University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

It has been already mentioned, that the
health of Lady Pendennyss suffered a severe
shock, in giving birth to a daughter—change
of scene was prescribed as a remedy for her
disorder, and Denbigh and his wife were
on their return from a fruitless excursion
amongst the northern lakes, in pursuit of
amusement and relief for the latter, as they
were compelled to seek a shelter from the
fury of a sudden gust, in the first building
that offered; it was a farm house of the better
sort; and the attendants, carriages, and
appearance of their guests, caused no little
confusion to its simple inmates—a fire was
lighted in the best parlour, and every effort
made by the inhabitants to contribute to the
comforts of the travellers.

The Countess and her husband were
sitting, in that kind of listless melancholy,
which had been too much the companion
of their later hours, when in the interval
of the storm, a male voice in an adjoining
room commenced singing the following
ballad—the notes were low—monotonous,
but unusually sweet, and the enunciation
so distinct, as to render every syllable intelligible:

The maidens employed around the person
of their comfortless mistress—the valet of
Denbigh engaged in arranging a dry coat for
his master—all suspended their employments
to listen in breathless silence, to the mournful
melody of the song.

But Denbigh, himself, had started from his
seat, as the first notes struck his ear, and
continued until the voice ceased, gazing in
vacant horror, in the direction of the sounds.
A door opened from the parlour to the room
of the musician—he rushed through it, and
there---in a kind of shed to the building
which hardly sheltered him from the fury of
the tempest---clad in the garments of the extremest

poverty—with an eye roving in madness,
and a body rocking to and fro, from
mental inquietude, he beheld, seated on a
stone, the remains of his long lost brother,
Francis.

The language of the song, was too plain
to be misunderstood. The truth glared
around George, with a violence that dazzled
his brains---but he saw it all---he felt it all---
and rushing to the feet of his brother, he exclaimed,
in horror, pressing his hands between
his own:

“Francis—my own brother—do you not
know me?”

The maniac regarded him with a vacant
gaze, but the voice and the person, recalled the
compositions of his more reasonable moments
to his recollection—pushing back the
hair of George, so as to expose his fine forehead
to his view, he contemplated him for a
few moments, and then continued to sing, in
a voice still rendered sweeter than before by
his faint impressions.

On ending the last stanza, the maniac released
his brother, and broke into the wildest
laugh of madness.

“Francis!- -Oh! Francis, my brother”---
cried George, in bitterness of sorrow---
a piercing shriek drew his eye to the door
he had passed through---on its threshold lay
the senseless body of his wife—the distracted
husband forgot every thing, in the
situation of his Marian---and raising her in
his arms, he exclaimed,

“Marian---my Marian, revive---look up---
know me.”

Francis had followed him, and now
stood by his side---gazing intently on the
lifeless body---his looks became more soft---
his eye glanced less wildly---he cried,

“Marian---My Marian, too.”

There was a mighty effort---nature could
endure no more---he broke a blood-vessel,
and fell at the feet of George---they flew to
his assistance, giving the Countess to her
women---he was dead.

For seventeen years, Lady Pendennyss
survived the shock; but having reached her
own abode, during that long period, she
never left her room.

In the confidence of his reviving hopes,
Doctor Ives and his wife were made acquainted
with the real cause, of the grief of

their friend—but the truth went no further.—
Denbigh was the guardian of his three young
cousins—The Duke, his sister, and young
George Denbigh; these, with his son, Lord
Lumley, and daughter, Lady Marian, were
removed from the melancholy of the Castle,
to scenes better adapted to their opening prospects
in life—yet Lumley was fond of the
society of his father, and finding him a
youth endowed beyond his years—the care
of his parent, was early turned to the most
important of his duties in that sacred office;
and when he yielded to his wishes to go
into the army—he knew he went a youth of
sixteen, possessed of principles and self-denial,
that would become a man of five and
twenty.

General Wilson completed the work, his
father had begun; and Lord Lumley formed
a singular exception to the character of his
companions.

At the close of the Spanish war, he returned
home, and was just in time to receive
the parting breath of his mother.

A few days before her death, the Countess
requested her children might be made acquainted
with her history and misconduct,
and she placed in the hands of her son, a letter,
with directions, for him to open it after
her decease—it was addressed to both children,
and after recapitulating generally, the
principal events of her life, continued:

“Thus, my children, you perceive the consequences
of indulgence and hardness of

heart, which made me insensible to the sufferings
of others, and regardless of the plainest
dictates of justice—self, was my idol—the
love of admiration, which was natural to me,
was increased by the flatterers who surrounded
me—and had the customs of our
country, suffered royalty to descend in their
unions, to a grade in life below their own,
your uncle would have escaped the fangs
of my baneful coquetry.

