University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

As a month had elapsed since the receiving
of his wound, Denbigh took an opportunity
one morning at breakfast, where he was well
enough now to meet his friends, to announce
his intention of trespassing no longer on
their kindness, but of returning that day to
the rectory; the communication distressed
the whole family, and the baronet turned to
him in the most cordial manner, as he took
one of his hands, and said, with an air of
solemnity,

“Mr. Denbigh, I could wish you to make
this house your home; Doctor Ives may
have known you longer, and may have ties
of blood upon you, but I am certain he cannot
love you better; and are not the ties of
gratitude as binding as those of blood?”

Denbigh was affected by the kindness of
Sir Edward's manner, as he replied,

“The regiment I belong to, Sir Edward, will
be reviewed next week, and it has become my
duty to leave here; there is one it is proper I
should visit, a near connexion, who is acquainted
with the escape I have met with,
and wishes naturally to see me; besides, my
dear Sir Edward, she has many causes of
sorrow, and it is a debt I owe her affection to
endeavour to relieve them.” It was the first
time he had ever spoken of his family, or

hardly of himself; and the silence which
prevailed, plainly showed the interest the
listeners took in the little he uttered.

That connexion, thought Emily, I wonder
if her name be Marian. But nothing
further passed, excepting the affectionate regrets
of her father, and the promises of Denbigh
to visit them again before he left B—,
and of joining them at L—immediately
after the review he spoke of. As soon as he
had breakfasted, John drove him in his phaeton
to the rectory.

Mrs. Wilson, like the rest of the baronet's
family, had been too deeply impressed with
the debt they owed to this young man, to interfere
with her favourite system of caution,
against too great an intimacy between her
niece and her preserver. Close observation,
and the opinion of Dr. Ives, had prepared
her to give him her esteem; but the gallantry,
the self-devotion he had displayed to Emily,
was an act calculated to remove heavier objections
than she could imagine as likely to
exist, to his becoming her husband—that he
meant it, was evident from his whole deportment
of late. Since the morning the portfolio
was produced, Denbigh had given a
more decided preference to her niece. The
nice discrimination of Mrs. Wilson would not
have said his feelings had become stronger,
but that he laboured less to conceal them—
that he loved her niece, she suspected from
the first fortnight of their acquaintance, and

it had given additional stimulus to her investigation
into her character—but to doubt it,
after stepping between her and death, would
have been to have mistaken human nature.
There was one qualification, she would have
wished to have been certain he possessed;
before this accident, she would have made
it an indispensible one; but the gratitude—
the affections of Emily, she believed now to
be too deeply engaged to make the strict inquiry
she otherwise would have done, and
she had the best of reasons for believing that
if Denbigh were not a professing Christian,
he was at least a strictly moral man, and assuredly,
one who well understood the beauties
of a religion, she almost conceived it impossible
for any impartial and intelligent
man to resist long; perhaps Mrs. Wilson,
owing to circumstances without her control,
had in some measure interfered with her
system—like others, had, on finding it impossible
to conduct so that reason would justify
all she did, began to find reasons for
what she thought best to be done under
the circumstances. Denbigh had, however,
both by his acts and his opinions, created
such an estimate of his worth, in the breast
of Mrs. Wilson, that there would have been
but little danger of a repulse, had no fortuitous
accident helped him in his way to her
favour.

“Who have we here,” said Lady Moseley;
“a landaulet and four—the Earl of Bolton,

I declare;” and Lady Moseley turned from
the window, with that collected grace she so
well loved, and so well knew how to assume,
to receive her noble visiter. Lord Bolton
was a bachelor of sixty-five, who had long
been attached to the court, and had retained
much of the manners of the old school; his
principle estate was in Ireland, and most of
that time which his duty at Windsor did
not require, he gave to the improvement of
his Irish property; thus, although on perfectly
good terms with the baronet's family,
they seldom met—with General Wilson he
had been at college, and to his widow he always
showed much of that regard he had
invariably professed to her husband. The
obligation he had conferred, unasked, on
Francis Ives, was one conferred on all his
friends; and his reception was now warmer
than usual.

