CHAPTER VI.
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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
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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.
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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.
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“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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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—
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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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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
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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.
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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1820], Precaution, volume 2 (A. T. Goodrich & Co., New York) [word count] [eaf051v2].