“Oh! Marian, my child, never descend so
low as to practice those arts, which have degraded
your unhappy mother—I would impress
on you, as a memorial of my parting affection,
these simple truths—that coquetry,
stands next the want of chastity, in the scale
of female vices—it is in fact, a kind of mental
prostitution—it is ruinous to all that delicacy
of feeling, which gives added lustre to female
charms—it is almost destructive to modesty
itself—A woman who has been addicted to its
practice, may strive long, and in vain, to regain
that singleness of heart, which can
bind her up so closely in her husband and
children, as to make her a good wife, or a
mother; and if it should have degenerated
into habit, may lead to the awful result of
infidelity to her marriage vows.

“It is in vain for a coquette to pretend to religion—its
practice involves hypocrisy, falsehood,
and deception—every thing that is mean
—every thing that is debasing—in short, as it is
bottomed on selfishness and pride, where it has

once possessed the mind, it will only yield
to the truth-displaying banners of the cross—
this, and this only, can remove the evil; for
without it, she, whom the charms of youth
and beauty, have enabled to act the coquette,
will descend into the vale of life, altered, it is
true, but not amended—as she will find
the world, with its allurements, cling around
her parting years, in vain regrets for days
that are flown, and mercenary views for her
descendants. Heaven bless you, my children—console
and esteem your inestimable
father, while he yet remains with you; and
place your reliance on that Heavenly Parent,
who will never desert those, who seek him in
sincerity and love.—

Your dying mother,
“M. Pendennyss.”

This letter, evidently written under the
excitement of deep remorse, for the errors of
the writer, made a great impression on both
her children; in Lady Marian it was pity,
regret, and abhorrence of the fault, which
had been the principal cause of the wreck
of her mother's peace of mind; but in her
brother, now Earl of Pendennyss, these feelings
were united with a jealous dread of his
own probable lot, in the chances of matrimony.

His uncle had been the supposed heir to
a more elevated title than his own, but he
was now the actual possessor of as honourable
a name, and much larger revenues. The
great wealth of his maternal grandfather,

and considerable estate of his own father,
were, or would soon be, centered in himself;
and if a woman as amiable, as faultless, as
his affection had taught him to believe his
mother to be, could yield, in her situation, to
the lure of wordly honours—had he not great
reason to dread, a hand might be bestowed,
at some day, upon himself, when the heart
would point out some other destination, if
the real wishes of its owner were consulted.

Pendennyss was modest by nature, and
humble from principle—though by no means
distrustful; yet the shock of discovering his
mother's fault—the gloom of her death, and
his father's declining health, sometimes led
him into a train of reflections, which at
others, he would have fervently deprecated.

A short time after the decease of the
Countess, Mr. Denbigh, finding his constitution
bending fast, under the wasting of a decline
he had been in for a year, resolved to
finish his days in the abode of his Christian
friend, Doctor Ives. For several years they
had not met; increasing duties and infirmities
on both sides having interrupted their
visits.

By easy stages he left the residence of his
son in Wales, and accompanied by both his
children, he reached Lumley Castle much
exhausted; here he took a solemn and final
leave of Marian, unwilling she should so
soon witness again the death of another parent,

and dismissing the Earl's equipage and attendants,
a short day's ride from B—, they proceeded
alone to the rectory.

A letter had been forwarded, acquainting
the Doctor of his approaching visit, wishing
it to be perfectly private, but not alluding to
its object, and fixing the day, a week later
than the one he arrived on; this he had altered,
on perceiving the torch of life more rapidly
approaching the socket, than he had at
first supposed. Their unexpected appearance
and reception are known. Denbigh's death
and the departure of his son followed. Francis
was his companion, to the tomb of his ancestors
in Westmoreland.

The Earl had a shrinking delicacy under
the knowledge of his family, history, that
made him anxious to draw all eyes from the
contemplation of his mother's conduct—how
far the knowledge of it, had extended in society,
he could not know, but he wished it
buried with her in the tomb. The peculiar
manner of his father's death would attract
notice, and might recall attention to the prime
cause of his disorder; they were unknown as
yet, and he wished the Doctor's family to let
them remain so; it was impossible the death
of a man of Mr. Denbigh's rank, should be
unnoticed in the prints, and the care of Francis,
dictated the simple truth, without comments,
as it appeared: what was more natural,
than that the son of Mr. Denbigh, should
also be Mr. Denbigh.

In the presence of the Rector's family, no
allusions were made to their friends, and the
villagers and the neighbourhood spoke of them
as old and young Mr. Denbigh.

The name of Lord Lumley, now Earl of Pendennyss,
was known to the whole British nation;
but the long retirement of his father and
mother, had driven them almost from the recollection
of their friends. Even Mrs. Wilson
supposed her favourite hero a Lumley. Pendennyss
castle had been for centuries the proud
residence of that family; and the change of
name in its possessor, was forgotten with the
circumstances that led to it. When, therefore,
Emily met the Earl so unexpectedly the second
time at the rectory, she, of course, with all her
companions, spoke of him as Mr. Denbigh.