“My Lady Moseley,” said the earl, bowing
on her hand, “your looks do ample justice
to the air of Northamptonshire. I hope
your ladyship enjoys your usual health;” and
then waiting her equally courteous answer,
he paid his compliments, in succession, to all
the members of the family; a mode undoubtedly
well adapted to discover their several
conditions, but not a little tedious in
its operations, and somewhat tiresome to the
legs.

“We are under a debt of gratitude to your
lordship,” said Sir Edward, in his simple and

warm-hearted way, “that I am sorry it is
not in our power to repay more amply than
by our thanks.”

The earl was, or affected to be, surprised,
as he required an explanation.

“The living at Bolton, my lord,” said
Lady Moseley, with dignity. “Yes,” continued
her husband; “your lordship, in giving
the living to Frank, did me a favour, equal
to what you would have done, had he been
my own child—and unsolicited too, my lord,
it was an additional compliment.”

The earl sat rather uneasy during this
speech, but the love of truth prevailed, for
he had been too much round the person of
our beloved sovereign, not to retain all the
impressions of his youth; and after a little
struggle with his self love, answered,

“Not unsolicited, Sir Edward. I have
no doubt had my better fortune allowed me
the acquaintance of my present rector, his
own merit would have obtained, what a sense
of justice requires I should say was granted
to an applicant, the ear of royalty would not
have been deaf to.”

It was the turn of the Moseleys now to
look surprised, and Sir Edward ventured to
ask an explanation.

“It was my cousin, the Earl of Pendennyss,
who applied to me for it, as a favour
done to himself; and Pendennyss is a man not
to be refused any thing.”

“Lord Pendennyss,” exclaimed Mrs.

Wilson, with animation, “and in what way
came we to be under this obligation to his
lordship?”

“He did me the honour of a call, during
my visit to Ireland, madam,” replied the
earl, “and on inquiring of my steward after
his old friend, Doctor Stevens, learnt his
death, and the claims of Mr. Ives; but the
reason he gave me, was his interest in the
widow of General Wilson,” bowing with
much solemnity to the lady as he spoke.

“I am gratified to find the earl yet remembers
us,” said Mrs. Wilson, struggling
to restrain her tears; “are we to have the
pleasure of seeing him soon?”

“I received a letter from him yesterday,
saying he should be here in all next week,
madam;” and turning pleasantly to Jane and
her sister, he continued, “Sir Edward, you
have here rewards fit for heavier services, and
the earl is a great admirer of female charms.”

“Is he not married, my lord?” asked the
baronet, with great simplicity.

“No, baronet, nor engaged; but how long
he will remain so after his hardihood in venturing
into this neighbourhood, will, I trust,
depend on one of these young ladies.”

Jane looked grave—for trifling on love was
heresy in her estimation; but Emily laughed,
with an expression in which a skilful physiognomist
might have read—if he means me,
he is mistaken.

“Your cousin, Lord Chatterton, has found

interest, Sir Edward,” continued the peer,
“to obtain his father's situation; and if reports
speak truth, he wishes to become more nearly
related to you, baronet.”

“I do not well see how that can happen,”
said Sir Edward, with a smile, and who had
not art enough to conceal his thoughts, “unless
he takes my sister, here.”

The cheeks of both the young ladies now
vied with the rose; and the peer observing he
had touched on forbidden ground, added,
“Chatterton was fortunate to find friends able
to bear up against the powerful interest of
Lord Haverford.”

“To whom was he indebted for the place,
my lord?” asked Mrs. Wilson.

“It was whispered at court, madam,” said
the earl, sensibly lowering his voice, and
speaking with an air of mystery, a lord of
the bed-chamber is fonder of, than a lord of
the council-board, “that His Grace of Derwent
threw the whole of his parliamentary
interest into the scale on the baron's side—
but you are not to suppose,” raising his hand
gracefully, with a wave of rejection, “that
I speak from authority; only a surmise, Sir
Edward—only a surmise, my lady.”

