A neighbor in the Deanery soon,”
inquired Clara Moseley, addressing herself to a small party
assembled in her father’s drawing-room, while standing at a window
which commanded a distant view of the house in question.
“Oh yes,” replied her brother,
“the agent has let it to a Mr. Jarvis for a couple of years, and he
is to take possession this week.”
“And who is the Mr. Jarvis that
is about to become so near a neighbor?” asked Sir Edward
Moseley.
“Why, sir, I learn he has been a
capital merchant; that he has retired from business with a large
fortune; that he has, like yourself, sir, an only hope for his
declining years in son, an officer in the army; and, moreover, that
he has couple of fine daughters; so, sir, he is a man of family in
one sense, at least, you see. But,” dropping his voice, “whether he
is a man of family in your sense, Jane,” looking at his second
sister, “is more than I could discover.”
“I hope you did not take the
trouble, sir, to inquire on my account,” retorted Jane, coloring
slightly with vexation at his speech.
“Indeed I did, my dear sis, and
solely on your account,” replied the laughing brother, “for you
well know that no gentility, no husband; and it’s dull work to you
young ladies without at least a possibility of matrimony; as for
Clara, she is–-”
Here he was stopped by his
youngest sister Emily placing her hand on his mouth, as she
whispered in his ear, “John, you forget the anxiety of a certain
gentleman about a fair incognita at Bath, and a list of inquiries
concerning her lineage, and a few other indispensables.” John, in
his turn, colored, and affectionately kissing the hand which kept
him silent, addressed himself to Jane, and by his vivacity and good
humor soon restored her to complacency.
“I rejoice,” said Lady Moseley,
“that Sir William has found a tenant, however; for next to
occupying it himself, it is a most desirable thing to have a good
tenant in it, on account of the circle in which we live.”
“And Mr. Jarvis has the great
goodness of money, by John’s account,” caustically observed Mrs.
Wilson, who was a sister of Sir Edward’s.
“Let me tell you, madam,” cried
the rector of the parish, looking around him pleasantly, and who
was pretty constant, and always a welcome visitor in the family,
“that a great deal of money is a very good thing in itself, and
that a great many very good things may be done with it.”
“Such as paying tythes, ha!
doctor,” cried Mr. Haughton, a gentleman of landed property in the
neighborhood, of plain exterior, but great goodness of heart, and
between whom and the rector subsisted the most cordial good
will.
“Aye, tythes, or halves, as the
baronet did here, when he forgave old Gregson one half his rent,
and his children the other.”
“Well, but, my dear,” said Sir
Edward to his wife, “you must not starve our friends because we are
to have a neighbor. William has stood with the dining-room door
open these five minutes—”
Lady Moseley gave her hand to the
rector, and the company followed them, without any order, to the
dinner table.
The party assembled around the
hospitable board of the baronet was composed, besides the
before-mentioned persons, of the wife of Mr. Haughton, a woman of
much good sense and modesty of deportment: their daughter, a young
lady conspicuous for nothing but good nature; and the wife and son
of the rector—the latter but lately admitted to holy orders
himself.
The remainder of the day passed
in an uninterrupted flow of pleasant conversation, the natural
consequence of a unison of opinions on all leading questions, the
parties having long known and esteemed each other for those
qualities which soonest reconcile us to the common frailties of our
nature. On parting at the usual hour, it was agreed to meet that
day week at the rectory, and the doctor, on making his bow to Lady
Moseley, observed, that he intended, in virtue of his office, to
make an early call on the Jarvis family, and that, if possible, he
would persuade them to be of the party.
Sir Edward Moseley was descended
from one of the most respectable of the creations of his order by
James, and had inherited, with many of the virtues of his ancestor,
an estate which placed him amongst the greatest landed proprietors
of the county. But, as it had been an invariable rule never to
deduct a single acre from the inheritance of the eldest son, and
the extravagance of his mother, who was the daughter of a nobleman,
had much embarrassed the affairs of his father, Sir Edward, on
coming into possession of his estate, had wisely determined to
withdraw from the gay world, by renting his house in town, and
retiring altogether to his respectable mansion, about a hundred
miles from the metropolis. Here he hoped, by a course of systematic
but liberal economy, to release himself from all embarrassments,
and to make such a provision for his younger children, the three
daughters already mentioned, as he conceived their birth entitled
them to expect.
Seventeen years enabled him to
accomplish this plan; and for more than eighteen months, Sir Edward
had resumed the hospitality and appearance usual in his family, and
had even promised his delighted girls to take possession, the
ensuing winter, of the house in St.
James’s Square. Nature had not
qualified Sir Edward for great or continued exertions, and the
prudent decision he had taken to retrieve his fortunes, was perhaps
an act of as much forecast and vigor as his talents or energy would
afford; it was the step most obviously for his interests, and the
one that was safest both in its execution and consequences, and as
such it had been adopted: but, had it required a single particle
more of enterprise or calculation, it would have been beyond his
powers, and the heir might have yet labored under the difficulties
which distressed his more brilliant, but less prudent parent.
The baronet was warmly attached
to his wife; and as she was a woman of many valuable and no
obnoxious qualities, civil and attentive by habit to all around
her, and perfectly disinterested in her attachments to her own
family, nothing in nature could partake more of perfection in the
eyes of her husband and children than the conduct of this beloved
relative. Yet Lady Moseley had her failings, however, although few
were disposed to view her errors with that severity which truth and
a just discrimination of character render
necessary. Her union had been one
of love, and for a time it had been objected to by the friends of
her husband, on the score of fortune; but constancy and
perseverance prevailed, and the protracted and inconsequent
opposition of his parents had left no other effects than an
aversion in the children to the exercise of parental authority, in
marrying their own descendents: an aversion which, though common to
both the worthy baronet and his wife, was somewhat different in its
two subjects. In the husband it was quiescent; but in the wife, it
was slightly shaded with the female esprit de corps, of having her
daughters comfortably established, and that in due season. Lady
Moseley was religious, but hardly pious; she was charitable in
deeds, but not always in opinions; her intentions were pure, but
neither her prejudices nor her reasoning powers suffered her to be
at all times consistent. Still few knew her that did not love her,
and none were ever heard to say aught against her breeding, her
morals, or her disposition.
The sister of Sir Edward had been
married, early in life, to an officer in the army, who, spending
much of his time abroad on service, had left her a prey to that
solicitude to which she was necessarily a prey by her attachment to
her husband. To find relief from this perpetual and life-wearing
anxiety, an invaluable friend had pointed out the only true remedy
of which her case admitted, a research into her own heart, and the
employments of active benevolence. The death of her husband, who
lost his life in battle, caused her to withdraw in a great measure
from the world, and gave time and inducement for reflections, which
led to impressions on religion that were sufficiently correct in
themselves, and indispensable as the basis of future happiness, but
which became slightly tinctured with the sternness of her vigorous
mind, and possibly, at times were more unbending than was
compatible with the comforts of this world; a fault, however, of
manner, more than of matter. Warmly attached to her brother and his
children, Mrs.
