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Sir Edward Moseley had some difficulty
in restraining the impetuosity of his son from
taking some hasty step, in resenting this impertinent
interference of young Jarvis, in the
conduct of his favourite sister; indeed, he
only yielded to his profound respect to his
father's commands, aided by a strong representation
on the part of his sister, of the disagreeable
consequences of connecting her
name with a quarrel in any manner. It was
seldom the good baronet felt himself called
upon to act as decidedly as on the present
occasion; he spoke to the merchant in warm,
but gentleman-like terms, of the consequences
which might have resulted to his
own child, from the intemperate act of
his son; exculpated Emily entirely from
censure, by explaining her engagement to
dance with Denbigh, previously to his application;
and hinting the necessity, if the affair
was not amicably terminated, of protecting
the peace of mind of his daughters
against similar exposures in future, by declining
the acquaintance of a neighbour he
respected as much as Mr. Jarvis.

The merchant was a man of few words,
but great promptitude; he had made his fortune,
and more than once saved it, by his decision;
and coolly assuring the baronet he

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should hear no more of it, at least in a disagreeable
way, took his hat and walked home
from the village where the conversation
passed; on arriving at his own house, he found
the family collected, for a morning ride, in the
parlour, and throwing himself into a chair,
he commenced with great violence by saying—

“So, Mrs. Jarvis, you would spoil a very
tolerable book-keeper, by wishing to have
a soldier in your family; and there stands
the puppy who would have blown out the
brains of a deserving young man, if the good
sense of Mr. Denbigh had not denied him the
opportunity.”

“Mercy!” cried the alarmed matron, on
whom Newgate, with all its horrors, floated,
and near which her early life had been
passed, and a contemplation of whose frequent
scenes had been her juvenile lessons
of morality—“Harry! Harry! would
you murder.”

“Murder!” echoed her son, looking
askance, as if to see the bailiffs, “no, mother,
I wanted nothing but what was fair; Mr.
Denbigh would have had an equal chance to
have blown out my brains; I am sure every
thing would have been fair.”

“Equal chance,” muttered his father, who
had cooled himself, in some measure, by an
extra pinch of snuff, “no, sir, you have no
brains to loose; but I have promised Sir Edward
that you shall make proper apologies

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to himself, his daughter, and Mr. Denbigh;”
this was rather exceeding the truth, but the
alderman prided himself on performing more
than he promised.

“Apology,” exclaimed the captain, “why,
sir, the apology is due to me—ask Colonel
Egerton if he ever heard of an apology being
made by the challenger.”

“No, sure,” said the mother, who having
now made out the truth of the matter,
thought it was likely to be creditable to her
child, “Colonel Egerton never heard of such
a thing—did you, colonel?”

“Why, madam,” said the colonel, hesitatingly,
and politely handing the merchant
his snuff-box, which, in his agitation,
had fallen on the floor, “circumstances
sometimes justify a departure from ordinary
measures; you are certainly right as a rule;
but not knowing the particulars in the present
case, it is difficult for me to decide—Miss
Jarvis, the tilbury is ready;” and the colonel
bowed respectfully to the merchant, kissed
his hand to his wife, and led their daughter to
his carriage.

“Do you make the apologies?” asked
Mr. Jarvis of his son, as the door closed behind
them.

“No, sir,” replied the captain, sullenly.

“Then you must make your pay answer
for the next six months,” cried the father,
taking a signed draft on his banker from
his pocket, coolly tearing it in two pieces,

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and carefully putting the name in his mouth,
and chewing it into a ball.

“Why, alderman,” said his wife, a name
she never used, unless she had something to
gain from her spouse, who loved to hear the
sound of the appellation after he had relinquished
the office, “it appears to me, that
Harry has shown nothing but a proper spirit—
you are unkind—indeed you are.”

“A proper spirit—in what way—do you
know any thing of the matter?”

“It is a proper spirit for a soldier to fight,
I suppose,” said the wife, a little at a loss to
explain.

“Spirit, or no spirit,” observed Mr. Jarvis,
as he left them, “apology, or ten and sixpence.”

“Harry,” said his mother, holding up her
finger in a menacing attitude, “if you do beg
his pardon, you are no son of mine.”

“No,” cried Miss Sarah, “it would be
mean.”

“Who will pay my debts?” asked the son,
looking up at the ceiling.

“Why, I would, my child, if—if—I had
not spent my own allowance.”

“I would,” echoed the sister, “but if we
go to Bath, you know, I shall want my money.”

“Who will pay my debts,” repeated the
son.

“Apology, indeed; who is he, that you, a
son of Alderman—of—of Mr. Jarvis, of the

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deanery, B—, Northamptonshire, should
beg his pardon—a vagrant that nobody
knows.”

“Who will pay my debts,” said the captain,
drumming with his foot.

