"I wonder if we are to have a neighbor in the Deanery soon," inquired
Clara Moseley, addressing herself to a small party assembled in her
father's drawing-room, while standing at a window which commanded a
distant view of the house in question.

"Oh yes," replied her brother, "the agent has let it to a Mr. Jarvis for a
couple of years, and he is to take possession this week."

"And who is the Mr. Jarvis that is about to become so near a neighbor?"
asked Sir Edward Moseley.

"Why, sir, I learn he has been a capital merchant; that he has retired
from business with a large fortune; that he has, like yourself, sir, an
only hope for his declining years in son, an officer in the army; and,
moreover, that he has couple of fine daughters; so, sir, he is a man of
family in one sense, at least, you see. But," dropping his voice, "whether
he is a man of family in your sense, Jane," looking at his second sister,
"is more than I could discover."

"I hope you did not take the trouble, sir, to inquire on my account,"
retorted Jane, coloring slightly with vexation at his speech.

"Indeed I did, my dear sis, and solely on your account," replied the
laughing brother, "for you well know that no gentility, no husband; and
it's dull work to you young ladies without at least a possibility of
matrimony; as for Clara, she is----"

Here he was stopped by his youngest sister Emily placing her hand on his
mouth, as she whispered in his ear, "John, you forget the anxiety of a
certain gentleman about a fair incognita at Bath, and a list of inquiries
concerning her lineage, and a few other indispensables." John, in his
turn, colored, and affectionately kissing the hand which kept him silent,
addressed himself to Jane, and by his vivacity and good humor soon
restored her to complacency.

"I rejoice," said Lady Moseley, "that Sir William has found a tenant,
however; for next to occupying it himself, it is a most desirable thing to
have a good tenant in it, on account of the circle in which we live."

"And Mr. Jarvis has the great goodness of money, by John's account,"
caustically observed Mrs. Wilson, who was a sister of Sir Edward's.

"Let me tell you, madam," cried the rector of the parish, looking around
him pleasantly, and who was pretty constant, and always a welcome visitor
in the family, "that a great deal of money is a very good thing in itself,
and that a great many very good things may be done with it."

"Such as paying tythes, ha! doctor," cried Mr. Haughton, a gentleman of
landed property in the neighborhood, of plain exterior, but great goodness
of heart, and between whom and the rector subsisted the most cordial good
will.

"Aye, tythes, or halves, as the baronet did here, when he forgave old
Gregson one half his rent, and his children the other."

"Well, but, my dear," said Sir Edward to his wife, "you must not starve
our friends because we are to have a neighbor. William has stood with the
dining-room door open these five minutes--"

Lady Moseley gave her hand to the rector, and the company followed them,
without any order, to the dinner table.

The party assembled around the hospitable board of the baronet was
composed, besides the before-mentioned persons, of the wife of Mr.
Haughton, a woman of much good sense and modesty of deportment: their
daughter, a young lady conspicuous for nothing but good nature; and the
wife and son of the rector--the latter but lately admitted to holy orders
himself.

The remainder of the day passed in an uninterrupted flow of pleasant
conversation, the natural consequence of a unison of opinions on all
leading questions, the parties having long known and esteemed each other
for those qualities which soonest reconcile us to the common frailties of
our nature. On parting at the usual hour, it was agreed to meet that day
week at the rectory, and the doctor, on making his bow to Lady Moseley,
observed, that he intended, in virtue of his office, to make an early call
on the Jarvis family, and that, if possible, he would persuade them to be
of the party.

Sir Edward Moseley was descended from one of the most respectable of the
creations of his order by James, and had inherited, with many of the
virtues of his ancestor, an estate which placed him amongst the greatest
landed proprietors of the county. But, as it had been an invariable rule
never to deduct a single acre from the inheritance of the eldest son, and
the extravagance of his mother, who was the daughter of a nobleman, had
much embarrassed the affairs of his father, Sir Edward, on coming into
possession of his estate, had wisely determined to withdraw from the gay
world, by renting his house in town, and retiring altogether to his
respectable mansion, about a hundred miles from the metropolis. Here he
hoped, by a course of systematic but liberal economy, to release himself
from all embarrassments, and to make such a provision for his younger
children, the three daughters already mentioned, as he conceived their
birth entitled them to expect. Seventeen years enabled him to accomplish
this plan; and for more than eighteen months, Sir Edward had resumed the
hospitality and appearance usual in his family, and had even promised his
delighted girls to take possession, the ensuing winter, of the house in
St. James's Square. Nature had not qualified Sir Edward for great or
continued exertions, and the prudent decision he had taken to retrieve his
fortunes, was perhaps an act of as much forecast and vigor as his talents
or energy would afford; it was the step most obviously for his interests,
and the one that was safest both in its execution and consequences, and as
such it had been adopted: but, had it required a single particle more of
enterprise or calculation, it would have been beyond his powers, and the
heir might have yet labored under the difficulties which distressed his
more brilliant, but less prudent parent.