Wilson, who had never been a
mother herself, yielded to their earnest entreaties to become one
of the family; and although left by the late General Wilson with a
large income, ever since his death she had given up her own
establishment, and devoted most of her time to the formation of the
character of her youngest niece. Lady Moseley had submitted this
child entirely to the control of the aunt; and it was commonly
thought Emily would inherit the very handsome sum left at the
disposal of the General’s widow.
Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley
possessed a large share of personal beauty when young, and it had
descended in common to all their children, but more particularly to
the two youngest daughters. Although a strong family resemblance,
both in person and character, existed between these closely
connected relatives, yet it existed with shades of distinction that
had very different effects on their conduct, and led to results
which stamped their lives with widely differing degrees of
happiness.
Between the families at Moseley
Hall and the rectory, there had existed for many years an intimacy
founded on esteem and on long intercourse. Doctor Ives was a
clergyman of deep piety; and of very considerable talents; he
possessed, in addition to a moderate benefice, an independent
fortune in right of his wife, who was the only child of a
distinguished naval officer. Both were well connected, well bred,
and well disposed to their fellow creatures. They were blessed with
but one child, the young divine we have mentioned, who promised to
equal his father in all those qualities which had made the Doctor
the delight of his friends, and almost the idol of his
parishioners.
Between Francis Ives and Clara
Moseley, there had been an attachment, which had grown with their
years, from childhood. He had been her companion in their youthful
recreations, had espoused her little quarrels, and participated in
her innocent pleasures, for so many years, and with such an evident
preference for each other in the youthful pair, that, on leaving
college to enter on the studies of his sacred calling with his
father, Francis rightly judged that none other would make his
future life as happy, as the mild, the tender, the unassuming
Clara. Their passion, if so gentle a feeling deserve the term,
received the sanction of their parents, and the two families waited
only for the establishment of the young divine, to perfect the
union.
The retirement of Sir Edward’s
family had been uniform, with the exception of an occasional visit
to an aged uncle of his wife’s, and who, in return, spent much of
his time with them at the Hall, and who had openly declared his
intention of making the children of Lady Moseley his heirs. The
visits of Mr. Benfield were always hailed with joy, and as an event
that called for more than ordinary gaiety; for, although rough in
manner, and somewhat infirm from years, the old bachelor, who was
rather addicted to the customs in which he had indulged in his
youth, and was fond of dwelling on the scenes of former days, was
universally beloved where he was intimately known, for an unbounded
though eccentric philanthropy.
The illness of the mother-in-law
of Mrs. Wilson had called her to Bath the winter preceding the
spring when our history commences, and she had been accompanied
thither by her nephew and favorite niece. John and Emily, during
the month of their residence in that city, were in the practice of
making daily excursions in its environs. It was in one of these
little drives that they were of accidental service to a very young
and very beautiful woman, apparently in low health. They had taken
her up in their carriage, and conveyed her to a farm-house where
she resided, during a faintness which had come over her in a walk;
and her beauty, air, and manner, altogether so different from those
around her, had interested them both to a painful degree. They had
ventured to call the following day to inquire after her welfare,
and this visit led to a slight intercourse, which continued for the
fortnight they remained there.
John had given himself some
trouble to ascertain who she was, but in vain. They could merely
learn that her life was blameless, that she saw no one but
themselves, and her dialect raised a suspicion that she was not
English, It was to this unknown fair Emily alluded in her playful
attempt to stop the heedless rattle of her brother, who was not
always restrained from uttering what he thought by a proper regard
for the feelings of others.
CHAPTER II.
The morning succeeding the day of
the dinner at the Hall, Mrs. Wilson, with all her nieces and her
nephew, availed herself of the fineness of the weather to walk to
the rectory, where they were all in the habit of making informal
and friendly visits. They had just got out of the little village of
B–-, which lay in their route, when a rather handsome travelling
carriage and four passed them, and took the road which led to the
Deanery.
“As I live,” cried John, “there
go our new neighbors the Jarvis’s; yes, yes, that must be the old
merchant muffled up in the corner; I mistook him at first for a
pile of bandboxes; then the rosy-cheeked lady, with so many
feathers, must be the old lady—heaven forgive me, Mrs. Jarvis I
mean—aye, and the two others the belles.”
“You are in a hurry to pronounce
them belles, John,” said Jane, pettishly; “it would be well to see
more of them before you speak so decidedly.”
“Oh!” replied John, “I have seen
enough of them, and”—he was interrupted by the whirling of a
tilbury and tandem followed by a couple of servants on horseback.
All about this vehicle and its masters bore the stamp of decided
fashion; and our party had followed it with their eyes for a short
distance, when, having reached a fork in the roads, it stopped, and
evidently waited the coming up of the pedestrians, as if to make an
inquiry. A single glance of the eye was sufficient to apprise the
gentleman on the cushion (who held the reins) of the kind of people
he had to deal with, and stepping from his carriage, he met them
with a graceful bow, and after handsomely apologizing for the
trouble he was giving, he desired to know which road led to the
Deanery. “The right,” replied John, returning his salutation.
“Ask them, Colonel,” cried the
charioteer, “whether the old gentleman went right or not.”
The Colonel, in the manner of a
perfect gentleman, but with a look of compassion for his
companion’s want of tact, made the desired inquiry; which being
satisfactorily answered, he again bowed and was retiring, as one of
several pointers who followed the cavalcade sprang upon Jane, and
soiled her walking dress with his dirty feet.
“Come hither, Dido,” cried the
Colonel, hastening to beat the dog back from the young lady; and
again he apologized in the same collected and handsome manner, then
turning to one of the servants, he said, “call in the dog, sir,”
and rejoined his companion. The air of this gentleman was
peculiarly pleasant; it would not have been difficult to pronounce
him a soldier had he not been addressed as such by his younger and
certainly less polished companion. The Colonel was apparently about
thirty, and of extremely handsome face and figure, while his
driving friend appeared several years younger, and of altogether
different materials.
“I wonder,” said Jane, as they
turned a corner which hid them from view, “who they are?”
“Who they are?” cried the
brother, “why the Jarvis’s to be sure; didn’t you hear them ask the
road to the Deanery?
“Oh! the one that drove, he may
be a Jarvis, but not the gentleman who spoke to us—
surely not, John; besides, he was
called Colonel, you know.”
“Yes, yes,” said John, with one
of his quizzing expressions, “Colonel Jarvis, that must be the
alderman; they are commonly colonels of city volunteers: yes, that
must have been the old gem’mun who spoke to us, and I was right
after all about the bandboxes.”
“You forget,” said Clara,
smiling, “the polite inquiry concerning the old gem’mun.”
“Ah! true; who the deuce can this
Colonel be then, for young Jarvis is only a captain, I know; who do
you think he is, Jane?”
