Precaution a novel |
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| 15. | CHAPTER XV. |
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 | CHAPTER XV. Precaution |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
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,
leave Grace with her friend, 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 her 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 compelled her to accept her
cousin's invitation—her mother was peremptory,
and Grace was obliged to comply.
Every delicate feeling she possessed revolted
at the step; the visit itself was unwished for
which had reconciled her to it—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
not 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
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 most men believe
incompatible with the frailties of human
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 to Clara a fortnight, 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 now availed
themselves of the visit of Clara's friends to
perform their own engagements. 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; every thing
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 her feelings that was involved
in his declaration, gave or sought no
marked opportunities for the avowal of his
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 endeavour to imitate;
her affection for Emily was not, however,
to be thought less than what she felt for her
other children; she was in fact her favourite,
and had the discipline of Mrs. Wilson admitted
of so weak an interference, might
have been injured as such.
John Moseley had been able, by long observation,
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 in full trot to
Bolton 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, “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 the
room.”
“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,” said Emily, “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 expect---but here she
is, to answer for herself.”
Grace said but little on her entrance, but
her eyes were brighter than usual, and she
observed to her, in an affectionate manner,
“I knew the Eau-de-Cologne would do
your head good.”
“Is Miss Chatterton unwell,” said Moseley,
with a look of interest.
“A slight head ache,” said Grace, faintly,
“but I feel better.”
“Want of air and exercise; my horses
are at the door; the phaeton will hold three
easily; run, sister, for your hats,” 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, woman, and
several children. The owner of the gig
had alighted for some purpose, 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, endeavouring to check his
horses; he succeeded in part, but not so as
to prevent his passing at a spot where the
road was narrow; his wheel hit violently
against a stone, and some of his works gave
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 her 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 patching, 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, 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 unsafe 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,
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;
he inquired of Denbigh their situations; their
tale was a piteous one—their distress evidently
real; the husband had been gardener
to a gentleman in a neighbouring 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,
and 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 neighbouring
parish, where he said he had a right
to, and must seek, public assistance; their
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 or Grace could refrain from
tears at the recital of their 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
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 the 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, and 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 the delicacy of her brother
circumstances he would, just at the moment,
have felt disposed to. 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 interview. Half a crown was
but little, thought Emily, for a family that
was starving, though; 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.
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 on 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
in their countries, he spoke not unfrequently,
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 a little surprising;
his history which related to the latter country;
from all which, she was rather inclined
to think his rank not as conspicuous as she
thought his merit entitled him to, and that
possibly he felt an awkwardness of contrasting
it with the more elevated station of
Colonel Egerton; the same idea had struck
the whole family, and prevented from delicacy
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 possessed of too
just a sense of propriety, to touch upon
points that might bring her conjugal fidelity
in question.
Denbigh appeared himself a little abstracted
during the ride, but his questions concerning
Sir Edward and her friends were kind and affectionate;
as they approached the house, he
suffered his horse to walk; 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 his generous
treatment of a passion she cannot return—
yet too true in his devotion to cease his commendations.”
Emily blushed painfully, but took the letter
in silence, and as Denbigh pursued the
topic no farther, the little distance they had
to go, was rode 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, with a laugh,
“Denbigh is a disciple to Frank's system of
horse-flash---hairs smooth enough here, I
see; Grace and I thought you would never
get home.” Now, John fibbed a little, for
neither Grace or himself, had thought in the
least about them, or any thing 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
the opportunity to read Chatterton's letter.
“I avail myself of the return of my
friend Mr. Denbigh to that happy family,
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, and, I
doubt not, you will become as happy as you
deserve; what greater earthly blessing can I
implore upon you!
Chatterton.”
Emily, while reading this epistle, felt a confusion
but little inferior to what 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, could hardly look in the face a
man who, it would seem, had been so openly
selected by another, as the being fittest to be
her partner for life. The unaltered manner
her that he was entirely ignorant of
the contents of the note he had been the
bearer of, and greatly relieved her from the
awkwardness his presence had at first occasioned.
Francis soon returned, accompanied by his
wife and aunt, and was overjoyed to find
the guest who had so unexpectedly arrived
in his absence. 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 the thing was soon settled
to their perfect satisfaction. 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.
| CHAPTER XV. Precaution | |