“Why, Harry,” exclaimed the mother,
“do you love money better than honour—a
soldier's honour?”

“No, mother; but I like good eating and
drinking—think, mother, its a cool five hundred.”

“Harry,” cried the mother, in a rage, “you
are not fit for a soldier; I wish I were in your
place.”

I wish, with all my heart, you had been for
an hour this morning, thought the son; and,
after arguing for some time longer, they compromised,
by agreeing to leave it to the decision
of Colonel Egerton, who, the mother
did not doubt, would applaud her maintaining
the Jarvis dignity, a family his interest in
was but little short of what he felt for his
own---so he had told her fifty times---and
the captain determined within himself, to
touch the five hundred, let the colonel decide
as he would; but the colonel's decision
prevented this disobedience to the commands
of one parent, in order to submit to the requisition
of the other. The question was put
to him by Mrs. Jarvis, on his return from the
airing, with no doubt the decision would
be favourable to her opinion; the colonel
and herself, she said, never disagreed; and

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the lady was right—for wherever his interest
made it desirable to convert Mrs. Jarvis to
his side of the question, Egerton had a
manner of doing it, that never failed to succeed.

“Why, madam,” said he, with one of his
most agreeable smiles, “apologies are different
things at different times; you are certainly
right in your sentiments, as relates to a
proper spirit in a soldier; but no one can
doubt the spirit of the captain, after the
stand he took in the affair; if Mr. Denbigh
would not meet him, (a very extraordinary
measure, indeed, I confess,) what can he do
more? he cannot make a man fight against his
will, you know.”

“True, true,” cried the matron, impatiently,
“I do not want him to fight; heaven forbid!
but why should he, the challenger, beg
pardon?—I am sure, to have the thing regular—
Mr. Denbigh is the one to ask forgiveness.”
The colonel felt at a little loss how
to reply, when Jarvis, in whom the thoughts
of his five hundred pounds had worked a
mighty revolution, exclaimed—

“You know, mother, I accused him—that
is, suspected him of dancing with Miss
Moseley against my right to her; now you
find that was a mistake, and so I had better
act with dignity, and confess my error.”

“Oh, by all means,” cried the colonel,
who saw the danger of an embarrassing rupture
between the families otherwise, “

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delicacy to your sex requires that, ma'am, from
your son;” and he accidentally dropped a letter
as he spoke.

“From Sir Edgar, colonel?” asked Mrs.
Jarvis, as he stooped to pick it up.

“From Sir Edgar, madam, and he begs to
be remembered to yourself and family.”
Mrs. Jarvis bowed in what she intended for
a graceful bend, and sighed—a casual observer
might have thought, with maternal
anxiety for the reputation of her child—but it
was conjugal regret, that the political obstinacy
of the alderman, had prevented his
carrying up an address, and thus becoming—
Sir Timothy—. Sir Edgar's heir prevailed,
and the captain received permission
to do what he had done already.

On leaving the room, after the first
discussion, and before the appeal, he had
hastened to his father with his concessions.
The old gentleman knew too well the influence
of five hundred pounds, to doubt their
effects in the present instance, and had ordered
his carriage for the excursion—it came,
and to the hall they proceeded; the captain
found his intended antagonist there, and in
a rather uncouth manner, made the required
concession. He was restored to his former
favour—no great distinction—and his visits
to the hall suffered, but with a dislike Emily
could never conquer, or at all times conceal.

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Denbigh was standing with a book in his
hand, when Jarvis commenced his speech to
the baronet and his daughter, and was apparently
much engaged with its contents, as
the captain blundered through. It was necessary,
the captain saw by a glance of his
father's eyes, to say something to the gentleman,
who had delicately withdrawn to a distant
window. His speech was made here too,
and Mrs. Wilson could not avoid stealing a
look at them; Denbigh smiled and bowed in
silence. It is enough, thought the widow;
the offence was not against him, it was
against his maker; he should not arrogate to
himself, in any manner, the right to forgive, or
require apologies—the whole is consistent.—
The subject was never afterwards alluded to;
Denbigh appeared to have forgotten it; and
Jane sighed gently as she hoped the colonel
was not a duellist.

Several days passed, before the deanery
ladies could forgive the indignity their family
had sustained, sufficiently to resume
their customary intercourse; like all other
grievances, where the passions are chiefly interested,
it was forgotten in time, and things
put in some measure on their former footing.
The death of Digby served to increase the
horror of the Moseleys, and Jarvis himself
felt rather uncomfortable, on more accounts
than one, at the fatal termination of the unpleasant
business.