“How do you think I can tell you,
John? But whoever he is, he owns the tilbury, although he did not
drive it; and he is a gentleman both by birth and manners.”
“Why, Jane, if you know so much
of him, you should know more; but it is all guess with you.”
“No; it is not guess—I am certain
of what I say.”
The aunt and sisters, who had
taken little interest in the dialogue, looked at her with some
surprise, which John observing, he exclaimed, “Poh: she knows no
more than we all know.”
“Indeed I do.”
“Poh, poh, if you know, tell.”
“Why, the arms were different.”
John laughed as he said, “That is
a good reason, sure enough, for the tilbury’s being the colonel’s
property; but now for his blood; how did you discover that, sis—by
his gait and actions, as we say of horses?”
Jane colored a little, and
laughed faintly. “The arms on the tilbury had six
quarterings.”
Emily now laughed, and Mrs.
Wilson and Clara smiled while John continued his teazing until they
reached the rectory.
While chatting with the doctor
and his wife, Francis returned from his morning ride, and told them
the Jarvis family had arrived; he had witnessed an unpleasant
accident to a gig, in which were Captain Jarvis, and a friend, a
Colonel Egerton; it had been awkwardly driven in turning into the
Deanery gate, and upset: the colonel received some injury to his
ankle, nothing, however, serious he hoped, but such as to put him
under the care of the young ladies, probably, for a few days. After
the exclamations which usually follow such details, Jane ventured
to inquire who Colonel Egerton was.
“I understood at the time, from
one of the servants, that he is a nephew of Sir Edgar Egerton, and
a lieutenant-colonel on half-pay, or furlough, or some such
thing.”
“How did he bear his misfortune,
Mr. Francis?” inquired Mrs. Wilson.
“Certainly as a gentleman, madam,
if not as a Christian,” replied the young clergyman, slily smiling;
“indeed, most men of gallantry would, I believe, rejoice in an
accident which drew forth so much sympathy as both the Miss
Jarvis’s manifested.”
“How fortunate you should all
happen to be near!” said the tender-hearted Clara.
“Are the young ladies pretty?”
asked Jane, with something of hesitation in her manner.
“Why, I rather think they are;
but I took very little notice of their appearance, as the colonel
was really in evident pain.”
“This, then,” cried the doctor,
“affords me an additional excuse for calling on them at an early
day, so I’ll e’en go to-morrow.”
“I trust Doctor Ives wants no
apologies for performing his duty,” said Mrs. Wilson.
“He is fond of making them,
though,” said Mrs. Ives, speaking with a benevolent smile, and for
the first time in the little conversation.
It was then arranged that the
rector should make his official visit, as intended by himself; and
on his report, the ladies would act. After remaining at the rectory
an hour, they returned to the hall, attended by Francis.
The next day the doctor drove in,
and informed them the Jarvis family were happily settled, and the
colonel in no danger, excepting from the fascinations of the two
young ladies, who took such palpable care of him that he wanted for
nothing, and they might drive over whenever they pleased, without
fear of intruding unseasonably.
Mr. Jarvis received his guests
with the frankness of good feelings, if not with the polish of high
life; while his wife, who seldom thought of the former, would have
been mortally offended with the person who could have suggested
that she omitted any of the elegancies of the latter. Her daughters
were rather pretty, but wanted, both in appearance and manner, the
inexpressible air of haut ton which so eminently distinguished the
easy but polished deportment of Colonel Egerton, whom they found
reclining on a sofa with his leg on a chair, amply secured in
numerous bandages, but unable to rise. Notwithstanding the
awkwardness of his situation, he was by far the least discomposed
person of the party, and having pleasantly excused himself, he
appeared to think no more of the matter.
The captain, Mrs. Jarvis
remarked, had gone out with his dogs to try the grounds around
them, “for he seems to live only with his horses and his gun: young
men, my lady, nowadays, appear to forget that there are any things
in the world but themselves; now I told Harry that your ladyship
and daughters would favor us with a call this morning—but no: there
he went, as if Mr. Jarvis was unable to buy us a dinner, and we
should all starve but for his quails and pheasants.”
“Quails and pheasants,” cried
John, in consternation, “does Captain Jarvis shoot quails and
pheasants at this time of the year?”
“Mrs. Jarvis, sir,” said Colonel
Egerton, with a correcting smile, “understands the allegiance due
from us gentlemen to the ladies, better than the rules of sporting;
my friend, the captain, has taken his fishing rod, I
believe.”
“It is all one, fish or birds,”
continued Mrs. Jarvis, “he is out of the way when he is wanted, and
I believe we can buy fish as easily as birds; I wish he would take
pattern after yourself, colonel, in these matters.”
Colonel Egerton laughed
pleasantly, but he did not blush; and Miss Jarvis observed, with a
look, of something like admiration thrown on his reclining figure,
“that when Harry had been in the army as long as his friend, he
would know the usages of good society, she
hoped, as well.”
“Yes,” said her mother, “the army
is certainly the place to polish a young man;” and turning to Mrs.
Wilson, she abruptly added, “Your husband, I believe, was in the
army, ma’am?”
“I hope,” said Emily hastily,
“that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you soon, Miss Jarvis,
at the Hall,” preventing by her promptitude the necessity of a
reply from her aunt. The young lady promised to make an early
visit, and the subject changed to a general and uninteresting
discourse on the neighborhood, the country, the weather, and other
ordinary topics.
“Now, John,” cried Jane in
triumph, as they drove from the door, “you must acknowledge my
heraldic witchcraft, as you are pleased to call it, is right for
once at least.”
“Oh! no doubt, Jenny,” said John,
who was accustomed to use that appellation to her as a provocation,
when he wished what he called an enlivening scene; but Mrs. Wilson
put a damper on his hopes by a remark to his mother, and the
habitual respect of both the combatants kept them silent.
Jane Moseley was endowed by
nature with an excellent understanding, one at least equal to that
of her brother, but the wanted the more essential requisites of a
well governed mind. Masters had been provided by Sir Edward for all
his daughters, and if they were not acquainted with the usual
acquirements of young women in their rank of life, it was not his
fault: his system of economy had not embraced a denial of
opportunity to any of his children, and the baronet was apt to
think all was done, when they were put where all might be done.
Feeling herself and parents entitled to enter into all the gaieties
and splendors of some of the richer families in their vicinity,
Jane, who had grown up during the temporary eclipse of Sir Edward’s
fortunes, had sought that self-consolation so common to people in
her situation, which was to be found in reviewing the former
grandeur of her house, and she had thus contracted a degree of
family pride. If Clara’s weaknesses were less striking than those
of Jane, it was because she had less imagination, and because that
in loving Francis Ives she had so long admired a character, where
so little was to be found that could be censured, that she might be
said to have contracted a habit of judging correctly, without being
able at all times to give a reason for her conduct or her
opinions.
CHAPTER III.