“Is not the name of the Duke of Derwent,
Denbigh?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, with
a thoughtful manner.

“Certainly, madam—Denbigh,” replied
the earl, with a gravity with which he always
spoke of dignities, “one of our most ancient

names, and descended on the female side,
from the Plantagenets and Tudors.”

He now rose to take his leave, and on
bowing to the younger ladies, laughingly
repeated his intention of bringing his cousin
(an epithet he never omitted) Pendennyss to
their feet.

“Do you think, sister,” said Lady Moseley,
after the earl had retired, “that Mr. Denbigh
is of the house of Derwent?”

“I cannot say,” replied Mrs. Wilson,
musing, “yet it is odd—Chatterton told me
of his acquaintance with Lady Harriet Denbigh,
but not with the duke.” As this was
spoken in the manner of a soliloquy, it received
no answer, and was in fact but little
attended to by any of the party, excepting
Emily, who glanced her eye once or twice
at her aunt as she was speaking, with an interest
the name of Denbigh never failed to
excite. Harriet was, she thought, a pretty
name, but Marian was a prettier; if, thought
Emily, I could know a Marian Denbigh,
I am sure I could love her, and her name
too.

The Moseleys now began to make their
preparations for their departure to L—,
and the end of the succeding week was fixed
for the period at which they were to go;
Mrs. Wilson urged a delay of two or three
days, in order to give her an opportunity of
meeting with the Earl of Pendennyss, a
young man in whom, although she had relinquished

her former romantic wish of
uniting him to Emily, in favour of Denbigh,
she yet felt a deep interest, growing out of his
connexion with the last moments of her husband,
and his uniformly high character.

Sir Edward accordingly acquainted his
uncle, that on the following Saturday he
might expect to receive himself and family,
intending to leave the hall in the afternoon
of the preceding day, and reach Benfield
Lodge to dinner; this arrangement once
made, and Mr. Benfield notified of it, was unalterable,
the old man holding a variation
from an engagement a deadly sin. The week
succeeding the accident, which had nearly
proved so fatal to Denbigh, the inhabitants
of the hall were surprised with the approach
of a being, as singular in his manners and
dress, as the equipage which conveyed him
to the door of the mansion—the latter consisted
of a high-backed, old-fashioned sulky,
loaded with leather and large headed brass
nails; wheels at least a quarter larger in circumference
than those of the present day,
and wings on each side, large enough to have
supported a full grown roc, in the highest
regions of the upper air—it was drawn by a
horse, once white, but whose milky hue was
tarnished, through age, with large and numerous
red spots, and whose mane and tail did
not appear to have suffered by the shears
during the present reign. The being who
alighted from this antiquated vehicle, was tall

and excessively thin, wore his own hair
drawn over his almost naked head, into a
long thin cue, which reached half way down
his back, closely cased in numerous windings
of leather, or skin of some fish. His
drab coat was in shape between a frock and
close-body—close-body, indeed, it was; for
the buttons, which were in size about equal
to an old-fashioned China saucer, were
buttoned to the very throat, and thereby setting
off his shapes to peculiar advantage; his
breeches were buckskin, and much soiled;
his stockings blue yarn, although it was midsummer;
and his shoes provided with buckles
of dimensions proportionate to the aforesaid
buttons; his age might have been seventy,
but his walk was quick, and the movements
of his whole system showed great activity
both of mind and body. He was ushered
into the room where the gentlemen
were sitting, and having made a low and extremely
modest bow, deliberately put on
his spectacles, thrust his hand into an outside
pocket of his coat, and produced, from under
its huge flaps, a black leather pocket-book,
about as large as a good sized octavo volume;
after examining the multitude of papers it
contained carefully, he selected a letter, and
having returned the pocket-book to its ample
apartment, read aloud—“For Sir Edward
Moseley, bart. of Moseley Hall, B—,
Northamptonshire—with care and speed, by
the hands of Mr. Peter Johnson, steward of
Benfield Lodge, Norfolk;” and dropping
his sharp voice, he stalked up to where the
baronet stood, and presented the epistle, with
another reverence.