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Chatterton, who to his friends had not hesitated
to avow his attachment to his cousin,
but who had never proposed for her, as his
present views and fortune were not, in his
estimation, sufficient for her proper support;
had pushed every interest he possessed, and left
no steps unattempted an honourable man could
resort to, to effect his object. This desire to provide
for his sisters, had been backed by the
ardour of a passion that had reached its crisis;
and the young peer, who could not, in the
present state of things, abandon the field to
a rival so formidable as Denbigh, even to
further his views to preferment, was waiting
in anxious suspense the decision on his application:
a letter from his friend informed him,
his opponent was likely to succeed; that, in
short, all hopes of his lordship's success had
left him—Chatterton was in despair. On
the following day, however, he received a
second letter from the same friend, announcing
his appointment; after mentioning
the fact, he went on to say—“The cause of
this sudden revolution in your favour is unknown
to me, and unless your lordship has
obtained interest I am ignorant of, it is one
of the most singular instances of ministerial
caprice I have ever heard of.” Chatterton
was as much at a loss as his friend, but it
mattered not; he could now offer to Emily—
it was a patent office, to a large amount in
receipts, and a few years would amply

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portion his sisters; that very day he proposed,
and was refused.

Emily had a difficult task to avoid self-reproach,
in regulating her deportment to the
peer. She was fond of Chatterton as a relation—
as her brother's friend—as the brother
of Grace, and even on his own account;
but it was the fondness of a sister; his manner—
his words, which although never addressed
to herself, were sometimes overheard
unintentionally, and sometimes reached
her through her sisters, left her in no doubt
of his attachment; she was excessively
grieved at the discovery, and innocently appealed
to her aunt for directions how to proceed;
of his intentions she had no doubt, but
at the same time he had not put her in a situation
to dispel his hopes; encouragement, in
the usual meaning of the term, she gave to
him, or no one else. There are no little attentions
that lovers are fond of showing to
their mistresses, and which mistresses are
fond of receiving, that Emily ever permitted
to any gentleman—no rides—no walks—no
tetê-a-têtes; always natural and unaffected,
there was a simple dignity about her that forbade
the request, almost the thought, in the
gentlemen of her acquaintance; Emily had
no amusements, no pleasures of any kind,
in which her sisters were not her companions;
and if any thing was on the carpet, that required
an attendant, John was ever ready; he
was devoted to her; the decided preference she

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gave him over every other man, upon such
occasions, flattered his affections; and he
would, at any time leave even Grace Chatterton,
to attend his sister—all this was without
affectation, and generally without notice.
Emily so looked the delicacy and reserve she
acted without ostentation, that not even her
own sex had affixed to her conduct the epithet
of squeamish; it was difficult, therefore,
for her to do any thing, which would show
Lord Chatterton her disinclination to his
suit, without assuming a dislike she did not
feel, or giving him slights neither good breeding
or good nature could justify; at one time,
indeed, she expressed a wish to return to
Clara; but this Mrs. Wilson thought would
only protract the evil, and she was compelled
to wait his own time. The peer himself did
not rejoice more in his ability to make the
offer, than Emily did to have it in her power
to decline it; her rejection was firm and unqualified,
but uttered with a grace and
tenderness to his feelings, that bound her
lover tighter than ever in her chains, and
he resolved on immediate flight as his only
recourse.

“I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred
to Lord Chatterton,” said Denbigh, with
great interest, as he reached the spot where
the young peer stood leaning his head
against a tree, on his route from the rectory
to the hall.

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Chatterton raised his face as he spoke;
there were evident traces of tears on it, and
Denbigh, shocked, was delicately about to
proceed, as the baron caught his arm.

“Mr. Denbigh,” said the young peer, in a
voice almost choaked with emotion, “may
you never know the pain I have felt this
morning—Emily—Emily Moseley--is lost to
me—forever.”

For a moment, the blood rushed to the
face of Denbigh, and his eyes flashed with
a look that Chatterton could not stand; he
turned, as the voice of Denbigh, in those remarkable
tones which distinguished it from
every other voice he had ever heard, uttered,

“Chatterton, my lord, we are friends, I
hope—I wish it from my heart.”

“Go, Mr. Denbigh—go; you were going
to Miss Moseley—do not let me detain you.”

“I am going with you, Lord Chatterton,
unless you forbid it,” said Denbigh, with
emphasis, slipping his arm through that of
the peer's.

For two hours they walked together in the
baronet's park, and when they appeared at
dinner, Emily wondered why Mr. Denbigh
had taken a seat next her mother, instead of
his usual place between herself and aunt. In
the evening, he announced his intention of
leaving B—for a short time with Lord
Chatterton; they were going to London together,
but he hoped to return within ten

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days. This sudden determination caused
some surprise, but as the dowager supposed,
it was to secure the new situation, and the
remainder of their friends thought it might
be business, it was soon forgotten, but much
regretted for the time. They left the Hall
that night to proceed to an inn, from which
they could obtain a chaise and horses; and
the following morning, when the baronet's
family assembled around their social breakfast
the peer and his companion were many
miles on their route to the metropolis.

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