University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

The bright eyes of Emily Moseley, unconsciously
wandered round the brilliant
assemblage at Mr. Haughton's, as she took
her seat, in search of her partner. The
rooms were filled with scarlet coats, and
belles from the little town of F—, and if
the company were not the most select imaginable,
it was disposed to enjoy the passing
moment cheerfully, and in lightness of heart;
as their good hearted host would sing, “to
dance away care:”—e'er, however, she could
make out to scan the countenances of the
beaux, young Jarvis, decked in the full
robes of his dignity, as captain in the—
foot, approached and solicited the honour of
her hand; the colonel had already secured
her sister, and it was by the instigation of
his friend, Jarvis had been thus early in his
application; Emily thanked him, and pleaded
her engagement; the mortified youth, who
had thought dancing with the ladies a favour
conferred on them, from the anxiety his sisters
always manifested to get partners; stood
for a few moments in sullen silence; and
then, as if to be revenged on the sex, he determined
not to dance the whole evening;
accordingly he withdrew to a room appropriated
to the gentlemen, where he found
a few of the military beaux, keeping alive

the stimulus they had brought with them
from the mess-table.

As Clara had prudently decided to comport
herself as a clergyman's wife, and had
declined dancing in future; Catherine Chatterton
was the lady entitled to open the ball,
as superior in years and rank, to any who
were disposed to enjoy the amusement. The
dowager, who in her heart loved to show
her airs upon such occasions, had chosen to
be later than the rest of the family; and
Lucy had to entreat her father to have
patience, more than once, during the interregnum
in their sports, created by Lady
Chatterton's fashion; she at length appeared,
attended by her son, and followed by her
daughters, ornamented in all the taste of the
reigning fashions. Doctor Ives and his wife,
who came late from choice, soon appeared,
accompanied by their guest, and the dancing
commenced; Denbigh had thrown aside his
black for the evening, and as he approached
to claim his promised honour, Emily thought
him, if not as handsome, much more interesting
than Colonel Egerton, who passed
them in leading her sister to the set. Emily
danced beautifully, but perfectly like a lady,
as did Jane: but Denbigh, although graceful
in his movements, and in time, knew but
little of the art; and but for the assistance of
his partner, would have more than once gone
wrong in the figure; he very gravely asked
her opinion of his performance as he handed

her to a chair, and she laughingly told him,
his movements were but a better sort of
march; he was about to reply, when Jarvis
approached; he had, by the aid of a pint of
wine and his own reflections, wrought himself
into something of a passion; especially
as he saw Denbigh enter, after Emily had
declined dancing with himself; there was
a gentleman in the corps who unfortunately
was addicted to the bottle, and he fastened
on Jarvis, as a man at leisure to keep him
company, in his favourite libations; wine
openeth the heart, and the captain having
taken a peep at the dancers, and seen the disposition
of affairs, returned to his bottle companion
bursting with the indignity offered
to his person; he dropped a hint, and a question
or two brought the whole grievance
from him.

There is a certain set of men in every
service, who imbibe notions of bloodshed,
and indifference to human life, that is revolting
to humanity, and too often, fatal in its
results; their morals are never correct, and
what little they have sets loosely about them
---in their own cases, their appeals to arms
are not always so prompt; but in that of their
friends, their perceptions of honour are intuitively
keen, and their inflexibility in preserving
it from reproach unbending---and such
is the weakness of mankind, their tenderness
on points where the nicer feelings of a soldier
are involved, that these machines of custom—these

thermometers graduated to the
scale of false honour---usurp the place of reason
and benevolence, and become, too often,
the arbiters of life and death to a whole corps.
Such, then, was the confidant to whom Jarvis
communicated the cause of his disgust, and
the consequences may easily be imagined.
As he passed Emily and Denbigh, he threw
a look of fierceness at the latter, which he
meant as an indication of his hostile intentions;
but which was lost on his rival, who,
at that moment, was filled with passions of
a very different kind from those which Captain
Jarvis thought agitated his own bosom;
for had his new friend let him alone, he
would have quietly gone home and gone to
sleep.

“Have you ever fought,” said Captain
Digby cooly to his companion, as they seated
themselves in his father's parlour, whither
they had retired to make their arrangements
for the following morning.

“Yes,” said Jarvis, with a stupid look,
“I fought once with Tom Halliday at
school.”