“Ah, my good friend Johnson,” said Sir
Edward, as soon as he delivered his errand,
(for until he saw the contents of the letter,
he had thought some accident had occurred
to his uncle,) “this is the first visit you have
ever honoured me with; come, take a
glass of wine before you go to your dinner
—drink that you hope it may not be the
last.”

“Sir Edward Moseley, and you honourable
gentlemen, will pardon me,” replied the
steward, in his solemn keys, “this is the
first time I was ever out of his majesty's
county of Norfolk, and I devoutly wish it
may prove the last—Gentlemen, I drink
your honourable healths.”

This was the only real speech the old man
made during his visit, unless an occasional
monosyllabic reply to a question could be
thought so. He remained, by Sir Edward's
positive order, until the following day; for
having delivered his message, and received
its answer, he was about to take his departure
that evening, thinking he might get
a good piece on his road homeward, as it
wanted a half an hour yet to sundown. On
the following morning, with the sun, he was
on his way to the house in which he had
been born, and which he had never left for

twenty-four hours at a time, in his life. In
the evening, as he was ushered in by John
(who had known him from his own childhood,
and loved to show him attentions) to the
room in which he was to sleep, he broke,
what the young man called, his inveterate
silence, with, “young Mr. Moseley—young
gentleman—might I presume—to ask—to see
the gentleman.”

“What gentleman?” cried John, in astonishment,
both at the request, and his speaking
so much.

“That saved Miss Emmy's life, sir.” John
now fully comprehended him, and led the
way to Denbigh's room; he was asleep, but
they were admitted to his bed-side; the
steward stood for good ten minutes, gazing
on the sleeper in silence; and John observed,
as he blew his nose, on regaining his own
apartment, his little gray eyes twinkled with
a lustre, that could not be taken for any thing
but a tear.

As the letter was as characteristic of the
writer, as its bearer was of his vocation,
we may be excused giving it at length.

“Dear Sir Edward and Nephew,

“Your letter reached the lodge too late to
be answered that evening, as I was about
to step into my bed; but I hasten to write
my congratulations; remembering the often
repeated maxim of my kinsman Lord Gosford,
that letters should be answered immediately;

indeed, a neglect of it had very nigh
brought about an affair of honour between the
earl and Sir Stephens Hallett. Sir Stephens
was always opposed to us in the house of
commons of this realm; and I have often
thought it might have been something passed
in the debate itself, which commenced the
correspondence, as the earl certainly told him
as much, as if he were a traitor to his king
and country.

“But it seems that your daughter Emily,
has been rescued from death, by the grandson
of General Denbigh, who sat with us in
the house—Now I always had a good opinion
of this young Denbigh, who reminds
me every time I look at him, of my late brother,
your father-in-law, that was; and I
send my steward, Peter Johnson, express to
the hall, in order that he may see the sick
man, and bring me back a true account of
how he fares; for should he be wanting for
any thing within the gift of Roderic Benfield,
he has only to speak to have it; not that I
suppose, nephew, you will willingly allow
him to suffer for any thing, but Peter is a
man of close observation, although he is of
few words, and may suggest something beneficial,
that might escape younger heads—
I pray for—that is, I hope, the young man
will recover, as your letter gives great hopes,
and if he should want any little matter to
help him along in his promotion in the army,
as I take it he is not over wealthy, you

[OMITTED] [OMITTED] or a life of service, could entitle me to receive.”
The baronet smiled his assent to a
request he already understood, and Denbigh
withdrew.

John Moseley had insisted on putting the
bays into requisition to carry Denbigh for
the first stage, and they now stood caparisoned
for the jaunt, with their master in a less
joyous mood than common, waiting the appearance
of his companion.

