University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

The recovery of Denbigh was as rapid
as the most sanguine expectation of his
friends could justify; and in ten days from
the accident, he left his bed, and would sit for
an hour or two at a time in his dressing
room, where Mrs. Wilson, accompanied by
Jane or Emily, would come and read to him,
such books as they knew he was fond of;
and it was a remark of Sir Edward's game-keeper,
that the woodcocks had become so
tame, during the time Mr. Moseley was shut
up in attendance on his friend, that Captain
Jarvis was at last seen bringing home one.

As Jarvis felt something like a consciousness,
that but for his folly, the accident would
not have happened; and also something very
like shame, for the manner he had shrunk
from the danger Denbigh had met, he pretended
a recal to his regiment then on duty
near London, and left the deanery. He went
off as he came in---in the colonel's tilbury,
and accompanied by his friend and his
pointers. John, who saw them pass from the
windows of Denbigh's dressing-room, fervently
prayed he might never come back
again---the chip-shooting poacher.

Colonel Egerton had taken leave of Jane
the evening preceding, with the assurance of
the anxiety he should look forward to the

moment of their meeting at L—, wither
he intended repairing, as soon as the corps he
belonged to had gone through its annual review.
Jane had followed the bent of her
natural feelings too much, during the period
of Denbigh's uncertain fate, to think much
on her lover, or any thing else but her
rescued sister and her preserver; but now
the former was pronounced in safety, and the
latter, by the very re-action of her grief, was
if possible happier than ever. Jane dwelt in
melancholy sadness on the perfections of the
man who had taken with him the best affections
(as she thought) of her heart—with
him, all was perfect; his morals were unexceptionable,
his manners showed it; his tenderness
of disposition manifest---they had
wept together over the distresses of more
than one fictitious heroine; his temper, how
amiable! he was never angry---she had
never seen it; his opinions---his tastes, how
correct! they were her own; his form, his
face, how agreeable, her eyes had seen it,
and her heart acknowledged it; besides, his
eyes confessed the power of her own charms;
he was brave, for he was a soldier—in short,
as Emily had predicted, he was a hero---for
he was Colonel Egerton.

Had Jane been possessed of less exuberance
of fancy, she might have been a little
at a loss to have identified all those good
properties with her hero, or had she possessed
a matured or well regulated judgment

to have controlled that fancy, they
might possibly have assumed a different appearance.
No explanation had taken place
between them, however; Jane knew, both
by her own feelings, and the legends of love,
from its earliest days, that the moment of
parting was generally a crisis in affairs of the
heart; and with a backwardness, occasioned
by her modesty, had rather avoided, than
sought an opportunity to favour the colonel's
wishes. Egerton had not been over anxious
to come to the point, and every thing was
left as heretofore—neither, however, appeared
to doubt in the least the state of the other's
affections; and there might be said to exist
between them, one of those not unusual engagements,
by implication, which it would
have been (in their own estimation) a breach
of faith to have receded from, but which,
like all other bargains that are loosely made,
are sometimes violated, if convenient. Man
is a creature that, experience has sufficiently
proved, it is necessary to keep in his proper
place in society, by wholesome restrictions;
and we have often thought it a matter of regret,
that some well-understood regulations
did not exist, by which it became not only
customary, but incumbent on him, to proceed
in his road to the temple of hymen—
we know that it is ungenerous, ignoble, almost
unprecedented, to doubt the faith, the
constancy, of a male paragon; yet, somehow,
as the papers occasionally give us a
sample of such infidelity---as we have sometimes
seen a solitary female brooding over
her woes in silence, and with the seemliness
of feminine decorum, shrinking from the discovery
of its cause and its effects she has in
vain hoped to escape; or which the grave
has revealed for the first time; we cannot
but wish, that either the watchfulness of the
parent, or a sense of self-preservation in the
daughter, would for the want of a better,
cause them to adhere to those old conventional
forms of courtship, which requires a
man to speak to be understood, and a woman
to answer to be committed.