“At school! my dear friend, you commenced
young indeed,” said Digby, helping
himself, “and how did it end?”

“Oh! Tom got the better, and so I cried
enough,” said Jarvis surlily

“Enough! I hope you did not flinch,”
cried his friend, eyeing him keenly; “where
were you hit?”

“He hit me all over.”

“All over—did you use small shot? How
did you fight?”

“With fists,” said Jarvis, yawning; and
his companion seeing how the matter was,
rung for his servant to put him to bed, remaining
himself an hour longer to finish the
bottle.

Soon after Jarvis had given Denbigh the
look big with his intended vengeance, Colonel
Egerton approached Emily, asking permission
to present Sir Herbert Nicholson,
the lieutenant-colonel of the regiment, and
a gentleman who was ambitious of the honour
of her acquaintance, and a friend of
his own; Emily gracefully bowed her assent:
soon after, turning her eyes on Denbigh,
who had been speaking to her at the moment,
she saw him looking intently on the two
soldiers, who were making their way through
the crowd to where she sat; he stammered,
said something she could not understand,
and precipitately withdrew; and although
both herself and her aunt sought his figure in
the gay throng that flitted around them, he
was seen no more that evening.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Denbigh,”
said Emily to her partner, after looking
in vain to find his person in the crowd.

“Denbigh! Denbigh! I have known one
or two of that name,” replied the gentleman;
“in the army there are several.”

“Yes,” said Emily, musing, “he is in the

army;” and looking up, she saw her companion
reading her countenance with an expression
that brought the colour to her
cheeks, with a glow that was painful. Sir
Herbert smiled, and observed the room was
warm—Emily acquiesced in the remark,
for the first time in her life, conscious of a
feeling she was ashamed to have scrutinized,
and glad of any excuse to hide her
confusion.

“Grace Chatterton is really beautiful to
night,” said John Moseley to his sister Clara;
“I have a mind to ask her to dance.”

“Do, John,” replied his sister, looking
with pleasure on her beautiful cousin; who
observing the movements of John, as he drew
near to where she sat, moved her face on
either side rapidly, in search of some one
who was apparently not to be found; the
undulations of her bosom perceptibly increased,
and John was on the point of speaking
to her, as the dowager stepped between
them. There is nothing so flattering to the
vanity of a man, as the discovery of emotions
in a young woman, excited by himself, and
which the party evidently wishes to conceal
—there is nothing so touching---so sure to
captivate; or if it seem to be affected---so
sure to disgust.

“Now, Mr. Moseley,” cried the mother,
“you must not ask Grace to dance; she can refuse
you nothing, and she has been up the two
last figures.”

“Your wishes are irresistible, Lady Chatterton,”
said John, as he coolly turned on his
heel; on gaining the other side of the room,
he turned to reconnoitre the scene. The
dowager was fanning herself as violently as
if she had been up the two last figures, instead
of her daughter, while Grace sat with
her eyes fastened on the floor, paler than
usual---“Grace”--thought the young man,
“would be very handsome---very sweet---
very, very every thing that is agreeable, if
—if it were not for mother Chatterton”---
and he led out one of the prettiest girls in the
room.

Col. Egerton was peculiarly adapted to
the ball room; he danced gracefully and with
spirit; was perfectly at home with all the
usages of the best society, and never neglectful
of any of those little courtesies
which have their charm for the moment;
and Jane Moseley, who saw all those she
loved around her, apparently as happy as
herself, found in her judgment, or the convictions
of her principles, no counterpoise
against the weight of such attractions, all centred,
as it were, in one effort to please herself;---his
flattery was deep---was respectful
---his tastes were her tastes---his opinions
her opinions---On the formation of their acquaintance,
they had differed in some trifling
point of poetical criticism, and for near a
month the colonel had maintained his opinion,
with a show of firmness; but as opportunities

were not wanting for the discussion,
he had felt constrained to yield to her
better judgment—her purer taste. The conquest
of Colonel Egerton was complete, and
Jane, who saw in his attentions the submission
of a heart devoted to her service, began
to look forward to the moment, with
trembling, that was to remove the thin barrier
that existed between the adulation of the
eyes, and the most delicate assiduity to please,
and the open confidence of declared love;
Jane Moseley had a heart to love, and love
strongly; her danger existed in her imagination;
it was brilliant, unchastened by her
judgment, we had almost said, unfettered
by her principles;—principles such as are
found in every day maxims and rules of conduct,
sufficient to restrain her within the
bounds of perfect decorum, she was furnished
with in abundance; but that principle
which was to teach her submission in opposition
to her wishes, that principle that could
alone afford her security against the treachery
of her own passions, she was a stranger to.

