University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

On withdrawing to her dressing-room after
dinner, attended by Emily, Mrs. Wilson commenced
her disagreeable duty, of removing
the veil from the eyes of her niece, by recounting
to her the substance of Mrs. Fitzgerald's
last communication. To the innocence
of Emily, such persecution could excite
no other sensations but surprise and horror;
and as her aunt omitted the part, concerning
the daughter of Sir Edward Moseley,
she naturally expressed her wonder at who
the wretch could be.

“Possibly, aunt,” she said, with an involuntary
shudder, “some of the many gentlemen
we have lately seen, and one who has
had art enough to conceal his real character
from the world.”

“Concealment, my love,” replied Mrs.
Wilson, “would be hardly necessary; such
is the fashionable laxity of morals, that I
doubt not many of his associates would laugh
at his misconduct, and that he would still
continue to pass with the world as an honourable
man.”

“And ready,” cried her niece, “to sacrifice
human life, in the defence of any ridiculous
punctilio of that honour.”

“Or,” added Mrs. Wilson, striving to
draw nearer to her subject, “with a closer

veil of hypocrisy wear even an affectation of
principle and moral feeling, that would seem
to forbid such a departure from duty in favour
of custom.”

“Oh! no, dear aunt,” exclaimed Emily,
with glowing cheeks, and eyes dancing with
pleasure, “he would hardly dare to be so
very base—it would be profanity.” Mrs.
Wilson sighed heavily as she witnessed the
confiding esteem of Emily, which would not
permit her even to suspect, that an act, which
in Denbigh had been so warmly applauded,
could, even in another, proceed from unworthy
motives; and found it would be necessary
to speak in the plainest terms, to rouse
her suspicion of his demerits;—willing, however,
to come gradually to the distressing
truth, she replied—

“And yet, my dear, men who pride themselves
greatly on their morals, nay, even
some who wear the mask of religion, and
perhaps deceive themselves, admit and practice
this very appeal to arms; such inconsistencies
are by no means uncommon; and
why then might there not, with equal probability,
be others, who would revolt at murder,
and yet not hesitate being guilty of lesser
enormities; this is in some measure the case
of every man; and it is only to consider
killing in unlawful encounters, as murder,
to make it one in point.”

“Hypocrisy is so mean a vice, I should
not think a brave man would stoop to it,”

said Emily, “and Julia admits he was
brave.”

“And would not a brave man revolt at
the cowardice of insulting an unprotected
woman; and your hero did that too,” replied
Mrs. Wilson bitterly, losing her self-command
in indignation.

“Oh! do not call him my hero, I beg of
you, dear aunt,” said Emily, starting; and
then losing the unpleasant sensations, in the
delightful consciousness of the superiority
of the man on whom she bestowed her admiration.

“In fact, my child,” continued her aunt,
“our natures are guilty of the grossest inconsistencies—the
vilest wretch has generally
some property on which he values himself;
and the most perfect are too often frail
on some tender point; long and tried friendships
are those only which can be trusted to,
and these oftentimes fail.”

Emily looked at her aunt in surprise, to
hear her utter such unusual sentiments; for
Mrs. Wilson, at the same time she had, by divine
assistance, deeply impressed her niece
with the frailty of her nature, had withheld
the disgusting representation of human vices
from her view, as unnecessary to her situation,
and dangerous to her humility.

After a short pause, Mrs. Wilson continued,
“marriage is a fearful step in a woman;
and one she is compelled, in some
measure, to adventure her happiness on,

without fitting opportunities always, of judging
of the merit of the man she confides in;
Jane is an instance, and I hope you are not
doomed to be another.”

While speaking, Mrs. Wilson had taken
the hand of Emily, and by her looks and solemn
manner, had succeeded in creating an
alarm in her niece, of some apprehended
evil, although Denbigh was yet farthest from
her thoughts as connected with danger to
herself; the aunt reached her a glass of
water, and willing to get rid of the hateful
subject, she continued, “did you not notice
the pocket-book Francis gave Mr. Denbigh?”
Emily fixed her inquiring eyes on her aunt,
wildly, as she added, “it was the one Mrs.
Fitzgerald gave me to-day.” Something like
an indefinite glimpse of the facts crossed the
mind of Emily—and as it most obviously involved
a separation from Denbigh, she sunk
lifeless into the extended arms of her aunt.
This had been anticipated by Mrs. Wilson,
and a timely application of restoratives soon
brought her back to a consciousness of her
misery. Mrs. Wilson, unwilling any one
but herself should witness the first burst of
the grief of her charge, succeeded in getting
her to her own room and in bed. Emily
made no lamentations—shed no tears—asked
no questions—her eye was fixed, and her
every faculty appeared oppressed with the
load on her heart. Mrs. Wilson knew her
situation too well, to intrude with unseasonable