Emily delighted in their annual excursion
to Benfield Lodge; she was beloved so
warmly, and returned the affection of its
owner so sincerely, that the arrival of the
day never failed to excite that flow of spirits
which generally accompanies anticipated
pleasures, ere experience has proved how
trifling are the greatest enjoyments the scenes
of this life bestow. Yet as the day of their
departure drew near, her spirits sunk in proportion,
and on the morning of Denbigh's
leave-taking, Emily seemed any thing but
excessively happy; there was a tremour in
her voice, and redness about her eyes, that
alarmed Lady Moseley with the apprehension
she had taken cold; but as the paleness
of her cheeks were immediately succeeded
with as fine a brilliancy of colour, as the
heart could wish, the anxious mother allowed
herself to be persuaded by Mrs. Wilson, there
was no danger, and accompanied her sister
to her own room for some purpose of domestic
economy. It was at this moment Denbigh

entered; he had paid his adieus to the
matrons at the door, and been directed by
them to the little parlour in quest of Emily.

“I have come to make my parting compliments,
Miss Moseley,” said he, in a tremulous
voice, as he ventured to hold forth
his hand; “may heaven preserve you,” he
continued, holding it in fervour to his bosom,
and then dropping it, he hastily retired, as if
unwilling to trust himself any longer to utter
all he felt. Emily stood a few moments, pale,
and almost inanimate, as the tears flowed rapidly
from her eyes, and then sought a
shelter in a seat of the window for her person
and her sorrows. Lady Moseley, on returning,
was again alarmed lest the draught
would increase her indisposition; but her
sister, observing that the window commanded
a view of the road, thought the air too mild
to do her injury.

The personages who composed the society
at B—, had now, in a great measure, separated,
in pursuit of their duties or their
pleasures. The merchant and his family left
the deanery for a watering place. Francis
and Clara had gone on a little tour of pleasure
in the northern counties, to take L—
in their return homeward; and the morning
arrived for the commencement of the baronet's
journey to the same place. The carriages
had been ordered, and servants were
running in various ways, busily employed in
their several occupations, when Mrs. Wilson,

accompanied by John and his sisters, returned
from a walk they had taken to avoid
the bustle of the house. A short distance
from the park gates, an equipage was observed
approaching, creating by its numerous
horses and attendants, a dust which drove
the pedestrians to one side of the road; an
uncommonly elegant and admirably fitted
travelling barouche and six rolled by, with
the graceful steadiness of an English equipage;
several servants on horseback were in
attendance, and our little party were struck
with the beauty of the whole establishment.

“Can it be possible, Lord Bolton drives
such elegant horses,” cried John, with the
ardour of a connoisseur in that noble animal;
“they are the finest set in the kingdom.”

Jane's eye had seen, through the clouds of
dust, the armorial bearings, which seemed to
float in the dark glossy pannels of the carriage,
and answered, “it is an earl's coronet, but
they are not the Bolton arms.” Mrs. Wilson
and Emily had noticed a gentleman reclining
at his ease, as the owner of the gallant
show; but its passage was too rapid to
enable them to distinguish the features of
the courteous old earl; indeed, Mrs. Wilson
remarked, she thought him a younger man
than her friend.

“Pray, sir,” said John, to a tardy groom,
as he civilly walked his horse by the ladies,
“who has passed us in the barouche?”

“My Lord Pendennyss, sir.”

“Pendennyss!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson,
with a tone of regret, “how unfortunate!”
she had seen the day named for his visit
pass without his arrival, and now, as it was
too late to profit by the opportunity, he had
come for the second time into her neighbourhood.
Emily had learnt by the solicitude of
her aunt, to take an interest in the young
peer's movements, and desired John to ask a
question or two of the groom.

“Where does your lord stop, to-night?”

“At Bolton Castle, sir, and I heard my lord
tell his valet that he intended staying one
day hereabouts, and on the day after the
morrow he goes to Wales, your honour.”

