Lady Chatterton, finding that little was to be expected in her present
situation, excepting what she looked forward to from the varying
admiration of John Moseley to her youngest daughter, determined to
accept an invitation of some standing to a nobleman's seat about fifty
miles from the hall, and, in order to keep things in their proper
places, to leave Grace with her friends, who had expressed a wish to
that effect. Accordingly, the day succeeding the departure of her son,
she proceeded on her expedition, accompanied by her willing assistant in
the matrimonial speculations.
Grace Chatterton was by nature retiring and delicate; but her feelings
were acute, and on the subject of female propriety sensitive to a
degree, that the great want of it in a relation she loved as much as her
mother had possibly in some measure increased. Her affections were too
single in their objects to have left her long in doubt as to their
nature with respect to the baronet's son; and it was one of the most
painful orders she had ever received, that which compelled her to accept
her cousin's invitation. Her mother was peremptory, however, and Grace
was obliged to comply. Every delicate feeling she possessed revolted at
the step: the visit itself was unwished for on her part; but there did
exist a reason which had reconciled her to that--the wedding of Clara.
But now to remain, after all her family had gone, in the house where
resided the man who had as yet never solicited those affections she had
been unable to withhold, it was humiliating--it was degrading her in her
own esteem, and she could scarcely endure it.
It is said that women are fertile in inventions to further their schemes
of personal gratification, vanity, or even mischief. It may be it is
true; but the writer of these pages is a man--one who has seen much of
the other sex, and he is happy to have an opportunity of paying a
tribute to female purity and female truth. That there are hearts so
disinterested as to lose the considerations of self, in advancing the
happiness of those they love; that there are minds so pure as to recoil
with disgust from the admission of deception, indelicacy, or management,
he knows; for he has seen it from long and close examination. He regrets
that the very artlessness of those who are most pure in the one sex,
subjects them to the suspicions of the grosser materials which compose
the other. He believes that innocency, singleness of heart, ardency of
feeling, and unalloyed, shrinking delicacy, sometimes exist in the
female bosom, to an extent that but few men are happy enough to
discover, and that most men believe incompatible with the frailties of
human nature. Grace Chatterton possessed no little of what may almost be
called this ethereal spirit and a visit to Bolton parsonage was
immediately proposed by her to Emily. The latter, too innocent herself
to suspect the motives of her cousin, was happy to be allowed to devote
a fortnight to Clara, uninterrupted by the noisy round of visiting and
congratulations which had attended her first week; and Mrs. Wilson and
the two girls left the hall the same day with the Dowager Lady
Chatterton. Francis and Clara were happy to receive them, and they were
immediately domesticated in their new abode. Doctor Ives and his wife
had postponed an annual visit to a relation of the former on account of
the marriage of their son, and they now availed themselves of this visit
to perform their own engagement. B---- appeared in some measure
deserted, and Egerton had the field almost to himself. Summer had
arrived, and the country bloomed in all its luxuriance of vegetation:
everything was propitious to the indulgence of the softer passions; and
Lady Moseley, ever a strict adherent to forms and decorum, admitted the
intercourse between Jane and her admirer to be carried to as great
lengths as those forms would justify. Still the colonel was not
explicit; and Jane, whose delicacy dreaded the exposure of feelings that
was involved in his declaration, gave or sought no marked opportunities
for the avowal of his passion. Yet they were seldom separate, and both
Sir Edward and his wife looked forward to their future union as a thing
not to be doubted. Lady Moseley had given up her youngest child so
absolutely to the government of her aunt, that she seldom thought of her
future establishment. She had that kind of reposing confidence in Mrs.
Wilson's proceedings that feeble minds ever bestow on those who are much
superior to them; and she even approved of a system in many respects
which she could not endeavor to imitate. Her affection for Emily was
not, however, less than what she felt for her other children: she was,
in fact, her favorite, and, had the discipline of Mrs. Wilson admitted
of so weak an interference, might have been injured as such.
John Moseley had been able to find out exactly the hour they breakfasted
at the deanery, the length of time it took Egerton's horses to go the
distance between that house and the hall; and on the sixth morning after
the departure of his aunt, John's bays were in his phaeton, and allowing
ten minutes for the mile and a half to the park gates, John had got
happily off his own territories, before he met the tilbury travelling
eastward. I am not to know which road the colonel may turn, thought
John: and after a few friendly, but rather hasty greetings, the bays
were again in full trot to the parsonage.
"John," said Emily, holding out her hand affectionately, and smiling a
little archly, as he approached the window where she stood, "you should
take a lesson in driving from Frank; you have turned more than one hair,
I believe."
"How is Clara?" cried John, hastily, taking the offered hand, with a
kiss, "aye, and aunt Wilson?"
"Both well, brother, and out walking this fine morning."
"How happens it you are not with them?" inquired the brother, throwing
his eyes round the room. "Have they left you alone?"
"No Grace has this moment left me."
"Well, Emily," said John, taking his seat very composedly, but keeping
his eyes on the door, "I have come to dine with you. I thought I owed
Clara a visit, and have managed nicely to give the colonel the go-by."
