University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

The following morning, Emily and Grace
declining the invitation to join the colonel
and John in their usual rides, walked to the
rectory, accompanied by Mrs. Wilson and
Chatterton. The ladies felt an irresistible
desire to mingle their anticipation of future
happiness to the new married couple, with
those most interested in them; and Francis
had promised his father to ride over in the
course of the day. Emily longed to inquire
after Clara, from whom she appeared already
to have been separated a month. Her impatience,
as they approached the house, hurried
her on ahead of her companions, who
waited the more sober gait of her aunt. She
entered the parlour at the rectory without
meeting any one; glowing with the unusual
exercise of her speed, and her hair falling
over her shoulder, released from the confinement
of the hat she had, oppressed with the
heat, thrown down hastily as she gained the
door. In the room there stood a gentleman
in deep black, with his back toward the entrance,
intent on a book he held in his hand,
and she concluded at once it was Francis.

“Where is dear Clara, Frank?” cried the
beautiful girl, laying her hand affectionately
on his shoulder; the gentleman turned suddenly,
and presented to her astonished gaze,

the well-remembered countenance of the
young man whose parent's death would never
be forgotten at B—.

“I thought—I thought, sir,” said Emily,
almost sinking with confusion, “Mr. Francis
Ives—”

“Your brother has not yet arrived, Miss
Moseley,” replied the stranger, in a voice of
peculiar tones, and the manner of a perfect
gentleman—“I will acquaint Mrs. Ives with
your visit;” and bowing, he delicately left
the room.

Emily, who felt insensibly relieved by his
manner, and the nice allusion to her connexion
with Francis, as explaining her familiarity—immediately
restored her hair to its
proper bounds, and had recovered her composure
by the time her aunt and friends
joined her—she hastily mentioned the incident,
laughing at her own precipitation, when
Mrs. Ives came into the room.

Chatterton and his sister were both known
to her, and both favourites; she was pleased
to see them, and after reproaching the brother
with compelling her son to ask a favour of a
comparative stranger, she smilingly turned to
Emily, and said—

“You found the parlour occupied, I believe?”

“Yes,” said Emily, laughing and blushing,
“I suppose Mr. Denbigh told you of my
heedlessness.”

“He told me of your attention in calling

so soon to inquire after Clara, but said nothing
more”-and a servant telling her Francis wished
to see her, she excused herself and withdrew.
In the door she met Mr. Denbigh, who made
way for her, saying, “your son has arrived,
madam,” and in an easy, but respectful manner,
took his place with the guests, no introduction
passed, and none seemed necessary;
his misfortunes appeared to have made him
acquainted with Mrs. Wilson, and his strikingly
ingenuous manner, won insensibly on the
confidence of those who heard him. Every
thing was natural, yet every thing was
softened by education; and the little party in
the rector's parlour, in fifteen minutes, felt as
if they had known him for years. The doctor
and his son now joined them—Clara was
looking forward in delightful expectation of
to-morrow, and wished greatly for Emily as
a guest at her new abode. This pleasure
Mrs. Wilson promised she should have as
soon as they had got over the hurry of their
visit. “our friends,” she added, turning to
Grace, “will overlook the nicer punctilios
of ceremony, where sisterly regard calls
for the discharge of more important duties.
Clara needs the society of Emily just
now.”

“Certainly,” said Grace, mildly, “I hope no
useless ceremony on the part of Emily would
prevent her manifesting her natural attachment
to her sister—I should feel hurt at her

not entertaining a better opinion of us than to
suppose so for a moment.”

“This, young ladies, is the real feeling to
keep alive esteem,” cried the doctor, gayly;
“go on, and say and do nothing that either
can disapprove of, when tested by the standard
of duty, and you need never be afraid of
losing a friend that is worth the keeping.”

“The removal of a young woman from
her own home to that of her husband, must
give birth to many melancholy reflections,”
observed Denbigh to Francis, with a smile,
and the subject was dropped.