consolation or useless reflections, but
sat patiently by her side, waiting anxiously
for the moment she could be of service; at
length the uplifted eyes and clasped hands of
Emilly, assured her she had not forgotten
herself or her duty, and she was rewarded
for her labour and forbearance by a flood of
tears; greatly relieved, Emily was now able
to listen to a more full statement, of the reasons
her aunt had for believing in the guilt of
Denbigh; and she felt as if her heart was
frozen up forever, as the proofs followed
each other until they amounted to demonstration;
as there was some indications of
fever from her agitated state of mind, her
aunt required she should remain in her room
until morning, and Emily feeling every way
unequal to a meeting with Denbigh, gladly
assented; after ringing for her maid to sit in
the adjoining room, Mrs. Wilson went below,
and announced to the family the indisposition
of her charge, and her desire to obtain a little
sleep. Denbigh looked anxious to inquire
after the health of Emily, but there was a
visible restraint on all his actions, since the
return of his book, that persuaded Mrs. Wilson,
he apprehended a detection of his conduct
had taken place. He did venture to
ask, when they were to have the pleasure of
seeing Miss Moseley again—hoping it would
be that evening, as he had fixed the morning
for his departure; and when he learnt that
Emily had retired for the night, his anxiety
was sensibly increased, and he instantly withdrew.
Mrs. Wilson was alone in the drawing-room,
and about to join her niece, as
Denbigh entered it with a letter in his hand;
he approached her with a diffident and constrained
manner, as he commenced with
saying—

“My anxiety and situation will plead
my apology for troubling Miss Moseley
at this time—may I ask you, madam, to deliver
this letter—I dare not ask you for your
good offices in my favour.”

Mrs. Wilson took the letter as she coldly
replied, “certainly, sir, and I sincerely wish
I could be of any real service to you.”

“I perceive, madam,” said Denbigh, hesitatingly,
“I have forfeited your good opinion
—that pocket-book—”

“Has made a dreadful discovery,” echoed
Mrs. Wilson, shuddering.

“Will not one offence be pardoned, dear
madam?” cried Denbigh, with warmth; “if
you knew my circumstances---the cruel reasons---why---why
did I neglect the paternal
advice of Doctor Ives.”

“It is not yet too late, sir,” said Mrs. Wilson,
more midly, “for your own good—but
as for us, your deception—”

“Is unpardonable—I see it—I feel it,”
cried he, with the accent of despair; “yet
Emily—Emily may relent—you will give
her my letter—any thing is better than this
suspense.”

“You shall have an answer from Emily
this evening, and entirely unbiassed by me,”
said Mrs. Wilson; and as she closed the door,
she observed Denbigh standing gazing on
her retiring figure, with a countenance of
despair, that mingled a feeling of pity, with
her detestation of his vices.

On opening the door of Emily's room, she
found her in tears, and her anxiety for her
health was alleviated; she knew or hoped,
that if she could once call in the assistance of
her judgment and piety to lessen her sorrows,
Emily, however she might mourn,
would become resigned to her situation; and
the first step to attain this was the exercise of
those faculties, which had at first been, as it
were, annihilated. Mrs. Wilson kissed her
with tenderness, as she placed in her hand
the letter, and told her within an hour she
would call for her answer. Employment,
and the necessity of acting, would be, she
thought, the surest means of reviving her
energies; nor was she disappointed. When
the aunt returned for the expected answer,
she was informed by the maid in the antichamber,
Miss Moseley was up, and had
been writing she believed. On entering,
Mrs. Wilson stood a moment in admiration
of the picture before her. Emily was on her
knees, and by her side, on the carpet, lay the
letter and its answer; her face was hid by
her hair, and her hands were closed in the
fervent grasp of petition; in a minute she

rose, and approaching her aunt, with an air
of profound resignation, but great steadiness,
handed her the letters, her own unsealed:
“read them, madam, and if you approve of
mine, I will thank you to deliver it.” Her aunt
folded her in her arms, until Emily finding
herself yielding under the effects of sympathy,
begged her to leave her alone. On withdrawing
to her own room, Mrs. Wilson read
the contents of the two letters.

To this note, which was unsigned, and
evidently written under great agitation of
mind, Emily had penned the following reply:

Perfectly satisfied with this answer of her
niece, Mrs. Wilson went below in order to
deliver it at once; she thought it probable, as
Denbigh had already sent his baggage to a
tavern, preparatory to his intended journey,
they would not meet again; and as she felt a
strong wish, both on account of Doctor Ives,
and out of respect to his services, to conceal
his conduct from the world entirely, she
was in hopes his absence would make any
disclosure unnecessary. He took the letter
from her with a trembling hand, and casting
one of his very expressive looks at her, as if
to read her thoughts, he withdrew.

Emily had fallen asleep free from fever, and
Mrs. Wilson descended to the supper room;
as Mr. Benfield was first struck with the absence
of his favourite—an inquiry after Denbigh
was instituted, and it was while they
were waiting his appearance, to be seated at
the table, a servant handed Mr. Benfield a

note—“From whom?” cried the old gentleman,
in surprise. “Mr. Denbigh, sir;” and
the bearer withdrew.