The baronet was warmly attached to his wife; and as she was a woman of
many valuable and no obnoxious qualities, civil and attentive by habit to
all around her, and perfectly disinterested in her attachments to her own
family, nothing in nature could partake more of perfection in the eyes of
her husband and children than the conduct of this beloved relative. Yet
Lady Moseley had her failings, however, although few were disposed to view
her errors with that severity which truth and a just discrimination of
character render necessary. Her union had been one of love, and for a
time it had been objected to by the friends of her husband, on the score
of fortune; but constancy and perseverance prevailed, and the protracted
and inconsequent opposition of his parents had left no other effects than
an aversion in the children to the exercise of parental authority, in
marrying their own descendents: an aversion which, though common to both
the worthy baronet and his wife, was somewhat different in its two
subjects. In the husband it was quiescent; but in the wife, it was
slightly shaded with the female _esprit de corps_, of having her daughters
comfortably established, and that in due season. Lady Moseley was
religious, but hardly pious; she was charitable in deeds, but not always
in opinions; her intentions were pure, but neither her prejudices nor her
reasoning powers suffered her to be at all times consistent. Still few
knew her that did not love her, and none were ever heard to say aught
against her breeding, her morals, or her disposition.

The sister of Sir Edward had been married, early in life, to an officer in
the army, who, spending much of his time abroad on service, had left her a
prey to that solicitude to which she was necessarily a prey by her
attachment to her husband. To find relief from this perpetual and
life-wearing anxiety, an invaluable friend had pointed out the only true
remedy of which her case admitted, a research into her own heart, and the
employments of active benevolence. The death of her husband, who lost his
life in battle, caused her to withdraw in a great measure from the world,
and gave time and inducement for reflections, which led to impressions on
religion that were sufficiently correct in themselves, and indispensable
as the basis of future happiness, but which became slightly tinctured with
the sternness of her vigorous mind, and possibly, at times were more
unbending than was compatible with the comforts of this world; a fault,
however, of manner, more than of matter. Warmly attached to her brother
and his children, Mrs. Wilson, who had never been a mother herself,
yielded to their earnest entreaties to become one of the family; and
although left by the late General Wilson with a large income, ever since
his death she had given up her own establishment, and devoted most of her
time to the formation of the character of her youngest niece. Lady Moseley
had submitted this child entirely to the control of the aunt; and it was
commonly thought Emily would inherit the very handsome sum left at the
disposal of the General's widow.

Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley possessed a large share of personal
beauty when young, and it had descended in common to all their children,
but more particularly to the two youngest daughters. Although a strong
family resemblance, both in person and character, existed between these
closely connected relatives, yet it existed with shades of distinction
that had very different effects on their conduct, and led to results which
stamped their lives with widely differing degrees of happiness.

Between the families at Moseley Hall and the rectory, there had existed
for many years an intimacy founded on esteem and on long intercourse.
Doctor Ives was a clergyman of deep piety; and of very considerable
talents; he possessed, in addition to a moderate benefice, an independent
fortune in right of his wife, who was the only child of a distinguished
naval officer. Both were well connected, well bred, and well disposed to
their fellow creatures. They were blessed with but one child, the young
divine we have mentioned, who promised to equal his father in all those
qualities which had made the Doctor the delight of his friends, and almost
the idol of his parishioners.

Between Francis Ives and Clara Moseley, there had been an attachment,
which had grown with their years, from childhood. He had been her
companion in their youthful recreations, had espoused her little quarrels,
and participated in her innocent pleasures, for so many years, and with
such an evident preference for each other in the youthful pair, that, on
leaving college to enter on the studies of his sacred calling with his
father, Francis rightly judged that none other would make his future life
as happy, as the mild, the tender, the unassuming Clara. Their passion, if
so gentle a feeling deserve the term, received the sanction of their
parents, and the two families waited only for the establishment of the
young divine, to perfect the union.

The retirement of Sir Edward's family had been uniform, with the exception
of an occasional visit to an aged uncle of his wife's, and who, in return,
spent much of his time with them at the Hall, and who had openly declared
his intention of making the children of Lady Moseley his heirs. The visits
of Mr. Benfield were always hailed with joy, and as an event that called
for more than ordinary gaiety; for, although rough in manner, and somewhat
infirm from years, the old bachelor, who was rather addicted to the
customs in which he had indulged in his youth, and was fond of dwelling on
the scenes of former days, was universally beloved where he was intimately
known, for an unbounded though eccentric philanthropy.

The illness of the mother-in-law of Mrs. Wilson had called her to Bath the
winter preceding the spring when our history commences, and she had been
accompanied thither by her nephew and favorite niece. John and Emily,
during the month of their residence in that city, were in the practice of
making daily excursions in its environs. It was in one of these little
drives that they were of accidental service to a very young and very
beautiful woman, apparently in low health. They had taken her up in their
carriage, and conveyed her to a farm-house where she resided, during a
faintness which had come over her in a walk; and her beauty air, and
manner, altogether so different from those around her, had interested them
both to a painful degree. They had ventured to call the following day to
inquire after her welfare, and this visit led to a slight intercourse,
which continued for the fortnight they remained there.