"Clara will be happy to see you, dear John, and so will aunt, and so am
I"--as she drew aside his fine hair with her fingers to cool his
forehead.
"And why not Grace, too?" asked John, with a look of a little alarm.
"And Grace, too, I fancy--but here she is, to answer for herself."
Grace said little on her entrance, but her eyes were brighter than
usual, and she looked so contented and happy that Emily observed to her,
in an affectionate manner--
"I knew the eau-de-Cologne would do your head good."
"Is Miss Chatterton unwell?" asked John, with a look of interest.
"A slight headache," said Grace, faintly, "but I feel much better."
"Want of air and exercise: my horses are at the door; phaeton will hold
three easily; run, sister, for your hat," almost pushing Emily out of
the room as he spoke. In a few minutes the horses might have been
suffering for air, but surely not for exercise.
"I wish," cried John, with impatience, when at the distance of a couple
of miles from the parsonage, "that gentleman had driven his gig out of
the road."
There was a small group on one side of the road, consisting of a man, a
woman, and several children. The owner of the gig had alighted, and was
in the act of speaking to them, as the phaeton approached at a great
rate.
"John," cried Emily, in terror, "You never can pass--you will upset us."
"There is no danger, dear Grace," said the brother, endeavoring to check
his horses; he succeeded in part, but not so as to prevent his passing
at a spot where the road was very narrow; a wheel hit violently against
a stone, and some of his works gave way. The gentleman immediately
hastened to his assistance--it was Denbigh.
"Miss Moseley!" cried he, in a voice of the tenderest interest "you are
not hurt in the least, I hope."
"No," said Emily, recovering her breath, "only frightened;" and taking
his hand, she sprang from the carriage.
Miss Chatterton found courage to wait quietly for the care of John. His
"dear Grace," had thrilled on every nerve, and she afterwards often
laughed at Emily for her terror when there was so little danger. The
horses were not in the least frightened, and after a little mending,
John declared all was safe. To ask Emily to enter, the carriage again,
was to exact no little sacrifice of her feelings to her reason; and she
stood in a suspense that too plainly showed that, the terror she had
been in had not left her.
"If," said Denbigh, modestly, "if Mr. Moseley will take the ladies in my
gig, I will drive the phaeton to the hall, as it is rather unsafe for so
heavy a load."
"No, no, Denbigh," said John, coolly, "you are not used to such mettled
nags as mine--it would be indiscreet for you to drive them: if, however,
you will be good enough to take Emily into your gig--Grace Chatterton, I
am sure, is not afraid to trust my driving, and we might all get back as
well as ever."
Grace gave her hand almost unconsciously to John, and he handed her into
the phaeton, as Denbigh stood willing to execute his part of the
arrangement, but too diffident to speak. It was not a moment for
affectation, if Emily had been capable of it, and blushing with the
novelty of her situation, she took her place in the gig. Denbigh stopped
and turned his eyes on the little group with which he had been talking,
and at that moment they caught the attention of John also. The latter
inquired after their situation. The tale was a piteous one, the distress
evidently real. The husband had been gardener to a gentleman in a
neighboring county, and he had been lately discharged, to make way, in
the difficulty of the times, for a relation of the steward, who was in
want of the place. Suddenly thrown on the world, with a wife and four
children, with but the wages of a week for his and their support, they
had travelled thus far on the way to a neighboring parish, where he said
he had a right to, and must seek, public assistance. The children were
crying for hunger, and the mother, who was a nurse, had been unable to
walk further than where she sat, but had sunk on the ground overcome
with fatigue, and weak from the want of nourishment. Neither Emily nor
Grace could refrain from tears at the recital of these heavy woes; the
want of sustenance was something so shocking in itself, and brought, as
it were, immediately before their eyes, the appeal was irresistible.
John forgot his bays--forgot even Grace, as he listened to the affecting
story related by the woman, who was much revived by some nutriment
Denbigh had obtained from a cottage near them, and to which they were
about to proceed by his directions, as Moseley interrupted them. His
hand shook, his eyes glistened as he took his purse from his pocket, and
gave several guineas from it to the mendicant. Grace thought John had
never appeared so handsome as the moment he handed the money to the
gardener; his face glowed with unusual excitement, and his symmetry had
lost the only charm he wanted in common, softness. Denbigh, after
waiting patiently until Moseley had bestowed his alms, gravely repeated
his directions for their proceeding to the cottage, when the carriages
moved on.
Emily revolved, in her mind, during their short ride, the horrid
distress she had witnessed. It had taken a strong hold on her feelings.