“Mr. Denbigh!” exclaimed Mr. Benfield,
in added amazement, “no accident I hope—
I remember when Lord Gosford—here, Peter,
your eyes are young, do you read it for me—
read aloud.”

As all but Mrs. Wilson were anxiously waiting
to know the meaning of this message,
and Peter had many preparations to go
through before his youthful eyes could make
out its contents; John hastily caught it out of
his hand, saying he would save him the
trouble, and in obedience to his uncle's
wishes, read aloud:

“Mr. Denbigh, being under the necessity
of leaving L— immediately, and unable
to endure the pain of taking leave, avails
himself of this means of tendering his warmest
thanks to Mr. Benfield, for his hospitality,
and his amiable guests for their many kindnesses;
as he contemplates leaving England,
he desires to wish them all a long and affectionate
farewell.”

“Farewell,” cried Mr. Benfield, “farewell—does
he say farewell, John? here, Peter,
run—no, you are too old—John, run—bring
my hat, I'll go myself to the village—some
love quarrel—Emmy sick—and Denbigh
going away—yes---yes, I did so myself---Lady

Juliana, poor dear soul, she was a long
time before she could forget it---but Peter”---Peter
had disappeared the instant the letter
was finished, and was quickly followed by
John. Sir Edward and Lady Moseley were
both lost in amazement at this sudden and
unexpected movement of Denbigh, and the
breast of each of the affectionate parents was
filled with a vague apprehension, that the
peace of mind of another child was at stake.
Jane felt a renewal of her woes, in the anticipation
of something similar for her sister—
for the fancy of Jane was yet alive, and she
did not cease to consider the defection of
Egerton, a kind of unmerited misfortune
and fatality, instead of a probable consequence
of want of principles; like Mr. Benfield,
she was in danger of making an ideal
idol to worship, and to spend the remainder
of her days in devotion to qualities, rarely,
if ever found, and identified with a person
that never had an existence. The old gentleman
was now entirely engrossed by a different
object; and having in his own opinion
decided there must have been one of those
misunderstandings which sometimes had occurred
to himself and Lady Juliana, he
quietly composed himself to eat his sallad at
the supper table; on turning his head, however,
in quest of his first glass of wine, he
observed Peter standing quietly by the sideboard
with the favourite goggles over his
eyes. Now Peter was troubled with two
kinds of weakness about his organs of
vision; one was age and weakness, and the
other, was also a weakness---of the heart
however; this his master knew, and he
took the alarm---again the wine glass dropt
from his nerveless hand, as he said in a trembling
tone---“Peter, I thought you went”—

“Yes, master,” said Peter laconically in
reply.

“You saw him, Peter—he will return?”
Peter was busily occupied at his glasses,
although no one was dry.

“Peter,” repeated Mr. Benfield, rising
from his seat, “is he coming in time for
supper,”

Peter, thus assailed, was obliged to reply,
and deliberately uncasing his eyes, and blowing
his nose, he was on the point of opening
his mouth, as John came into the room, and
threw himself into a chair, with an air of great
vexation; Peter pointed to him in silence,
and retired.

“John,” cried Sir Edward, “where is
Denbigh?”

“Gone, Sir,”

“Gone!”

“Yes, my dear father,” said John, “gone
without saying good-by to one of us—without
telling us whither, or when to return—it
was cruel in him—unkind—I'll never forgive
him”—and John, whose feelings were
strong, and unusually excited, hid his face
between his hands on the table.—As he raised

his head to reply to a question of Mr. Benfield—“of
how he knew he had gone, for
the coach did not go until daylight?” Mrs.
Wilson saw evident marks of the tears; such
emotion excited in John Moseley by the loss
of his friend, gave her the pleasure to know,
if she had been deceived, it was by a
concurrence of circumstances and depth of
hypocrisy, almost exceeding belief; self-reproach
added but little to her uneasiness of
the moment.

“I saw the inn-keeper, uncle,” said John,
“who told me Mr. Denbigh left there at
eight o'clock, in a post-chaise and four; but
I will go to London in the morning myself;”
and he immediately commenced his preparations
for the journey. The family separated
that evening with melancholy hearts; and the
host and his privy counsellor were closeted
for half an hour ere they retired to their
night's repose. John took his leave of them,
and left the lodge for the inn, with his man,
in order to be ready for the mail. Mrs. Wilson
looked in upon Emily before she withdrew
herself, and found her awake, but perfectly
calm and composed; she said but little—appeared
desirous of avoiding all allusions
to Denbigh; and after simply acquainting
her with his departure, and her resolution
to conceal the cause, the subject was
dropped. Mrs. Wilson, on entering her own
room, thought deeply on the discoveries of
the day; it had interfered with her favourite

system of morals—baffled her ablest calculations
upon causes and effects, but in no degree
had impaired her faith or reliance on
providence—she knew one exception did not
destroy a rule; she was certain without
principles there was no security for good
conduct, and the case of Denbigh proved it;
to discover these principles, might be a difficult,
but was an imperious task required at
her hands, ere she yielded the present and
future happiness of her pupil to the power
of any man.