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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

[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]

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.

[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

“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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