The day fixed for one of the
stated visits of Mr. Benfield had now arrived, and John, with
Emily, who was the old bachelor’s favorite niece, went in the
baronet’s post-chaise to the town of F–-, a distance of twenty
miles, to meet him, in order to accompany him in the remainder of
his journey to the Hall, it being a settled rule with the old man,
that his carriage horses should return to their own stables every
night, where he imagined they could alone find that comfort and
care to which their age and services gave them a claim. The day was
uncommonly pleasant, and the young people were in high spirits with
the expectation of meeting their respected relative, whose absence
had been prolonged a few days by a severe fit of the gout.
“Now, Emily,” cried John, as he
settled himself comfortably by the side of his sister in the
chaise, “let me know honestly how you like the Jarvis’s, and
particularly how you like the handsome colonel.”
“Then, John, honestly, I neither
like nor dislike the Jarvis’s or the handsome colonel.” “Well,
then, there is no great diversity in our sentiments, as Jane would
say.”
“John!”
“Emily!”
“I do not like to hear you speak
so disrespectfully of out sister, whom I am sure you love as
tenderly as I do myself.”
“I acknowledge my error,” said
the brother, taking her hand and affectionately kissing it, “and
will endeavor to offend no more; but this Colonel Egerton, sister,
is certainly a gentleman, both by blood and in manners, as
Jane”—Emily interrupted him with a laugh, which John took very
good-naturedly, repeating his remark without alluding to their
sister.
“Yes,” said Emily, “he is genteel
in his deportment, if that be what you mean; I know nothing of his
family.”
“Oh, I have taken a peep into
Jane’s Baronetage, where find him set down as Sir Edgar’s
heir.”
“There is something about him,”
said Emily, musing, “that I do not much admire; he is too
easy—there is no nature; I always feel afraid such people will
laugh at me as soon as my back is turned, and for those very things
they seem most to admire to my face. If I might be allowed to
judge, I should say his manner wants one thing, without which no
one can be truly agreeable.”
“What’s that?” “Sincerity.”
“Ah! that’s my great
recommendation; but I am afraid I shall have to take the poacher
up, with his quails and his pheasants, indeed.”
“You know the colonel explained
that to be a mistake.”
“What they call explaining away;
but unluckily I saw the gentleman returning with his gun on his
shoulder, and followed by a brace of pointers.”
“There’s a specimen of the
colonel’s manners then,” said Emily, smiling; “it will do until the
truth be known.”
“And Jane, when she saw him also,
praised his good nature and consideration, in what she was pleased
to call relieving the awkwardness of my remark.”
Emily finding her brother
disposed to dwell on the foibles of Jane, a thing he was rather
addicted to at times, was silent. They rode some distance before
John, who was ever as ready to atone as he was to offend, again
apologized, again promised reformation, and during the remainder of
the ride only forgot himself twice more in the same way.
They reached F–- two hours before
the lumbering coach of their uncle drove into the yard of the inn,
and had sufficient time to refresh their own horses for the journey
homewards.
Mr. Benfield was a bachelor of
eighty, but retained the personal activity of a man of sixty. He
was strongly attached to all the fashions and opinions of his
youth, during which he had sat one term in parliament, having been
a great beau and courtier in the commencement of the reign. A
disappointment in an affair of the heart drove him into retirement;
and for the last fifty years he had dwelt exclusively at a seat he
owned within forty miles of Moseley Hall, the mistress of which was
the only child of his only brother. In figure, he was tall and
spare, very erect for his years, and he faithfully preserved in his
attire, servants, carriages, and indeed everything around him, as
much of the fashions of his youth as circumstances would allow:
such then was a faint outline of the character and appearance of
the old man, who, dressed in a cocked hat, bag wig, and sword, took
the offered arm of John Moseley to alight from his coach.
“So,” cried the old gentleman,
having made good his footing on the ground, as he stopped short and
stared John in the face, “you have made out to come twenty miles to
meet an old cynic, have you, sir? but I thought I bid thee bring
Emmy with thee.”
John pointed to the window, where
his sister stood anxiously watching her uncle’s movements. On
catching her eye, he smiled kindly, and pursued his way into the
house, talking to himself.
“Aye, there she is indeed; I
remember now, when I was a youngster, of going with my kinsman, old
Lord Gosford, to meet his sister, the Lady Juliana, when she first
came from school (this was the lady whose infidelity had driven him
from the world); and a beauty she was indeed, something like Emmy
there; only she was taller, and her eyes were black, and her hair
too, that was black; and she was not so fair as Emmy, and she was
fatter, and she stooped a little—very little; oh! they are
wonderfully alike though; don’t you think they were, nephew?” he
stopped at the door of the room; while John, who in this
description could not see a resemblance, which existed nowhere but
in the old man’s affections, was fain to say, “yes; but they were
related, you know, uncle, and that explains the likeness.”
“True, boy, true,” said his
uncle, pleased at a reason for a thing he wished, and which
flattered his propensities. He had once before told Emily she put
him in mind of his housekeeper, a woman as old as himself, and
without a tooth in her head.
On meeting his niece, Mr.
Benfield (who, like many others that feel strongly, wore in common
the affectation of indifference and displeasure) yielded to his
fondness, and folding her in his arms, kissed her affectionately,
while a tear glistened in his eye; and then pushing her gently from
him, he exclaimed, “Come, come, Emmy, don’t strangle me, don’t
strangle me, girl; let me live in peace the little while I have to
remain here—so,” seating himself composedly in an arm chair his
niece had placed for him with a cushion, “so Anne writes me, Sir
William Harris has let the deanery.”
“Oh, yes, uncle,” cried
John.
“I’ll thank you, young
gentleman,” said Mr. Benfield, sternly, “not to interrupt me when I
am speaking to a lady that is, if you please, sir. Then Sir William
has let the deanery to a London merchant, a Mr. Jarvis. Now I knew
three people of that name; one was a hackney coachman, when I was a
member of the parliament of this realm, and drove me often to the
house; the other was valet-de-chambre to my Lord Gosford; and the
third, I take it, is the very man who has become your neighbor. If
it be the person I mean, Emmy dear, he is like—like—aye, very like
old Peter, my steward.”
John, unable to contain his mirth
at this discovery of a likeness between the prototype of Mr.
Benfield himself in leanness of figure, and the jolly rotundity of
the merchant, was obliged to leave the room; Emily, though she
could not forbear smiling at the comparison, quietly said, “You
will meet him to-morrow, dear uncle, and then you will be able to
judge for yourself.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered the old man,
“very like old Peter, my steward; as like as two peas.” The
parallel was by no means as ridiculous as might be supposed; its
history being as follows:
Mr. Benfield had placed twenty
thousand pounds in the hands of a broker, with positive orders for
him to pay it away immediately for government stock, bought by the
former on his account; but disregarding this injunction, the broker
had managed the transaction in such a way as to postpone the
payment, until, on his failure, he had given up that and a much
larger sum to Mr. Jarvis, to satisfy what he called an honorary
debt. In elucidating the transaction Mr. Jarvis paid Benfield Lodge
a visit, and honestly restored the bachelor his property. This act,
and the high opinion he entertained of Mrs. Wilson, with his
unbounded love for Emily, were the few things which prevented his
believing some dreadful judgment was about to visit this world, for
its increasing wickedness and follies. As his own steward was one
of the honestest fellows living, he had ever after fancied that
there was a personal resemblance between him and the conscientious
merchant.