There was a little parlour in the house of
Sir Edward Moseley, that was the privileged
retreat of none but the members of
his own family; it was here that the ladies
were accustomed to withdraw into the bosom
of their domestic quietude, when occasional
visiters had disturbed their ordinary intercourse,
and many were the hasty and unreserved
communications it had witnessed from
the sisters, in their stolen flights from the
gayer scenes of the principal apartments; it
might be said to be sacred to the pious feelings
of the domestic affections. Sir Edward
would retire to it when fatigued with his
occupations, certain of finding some one of
those he loved to draw his thoughts off from
the cares of life to the little incidents of his
children's happiness; and Lady Moseley,
even in the proudest hours of her reviving

splendour, seldom passed the door without
looking in, with a smile, on the faces she
might find there; it was, in fact, the room in
the large mansion of the baronet, expressly
devoted, by long usage and common consent,
to the purest feelings of human nature. Into
this apartment Denbigh had gained admission,
as the one nearest to his own room,
and requiring the least effort of his returning
strength to reach, and, perhaps, by an
undefinable feeling of the Moseleys which
had begun to connect him with themselves—
partly from his winning manners, and partly
by the sense of the obligation he had laid
them under.

One warm day, John and his friend had
sought this retreat, in expectation of meeting
his sisters, who they found, however, on
inquiry, had walked to the arbour; after remaining
conversing for an hour by themselves,
John was called away to attend to a
pointer that had been taken sick, and Denbigh
throwing a handkerchief over his head
to guard against the danger of cold, quietly
composed himself on one of the comfortable
sofas of the room, with a disposition to
sleep; before he had entirely lost his consciousness,
a light step moving near him,
caught his ear; believing it to be a servant
unwilling to disturb him, he endeavoured to
continue in his present mood, until the quick,
but stifled breathing, of some one nearer to
him than before, roused his curiosity; he

commanded himself. however, sufficiently to
remain quiet; a blind of a window near him
was carefully closed; a screen drawn from
a corner and placed so as sensibly to destroy
the slight draught of air in which he laid
himself from the excessive heat; and other
arrangements were making, but with a care
to avoid disturbing him, that rendered them
hardly audible—presently the step approached
him again, the breathing was quicker
though gentle, the handkerchief moved—
but the hand was withdrawn hastily as if
afraid of itself—another effort was successful,
and Denbigh stole a glance through his
dark lashes, on the figure of Emily as she
stood over him in the fullness of her charms,
and with a face, in which glowed an emotion
of interest he had never witnessed in it before;
it undoubtedly was gratitude. For a
moment she gazed on him, as her colour increased
in richness. His hand was carelessly
thrown over an arm of the sofa; she
stooped towards it with her face gently, but
with an air of modesty that shone in her
very figure—Denbigh felt the warmth of her
breath, but her lips did not touch it. Had
Denbigh been inclined to judge the actions
of Emily Moseley harshly, it were impossible
to mistake the movement for any thing
but the impulse of natural feeling—there
was a pledge of innocence, of modesty in
her countenance, that would have prevented
any misconstruction; and he continued
quietly awaiting what the preparations on
her little mahogany secretary were intended
for.

Mrs. Wilson entertained a great abhorrence
of what is commonly called accomplishments
in a woman; she knew that too
much of that precious time, which could
never be recalled, was thrown away in endeavouring
to acquire a smattering in what,
if known, could never be of use to the
party, and what can never be well known
but to a few, whom nature, and long practice,
have enabled to conquer; yet as her
mind had early manifested a taste for painting,
and a vivid perception of the beauties of
nature, her inclination had been indulged,
and Emily Moseley sketched with great
neatness and accuracy, and no little despatch.
It would have been no subject of surprise,
had admiration, or some more powerful
feeling, betrayed to the maid, the deception
which the young man, whose features
she was now studying, was practising on
her unsuspicion. She had entered the room
from her walk, warm and careless; her hair,
than which none was more beautiful, had
strayed on her shoulders, freed from the confinement
of the comb, and a lock was finely
contrasted with the rich colour of her cheek,
that almost burnt with the exercise and the
excitement—her dress, white as the first
snow of the winter; her looks, as she now
turned them on the face of the sleeper, and