John had given himself some trouble to ascertain who she was, but in vain.
They could merely learn that her life was blameless, that she saw no one
but themselves, and her dialect raised a suspicion that she was not
English, It was to this unknown fair Emily alluded in her playful attempt
to stop the heedless rattle of her brother, who was not always restrained
from uttering what he thought by a proper regard for the feelings of
others.




Chapter II.



The morning succeeding the day of the dinner at the Hall, Mrs. Wilson,
with all her nieces and her nephew, availed herself of the fineness of the
weather to walk to the rectory, where they were all in the habit of making
informal and friendly visits. They had just got out of the little village
of B----, which lay in their route, when a rather handsome travelling
carriage and four passed them, and took the road which led to the Deanery.

"As I live," cried John, "there go our new neighbors the Jarvis's; yes,
yes, that must be the old merchant muffled up in the corner; I mistook him
at first for a pile of bandboxes; then the rosy-cheeked lady, with so many
feathers, must be the old lady--heaven forgive me, Mrs. Jarvis I
mean--aye, and the two others the belles."

"You are in a hurry to pronounce them belles, John," said Jane, pettishly;
"it would be well to see more of them before you speak so decidedly."

"Oh!" replied John, "I have seen _enough_ of them, and"--he was
interrupted by the whirling of a tilbury and tandem followed by a couple
of servants on horseback. All about this vehicle and its masters bore the
stamp of decided fashion; and our party had followed it with their eyes
for a short distance, when, having reached a fork in the roads, it
stopped, and evidently waited the coming up of the pedestrians, as if to
make an inquiry. A single glance of the eye was sufficient to apprise the
gentleman on the cushion (who held the reins) of the kind of people he had
to deal with, and stepping from his carriage, he met them with a graceful
bow, and after handsomely apologizing for the trouble he was giving, he
desired to know which road led to the Deanery. "The right," replied John,
returning his salutation.

"Ask them, Colonel," cried the charioteer, "whether the old gentleman went
right or not."

The Colonel, in the manner of a perfect gentleman, but with a look of
compassion for his companion's want of tact, made the desired inquiry;
which being satisfactorily answered, he again bowed and was retiring, as
one of several pointers who followed the cavalcade sprang upon Jane, and
soiled her walking dress with his dirty feet.

"Come hither, Dido," cried the Colonel, hastening to beat the dog back
from the young lady; and again he apologized in the same collected and
handsome manner, then turning to one of the servants, he said, "call in
the dog, sir," and rejoined his companion. The air of this gentleman was
peculiarly pleasant; it would not have been difficult to pronounce him a
soldier had he not been addressed as such by his younger and certainly
less polished companion. The Colonel was apparently about thirty, and of
extremely handsome face and figure, while his driving friend appeared
several years younger, and of altogether different materials.

"I wonder," said Jane, as they turned a corner which hid them from view,
"who they are?"

"Who they are?" cried the brother, "why the Jarvis's to be sure; didn't
you hear them ask the road to the Deanery?

"Oh! the one that drove, _he_ may be a Jarvis, but not the gentleman who
spoke to us--surely not, John; besides, he was called Colonel, you know."

"Yes, yes," said John, with one of his quizzing expressions, "Colonel
Jarvis, that must be the alderman; they are commonly colonels of city
volunteers: yes, that must have been the old gem'mun who spoke to us, and
I was right after all about the bandboxes."

"You forget," said Clara, smiling, "the polite inquiry concerning the old
gem'mun."

"Ah! true; who the deuce can this Colonel be then, for young Jarvis is
only a captain, I know; who do you think he is, Jane?"

"How do you think I can tell you, John? But whoever he is, he owns the
tilbury, although he did not drive it; and he is a gentleman both by birth
and manners."

"Why, Jane, if you know so much of him, you should know more; but it is
all guess with you."

"No; it is not guess--I am certain of what I say."

The aunt and sisters, who had taken little interest in the dialogue,
looked at her with some surprise, which John observing, he exclaimed,
"Poh: she knows no more than we all know."

"Indeed I do."

"Poh, poh, if you know, tell."

"Why, the arms were different."

John laughed as he said, "That _is_ a good reason, sure enough, for the
tilbury's being the colonel's property; but now for his blood; how did you
discover that, sis--by his gait and actions, as we say of horses?"

Jane colored a little, and laughed faintly. "The arms on the tilbury had
six quarterings."

Emily now laughed, and Mrs. Wilson and Clara smiled while John continued
his teazing until they reached the rectory.

