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The following day brought a large party
of the military beaux to the Hall, in acceptance
of the baronet's hospitable invitation
to dinner. Lady Moseley was delighted;
so long as her husband's or her children's
interest had demanded a sacrifice of her love
of society, it had been made without a sigh,
almost without a thought. The ties of
affinity in her were sacred; and to the happiness,
the comfort of those she felt an interest
in, there were few sacrifices of her
own propensities, she would not cheerfully
have made---it was this very love for her
offspring, that made her anxious to dispose
of her daughters in wedlock; her own marriage
had been so happy, she naturally concluded
it the state most likely to insure the
happiness of her children; and with Lady
Moseley, as with thousands of others, who,
averse or unequal to the labours of investigation,
jump to conclusions over the long
line of connecting reasons, marriage was
marriage, a husband was a husband; it is
true, there were certain indispensables, without
which, the formation of a connexion
was a thing she considered not within the
bounds of nature; there must be fitness in
fortune, in condition, in education and manners;
there must be no glaring evil, although

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she did not ask for positive good—a professor
of religion herself, had any one told her
it was a duty of her calling, to guard
against a connexion with any but a christian,
for her girls, she would have wondered at
the ignorance that would embarrass the married
state, with feelings exclusively belonging
to the individual; had any one told her
it were possible to give her child to any but
a gentleman, she would have wondered at
the want of feeling, that could devote the
softness of Jane, or Emily, to the association
with rudeness or vulgarity. It was the misfortune
of Lady Moseley, to limit her views
of marriage to the scene of this life, forgetful
that every union gives existence to a long
line of immortal beings, whose future welfare
depends greatly on the force of early
examples, or the strength of early impressions.

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

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

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

“Did you know Mr. Denbigh in Spain.”

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

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

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have no doubt it did, sir;” Jarvis, in his turn,
affected not to hear this speech, and nothing
further was said, as Sir Edward saw the
name of Mr. Denbigh excited a sensation
amongst his guests he was unable to account
for, and which he soon forgot himself.

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

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

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

“Captain Jarvis has empowered me, sir,
to make any arrangement with yourself or
friend, previous to your meeting, which he

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hopes may be as soon as possible, if convenient
to yourself,” replied the soldier cooly.

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

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

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

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

“I cannot ever give a meeting to Captain
Jarvis, with hostile intentions,” replied Denbigh,
calmly.

“Sir!”

“I decline the combat, Sir,” said Denbigh,
speaking with firmness.

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“Your reasons, Sir, if you please,” asked
Captain Digby, compressing his lips, and
drawing up in an air of personal interest.

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

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

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

Captain Digby had left Jarvis at an inn,
about half a mile from the rectory, for the
convenience of early information of the result
of his conference. The young man had
walked up and down the room during Digby's
absence, in a train of reflections entirely
new to him; he was the only son of
his aged father and mother, the protector of
his sisters, and he might say, the sole hope of

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a rising family; and then, possibly, Denbigh
might not have meant to offend him—he
might even have been engaged before they
came to the house; or if not, it might have
been inadvertence on the part of Miss Moseley—
that Denbigh would offer some explanation
he believed, and he had fully made up
his mind to accept it, as his fighting friend
entered. “Well,” said Jarvis, in a low
tone.

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

“Not meet me,” cried Jarvis, in surprise;
“engaged, perhaps.”

“Engaged to his conscience,” exclaimed
Digby, with an oath.

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

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

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

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

“He shall.”

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“I don't know how you will make him,”
said Digby, cooly.

“Make him, I'll—I'll post him.”

“Never do that,” said the captain, turning
to him, as he leaned his elbows on the table,
“it only makes both parties ridiculous; but
I'll tell you what you may do—there's a Lord
Chatterton takes the matter up with warmth;
if I were not afraid of his interest hurting
my promotion, I should have resented something
that fell from him myself—he will
fight, I dare say, and I'll just return and require
an explanation of his words on your
behalf.”

“No—no,” said Jarvis, rather hastily,
“he—he is related to the Moseleys, and I
have views there---it might injure.”

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

“Yes, yes,” said Jarvis, “it would hurt
my views.”

“Here's to the health of His Majesty's
gallant — regiment of foot,” cried Captain
Digby, in a tone of irony, three quarters
drunk, at the mess table, that evening, “and
to its champion, Captain Henry Jarvis.”
One of the corps was present accidentally as
a guest; and the following week the inhabitants
of F— saw the regiment in their
barracks marching to slow time after the
body of Horace Digby.

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