“I thank you, friend,” said John; and the
man spurred his horse after the cavalcade.
The carriages were at the door, and Sir Edward
had been hurrying Jane to enter, as a
servant, in a rich livery, and well mounted,
galloped up and delivered a letter for Mrs.
Wilson, who on opening it read the following:

“The Earl of Pendennyss begs leave to
present his most respectful compliments to
Mrs. Wilson, and the family of Sir Edward
Moseley—Lord Pendennyss will have the
honour of paying his respects in person at
any moment that the widow of his late invaluable
friend, lieutenant-general Wilson,
will please to appoint.

“Bolton Castle, Friday evening.”

To this note Mrs. Wilson, bitterly regretting
the necessity which compelled her to
forego the pleasure of meeting her paragon,
wrote in reply a short letter, disliking the
formality of a note.

“My Lord,

“I sincerely regret, that an engagement
which cannot be postponed, compels us to
leave Moseley Hall within the hour, and
must, in consequence, deprive us of the pleasure
of your intended visit. But as circumstances
have connected your lordship with
some of the dearest, although the most melancholy
events of my life, I earnestly beg
you will no longer consider us as strangers to
your person, as we have long ceased to be
to your character. It will afford me the
greatest pleasure to hear that there will be a
prospect of our meeting in town this winter,
where I may find a more fitting opportunity
of expressing those grateful feelings so long
due to your lordship, from your sincere friend,

“Charlotte Wilson.
“Moseley Hall, Friday morning.”

With this answer the servant was despatched,
and the carriages moved on. John had
induced Emily to trust herself once more to
the bays and his skill; but on perceiving the
melancholy of her aunt, she insisted on exchanging
seats with Jane, who had accepted
a place in the carriage of Mrs. Wilson. No

objection being made, Mrs. Wilson and her
niece rode the first afternoon together in her
travelling chaise. The road run within a quarter
of a mile of Bolton Castle, and the ladies
endeavoured in vain to get a glimpse of the
person of the young nobleman. Emily was
willing to gratify her aunt's propensity to
dwell on the character and history of her favourite,
and hoping to withdraw her attention
gradually from more unpleasant recollections,
asked several trifling questions relating to
those points.

“The earl must be very rich, aunt, from
the style he maintains.”

“Very, my dear; his family I am unacquainted
with, but I understand his title is an
extremely ancient one; and some one, I belive
Lord Bolton, mentioned that his estates
in Wales alone, exceeded fifty thousand a
year.”

“Much good might be done,” said Emily
thoughtfully, “with such a fortune.”

“Much good is done,” cried her aunt with
fervour. “I am told by every one who knows
him, his donations are large and frequent.
Sir Herbert Nicholson said he was extremely
simple in his habits, and it leaves large
sums at his disposal every year.”

“The bestowal of money is not always
charity,” said Emily with an arch smile and
slight colour. Mrs. Wilson smiled in her turn
as she answered, “not always, but it is charity
to hope for the best.” “Sir Herbert

knew him then?” said Emily—“Perfectly
well; they were associated together in the
service for several years, and he spoke of him
with a fervour equal to my warmest expectations.”
The Moseley arms in F—, was
kept by an old butler of the family, and Sir
Edward every year, going and coming to
L—, spent a night under its roof. He was
received by its master with a respect that none
who ever knew the baronet well, could withhold
from his goodness of heart and many
virtues.”

“Well, Jackson,” said the baronet kindly
as he was seated at the supper table, “how
does custom increase with you—I hope you
and the master of the Dun Cow are more
amicable than formerly.”

“Why, Sir Edward,” replied the host, who
had lost a little of the deference of the servant
in the landlord, but none of his real respect,
“Mr. Daniels and I are more upon a
footing of late than we was, when your goodness
enabled me to take the house; then he
got all the great travellers, and for more than a
twelvemonth I had not a title in my house
but yourself and a great London doctor, that
was called here to see a sick person in the
town. He had the impudence to call me the
knight, barrowknight, your honour, and we
had a quarrel upon that account.”

“I am glad, however, to find you are gaining
in the rank of your customers, and trust,

as the occasion has ceased, you will be more
inclined to be good-natured to each other.”