The horses being ready, the old
bachelor was placed carefully between his nephew and niece, and in
that manner they rode on quietly to the Hall, the dread of accident
keeping Mr. Benfield silent most of the way. On passing, however a
stately castle, about ten miles from the termination of their ride,
he began one of his speeches with,
“Emmy, dear, does Lord Bolton
come often to see you?”
“Very seldom, sir; his employment
keeps him much of his time at St. James’s, and then he has an
estate in Ireland.”
“I knew his father well—he was
distantly connected by marriage with my friend Lord
Gosford; you could not remember
him, I suspect” (John rolled his eyes at this suggestion of his
sister’s recollection of a man who had been forty years dead); “he
always voted with me in the parliament of this realm; he was a
thoroughly honest man; very much such a man to look at as Peter
Johnson, my steward: but I am told his son likes the good things of
the ministry; well, well, William Pitt was the only minister to my
mind. There was the Scotchman of whom they made a Marquis; I never
could endure him—always voted against him.”
“Right or wrong, uncle,” cried
John, who loved a little mischief in his heart.
“No, sir—right, but never wrong.
Lord Gosford always voted against him too; and do you think,
jackanapes, that my friend the Earl of Gosford and—and—myself were
ever wrong? No, sir, men in my day were different creatures from
what they are now: we were never wrong, sir; we loved our country,
and had no motive for being in the wrong.”
“How was it with Lord Bute,
uncle?”
“Lord Bute, sir,” cried the old
man with great warmth, “was the minister, sir—he was the minister;
aye, he was the minister, sir, and was paid for what he did.”
“But Lord Chatham, was he not the
minister too?”
Now, nothing vexed the old
gentleman more than to hear William Pitt called by his tardy
honors; and yet, unwilling to give up what he thought his political
opinions, he exclaimed, with an unanswerable positiveness of
argument,
“Billy Pitt, sir, was the
minister, sir; but—but—but—he was our minister, sir.”
Emily, unable to see her uncle
agitated by such useless disputes, threw a reproachful glance on
her brother, as she observed timidly,
“That was a glorious
administration, sir, I believe.”
“Glorious indeed! Emmy dear,”
said the bachelor, softening with the sound of her voice, and the
recollections of his younger days, “we beat the French
everywhere—in America— in Germany;—we took—(counting on his
fingers)—we took Quebec—yes, Lord Gosford lost a cousin there; and
we took all the Canadas; and we took their fleets: there was a
young man killed in the battle between Hawke and Conflans, who was
much attached to Lady Juliana—poor soul! how much she regretted him
when dead, though she never could abide him when living—ah! she was
a tender-hearted creature!”
Mr. Benfield, like many others,
continued to love imaginary qualities in his mistress, long after
her heartless coquetry had disgusted him with her person: a kind of
feeling which springs from self-love, which finds it necessary to
seek consolation in creating beauties, that may justify our follies
to ourselves; and which often keeps alive the semblance of the
passion, when even hope, or real admiration, is extinct.
On reaching the Hall, every one
was rejoiced to see their really affectionate and worthy relative,
and the evening passed in the tranquil enjoyment of the blessings
which Providence had profusely scattered around the family of the
baronet, but which are too often hazarded by a neglect of duty that
springs from too great security, or an indolence which renders us
averse to the precaution necessary to insure their
continuance.
CHAPTER IV.
“You are welcome, Sir Edward,”
said the venerable rector, as he took the baronet by the hand; “I
was fearful a return of your rheumatism would deprive us of this
pleasure, and prevent my making you acquainted with the new
occupants of the deanery, who have consented to dine with us
to-day, and to whom I have promised, in particular, an introduction
to Sir Edward Moseley.”
“I thank you, my dear doctor,”
rejoined the baronet; “I have not only come myself, but have
persuaded Mr. Benfield to make one of the party; there he comes,
leaning on Emily’s arm, and finding fault with Mrs. Wilson’s
new-fashioned barouche, which he says has given him cold.”
The rector received the
unexpected guest with the kindness of his nature, and an inward
smile at the incongruous assemblage he was likely to have around
him by the arrival of the Jarvis’s, who, at that moment, drove to
his door. The introductions between the baronet and the new comers
had passed, and Miss Jarvis had made a prettily worded apology on
behalf of the colonel, who was not yet well enough to come out, but
whose politeness had insisted on their not remaining a home on his
account, as Mr. Benfield, having composedly put on his spectacles,
walked deliberately up to the place where the merchant had seated
himself, and having examined him through his glasses to his
satisfaction, took them off, and carefully wiping them, he began to
talk to himself as he put them into his pocket—“No, no; it’s not
Jack, the hackney coachman, nor my Lord Gosford’s gentleman,
but”—cordially holding out both hands, “it’s the man who saved my
twenty thousand pounds.”
Mr. Jarvis, whom shame and
embarrassment had kept silent during this examination, exchanged
greetings sincerely with his old acquaintance, who now took a seat
in silence by his side; while his wife, whose face had begun to
kindle with indignation at the commencement of the old gentleman’s
soliloquy, observing that somehow or other it had not only
terminated without degradation to her spouse, but with something
like credit, turned complacently to Mrs. Ives, with an apology for
the absence of her son.
“I cannot divine, ma’am, where he
has got to; he is ever keeping us waiting for him;” and, addressing
Jane, “these military men become so unsettled in their habits, that
I often tell Harry he should never quit the camp.”
“In Hyde Park, you should add, my
dear, for he has never been in any other,” bluntly observed her
husband.
To this speech no reply was made,
but it was evidently little relished by the ladies of the family,
who were a good deal jealous of the laurels of the only hero their
race had ever produced. The arrival and introduction of the captain
himself changed the discourse, which turned on the comforts of
their present residence.
“Pray, my lady,” cried the
captain, who had taken a chair familiarly by the side of the
baronet’s wife, “why is the house called the deanery? I am afraid I
shall be taken for a son of the church, when I invite my friends to
visit my father at the deanery.”
“But you may add, at the same
time, sir, if you please,” dryly remarked Mr. Jarvis, “that it is
occupied by an old man, who has been preaching and lecturing all
his life; and, like others of the trade, I believe, in vain.”
“You must except our good friend,
the doctor here, at least, sir,” said Mrs. Wilson; who, observing
that her sister shrank from a familiarity she was unused to, took
upon herself the office of replying to the captain’s question: “The
father of the present Sir William Harris held that station in the
church, and although the house was his private property it took its
name from the circumstance, which has been continued ever
since.”