It was three o'clock before the carriage of
Mrs. Wilson, which had been directed to
come for them, arrived at the rectory; and
the time had stolen away insensibly in free
and friendly communications between the
doctor's guests and his wife, for he himself
had returned with his son to dine at Bolton
some time previously. Denbigh had joined
modestly, and with the degree of interest a
stranger could be supposed to feel, in the occurrences
of a circle he was nearly a stranger
to; there was at times a slight display of
awkwardness, both about himself and Mrs.
Ives, for which Mrs. Wilson easily accounted
by the recollections of his recent loss, and the
scene that very room had witnessed; but
which escaped the notice of the rest of the
party. On the arrival of the carriage, Mrs.
Wilson took her leave.

“I like this Mr. Denbigh greatly,” said

Lord Chatterton, as they drove from the
door, “there is something strikingly pleasing
in his manner.”

“Ay, my lord, and in his matter too, judging
of the little we have seen of him,” replied
Mrs. Wilson.

“Who is he, madam?”

“Why, I rather suspect he is some way
related to Mrs. Ives; her staying from Bolton
to-day, must be owing to Mr. Denbigh, and
as the doctor has gone, he must be just near
enough to them, neither to be wholly neglected,
or a tax upon their politeness; I rather
wonder he did not go with them.”

“I heard him tell Francis,” said Emily,
“he would not think of intruding, and he insisted
on Mrs. Ives going, but she had employment
to keep her at home.”

The carriage soon reached an angle in the
road where the highways between Bolton
Castle and Moseley Hall intersected each
other, and on the estate of the former. Mrs.
Wilson stopped a moment to inquire after an
aged pensioner of her's, who had lately met
with a loss in his business, she was fearful
must have distressed him greatly. In crossing
a ford in the little river between his cottage
and the market-town, the stream, which
had been unexpectedly higher than usual by
heavy rains above, had swept away his horse
and cart, loaded with the entire produce of
his small field---with much difficulty he had
saved his own life. Mrs. Wilson had it not

until now in her power to inquire particularly
into the affair, and offer that relief she felt
ever ready to bestow on proper objects. Contrary
to her expectations, she found Humphreys
in high spirits, showing his delighted
grand-children a new cart and horse which
stood at his door, as he pointed out the excellent
qualities of both. He ceased on the
approach of his benefactress on so many
former occasions, and, at her request, gave a
particular account of the affair.

“And where did you get the new cart and
horse, Humphreys?” inquired Mrs. Wilson,
when he had ended.

“Oh, madam, I went up to the castle to
see the steward, and Mr. Martin just mentioned
my loss to Lord Pendennyss, ma'am,
and my lord ordered me this cart, madam,
and this noble horse, and twenty golden guineas
into the bargain, to put me upon my legs
again---God bless him for it for ever.”

“It was very kind of his lordship, indeed,”
said Mrs. Wilson, thoughtfully, “I did
not know he was at the castle.”

“He's gone, madam; the servants told me,
he called to see the earl, on his way to Lonnon,
but finding he'd went a few days agone
to Ireland, my lord went for Lonnon, without
stopping the night even. Ah! madam,”
continued the old man, as he stood leaning on
his stick, with his hat in his hand, “he's a
great blessing to the poor; his servants say
he gives thousands every year to the poor

who are in want---he is main rich, too, some
people say, much richer and more great like
than the earl himself. I'm sure I have need
to bless him every day of my life.”

Mrs. Wilson smiled mournfully, as she
wished Humphreys good day, and put up
her purse, on finding the old man so well
provided for; a display, or competition in
charity, never entering into her system of benevolence.

“His lordship is munificent in his bounty,”
said Emily, as they drove from the door.

“Does it not savour of thoughtlessness, to
bestow so much where he can know so little?”
Lord Chatterton ventured to inquire.

“He is,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “as old
Humphrey says, main rich; but the son of
the old man, and father of these children, is
a soldier in the —th dragoons, of which
the earl is colonel, and that accounts to me
for the liberality of the donation,” recollecting,
with a sigh, the feelings which had
drawn herself out of the usual circles of her
charities, in the case of the same man.

“Did you ever see the earl, aunt?” inquired
Emily, gently.

“Never, my dear; he has been much
abroad, but my letters were filled with his
praises, and I confess my disappointment is
great in not seeing him in this visit to Lord
Bolton, who is his relation; but,” fixing her
eyes thoughtfully on her niece, “we shall
meet in London this winter, I trust.” As

she spoke, a cloud passed over her features,
and she continued much absorbed in
thought, for the remainder of their ride.

