PRECAUTION. CHAPTER I.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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CHAPTER II.
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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
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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.
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“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
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
-- 023 --
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
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
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
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,
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
“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.
-- 026 --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
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
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
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,”
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
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,
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
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
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
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
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
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.”
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
“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
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
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:
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
“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
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
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
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
myself---Lady Juliana, poor dear soul, she was a long
time before she could forget it---but 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
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
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
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
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
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
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.
-- 040 --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
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
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
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
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
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
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
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
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
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,
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
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
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
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
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
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
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
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
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
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
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
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
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
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
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
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
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
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.
-- 054 --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
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,
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
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.
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
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
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
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
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
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
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
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.
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“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
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
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
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
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
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
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
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
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
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
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
-- 066 --
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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
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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.
-- 068 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
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.
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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
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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
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
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.
-- 072 --
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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.
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
“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
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
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
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
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.
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
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
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
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
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
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—
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
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,
whenJohn 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
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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
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
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
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.
-- 082 --
CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
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.
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
“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
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
—, 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
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
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
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
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
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
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
-- 088 --
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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. 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.
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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,
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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 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
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
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,
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
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,
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
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
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
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
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
in his own at his return, never failed to do
away the unpleasaut 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
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
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.
-- 097 --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
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.
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
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
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
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.
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[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
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.
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
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;
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[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
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
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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
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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
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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,
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“the Earl is of unexceptionable
morals--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.
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CHAPTER IX.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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“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.
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“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,
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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
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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,
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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
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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
“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
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of Emily's language, considered her now
weeping sister, for a moment, with anguish---,
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
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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
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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
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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.
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CHAPTER X.
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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
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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
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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;
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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 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
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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
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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 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
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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.
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CHAPTER XI.
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
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
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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
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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
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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.
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“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
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[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
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
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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
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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,
-- 151 --
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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
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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
-- 153 --
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
-- 157 --
CHAPTER XII.
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
“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
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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
-- 159 --
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
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.”
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[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
“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.
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[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
“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 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 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
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
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,
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[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
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,
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
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,
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[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
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
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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.
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CHAPTER XIII.
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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,
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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“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.”
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CHAPTER XIV.
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
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.
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“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
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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,
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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,
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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
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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
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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.”
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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CHAPTER XV.
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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.
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“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?”
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“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,
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“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
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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—
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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.
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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,
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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
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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
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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
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[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
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
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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
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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
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[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
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.
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CHAPTER XVI.
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
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
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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 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
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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.”
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“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
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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.
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“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
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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,
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“he is so unhappy in his meditating---,
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,
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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,
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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
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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
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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—
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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
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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.”
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CHAPTER XVII.
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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,
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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
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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,
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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.
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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
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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
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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,
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“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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
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.
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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
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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,
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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,
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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
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[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
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
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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.
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CHAPTER XIX.
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
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;
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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 Francis
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
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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
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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.
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CHAPTER XX.
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
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:
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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 hardly sheltered him from the fury of
the tempest---clad in the garments of the
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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?
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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,
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.”
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CHAPTER XXI.
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
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
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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
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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,
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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.”
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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.”
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“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
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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
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[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
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.
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“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?”
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“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
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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
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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
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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.”
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CHAPTER XXII.
[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
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—
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“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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.”
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“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,
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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
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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.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
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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,
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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
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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
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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.
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“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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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,
-- 323 --
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
-- 327 --
CHAPTER XXIV.
[figure description] Page 327.[end figure description]
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,
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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
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[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]
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?”
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“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
“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
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proceeded--- 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?”
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[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
“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
-- 333 --
[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]
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.”
-- 334 --
[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
“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”
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[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]
---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
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[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]
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
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[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]
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,
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“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.”
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“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
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[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]
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 END.
Back matter
-- 341 --
Erratum
[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]
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.”
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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1820], Precaution, volume 2 (A. T. Goodrich & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf051v2].