While chatting with the doctor and his wife, Francis returned from his
morning ride, and told them the Jarvis family had arrived; he had
witnessed an unpleasant accident to a gig, in which were Captain Jarvis,
and a friend, a Colonel Egerton; it had been awkwardly driven in turning
into the Deanery gate, and upset: the colonel received some injury to his
ankle, nothing, however, serious he hoped, but such as to put him under
the care of the young ladies, probably, for a few days. After the
exclamations which usually follow such details, Jane ventured to inquire
who Colonel Egerton was.

"I understood at the time, from one of the servants, that he is a nephew
of Sir Edgar Egerton, and a lieutenant-colonel on half-pay, or furlough,
or some such thing."

"How did he bear his misfortune, Mr. Francis?" inquired Mrs. Wilson.

"Certainly as a gentleman, madam, if not as a Christian," replied the
young clergyman, slily smiling; "indeed, most men of gallantry would, I
believe, rejoice in an accident which drew forth so much sympathy as both
the Miss Jarvis's manifested."

"How fortunate you should all happen to be near!" said the tender-hearted
Clara.

"Are the young ladies pretty?" asked Jane, with something of hesitation in
her manner.

"Why, I rather think they are; but I took very little notice of their
appearance, as the colonel was really in evident pain."

"This, then," cried the doctor, "affords me an additional excuse for
calling on them at an early day, so I'll e'en go to-morrow."

"I trust Doctor Ives wants no apologies for performing his duty," said
Mrs. Wilson.

"He is fond of making them, though," said Mrs. Ives, peaking with a
benevolent smile, and for the first time in the little conversation.

It was then arranged that the rector should make his official visit, as
intended by himself; and on his report, the ladies would act. After
remaining at the rectory an hour, they returned to the hall, attended by
Francis.

The next day the doctor drove in, and informed them the Jarvis family were
happily settled, and the colonel in no danger, excepting from the
fascinations of the two young ladies, who took such palpable care of him
that he wanted for nothing, and they might drive over whenever they
pleased, without fear of intruding unseasonably.

Mr. Jarvis received his guests with the frankness of good feelings, if not
with the polish of high life; while his wife, who seldom thought of the
former, would have been mortally offended with the person who could have
suggested that she omitted any of the elegancies of the latter. Her
daughters were rather pretty, but wanted, both in appearance and manner,
the inexpressible air of _haut ton_ which so eminently distinguished the
easy but polished deportment of Colonel Egerton, whom they found reclining
on a sofa with his leg on a chair, amply secured in numerous bandages, but
unable to rise. Notwithstanding the awkwardness of his situation, he was
by far the least discomposed person of the party, and having pleasantly
excused himself, he appeared to think no more of the matter.

The captain, Mrs. Jarvis remarked, had gone out with his dogs to try the
grounds around them, "for he seems to live only with his horses and his
gun: young men, my lady, nowadays, appear to forget that there are any
things in the world but themselves; now I told Harry that your ladyship
and daughters would favor us with a call this morning--but no: there he
went, as if Mr. Jarvis was unable to buy us a dinner, and we should all
starve but for his quails and pheasants."

"Quails and pheasants," cried John, in consternation, "does Captain
Jarvis shoot quails and pheasants at this time of the year?"

"Mrs. Jarvis, sir," said Colonel Egerton, with a correcting smile,
"understands the allegiance due from us gentlemen to the ladies, better
than the rules of sporting; my friend, the captain, has taken his fishing
rod, I believe."

"It is all one, fish or birds," continued Mrs. Jarvis, "he is Out of the
way when he is wanted, and I believe we can buy fish as easily as birds; I
wish he would take pattern after yourself, colonel, in these matters."

Colonel Egerton laughed pleasantly, but he did not blush; and Miss Jarvis
observed, with a look, of something like admiration thrown on his
reclining figure, "that when Harry had been in the army as long as his
friend, he would know the usages of good society, she hoped, as well."

"Yes," said her mother, "the army is certainly the place to polish a young
man;" and turning to Mrs. Wilson, she abruptly added, "Your husband, I
believe, was in the army, ma'am?"

"I hope," said Emily hastily, "that we shall have the pleasure of seeing
you soon, Miss Jarvis, at the Hall," preventing by her promptitude the
necessity of a reply from her aunt. The young lady promised to make an
early visit, and the subject changed to a general and uninteresting
discourse on the neighborhood, the country, the weather, and other
ordinary topics.

"Now, John," cried Jane in triumph, as they drove from the door, "you must
acknowledge my heraldic witchcraft, as you are pleased to call it, is
right for once at least."

"Oh! no doubt, Jenny," said John, who was accustomed to use that
appellation to her as a provocation, when he wished what he called an
enlivening scene; but Mrs. Wilson put a damper on his hopes by a remark to
his mother, and the habitual respect of both the combatants kept them
silent.