now betrayed by their animation the success
of her art, formed a picture in itself,
that Denbigh might have been content to
have gazed on forever. Her back was to a
window, that threw its strong light on the
paper; whose figures were reflected, as she
occasionally held it up to study its effect
in a large mirror, so fixed that Denbigh
caught a view of her subject—he knew it
at a glance—the arbour—the gun—himself,
all were there; it appeared to have been
drawn before—it must have been, from its
perfect state, and Emily had seized a favourable
moment to complete his resemblance.
Her touches were light and finishing, and as
the picture was frequently held up for consideration,
he had some time allowed for
studying it. His own resemblance was
strong; his eyes were turned on herself, to
whom Denbigh thought she had not done
ample justice—but the man who held the
gun, bore no likeness to John Moseley, except
in dress. A slight movement of the
muscles of the sleeper's mouth, might have
betrayed his consciousness, had not Emily
been too intent on the picture, as she turned
it in such a way, that a strong light fell on
the recoiling figure of Captain Jarvis—the resemblance
was wonderful—Denbigh thought
he would have known it, had he seen it in the
academy itself. The noise of some one approaching
closed the port-folio—it was only
a servant; yet Emily did not resume her
pencil. Denbigh watched her motions, as
she put the picture carefully in a private
drawer of the secretary—reopened the blind,
replaced the screen, and laid the handkerchief,
the last thing, on his face, with a movement
almost imperceptible to himself.

“It is later than I thought it,” said Denbigh,
looking at his watch, “I owe an apology,
Miss Moseley, for making so free with
your parlour; but I was too lazy to move.”

“Apology! Mr. Denbigh,” cried Emily,
with a colour varying with every word she
spoke, and trembling, at what she thought
the nearness of detection, “you have no
apology to make for your present debility;
and surely—surely, least of all to me.”

“I understand from Mr. Moseley,” continued
Denbigh, with a smile, “that our
obligation is at least mutual; to your perseverance
and care, Miss Moseley, after
the physicians had given me up, I believe
I am, under Providence, indebted for my recovery.”

Emily was not vain, and least of all addicted
to a display of any of her acquirements; very
few even of her friends knew she ever held a
pencil in her hand; yet did she now unaccountably
throw open her port-folio, and
offer its contents to the examination of her
companion; it was done almost instantaneously,
and with great freedom, though not
without certain flushings of the face, and

heavings of the bosom, that would have
eclipsed Grace Chatterton in her happiest
moments of natural flattery. Whatever might
have been the wishes of Mr. Denbigh, to
pursue a subject which had begun to grow
extremely interesting, both from its import
and the feelings of the parties it would
have been rude to have declined viewing the
contents of a lady's port-folio. The drawings
were, many of them, interesting, and the
exhibiter of them now appeared as anxious
to remove them in haste, as she had but the
moment before been to direct his attention to
her performance. Denbigh would have given
much to have dared to ask for the paper so
carefully secreted in the private drawer; but
neither the principal agency he had himself
in the scene, nor delicacy to his companion's
evident wish for concealment, would allow of
the request.

“Doctor Ives! how happy I am to see
you,” said Emily, hastily closing her portfolio,
and before Denbigh had gone half
through its contents, “you have become almost
a stranger to us, since Clara has left us.”

“No, no, my little friend, never a stranger,
I hope, at Moseley Hall,” cried the doctor,
pleasantly; “George, I am happy to see you
look so well—you have even a colour—
there is a letter for you from Marian.”

Denbigh took the letter eagerly, and retired
to a window to peruse it—his hand
shook as he broke the seal, and his interest in

the writer or its contents, could not have escaped
the notice of any observer, however
indifferent.

“Now, Miss Emily, if you will have the
goodness to order me a glass of wine and
water, after my ride, believe me, you will do
a very charitable act,” cried the doctor, as
he took his seat on the sopha. Emily was
standing by the little table, deeply musing on
the qualities of her port-folio; for her eyes
were fixed on its outside intently, as if she
expected to see its contents through the
leather covering.

“Miss Emily Moseley,” continued the
doctor, gravely, “am I to die of thirst or not,
this warm day.”

“Do you wish any thing, Doctor Ives,”
said Emily, as he passed her in order to ring
the bell.

“Only a servant to get me some wine and
water.”

“Why did you not ask me, my dear sir,”
said Emily, as she threw open a cellaret, and
handed him what he wanted.

“There, my dear, there is a great plenty,”
said the doctor, with an arch expression, “I
really thought I had asked you thrice—but I
believe you were studying something in that
port-folio.” Emily blushed, and endeavoured
to laugh at her own absence of mind; but
she would have given the world to know who
Marian was.