her aunt; and it was commonly thought
Emily would inherit the very handsome sum
left to the disposal of the General's widow.

Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley had
possessed a large share of personal beauty
when young, and it had descended in common
to all their children, but more particularly
to the youngest daughters. Although
a strong family resemblance, both in person

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and character, existed between these closely
connected relatives, yet it existed with shades
of distinction, that had very different effects
on their conduct, and led to results which
stamped their lives with widely differing degrees
of happiness.

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

Between Francis Ives and Clara Moseley,
there had been an attachment, which had
grown with their years, from their childhood.
He had been her companion in their youthful
recreations—had espoused her little quarrels,
and participated in her innocent pleasures,
for so many years, and with such
evident preference for each other in the
youthful pair—that on leaving college to
enter on the studies of his sacred calling
with his father, Francis here rightly judged,

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that none other would make his future life
so happy, as the mildness, the tenderness,
the unassuming worth of the retiring Clara.
Their passion, if so gentle a feeling could
deserve the term, had received the sanction
of their parents, and waited only the establishment
of the youthful divine, to perfect
their union.

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

The illness of the mother-in-law of Mrs.
Wilson had called her to Bath the winter
preceding the spring our history commences,
and she had been accompanied by her nephew
and favourite niece. John and Emily, during
the month of their residence in that city,
were in the practice of making daily

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excursions in its environs; and it was in one of
these little tours that they were of accidental
service to a very young and very beautiful
woman, apparently in low health. They
had taken her up in their carriage, and
conveyed her to a farm-house where she
resided, during a faintness which had come
over her in a walk; and her beauty, air, and
manner, altogether so different from those
around her, had interested them both to a
painful degree. They had ventured to call
the following day to inquire after her welfare,
and this led to a slight intercourse,
which continued for the fortnight longer
they remained there.

John had given himself some trouble to
ascertain who she was, but in vain. All they
could learn was, that her life was blameless,
she saw no one but themselves, and
her dialect raised a suspicion she was not
English. To this then it was that Emily had
alluded in her playful attempt to stop the
heedless rattle of her brother, which was not
always restrained by a proper regard for the
feelings of others.

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