Jane Moseley was endowed by nature with an excellent understanding, one at
least equal to that of her brother, but the wanted the more essential
requisites of a well governed mind. Masters had been provided by Sir
Edward for all his daughters, and if they were not acquainted with the
usual acquirements of young women in their rank of life, it was not his
fault: his system of economy had not embraced a denial of opportunity to
any of his children, and the baronet was apt to think all _was_ done, when
they were put where all _might_ be done. Feeling herself and parents
entitled to enter into all the gaieties and splendors of some of the
richer families in their vicinity, Jane, who had grown up during the
temporary eclipse of Sir Edward's fortunes, had sought that
self-consolation so common to people in her situation, which was to be
found in reviewing the former grandeur of her house, and she had thus
contracted a degree of family pride. If Clara's weaknesses were less
striking than those of Jane, it was because she had less imagination, and
because that in loving Francis Ives she had so long admired a character,
where so little was to be found that could be censured, that she might be
said to have contracted a habit of judging correctly, without being able
at all times to give a reason for her conduct or her opinions.




Chapter III.



The day fixed for one of the stated visits of Mr. Benfield had now
arrived, and John, with Emily, who was the old bachelor's favorite niece,
went in the baronet's post-chaise to the town of F----, a distance of
twenty miles, to meet him, in order to accompany him in the remainder of
his journey to the Hall, it being a settled rule with the old man, that
his carriage horses should return to their own stables every night, where
he imagined they could alone find that comfort and care to which their age
and services gave them a claim. The day was uncommonly pleasant, and the
young people were in high spirits with the expectation of meeting their
respected relative, whose absence had been prolonged a few days by a
severe fit of the gout.

"Now, Emily," cried John, as he settled himself comfortably by the side of
his sister in the chaise, "let me know honestly how you like the Jarvis's,
and particularly how you like the handsome colonel."

"Then, John, honestly, I neither like nor dislike the Jarvis's or the
handsome colonel."

"Well, then, there is no great diversity in our sentiments, as Jane would
say."

"John!"

"Emily!"

"I do not like to hear you speak so disrespectfully of out sister, whom I
am sure you love as tenderly as I do myself."

"I acknowledge my error," said the brother, taking her hand and
affectionately kissing it, "and will endeavor to offend no more; but this
Colonel Egerton, sister, is certainly a gentleman, both by blood and in
manners, as Jane"--Emily interrupted him with a laugh, which John took
very good-naturedly, repeating his remark without alluding to their
sister.

"Yes," said Emily, "he is genteel in his deportment, if that be what you
mean; I know nothing of his family."

"Oh, I have taken a peep into Jane's Baronetage, where find him set down
as Sir Edgar's heir."


"There is something about him," said Emily, musing, "that I do not much
admire; he is too easy--there is no nature; I always feel afraid such
people will laugh at me as soon as my back is turned, and for those very
things they seem most to admire to my face. If I might be allowed to
judge, I should say his manner wants one thing, without which no one can
be truly agreeable."

"What's that?"

"Sincerity."

"Ah! that's my great recommendation; but I am afraid I shall have to take
the poacher up, with his quails and his pheasants, indeed."

"You know the colonel explained that to be a mistake."

"What they call explaining away; but unluckily I saw the gentleman
returning with his gun on his shoulder, and followed by a brace of
pointers."

"There's a specimen of the colonel's manners then," said Emily, smiling;
"it will do until the truth be known."

"And Jane, when she saw him also, praised his good nature and
consideration, in what she was pleased to call relieving the awkwardness
of my remark."

Emily finding her brother disposed to dwell on the foibles of Jane, a
thing he was rather addicted to at times, was silent. They rode some
distance before John, who was ever as ready to atone as he was to offend,
again apologized, again promised reformation, and during the remainder of
the ride only forgot himself twice more in the same way.

They reached F---- two hours before the lumbering coach of their uncle
drove into the yard of the inn, and had sufficient time to refresh their
own horses for the journey homewards.

Mr. Benfield was a bachelor of eighty, but retained the personal activity
of a man of sixty. He was strongly attached to all the fashions and
opinions of his youth, during which he had sat one term in parliament,
having been a great beau and courtier in the commencement of the reign. A
disappointment in an affair of the heart drove him into retirement; and
for the last fifty years he had dwelt exclusively at a seat he owned
within forty miles of Moseley Hall, the mistress of which was the only
child of his only brother. In figure, he was tall and spare, very erect
for his years, and he faithfully preserved in his attire, servants,
carriages, and indeed everything around him, as much of the fashions of
his youth as circumstances would allow: such then was a faint outline of
the character and appearance of the old man, who, dressed in a cocked hat,
bag wig, and sword, took the offered arm of John Moseley to alight from
his coach.

"So," cried the old gentleman, having made good his footing on the ground,
as he stopped short and stared John in the face, "you have made out to
come twenty miles to meet an old cynic, have you, sir? but I thought I bid
thee bring Emmy with thee."

John pointed to the window, where his sister stood anxiously watching her
uncle's movements. On catching her eye, he smiled kindly, and pursued his
way into the house, talking to himself.