“Is it not a droll life Sir
William leads,” cried Miss Jarvis, looking at John Moseley, “riding
about all summer from one watering-place to another, and letting
his house year after year in the manner he does?”
“Sir William,” said Dr. Ives,
gravely, “is devoted to his daughter’s wishes; and since his
accession to his title, has come into possession of another
residence in an adjoining county, which, I believe, he retains in
his own hands.”
“Are you acquainted with Miss
Harris?” continued the lady, addressing herself to Clara; though,
without waiting for an answer, she added, “She is a great belle—all
the gentlemen are dying for her.”
“Or her fortune,” said her
sister, with a pretty toss of the head; “for my part, I never could
see anything so captivating in her, although so much is said about
her at Bath and Brighton.”
“You know her then,” mildly
observed Clara.
“Why, I cannot say—we are exactly
acquainted,” the young lady hesitatingly answered, coloring
violently.
“What do you mean by exactly
acquainted, Sally?” put in the father with a laugh; “did you ever
speak to or were you ever in a room with her, in your life, unless
it might be at a concert or a ball?”
The mortification of Miss Sarah
was too evident for concealment, and it happily was relieved by a
summons to dinner.
“Never, my dear child,” said Mrs.
Wilson to Emily, the aunt being fond of introducing a moral from
the occasional incidents of every-day life, “never subject yourself
to a similar mortification, by commenting on the characters of
those you don’t know: ignorance makes you liable to great errors;
and if they should happen to be above you in life, it will only
excite their contempt, should it reach their ears, while those to
whom your remarks are made will think it envy.”
“Truth is sometimes blundered
on,” whispered John, who held his sister’s arm, waiting for his
aunt to precede them to the dining-room.
The merchant paid too great a
compliment to the rector’s dinner to think of renewing the
disagreeable conversation, and as John Moseley and the young
clergyman were seated next the two ladies, they soon forgot what,
among themselves, they would call their father’s rudeness, in
receiving the attentions of a couple of remarkably agreeable young
men.
“Pray, Mr. Francis, when do you
preach for us?” asked Mr. Haughton; “I’m very anxious to hear you
hold forth from the pulpit, where I have so often heard your father
with pleasure: I doubt not you will prove orthodox, or you will be
the only man, I believe, in the congregation, the rector has left
in ignorance of the theory of our religion, at least.”
The doctor bowed to the
compliment, as he replied to the question for his son, that on the
next Sunday they were to have the pleasure of hearing Frank, who
had promised to assist him on that day.
“Any prospects of a living soon?”
continued Mr. Haughton, helping himself bountifully to a piece of
plum pudding as he spoke. John Moseley laughed aloud, and Clara
blushed to the eyes, while the doctor, turning to Sir Edward,
observed with an air of interest, “Sir Edward, the living of Bolton
is vacant, and I should like exceedingly to obtain it for my son.
The advowson belongs to the Earl, who will dispose of it only to
great interest, I am afraid.”
Clara was certainly, too busily
occupied in picking raisins from her pudding to hear this remark,
but accidentally stole, from under her long eyelashes, a timid
glance at her father as he replied:
“I am sorry, my friend, I have
not sufficient interest with his lordship to apply on my own
account; but he is so seldom here, we are barely acquainted;” and
the good baronet looked really concerned.
“Clara,” said Francis Ives in a
low and affectionate tone, “have you read the books I sent
you?”
Clara answered him with a smile
in the negative, but promised amendment as soon as she had
leisure.
“Do you ride much, on horseback,
Mr. Moseley?” abruptly asked Miss Sarah, turning her back on the
young divine, and facing the gentleman she addressed. John, who was
now hemmed in between the sisters, replied with a rueful expression
that brought a smile into the face of Emily, who was placed
opposite to him—
“Yes, ma’am, and sometimes I am
ridden.” “Ridden, sir, what do you mean by that?”
“Oh! only my aunt there
occasionally gives me a lecture.”
“I understand,” said the lady,
pointing slily with her finger at her own father.
“Does it feel good?” John
inquired, with a look of, great sympathy. But the lady, who now
felt awkwardly, without knowing exactly why, shook her head in
silence, and forced a faint laugh.
“Whom have we here?” cried
Captain Jarvis, who was looking out at a window which commanded a
view of the approach to the house—“the apothecary and his attendant
judging from the equipage.”
The rector threw an inquiring
look on a servant, who told his master they were strangers to
him.
“Have them shown up, doctor,”
cried the benevolent baronet, who loved to see every one
as happy as himself, “and give
them some of your excellent pasty, for the sake of hospitality and
the credit of your cook, I beg of you.”
As this request was politely
seconded by others of the party, the rector ordered his servants to
show in the strangers.
On opening the parlor door, a
gentleman, apparently sixty years of age, appeared, leaning on the
arm of a youth of five-and-twenty. There was sufficient resemblance
between the two for the most indifferent observer to pronounce them
father and son; but the helpless debility and emaciated figure of
the former, were finely contrasted by the vigorous health and manly
beauty of the latter, who supported his venerable parent into the
room with a grace and tenderness that struck most of the beholders
with a sensation of pleasure. The doctor and Mrs. Ives rose from
their seats involuntarily, and each stood for a moment, lost in an
astonishment that was mingled with grief. Recollecting himself, the
rector grasped the extended hand of the senior in both his own, and
endeavored to utter something, but in vain. The tears followed each
other down his cheeks, as he looked on the faded and careworn
figure which stood before him; while his wife, unable to control
her feelings, sank back into a chair and wept aloud.
Throwing open the door of an
adjoining room, and retaining the hand of the invalid, the doctor
gently led the way, followed by his wife and son. The former,
having recovered from the first burst of her sorrow, and regardless
of everything else, now anxiously watched the enfeebled step of the
stranger. On reaching the door, they both turned and bowed to the
company in a manner of so much dignity, mingled with sweetness,
that all, not excepting Mr. Benfield, rose from their seats to
return the salutation. On passing from the dining parlor, the door
was closed, leaving the company standing round the table in mute
astonishment and commiseration. Not a word had been spoken, and the
rector’s family had left them without apology or explanation.
Francis, however soon returned, and was followed in a few minutes
by his mother, who, slightly apologizing for her absence, turned
the discourse on the approaching Sunday, and the intention of
Francis to preach on that day. The Moseleys were too well bred to
make any inquiries, and the deanery family was afraid. Sir Edward
retired at a very early hour, and was followed by the remainder of
the party.
“Well,” cried Mrs. Jarvis, as
they drove from the door, “this may be good breeding, but, for my
part, I think both the doctor and Mrs. Ives behaved very rudely,
with the crying and sobbing.”
“They are nobody of much
consequence,” cried her eldest daughter, casting a contemptuous
glance on a plain travelling chaise which stood before the rector’s
stables.