The family of Sir Edward were among the
first to retire, and as the Chattertons had
their own carriage, Mrs. Wilson and her
charge returned alone in the coach of the
former. Emily, who had been rather out of
spirits the latter part of the evening, broke
the silence by suddenly observing, “Colonel
Egerton is, or will soon be, a perfect

hero.” Her aunt, somewhat surprised, both
with the abruptness and force of the remark,
inquired her meaning—“Oh, Jane will
make him one, whether or no.” This was
spoken with a show of vexation in her niece
she was unused to; and Mrs. Wilson gravely
corrected her for speaking in a disrespectful
manner of her sister, one whom neither her
years nor situation entitled her, in any measure,
to advise or control---there was an impropriety
in judging so near and dear a relation
harshly, even in thought. Emily pressed
the hand of her aunt, as she acknowledged
her error; but added, that she felt a momentary
irritation at the idea, that a man of
Colonel Egerton's character, should gain the
command over feelings, such as her sister
possessed. Mrs. Wilson kissed the cheek of
her niece, while she inwardly acknowledged
the probable truth of the very remark she
had thought it her duty to censure; that the
imagination of Jane would supply her lover
with those qualities she most honoured
herself, she took as a matter of course;
and that, when the veil was removed she
had helped to throw before her own eyes,
she would cease to respect, and of course,
cease to love him, when too late to remedy
the evil, she greatly feared. But in the approaching
fate of Jane, she saw new cause
to call forth her own activity, in averting a
similar, or what she thought would prove a
heavier misfortune, from her own charge.
Emily Moseley had just completed her
eighteenth year, and was gifted by nature,
with a vivacity and ardency of feeling that
gave a heightened zest to the enjoyments of
that happy age. She was artless, but intelligent;
cheerful, with a deep conviction of the
necessity of piety; and uniform in her practice
of all the important duties required by
her professions. The unwearied exertions
of her aunt, aided by her own quickness of
perception, had made her familiar with the
attainments suitable to her sex and years---
For music she had no taste, and the time
which would have been thrown away in endeavouring
to cultivate a talent she did not
possess, was dedicated, under the discreet
guidance of her aunt, to works which had a
tendency, both to qualify her for the duties
of this life, and fit her for that which comes
hereafter. It might be said, Emily Moseley had
never read a book that contained a sentiment,
or inculcated an opinion, improper for her sex,
or dangerous to her morals; and it was not
difficult for those who knew the fact, to fancy
they could perceive the consequences in her
guileess countenance and innocent deportment.
Her looks---her actions--her thoughts,
wore as much of nature, as the discipline of
her well-regulated mind, and softened manners
could admit of; in person, she was of the
middle size, exquisitely formed, graceful and
elastic in her step, without the least departure
from her natural movements; her
eye was a dark blue, with an expression of
joy and intelligence; at times it seemed all
soul, and again all heart; her colour rather
high, but varying with every emotion of her
bosom; her feelings strong, ardent, and devoted
to those she loved. Her preceptress
had never found it necessary to repeat an admonition
of any kind, since her arrival at
years to discriminate between the right and
the wrong.

“I wish,” said Doctor Ives to his wife;
the evening his son had asked their permission
to address Clara, “Francis had chosen
my little Emily.”

“Clara is a good girl,” replied his wife,
“she is so mild, so affectionate, that I doubt
not she will make him happy---Frank might
have done worse at the Hall.”

“For himself, he has done well, I hope,”
said the father; “a young woman of Clara's
heart, may make any man happy; but an
union with purity—sense—principles, like
those of Emily, would be more---it would be
blissful.”

Mrs. Ives smiled at her husband's animation,
as she observed, “you remind me more
of the romantic youth I once knew, than of
the grave divine before me. There is but one
man I know, that I could wish, now, to give
Emily to; it is Lumley---if Lumley sees

her, he will woo her; and if he woos, he
will win her.”

“And Lumley I believe to be worthy of
her,” cried the rector, as he retired for the
night.