"Aye, there she is indeed; I remember now, when I was a youngster, of
going with my kinsman, old Lord Gosford, to meet his sister, the Lady
Juliana, when she first came from school (this was the lady whose
infidelity had driven him from the world); and a beauty she was indeed,
something like Emmy there; only she was taller, and her eyes were black,
and her hair too, that was black; and she was not so fair as Emmy, and she
was fatter, and she stooped a little--very little; oh! they are
wonderfully alike though; don't you think they were, nephew?" he stopped
at the door of the room; while John, who in this description could not see
a resemblance, which existed nowhere but in the old man's affections, was
fain to say, "yes; but they were related, you know, uncle, and that
explains the likeness."

"True, boy, true," said his uncle, pleased at a reason for a thing he
wished, and which flattered his propensities. He had once before told
Emily she put him in mind of his housekeeper, a woman as old as himself,
and without a tooth in her head.

On meeting his niece, Mr. Benfield (who, like many others that feel
strongly, wore in common the affectation of indifference and displeasure)
yielded to his fondness, and folding her in his arms, kissed her
affectionately, while a tear glistened in his eye; and then pushing her
gently from him, he exclaimed, "Come, come, Emmy, don't strangle me, don't
strangle me, girl; let me live in peace the little while I have to remain
here--so," seating himself composedly in an arm chair his niece had placed
for him with a cushion, "so Anne writes me, Sir William Harris has let the
deanery."

"Oh, yes, uncle," cried John.

"I'll thank you, young gentleman," said Mr. Benfield, sternly, "not to
interrupt me when I am speaking to a lady that is, if you please, sir.
Then Sir William has let the deanery to a London merchant, a Mr. Jarvis.
Now I knew three people of that name; one was a hackney coachman, when I
was a member of the parliament of this realm, and drove me often to the
house; the other was _valet-de-chambre_ to my Lord Gosford; and the third,
I take it, is the very man who has become your neighbor. If it be the
person I mean, Emmy dear, he is like--like--aye, very like old Peter, my
steward."

John, unable to contain his mirth at this discovery of a likeness between
the prototype of Mr. Benfield himself in leanness of figure, and the jolly
rotundity of the merchant, was obliged to leave the room; Emily, though
she could not forbear smiling at the comparison, quietly said, "You will
meet him to-morrow, dear uncle, and then you will be able to judge for
yourself."

"Yes, yes," muttered the old man, "very like old Peter, my steward; as
like as two peas." The parallel was by no means as ridiculous as might be
supposed; its history being as follows:

Mr. Benfield had placed twenty thousand pounds in the hands of a broker,
with positive orders for him to pay it away immediately for government
stock, bought by the former on his account; but disregarding this
injunction, the broker had managed the transaction in such a way as to
postpone the payment, until, on his failure, he had given up that and a
much larger sum to Mr. Jarvis, to satisfy what he called an honorary debt.
In elucidating the transaction Mr. Jarvis paid Benfield Lodge a visit, and
honestly restored the bachelor his property. This act, and the high
opinion he entertained of Mrs. Wilson, with his unbounded love for Emily,
were the few things which prevented his believing some dreadful judgment
was about to visit this world, for its increasing wickedness and follies.
As his own steward was one of the honestest fellows living, he had ever
after fancied that there was a personal resemblance between him and the
conscientious merchant.

The horses being ready, the old bachelor was placed carefully between his
nephew and niece, and in that manner they rode on quietly to the Hall, the
dread of accident keeping Mr. Benfield silent most of the way. On passing,
however a stately castle, about ten miles from the termination of their
ride, he began one of his speeches with,

"Emmy, dear, does Lord Bolton come often to see you?"

"Very seldom, sir; his employment keeps him much of his time at St.
James's, and then he has an estate in Ireland."

"I knew his father well--he was distantly connected by marriage with my
friend Lord Gosford; you could not remember him, I suspect" (John rolled
his eyes at this suggestion of his sister's recollection of a man who had
been forty years dead); "he always voted with me in the parliament of this
realm; he was a thoroughly honest man; very much such a man to look at as
Peter Johnson, my steward: but I am told his son likes the good things of
the ministry; well, well, William Pitt was the only minister to my mind.
There was the Scotchman of whom they made a Marquis; I never could endure
him--always voted against him."

"Right or wrong, uncle," cried John, who loved a little mischief in his
heart.

"No, sir--right, but never wrong. Lord Gosford always voted against him
too; and do you think, jackanapes, that my friend the Earl of Gosford
and--and--myself were ever wrong? No, sir, men in my day were different
creatures from what they are now: we were never wrong, sir; we loved our
country, and had no motive for being in the wrong."

"How was it with Lord Bute, uncle?"

"Lord Bute, sir," cried the old man with great warmth, "was the minister,
sir--he was the minister; aye, he was the minister, sir, and was paid for
what he did."

"But Lord Chatham, was he not the minister too?"

Now, nothing vexed the old gentleman more than to hear William Pitt
called by his tardy honors; and yet, unwilling to give up what he thought
his political opinions, he exclaimed, with an unanswerable positiveness of
argument,

"Billy Pitt, sir, was the minister, sir; but--but--but--he was _our_
minister, sir."

