[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

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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

[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

[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

[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,

[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

[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

[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

[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

[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

[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

[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

[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

[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.

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