“Why, as to good-nature, Sir Edward, I
lived with your honour ten years, and you
must know somewhat of my temper,” said
Jackson, with the self-satisfaction of an approving
conscience; “but Sam Daniels is a
man who is never easy unless he is left quietly
at the top of the ladder; however,” continued
the host, with a chuckle, “I have given
him a dose lately.”

“How so, Jackson?” inquired the baronet,
willing to gratify the man's evident wish
to relate his triumphs.

“Your honour must have heard mention
made of a great lord, one Duke of Derwent;
well, Sir Edward, about six weeks agone he
past through with my Lord Chatterton.”

“Chatterton!” exclaimed John, interrupting
him, “has he been so near us again, and
so lately?”

“Yes, Mr. Moseley,” replied Jackson with
a look of importance; “they dashed into my
yard with their chaise and four, with five
servants, and would you think it, Sir Edward,
they had'nt been in the house ten minutes,
before Daniel's son was fishing from the servants,
who they were; I told him, Sir Edward
---dukes don't come every day.”

“How came you to get his grace away
from the Dun Cow—chance?”

“No, your honour,” said the host, pointing
to his sign, and bowing reverently to his

old master, “the Moseley Arms did it. Mr.
Daniels used to taunt me with having worn
a livery, and has said more than once he
could milk his cow, but that your honour's
arms would never lift me into a comfortable
seat for life; so I just sent him a message by
the way of letting him know my good fortune,
your honour.”

“And what was it?”

“Only that your honour's arms had shoved
a duke and a baron into my house---that's
all.”

“And I suppose Daniels' legs shoved your
messenger out of his house,” said John with
a laugh.

“No, Mr. Moseley; Daniels would hardly
dare do that: but yesterday, your honour,
yesterday evening, beat every thing. Daniels
was seated before his door, and I was taking
a pipe at mine, Sir Edward, as a coach and
six, with servants upon servants, drove down
the street; it got near us, and the boys were
reining the horses into the yard of the Dun
Cow, as the gentleman in the coach saw my
sign: he sent a groom to inquire who kept
the house; I got up your honour, and told
him my name, sir. Mr. Jackson, said his
lordship, my respect for the family of Sir Edward
Moseley is too great not to give my
custom to an old servant of his family.”

“Indeed,” said the baronet; “pray who
was my lord?”

“The Earl of Pendennyss, your honour.

Oh, he is a sweet gentleman, and he asked all
about my living with your honour, and about
madam Wilson.”

“Did his lordship stay the night,” inquired
Mrs. Wilson, excessively gratified at a discovery
of the disposition manifested by the
earl towards her.

“Yes, madam, he left here after breakfast.”

“What message did you send the Dun Cow
this time, Jackson?” cried John laughing.
Jackson looked a little foolish, but the question
being repeated, he answered—“Why,
sir, I was a little crowded for room, and so
your honour, so I just sent Tom across the
street, to know if Mr. Daniels could'nt keep
a couple of the grooms.”

“And Tom got his head broke.”

“No, Mr. John, the tankard missed him;
but if---”

“Very well,” cried the baronet, willing to
change the conversation, “you have been so
fortunate of late, you can afford to be generous;
and I advise you to cultivate harmony
with your neighbour, or I may take my arms
down, and you may lose your noble visiters---see
my room prepared.”

“Yes, your honour,” said the host, and
bowing respectfully, he withdrew.

“At least, aunt,” cried John pleasantly,
“we have the pleasure of supping in the
same room with the puissant earl, albeit
there be twenty-four hours difference in the
time.”

“I sincerely wish there had not been that
difference,” observed his father, taking his
sister kindly by the hand.

“Such an equipage must have been a harvest
indeed to Jackson,” remarked the mother;
and they broke up for the evening.

The whole establishment at Benfield Lodge
were drawn up to receive them on the following
day in the great hall, and in the centre
was fixed the upright and lank figure of its
master, with his companion in leanness, honest
Peter Johnson, on his right.