“‘Twas sickening,” said Miss
Sarah, with a shrug; while her father, turning his eyes on each
speaker in succession, very deliberately helped himself to a pinch
of snuff, his ordinary recourse against a family quarrel. The
curiosity of the ladies was, however, more lively than they chose
to avow and Mrs. Jarvis bade her maid go over to the rectory that
evening, with her compliments to Mrs. Ives; she had lost a lace
veil, which her maid knew, and she thought it might have been left
at the rectory.
“And, Jones, when you are there,
you can inquire of the servants; mind, of the servants—I would not
distress Mrs. Ives for the world; how Mr.—Mr.—what’s his
name—Oh!—I
have forgotten his name; just
bring me his name too, Jones; and, as it may make some difference
in our party, just find out how long they stay; and—and– any other
little thing, Jones, which can be of use, you know.”
Off went Jones, and within an
hour she had returned. With an important look, she commenced her
narrative, the daughters being accidentally present, and it might
be on purpose.
“Why, ma’am, I went across the
fields, and William was good enough to go with me; so when we got
there, I rang, and they showed us into the servants’ room, and I
gave my message, and the veil was not there. Why, ma’am, there’s
the veil now, on the back o’ that chair.”
“Very well, very well, Jones,
never mind the veil,” cried the impatient mistress.
“So, ma’am, while they were
looking for the veil, I just asked one of the maids, what company
had arrived, but”—(here Jones looked very suspicious, and shook her
head ominously:) “would you think it, ma’am, not a soul of them
knew! But, ma’am, there was the doctor and his son, praying and
reading with the old gentleman the whole time— and”—
“And what, Jones?”
“Why, ma’am, I expect he has been
a great sinner, or he wouldn’t want so much praying just as he is
about to die.”
“Die!” cried all three at once:
“will he die?”
“O yes,” continued Jones, “they
all agree he must die; but this praying so much, is just like the
criminals. I’m sure no honest person needs so much praying,
ma’am.”
“No, indeed,” said the mother.
“No, indeed,” responded the daughters, as they retired to their
several rooms for the night.
CHAPTER V.
There is something in the season
of Spring which peculiarly excites the feelings of devotion. The
dreariness of winter has passed, and with it, the deadened
affections of our nature. New life, new vigor, arises within us, as
we walk abroad and feel the genial gales of April breathe upon us;
and our hopes, our wishes, awaken with the revival of the vegetable
world. It is then that the heart, which has been impressed with the
goodness of the Creator, feels that goodness brought, as it were,
into very contact with the senses. The eye loves to wander over the
bountiful provisions nature is throwing forth in every direction
for our comfort, and fixes its gaze on the clouds, which, having
lost the chilling thinness of winter, roll in rich volumes, amidst
the clear and softened fields of azure so peculiar to the season,
leading the mind insensibly, to dwell on the things of another and
a better world. It was on such a day, that the inhabitants of B–-
thronged toward the village church, for the double purpose of
pouring out their thanksgivings, and of hearing the first efforts
of their rector’s son in the duties of his sacred calling.
Amongst the crowd whom curiosity
or a better feeling had drawn forth, were to be seen the flaring
equipage of the Jarvises, and the handsome carriages of Sir Edward
Moseley and his sister. All the members of the latter family felt a
lively anxiety for the success of the young divine. But knowing, as
they well did, the strength of his native talents, the excellence
of his education, and the fervor of his piety, it was an anxiety
that partook more of hope than of fear. There was one heart,
however, amongst them, that palpitated with an emotion that hardly
admitted of control, as they approached the sacred edifice, for it
had identified itself completely with the welfare of the rector’s
son. There never was a softer, truer heart, than that which now
almost audibly beat within the bosom of Clara Moseley; and she had
given it to the young divine with all its purity and truth.
The entrance of a congregation
into the sanctuary will at all times furnish, to an attentive
observer, food for much useful speculation, if it be chastened with
a proper charity for the weaknesses of others; and most people are
ignorant of the insight they are giving into their characters and
dispositions, by such an apparently trivial circumstance as their
weekly approach to the tabernacles of the Lord. Christianity, while
it chastens and amends the heart, leaves the natural powers
unaltered; and it cannot be doubted that its operation is, or ought
to be, proportionate to the abilities and opportunities of the
subject of its holy impression—“Unto whomsoever much is given, much
will be required.” While we acknowledge, that the thoughts might be
better employed in preparing for those humiliations of the spirit
and thanksgiving of the heart which are required of all, and are so
necessary to all, we must be indulged in a hasty view of some of
the personages of our history, as they entered the church of
B–-.
On the countenance of the
baronet, was the dignity and composure of a mind at peace with
itself and mankind. His step was rather more deliberate than
common; his eye rested on the pavement, and on turning into his
pew, as he prepared to kneel, in the first humble petition of our
beautiful service, he raised it towards the altar with an
expression of benevolence and reverence, that spoke contentment,
not unmixed with faith.
In the demeanor of Lady Moseley,
all was graceful and decent, while nothing could be
properly said to be studied. She
followed her husband with a step of equal deliberation, though it
was slightly varied by a manner which, while it appeared natural to
herself, might have been artificial in another: a cambric
handkerchief concealed her face as she sank composedly by the side
of Sir Edward, in a style which showed, that while she remembered
her Maker, she had not entirely forgotten herself.
The walk of Mrs. Wilson was
quicker than that of her sister. Her eye, directed before her, was
fixed, as if in settled gaze, on that eternity which she was
approaching. The lines of her contemplative face were unaltered,
unless there might be traced a deeper shade of humility than was
ordinarily seen on her pale, but expressive countenance: her
petition was long; and on rising from her humble posture, the
person was indeed to be seen, but the soul appeared absorbed in
contemplations beyond the limits of this sphere.
There was a restlessness and
varying of color, in the ordinarily placid Clara, which prevented a
display of her usual manner; while Jane walked gracefully, and with
a tincture of her mother’s manner, by her side. She stole one
hastily withdrawn glance to the deanery pew ere she kneeled, and
then, on rising, handed her smelling-bottle affectionately to her
elder sister.
Emily glided behind her
companions with a face beaming with a look of innocence and love.
As she sank in the act of supplication, the rich glow of her
healthful cheek lost some of its brilliancy; but, on rising, it
beamed with a renewed lustre, that plainly indicated a heart
touched with the sanctity of its situation.
In the composed and sedate manner
of Mr. Jarvis, as he steadily pursued his way to the pew of Sir
William Harris, you might have been justified in expecting the
entrance of another Sir Edward Moseley in substance, if not in
externals. But the deliberate separation of the flaps of his coat,
as he comfortably seated himself, when you thought him about to
kneel, followed by a pinch of snuff as he threw his eye around the
building, led you at once to conjecture, that what at first had
been mistaken for reverence, was the abstraction of some earthly
calculation; and that his attendance was in compliance with custom,
and not a little depended upon the thickness of his cushions, and
the room he found for the disposition of two rather unwieldy
legs.