Emily, unable to see her uncle agitated by such useless disputes, threw a
reproachful glance on her brother, as she observed timidly,

"That was a glorious administration, sir, I believe."

"Glorious indeed! Emmy dear," said the bachelor, softening with the sound
of her voice, and the recollections of his younger days, "we beat the
French everywhere--in America--in Germany;--we took--(counting on his
fingers)--we took Quebec--yes, Lord Gosford lost a cousin there; and we
took all the Canadas; and we took their fleets: there was a young man
killed in the battle between Hawke and Conflans, who was much attached to
Lady Juliana--poor soul! how much she regretted him when dead, though she
never could abide him when living--ah! she was a tender-hearted creature!"

Mr. Benfield, like many others, continued to love imaginary qualities in
his mistress, long after her heartless coquetry had disgusted him with her
person: a kind of feeling which springs from self-love, which finds it
necessary to seek consolation in creating beauties, that may justify our
follies to ourselves; and which often keeps alive the semblance of the
passion, when even hope, or real admiration, is extinct.

On reaching the Hall, every one was rejoiced to see their really
affectionate and worthy relative, and the evening passed in the tranquil
enjoyment of the blessings which Providence had profusely scattered
around the family of the baronet, but which are too often hazarded by a
neglect of duty that springs from too great security, or an indolence
which renders us averse to the precaution necessary to insure their
continuance.




Chapter IV.



"You are welcome, Sir Edward," said the venerable rector, as he took the
baronet by the hand; "I was fearful a return of your rheumatism would
deprive us of this pleasure, and prevent my making you acquainted with the
new occupants of the deanery, who have consented to dine with us to-day,
and to whom I have promised, in particular, an introduction to Sir Edward
Moseley."

"I thank you, my dear doctor," rejoined the baronet; "I have not only come
myself, but have persuaded Mr. Benfield to make one of the party; there he
comes, leaning on Emily's arm, and finding fault with Mrs. Wilson's
new-fashioned barouche, which he says has given him cold."

The rector received the unexpected guest with the kindness of his nature,
and an inward smile at the incongruous assemblage he was likely to have
around him by the arrival of the Jarvis's, who, at that moment, drove to
his door. The introductions between the baronet and the new comers had
passed, and Miss Jarvis had made a prettily worded apology on behalf of
the colonel, who was not yet well enough to come out, but whose politeness
had insisted on their not remaining a home on his account, as Mr.
Benfield, having composedly put on his spectacles, walked deliberately up
to the place where the merchant had seated himself, and having examined
him through his glasses to his satisfaction, took them off, and carefully
wiping them, he began to talk to himself as he put them into his
pocket--"No, no; it's not Jack, the hackney coachman, nor my Lord
Gosford's gentleman, but"--cordially holding out both hands, "it's the
man who saved my twenty thousand pounds."

Mr. Jarvis, whom shame and embarrassment had kept silent during this
examination, exchanged greetings sincerely with his old acquaintance, who
now took a seat in silence by his side; while his wife, whose face had
begun to kindle with indignation at the commencement of the old
gentleman's soliloquy, observing that somehow or other it had not only
terminated without degradation to her spouse, but with something like
credit, turned complacently to Mrs. Ives, with an apology for the absence
of her son.

"I cannot divine, ma'am, where he has got to; he is ever keeping us
waiting for him;" and, addressing Jane, "these military men become so
unsettled in their habits, that I often tell Harry he should never quit
the camp."

"In Hyde Park, you should add, my dear, for he has never been in any
other," bluntly observed her husband.

To this speech no reply was made, but it was evidently little relished by
the ladies of the family, who were a good deal jealous of the laurels of
the only hero their race had ever produced. The arrival and introduction
of the captain himself changed the discourse, which turned on the comforts
of their present residence.

"Pray, my lady," cried the captain, who had taken a chair familiarly by
the side of the baronet's wife, "why is the house called the deanery? I am
afraid I shall be taken for a son of the church, when I invite my friends
to visit my father at the deanery."

"But you may add, at the same time, sir, if you please," dryly remarked
Mr. Jarvis, "that it is occupied by an old man, who has been preaching and
lecturing all his life; and, like others of the trade, I believe, in
vain."

"You must except our good friend, the doctor here, at least, sir," said
Mrs. Wilson; who, observing that her sister shrank from a familiarity she
was unused to, took upon herself the office of replying to the captain's
question: "The father of the present Sir William Harris held that station
in the church, and although the house was his private property it took its
name from the circumstance, which has been continued ever since."

"Is it not a droll life Sir William leads," cried Miss Jarvis, looking at
John Moseley, "riding about all summer from one watering-place to another,
and letting his house year after year in the manner he does?"

"Sir William," said Dr. Ives, gravely, "is devoted to his laughter's
wishes; and since his accession to his title, has come into possession of
another residence in an adjoining county, which, I believe, he retains in
his own hands."

