On withdrawing to her dressing-room after dinner, Mrs. Wilson commenced
the 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 than surprise and horror; and as her aunt omitted the part
concerning the daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, she naturally expressed her
wonder as to 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 honorable man."
"And ready," cried her niece, "to sacrifice human life, in the defence of
any ridiculous punctilio."
"Or," added Mrs. Wilson, striving to draw nearer to her subject, "with a
closer veil of hypocrisy, wear even an affectation of principle and moral
feeling that would seem to forbid such a departure from duty in favor 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 that confiding esteem which
would not permit her niece even to suspect that an act which in Denbigh
had been so warmly applauded, could, even in another, proceed from
unworthy motives; and she found it would be necessary to speak in the
plainest terms, to awaken her suspicions. 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 practise 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 could stoop
to it," 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, excited by so extraordinary an allusion, but instantly losing
the unpleasant sensation in the delightful consciousness of the
superiority of the man on whom she had bestowed her own admiration.
"In fact, my child," continued her aunt, "our natures are guilty of the
grossest inconsistencies. The vilest wretch has generally some property or
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, and these oftentimes fail."
Emily looked at her aunt in surprise at hearing 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, without fitting opportunities of judging of the merit of the
man she confides in. Jane is an instance in point, but I devoutly hope you
are not to be another."
While speaking, Mrs. Wilson had taken the hand of Emily, and by her looks
and solemn manner she had succeeded in alarming her niece, although
Denbigh was yet furthest from the thoughts of Emily. The aunt reached her
a glass of water, and willing to get rid of the hateful subject she
continued, hurriedly, "Did you not notice the pocket-book Francis gave to
Mr. Denbigh?" Emily fixed her inquiring eyes on her aunt, as the other
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 sank 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 misery. Mrs. Wilson, unwilling any one but herself should
witness this first burst of grief, succeeded in getting her niece to her
own room and in bed. Emily made no lamentations--shed no tears--asked no
questions--her eye was fixed, and every faculty appeared oppressed with
the load on her heart. Mrs. Wilson knew her situation too well to intrude
with 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 Emily assured her she had
not forgotten herself or her duty, and she was rewarded for her labor and
forbearance by a flood of tears. 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 for ever, as the
proofs followed each other until they amounted to demonstration. As there
was some indication 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 restraint on all his actions, since the return
of his book, that persuaded Mrs. Wilson he apprehended that 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 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, and commenced
the following dialogue:
"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 hardly dare
ask you for your good offices."
Mrs. Wilson took the letter, and coldly replied,
"Certainly, sir; and I sincerely wish I could be of any real service to
you."
"I perceive, madam," said Denbigh, like one that was choking, "I have
forfeited your good opinion--that pocket book--"
"Has made a dreadful discovery," said 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 mildly, "for your
own good; as for us, your deception--"
"Is unpardonable--I see it--I feel it," cried he, in the accent of
despair; "yet Emily--Emily may relent--you will at least give her my
letter--anything is better than this suspense."
"You shall have an answer from Emily this evening, and one entirely
unbiassed by me," said Mrs. Wilson. As she closed the door, she observed
Denbigh gazing on her retiring figure with a countenance of despair, that
caused a feeling of pity to mingle with her detestation of his vices.
On opening the door of Emily's room, Mrs. Wilson found her niece 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 been, as it were, momentarily annihilated. Mrs. Wilson
kissed her niece with tenderness, as she placed the letter in her hand,
and told her she would call for her answer within an hour. Employment, and
the necessity of acting, would, she thought, be 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 ante-chamber,
that Miss Moseley was up, and had been writing. 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 rose, and approaching her aunt with an air of
profound resignation, but great steadiness, she 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 to be left 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 since 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
would be valueless. By accepting my offered hand, you will place me
amongst the happiest, or by 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:
"Sir--It is with much regret that I find myself reduced to the possibility
of giving uneasiness to one to whom I am under such heavy obligations. It
will never be in my power to accept the honor 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 fervent
prayers that you may be ever found worthy of it--Your humble servant,
"EMILY MOSELEY."
Perfectly satisfied with this answer, 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 the services of the young man himself, to
conceal his conduct from the world entirely, she was in hopes that his
absence might 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 had descended to
the supper-room, when Mr. Benfield was first struck with the absence of
his favorite. An inquiry after Denbigh was instituted, and while they were
waiting his appearance, a servant handed the old man a note.
"From whom?" cried Mr. Benfield, in surprise.
"Mr. Denbigh, sir," said the servant.
"Mr. Denbigh?" exclaimed Mr. Benfield: "no accident, I hope--I remember
when Lord Gosford--here, Peter, your eyes are young; read it for me, read
it 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 the contents, John hastily caught the letter out of
his hand, saying he would save him the trouble, and, in obedience to his
uncle's wishes, he 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 to
his amiable guests for their many kindnesses. As he contemplates leaving
England, he desires to wish them all a long and an 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 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 he was quickly followed by John.
Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were 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 active, 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 principle. Like Mr. Benfield, she was in danger of
raising an ideal idol, and of spending the remainder of her days in
devotion to qualities, rarely if ever found identified with a person that
never had existed. The old gentleman was 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 salad 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 favorite goggles
over his eyes. Now Peter was troubled with two kinds of debility about his
organs of vision; one was age and natural weakness, while the other
proceeded more directly from the heart. His master knew of these facts,
and he took the alarm. Again the wine-glass dropped from his nerveless
hand, as he said in a trembling tone,
"Peter, I thought you went"--
"Yes, master," said Peter, laconically.
"You saw him, Peter--will he 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 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 the young gentleman in silence, and retired.
"John," cried Sir Edward, "where is Denbigh?"
"Gone, sir."
"Gone!"
"Yes, my dear father," said John, "gone without saying good-bye 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 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 tears. Such proofs of emotion in one like John Moseley
gave her the satisfaction of knowing that if she had been deceived, it was
by a concurrence of circumstances and a depth of hypocrisy almost
exceeding belief: self-reproach added less than common, therefore, to the
uneasiness of the moment.
"I saw the innkeeper, uncle," said John, "who told me that Denbigh left
there at eight o'clock in a post-chaise and four; but I will go to London
in the morning myself." This was no sooner said than it was corroborated
by acts, for the young man 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, appearing
desirous of avoiding all allusions to Denbigh; and after her aunt had
simply acquainted 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: they had interfered with her
favorite 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 difficult;
but was a task imperiously required at her hands, as she believed, ere she
yielded the present and future happiness of her pupil to the power of any
man.