“I have made out, Sir Edward and my Lady
Moseley, to get as far as my entrance to
receive the favour you are conferring upon me.
It was a rule in my day, and one invariably
practised by all the great nobility, such as
Lord Gosford---and---and---his sister, the lady
Juliana Dayton, always to receive and
quit their guests in the country at the great
entrance; and in conformity---ah, Emmy
dear,” cried the old gentleman, folding her in
his arms as the tears rolled down his cheek,
and forgetting his speech in the warmth of his
feeling, “you are saved to us again; God be
praised---there, that will do, let me breathe---let
me breathe”---and then by the way of
getting rid of his softer feelings, he turned
upon John; “so, youngster, you would be
playing with edge tools, and put the life of
your sister in danger. No gentlemen held a
gun in my day; that is, no gentlemen about
the court. My Lord Gosford had never killed

a bird in his life, or drove his horse; no sir,
gentlemen then were not coachmen. Peter,
how old was I before I took the reins of the
chaise, in driving round the estate---the time
you had broke your arm; it was—”

Peter, who stood a little behind his master,
in modest retirement, and who had only
thought his elegant form brought thither to
embellish the show, when called upon, advanced
a step, made a low bow, and answered in
his sharp key:

“In the year 1798, your honour, and the
38th of his present majesty, and the 64th
year of your life, sir, June the 12th, about meridian.”
Peter had dropped back as he finished;
but recollecting himself, regained his
place with a bow, as he added, “new style.”

“How are you, old style?” cried John,
with a slap on the back, that made the steward
jump again.

“Mr. John Moseley---young gentleman”---a
term Peter had left off using to the baronet
within the last ten years, “did you think---to
bring home---the goggles?”

“Oh yes,” said John gravely, and he produced
them from his pocket, most of the party
having entered the parlour, and put them
carefully on the bald head of the steward---
“There Mr. Peter Johnson, you have your
property again. safe and sound.”

“And Mr. Denbigh said he felt much indebted
to your consideration in sending

them,” said Emily soothingly, as she took
them off with her beautiful hands.

“Ah Miss Emmy,” said the steward with
one of his best bows, “that was---a noble
act; God bless him;” and then holding up
his finger significantly, “but the fourteenth
codicil---to master's will,” and Peter laid his
finger alongside his nose, as he nodded his
head in silence,

“I hope the thirteenth contains the name
of honest Peter Johnson,” said the young
lady, who felt herself uncommonly well
pleased with the steward's conversation just
then.

“As witness, Miss Emmy---witness to all---but
God forbid,” said the steward with solemnity,
“I should ever live to see the proving
of them; no, Miss Emmy, master has
done for me what he intended, while I had
youth to enjoy it. I am rich, Miss Emmy---good
three hundred a year.” Emily, who
had seldom heard as long a speech as the old
man's gratitude drew from him, expressed her
pleasure to hear it, and shaking him kindly
by the hand, left him for the parlour.

“Niece,” said Mr. Benfield, having scanned
the party closely with his eyes, “where
is Colonel Denbigh?”

“Colonel Egerton, you mean, sir,” interrupted
Lady Moseley.

“No, my Lady Moseley,” replied her uncle
with great formality, “I mean Colonel Denbigh.
I take it he is a colonel by this time,”

looking expressively at the baronet; “and
who is fitter to be a colonel or a general, than
a man who is not afraid of gunpowder.”

“Colonels must have been scarce in your
youth, sir,” cried John, who had rather a mischievous
propensity to start the old man on
his hobby.

“No, jackanapes, gentlemen killed one
another then, although they did not torment
the innocent birds: honour was as dear to a
gentleman of George the second's court, as
to those of his grandson's, and honesty too,
sirrah—ay, honesty. I remember when we
were in, there was not a man of doubtful in,
tegrity in the ministry, or on our side even;
and then again, when we went out, the opposition
benches were filled with sterling
characters, making a parliament that was correct
throughout; can you show me such a
thing at this day?