Like her brother, she was warm-hearted and compassionate, if we may use
the term, to excess; and had she been prepared with the means, the
gardener would have reaped a double harvest of donations. It struck her,
at the moment, unpleasantly, that Denbigh had been so backward in his
liberality. The man had rather sullenly displayed half a crown as his
gift, in contrast with the golden shower of John's generosity. It had
been even somewhat offensive in its exhibition, and urged her brother to
a more hasty departure than, under other circumstances, he would just at
the moment have felt disposed to make. Denbigh, however, had taken no
notice of the indignity, and continued his directions in the same mild
and benevolent manner he had used during the whole interview. Half a
crown was but little, thought Emily, for a family that was starving;
and, unwilling to judge harshly of one she had begun to value so highly,
she came to the painful conclusion, her companion was not as rich as he
deserved to be. Emily had not yet to learn that charity was in
proportion to the means of the donor, and a gentle wish insensibly stole
over her that Denbigh might in some way become more richly endowed with
the good things of this world. Until this moment her thoughts had never
turned to his temporal condition. She knew he was an officer in the
army, but of what rank, or even of what regiment, she was ignorant. He
had frequently touched in his conversations on the customs of the
different countries he had seen. He had served in Italy, in the north of
Europe, in the West Indies, in Spain. Of the manners of the people, of
their characters, he not unfrequently spoke, and with a degree of
intelligence, a liberality, a justness of discrimination, that had
charmed his auditors; but on the point of personal service he had
maintained a silence that was inflexible, and not a little surprising--
more particularly of that part of his history which related to the
latter country; from all which she was rather inclined to think his
military rank was not as high as she thought he merited, and that
possibly he felt an awkwardness of putting it in contrast with the more
elevated station of Colonel Egerton. The same idea had struck the whole
family, and prevented any inquiries which might be painful. He was so
connected with the mournful event of his father's death, that no
questions could be put with propriety to the doctor's family; and if
Francis had been more communicative to Clara, she was too good a wife to
mention it, and her own family was possessed of too just a sense of
propriety to touch upon points that might bring her conjugal fidelity in
question.
Though Denbigh appeared a little abstracted during the ride, his
questions concerning Sir Edward and her friends were kind and
affectionate. As they approached the house he suffered his horse to
walk, and, after some hesitation, he took a letter from his pocket, and
handing it to her, said--
"I hope Miss Moseley will not think me impertinent in becoming the
bearer of a letter from her cousin, Lord Chatterton. He requested it so
earnestly, that I could not refuse taking what I am sensible is a great
liberty; for it would be deception did I affect to be ignorant of his
admiration, or of his generous treatment of a passion she cannot return.
Chatterton," and he smiled mournfully, "is yet too true to cease his
commendations."
Emily blushed painfully, but she took the letter in silence; and as
Denbigh pursued the topic no further, the little distance they had to go
was ridden in silence. On entering the gates, however, he said,
inquiringly, and with much interest--
"I sincerely hope I have not given offence to your delicacy, Miss
Moseley. Lord Chatterton has made me an unwilling confidant. I need not
say the secret is sacred, on more accounts than one."
"Surely not, Mr. Denbigh," replied Emily, in a low tone; and the gig
stopping, she hastened to accept the assistance of her brother to
alight.
"Well, sister," cried John, laughing, "Denbigh is a disciple to Frank's
system of horse-flesh. Hairs smooth enough here, I see. Grace and I
thought you would never get home." Now, John fibbed a little, for
neither Grace nor he had thought in the least about them, or anything
else but each other, from the moment they separated until the gig
arrived.
Emily made no reply to this speech, and as the gentlemen were engaged in
giving directions concerning their horses, she seized an opportunity to
read Chatterton's letter.
"I avail myself of the return of my friend Mr. Denbigh to that happy
family from which reason requires my self-banishment to assure my
amiable cousin, of my continued respect for her character, and to
convince her of my gratitude for the tenderness she has manifested to
feelings she cannot return. I may even venture to tell her what few
women would be pleased to hear, but what I know Emily Moseley too well
to doubt, for a moment, will give her unalloyed pleasure--that owing to
the kind, the benevolent, the brotherly attentions of my true friend,
Mr. Denbigh, I have already gained a peace of mind and resignation I
once thought was lost to me for ever. Ah! Emily, my beloved cousin, in
Denbigh you will find, I doubt not, a mind, principles, congenial to
your own. It is impossible that he could see you without wishing to
possess such a treasure; and, if I have a wish that is now uppermost in
my heart, it is, that you may learn to esteem each other as you ought,
when, I doubt not, you will become as happy as you both deserve to be.
What greater earthly blessing can I implore upon you!
"Chatterton."
Emily, while reading this epistle, felt a confusion but little inferior
to that which would have oppressed her had Denbigh himself been at her
feet, soliciting that love Chatterton thought him so worthy of
possessing; and when they met, she could hardly look in the face a man
who, it would seem, had been so openly selected by another, as the
fittest to be her partner for life. The unaltered manner of Denbigh
himself, however, soon convinced her that he was entirely ignorant of
the contents of the note, and it greatly relieved her from the
awkwardness his presence at first occasioned.
Francis soon returned, accompanied by his wife and aunt, and was
overjoyed to find the guest who had so unexpectedly arrived. His parents
had not yet returned from their visit, and Denbigh, of course, would
remain at his present quarters. John promised to continue with them for
a couple of days: and everything was soon settled to the perfect
satisfaction of the whole party. Mrs. Wilson knew the great danger of
suffering young people to be inmates of the same house too well,
wantonly to incur the penalties, but her visit had nearly expired, and
it might give her a better opportunity of judging Denbigh's character;
and Grace Chatterton, though too delicate to follow herself, was well
contented to be followed, especially when John Moseley was the pursuer.