The ladies of the family
followed, in garments carefully selected for the advantageous
display of their persons. As they sailed into their seats, where it
would seem the improvidence of Sir William’s steward had neglected
some important accommodation (some time being spent in preparation
to be seated), the old lady, whose size and flesh really put
kneeling out of the question, bent forward for a moment at an angle
of eighty with the horizon, while her daughters prettily bowed
their heads, with all proper precaution for the safety of their
superb millinery.
At length the rector, accompanied
by his son, appeared from the vestry. There was a dignity and
solemnity in the manner in which this pious divine entered on the
duties of his profession, which disposed the heart to listen with
reverence and humility to precepts that were accompanied with so
impressive an exterior. The stillness of expectation pervaded the
church, when the pew opener led the way to the same interesting
father and son whose entrance had interrupted the guests the
preceding day, at the rectory. Every eye was turned on the
emaciated parent, bending into the grave, and, as it were, kept
from it by the
supporting tenderness of his
child. Hastily throwing open the door of her own pew, Mrs. Ives
buried her face in her handkerchief; and her husband had proceeded
far in the morning service before she raised it again to the view
of the congregation. In the voice of the rector, there was an
unusual softness and tremor that his people attributed to the
feelings of a father about to witness the first efforts of an only
child, but which in reality were owing to another and a deeper
cause.
Prayers were ended, and the
younger Ives ascended the pulpit. For a moment he paused; when,
casting an anxious glance to the pew of the baronet, he commenced
his sermon. He had chosen for his discourse the necessity of
placing our dependence on divine grace.
After having learnedly, but in
the most unaffected manner, displayed the necessity of this
dependence, as derived from revelation, he proceeded to paint the
hope, the resignation, the felicity of a Christian’s death-bed.
Warmed by the subject, his animation soon lent a heightened
interest to his language; and at a moment when all around him were
entranced by the eloquence of the youthful divine, a sudden and
deep-drawn sigh drew every eye to the rector’s pew. The younger
stranger sat motionless as a statue, holding in his arms the
lifeless body of his parent, who had fallen that moment a corpse by
his side. All was now confusion: the almost insensible young man
was relieved from his burden; and, led by the rector, they left the
church. The congregation dispersed in silence, or assembled in
little groups, to converse on the awful event they had witnessed.
None knew the deceased; he was the rector’s friend, and to his
residence the body was removed. The young man was evidently his
child; but here all information ended. They had arrived in a
private chaise, but with post horses, and without attendants. Their
arrival at the parsonage was detailed by the Jarvis ladies with a
few exaggerations that gave additional interest to the whole event,
and which, by creating an impression with some whom gentler
feelings would not have restrained, that there was something of
mystery about them, prevented many distressing questions to the
Ives’s, that the baronet’s family forbore putting, on the score of
delicacy.
The body left B–- at the close of
the week, accompanied by Francis Ives and the unweariedly attentive
and interesting son. The doctor and his wife went into deep
mourning, and Clara received a short note from her lover, on the
morning of their departure, acquainting her with his intended
absence for a month, but throwing no light upon the affair. The
London papers, however, contained the following obituary notice,
and which, as it could refer to no other person, as a matter of
course, was supposed to allude to the rector’s friend.
“Died, suddenly, at B–-, on the
20th instant, George Denbigh, Esq., aged 63.”
CHAPTER VI.
During the week of mourning, the
intercourse between Moseley Hall and the rectory was confined to
messages and notes of inquiry after each other’s welfare: but the
visit of the Moseleys to the deanery had been returned; and the day
after the appearance of the obituary paragraph, the family of the
latter dined by invitation at the Hall. Colonel Egerton had
recovered the use of his leg, and was included in the party.
Between this gentleman and Mr. Benfield there appeared, from the
first moment of their introduction, a repugnance which was rather
increased by time, and which the old gentleman manifested by a
demeanor loaded with the overstrained ceremony of the day, and
which, in the colonel, only showed itself by avoiding, when
possible, all intercourse with the object of his aversion. Both Sir
Edward and Lady Moseley, on the contrary, were not slow in
manifesting their favorable impressions in behalf of the gentleman.
The latter, in particular, having ascertained to her satisfaction
that he was the undoubted heir to the title, and most probably to
the estates of his uncle, Sir Edgar Egerton, felt herself strongly
disposed to encourage an acquaintance she found so agreeable, and
to which she could see no reasonable objection. Captain Jarvis, who
was extremely offensive to her, from his vulgar familiarity, she
barely tolerated, from the necessity of being civil, and keeping up
sociability in the neighborhood. It is true, she could not help
being surprised that a gentleman, as polished as the colonel, could
find any pleasure in an associate like his friend, or even in the
hardly more softened females of his family; then again, the
flattering suggestion would present itself, that possibly he might
have seen Emily at Bath, or Jane elsewhere, and availed himself of
the acquaintance of young Jarvis to get into their neighborhood.
Lady Moseley had never been vain, or much interested about the
disposal of her own person, previously to her attachment to her
husband: but her daughters called forth not a little of her natural
pride—we had almost said of her selfishness.
The attentions of the colonel
were of the most delicate and insinuating kind; and Mrs. Wilson
several times turned away in displeasure at herself, for listening
with too much satisfaction to nothings, uttered in an agreeable
manner, or, what was worse, false sentiments supported with the
gloss of language and a fascinating deportment. The anxiety of this
lady on behalf of Emily kept her ever on the alert, when chance, or
any chain of circumstances, threw her in the way of forming new
connexions of any kind; and of late, as her charge approached the
period of life her sex were apt to make that choice from which
there is no retreat, her solicitude to examine the characters of
the men who approached her was really painful. As to Lady Moseley,
her wishes disposed her to be easily satisfied, and her mind
naturally shrank from an investigation to which she felt herself
unequal; while Mrs. Wilson was governed by the convictions of a
sound discretion, matured by long and deep reasoning, all acting on
a temper at all times ardent, and a watchfulness calculated to
endure to the end.
“Pray, my lady,” said Mrs.
Jarvis, with a look of something like importance, “have you made
any discovery about this Mr. Denbigh, who died in the church
lately?”
“I did not know, ma’am,” replied
Lady Moseley, “there was any discovery to be made.” “You know, Lady
Moseley,” said Colonel Egerton, “that in town, all the little
accompaniments of such a
melancholy death would have found their way into the prints; and I
suppose this is what Mrs. Jarvis alludes to.”
“Oh yes,” cried Mrs. Jarvis, “the
colonel is right.” But the colonel was always right with that
lady.
Lady Moseley bowed her head with
dignity, and the colonel had too much tact to pursue the
conversation; but the captain, whom nothing had ever yet abashed,
exclaimed,
“These Denbighs could not be
people of much importance—I have never heard the name
before.”
“It is the family name of the
Duke of Derwent, I believe,” dryly remarked Sir Edward.