The day succeeding the arrival of the Moseleys 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, which inclined the
cautious aunt to suspect that her charge was bent on the indulgence of
some ill-judged weakness; more particularly, as the direction she took led
to the arbor, a theatre in which 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,
of interposing her own authority against the repetition of similar
excursions.
As Emily approached the arbor, 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
recollection of Denbigh's conduct on that spot, of his general benevolence
and assiduity to please, being forcibly recalled to her mind at the
instant, forgetful of her object in visiting the arbor, Emily yielded to
her sensibilities, and sank on the seat weeping as if her heart would
break.
She had not time to dry her eyes, and to collect her scattered thoughts,
before Mrs. Wilson entered the arbor. Eyeing 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 endeavor
to suppress such passions as are incompatible with our duties; 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 that 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 for the pardon of his too--too
heavy transgressions."
Mrs. Wilson, softened almost to tears herself, viewed her for a moment
with a mixture of delight, and continued in a milder tone,--
"I believe you, my dear. I am certain, although you may have loved Denbigh
much, that 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 anything 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 aright, if,--" cried Emily,
clasping her hands and speaking with great energy, and she would have
said, "one like Denbigh in appearance, be so vile!" Shame, however, kept
her silent.
"Few men can support such a veil of hypocrisy as that 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
character that one's opportunities will not admit of more closely
investigating, than by examining into and duly appreciating early
impressions. The man or woman who has 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 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 what
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 niece, who had recovered the command of her
feelings pressed her hand in silence to her lips, and showed a disposition
to retire from a spot which she found recalled too many recollections of
a man whose image it was her imperious duty to banish, on every
consideration of propriety and religion.
Their walk into the house was silent, and their thoughts were drawn from
the unpleasant topic by finding a letter from Julia, announcing her
intended departure from this country, and her wish to take leave of them
in London before she sailed. As she had mentioned the probable day for
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 Denbigh was intimately blended with the fate of Mrs.
Fitzgerald. But Emily sought support against her feeling 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 an humble and devout one, Emily
Moseley was a woman, and had loved ardently, confidingly, and gratefully.
Marriage is the business of life with her sex,--with all, next to a
preparation for a better world,--and it cannot be supposed that a first
passion in a bosom like that of our heroine was to be suddenly erased and
to leave no vestiges of its existence.
Her partiality for 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 feelings too strong and too pure to be torn
from her in a moment.
The arrival of John, with Grace and Jane, enlivened not only the family
but the neighborhood. Mr. Haughton and his numerous friends poured in on
the young couple with their congratulations, and a few weeks stole by
insensibly, previously to the commencement of the journeys 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 that, although he
himself greatly admired the taste of Mr. Peter Johnson in dress, yet he
doubted whether the present style of fashions in the metropolis would not
be scandalized by the appearance of the honest steward.
John had in fact noticed, in their former visit to London, mob of
mischievous boys eyeing Peter with indications of rebellious movements
which threatened the old man, and from which he had retreated by taking a
coach, and he now made the suggestion from pure good-nature, to save him
any future trouble from a similar cause.
They were at dinner when Moseley made the remark, and the steward was in
his place at the sideboard--for his master was his home. Drawing near at
the mention of his name first, and casting an eye over his figure to see
if all was decent, Peter respectfully broke silence, 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, bowing humbly, "I am no
disparagement to my friends, or even to my honored 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. Sir Edward, being of the same opinion with his son, observed--
"I do think, 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--honorable sir," said the steward, beginning to grow
alarmed, "if I may be so bold, you young gentlemen may like gay clothes;
but as for me and his honor; we are used to such as we wear, and what we
are used to we love."
The old man spoke with earnestness, and drew the particular attention of
his master to a review of his attire. After reflecting 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, too, after the death of her nephew, had 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 appearances."
"Your honor!" stammered out Peter, in increased terror; "for Mr. John
Moseley and Sir Edward, and youngerly gentlemen like, dress may do. Now,
your honor, 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." Peter sighed as the
recollection of Patty Steele and his youthful love floated across his
brain. Grace blushed and thanked him for the compliment, and gave her
opinion that his gallantry merited 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 shall 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
gamekeeper, one of the most cruel men T ever knew."
This decided the matter. Peter well knew that his master's antipathy to
old Harry arose 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. He at one time thought of closing his
innovations on his wardrobe, however, 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 gamekeeper to consist in the leathern
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 decked from head to foot in a more
modern suit of snuff-color.
The change once made, Peter greatly admired himself in a glass, and
thought, could he have had the taste of Mr. John Moseley in his youth to
direct his toilet, that the hard heart of Patty Steele would not always
have continued so obdurate.
Sir Edward wished to collect his neighbors 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. The
company had left the table to join the ladies, when 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 that his marriage took 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, her 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 at the arbor still-fresh in his memory.
Emily commanded herself sufficiently to reply, "Brothers' 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
favorite as Denbigh was in the question.
"She is the daughter of the late Duke of 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, Esq., if he was the brother of a duke?" said Jane,
forgetting for a moment the presence of Dr. and Mrs. Ives, in her
surviving passion for genealogy: "should he not have been called Lord
George, or honorable?"
This was the first time any allusion had been made to the sudden death in
the church by any of the Moseleys in the hearing of the rector's family;
and the speaker sat in breathless terror at her own inadvertency. But Dr.
Ives, observing that a profound silence prevailed as soon as Jane ended,
answered, mildly, though in a way to prevent any further comments--
"The late Duke's succeeding a cousin-german in the title, was the reason,
I presume, Emily, I am to hear from you by letter I hope, after you enter
into the gaieties 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 anything which might lead to his name being mentioned. "He is
disappointed in him as well as ourselves," thought the widow, "and it
must be unpleasant 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 have another in the
neighborhood lately?" Sir Edward answered in the negative, and his
neighbor continued--
"Why no less a man than Captain Jarvis, promoted to the bloody hand."
"Captain Jarvis!" exclaimed five or six at once; "explain yourself, Mr.
Haughton."
"My near neighbor, young Walker, has been to Bath on an unusual
business--his health--and for the benefit of the country he has brought
back a pretty piece of scandal. 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 honor the peerage with such a prodigy. After awhile the
daughter of our late acquaintance, Sir William Harris, became an accessory
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 books The Captain
prevaricated--the lady remonstrated, until the gentleman, with more truth
than manners, told her that 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 that he himself was such a fool as to make her his
wife; so the whole thing exploded."
John listened with a delight but little short of what he had felt when
Grace owned her love, and anxious to know all, eagerly 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 indulgence," remarked the
rector.
"You don't know the worst of it," replied Mr. Haughton. "We poor people
are made to suffer--Lady Jarvis wept and fretted Sir Time 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 nor the story is known."
"Then Sir William has to procure a new tenant," said Lady Moseley, not in
the least regretting the loss of the old one.
"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 the purchaser?" inquired Lady Moseley, eagerly.
"The Earl of Pendennyss."
"Lord Pendennyss!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilson in rapture.
"Pendennyss!" cried the rector, eyeing 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."