Pendennyss had called in proper person,
in expectation of meeting his kinsman,
Lord Bolton; but, finding him absent, could
not resist his desire to visit the rectory---accordingly
he sent his carriage and servants on
to London, leaving them at a convenient spot,
and arrived on foot at the house of Dr. Ives.
From the same motives which had influenced
him before---a wish to indulge, undisturbed
by useless ceremony, his melancholy
reflections---he desired his name might not
be mentioned.

This was an easy task; both Doctor and
Mrs. Ives had called him when a child, George
or Lumley, and were unused to his new appellation,
of Pendennyss; indeed, it rather
recalled painful recollections to them all.

It may be remembered, circumstances removed
the necessity of any introduction to Mrs.
Wilson and her party; and the difficulty in
that instance was happily got rid of.

The Earl had often heard Emily Moseley
spoken of by his friends, and in their letters
they frequently mentioned her name, as connected
with their pleasures and employments,
always with an affection, Pendennyss
thought exceeding that which they manifested—for
their son's wife; and Mrs. Ives, the
evening before, to remove unpleasant thoughts,
had given him a lively description of her
person and character. The Earl's curiosity
had been a little excited to see this
paragon of female beauty and virtues; and,
unlike most curiosity on such subjects, he
was agreeably disappointed by the examination.
He wished to know more, and made interest
with the doctor, to assist him to continue
the incognito, accident had favoured him with.

The Doctor objected on the ground of
principle, and the Earl desisted; but the
beauty of Emily, aided by her character, had
made an impression not to be easily shaken
off, and Pendennyss returned to the charge.

His former jealousies were awakened in proportion
to his admiration; and after some
time, he threw himself on the mercy of the
divine, by declaring his new motive, but
without mentioning his parents. The Doctor
pitied him, for he scanned his feelings thoroughly,
and consented to keep silent, but

laughingly declared, it was bad enough for a
divine, to be accessory to, much less aiding in
a deception; and that he knew if Emily and
Mrs. Wilson, learnt his imposition, he would
lose ground in their favour by the discovery.

“Surely, George,” said the doctor with a
laugh, “you don't mean to marry the young
lady as Mr. Denbigh?”

“Oh no! it is too soon to think of marrying
her at all,” replied the Earl with a smile,
“but—somehow—I should like to see, what
my reception in the world will be, as plain
Mr. Denbigh—unprovided for and unknown.”

“No doubt, my Lord,” said the Rector
archly, “in proportion to your merits very
unfavourably indeed; but then your humility
will be finely elevated, by the occasional
praises, I have heard Mrs. Wilson lavish on
your proper character, of late.”

“I am much indebted to her partiality,”
continued the Earl mournfully; then throwing
off his gloomy thoughts, he added;
“I wonder, my dear Doctor, your goodness
did not set her right in the latter particular.”

“Why she has hardly given me an opportunity—delicacy
and my own feelings, have
kept me very silent on the subject of your
family to any of that connexion; they think,
I believe, I was a rector in Wales, instead of
your father's chaplain, and somehow,” continued
the Doctor, smiling on his wife, “the
association with your late parents, was so

connected in my mind, with my most romantic
feelings; that although I have delighted in
it---I have seldom alluded to it in conversation
at all. Mrs. Wilson has never spoken
of you but twice in my hearing, and that
since she has expected to meet you—your
name has undoubtedly recalled the remembrance
of her husband.”

“I have many—many reasons to remember
the General with gratitude,” cried the
Earl with fervour—“but Doctor, do not forget
my incognito; only call me George, I ask no
more.”

The plan of Pendennyss was put in execution---day
after day he lingered in Northamptonshire,
until his principles and character
had grown upon the esteem of the Moseleys,
in the manner we have mentioned.

His frequent embarrassments were from the
dread and shame of a detection---with Sir Hubert
Nicholson, he had a narrow escape; and
Mrs. Fitzgerald and Lord Henry Stapleton
he of course avoided; for having gone so far,
he was determined to persevere to the end.
Egerton he thought knew him, and he disliked
his character and manners.

When Chatterton appeared most attentive
to Emily, the candour and good opinion of
the young nobleman made the Earl acquainted
with his wishes and his situation. Pendennyss
was too generous not to meet his rival on
fair grounds. His cousin, the Duke, was requested
to use their influence secretly, for the

desired station for the Baron—the result is
known, and Pendennyss trusted his secret to
Chatterton; he took him to London, gave
him in charge to Derwent, and returned to
prosecute his own suit. His note from Bolton
Castle was a ruse, to conceal his character,
as he knew the departure of the baronet's
family to an hour, and had so timed his visit
to the Earl, as not to come in collision with
the Moseleys.

“Indeed, my Lord,” cried the Doctor to him
one day, “your scheme goes on swimmingly,
and I am only afraid when your mistress finds
the imposition, you will find your rank producing
a different effect, from what you have
apprehended.”