General Wilson had been a cavalry officer,
and commanded the same regiment now held
by Lord Pendennyss; in an excursion near
the British camp, he had been rescued from
captivity, if not from death, by a gallant and
timely interference of this young nobleman,
then in command of a troop in the same
corps. He had mentioned the occurrence
to his wife in his letters, and from that day,
his correspondence was filled with his praises
—his bravery—his goodness to the soldiery—
and when he fell, he had been supported from
the field, and died in the arms of his youthful
friend. A letter announcing his death, had
been received by his widow from the earl,
and the tenderness and affectionate manner
of speaking of her husband, had taken a
deep hold on her affections—All the circumstances
together, had thrown an interest
around him that had made Mrs. Wilson almost
entertain the romantic wish he might
be found worthy of, and disposed to solicit
the hand of her Emily. Her inquiries into his
character had been attended with such answers
as flattered her wishes; but the service
of the earl, or his private affairs, had never
allowed a meeting; and she was now compelled
to look forward to what John, laughingly
termed, their winter campaign, as the
only probable place where she could be

gratified with the sight of a young man to
whom she owed so much, and whose image
was connected with some of the most tender,
although most melancholy recollections
of her life.

Colonel Egerton, who now appeared almost
domesticated in the family, was again
of the party at dinner, to the no small satisfaction
of the dowager, who, from proper inquiries
in the course of the day, had learnt
that Sir Edgar's heir was likely to have the
necessary number of figures in the sum total
of his revenue. While sitting in the drawing-room
that afternoon, she made an attempt to
bring her eldest daughter and the elegant soldier
together over a chess-board; a game,
the young lady had been required to learn,
because it was one at which a gentleman could
be kept longer than any other without having
his attention drawn away by any of those
straggling charms, which might be travelling
a drawing-room, “seeking whom they may
devour.” It was also a game admirably suited
to the display of a beautiful hand and arm;
but the abilities of the mother had for a long
time been staggered with discovering a way
of bringing in the foot also. In vain her
daughter hinted at dancing, an amusement
she was passionately fond of, as the proper
theatre for this exhibition. The wary mother
knew too well the effects of concentrated
force to leave it out of the combat. After a
great deal of experimentizing in her own

person, she endeavoured to correct Catherine
for her manner of sitting, and by dint of
twisting and turning, she contrived that her
pretty foot and ancle should be thrown forward
in such a way, that the eye dropping
from the move, should rest on this beauteous
object; thus giving, as it were, a Scylla and
Charybdis to her daughter's charms.

John Moseley was the first person she undertook
to try the effect of her invention
upon a few months before; and after comfortably
seating the parties, she withdrew to
a little distance, to watch the effect.

“Check to your king, Miss Chatterton,”
cried John, early in the game—and the young
lady thrust out her foot—“check to your
king, Mr. Moseley,” echoed the damsel, in
triumph, and John's eyes wandered from
hand to foot, and foot to hand. “Check
king and queen, sir,”—“Check mate,”—
“did you speak?” said John, and looking up
he caught the eye of the dowager fixed on
him in triumph—“Oh ho,” said the young
man, internally, “mother Chatterton, are you
there,” and coolly taking up his hat he
walked off, nor could they ever get him
seated again.

“You beat me too easily, Miss Chatterton,”
he would say, when pressed to play,
“before I have time to look up, it's checkmate—excuse
me”—and the dowager settled
down into a more covert attack, through
Grace—but here she had two to contend

with—her own forces rebelled; and the war
had been protracted to the present hour,
with varied success, and no material captures,
at least on one side.

Colonel Egerton entered on the duties of
his dangerous undertaking, with all the indifference
of fool-hardiness; and the game
was played with tolerable ability by either
party; but no emotions, no absence of mind
could be discovered on the part of the
gentleman—feet and hands were in motion,
still the colonel played as well as usual
—he had answers for all Jane's questions,
and smiles for his partner; but no checkmate
could she obtain, until wilfully throwing
away an advantage, he suffered the lady
to win the game—and the dowager was
satisfied nothing could be done with the
colonel.