"Are you acquainted with Miss Harris?" continued the lady, addressing
herself to Clara; though, without waiting for an answer, she added, "She
is a great belle--all the gentlemen are dying for her."

"Or her fortune," said her sister, with a pretty toss of the head; "for my
part, I never could see anything so captivating in her, although so much
is said about her at Bath and Brighton."

"You know her then," mildly observed Clara.

"Why, I cannot say--we are exactly acquainted," the young lady
hesitatingly answered, coloring violently.

"What do you mean by exactly acquainted, Sally?" put in the father with a
laugh; "did you ever speak to or were you ever in a room with her, in your
life, unless it might be at a concert or a ball?"

The mortification of Miss Sarah was too evident for concealment, and it
happily was relieved by a summons to dinner.

"Never, my dear child," said Mrs. Wilson to Emily, the aunt being fond of
introducing a moral from the occasional incidents of every-day life,
"never subject yourself to a similar mortification, by commenting on the
characters of those you don't know: ignorance makes you liable to great
errors; and if they should happen to be above you in life, it will only
excite their contempt, should it reach their ears, while those to whom
your remarks are made will think it envy."

"Truth is sometimes blundered on," whispered John, who held his sister's
arm, waiting for his aunt to precede them to the dining-room.

The merchant paid too great a compliment to the rector's dinner to think
of renewing the disagreeable conversation, and as John Moseley and the
young clergyman were seated next the two ladies, they soon forgot what,
among themselves, they would call their father's rudeness, in receiving
the attentions of a couple of remarkably agreeable young men.

"Pray, Mr. Francis, when do you preach for us?" asked Mr. Haughton; "I'm
very anxious to hear you hold forth from the pulpit, where I have so often
heard your father with pleasure: I doubt not you will prove orthodox, or
you will be the only man, I believe, in the congregation, the rector has
left in ignorance of the theory of our religion, at least."

The doctor bowed to the compliment, as he replied to the question for his
son, that on the next Sunday they were to have the pleasure of hearing
Frank, who had promised to assist him on that day.

"Any prospects of a living soon?" continued Mr. Haughton, helping himself
bountifully to a piece of plum pudding as he spoke. John Moseley laughed
aloud, and Clara blushed to the eyes, while the doctor, turning to Sir
Edward, observed with an air of interest, "Sir Edward, the living of
Bolton is vacant, and I should like exceedingly to obtain it for my son.
The advowson belongs to the Earl, who will dispose of it only to great
interest, I am afraid."

Clara was certainly, too busily occupied in picking raisins from her
pudding to hear this remark, but accidentally stole, from under her long
eyelashes, a timid glance at her father as he replied:

"I am sorry, my friend, I have not sufficient interest with his lordship
to apply on my own account; but he is so seldom here, we are barely
acquainted;" and the good baronet looked really concerned.

"Clara," said Francis Ives in a low and affectionate tone, "have you read
the books I sent you?"

Clara answered him with a smile in the negative, but promised amendment as
soon as she had leisure.

"Do you ride much, on horseback, Mr. Moseley?" abruptly asked Miss Sarah,
turning her back on the young divine, and facing the gentleman she
addressed. John, who was now hemmed in between the sisters, replied with a
rueful expression that brought a smile into the face of Emily, who was
placed opposite to him--

"Yes, ma'am, and sometimes I am ridden."

"Ridden, sir, what do you mean by that?"

"Oh! only my aunt there occasionally gives me a lecture."

"I understand," said the lady, pointing slily with her finger at her own
father.

"Does it feel good?" John inquired, with a look of, great sympathy. But
the lady, who now felt awkwardly, without knowing exactly why, shook her
head in silence, and forced a faint laugh.

"Whom have we here?" cried Captain Jarvis, who was looking out at a window
which commanded a view of the approach to the house--"the apothecary and
his attendant judging from the equipage."

The rector threw an inquiring look on a servant, who told his master they
were strangers to him.

"Have them shown up, doctor," cried the benevolent baronet, who loved to
see every one as happy as himself, "and give them some of your excellent
pasty, for the sake of hospitality and the credit of your cook, I beg of
you."

As this request was politely seconded by others of the party, the rector
ordered his servants to show in the strangers.

On opening the parlor door, a gentleman, apparently sixty years of age,
appeared, leaning on the arm of a youth of five-and-twenty. There was
sufficient resemblance between the two for the most indifferent observer
to pronounce them father and son; but the helpless debility and emaciated
figure of the former, were finely contrasted by the vigorous health and
manly beauty of the latter, who supported his venerable parent into the
room with a grace and tenderness that struck most of the beholders with a
sensation of pleasure. The doctor and Mrs. Ives rose from their seats
involuntarily, and each stood for a moment, lost in an astonishment that
was mingled with grief. Recollecting himself, the rector grasped the
extended hand of the senior in both his own, and endeavored to utter
something, but in vain. The tears followed each other down his cheeks, as
he looked on the faded and careworn figure which stood before him; while
his wife, unable to control her feelings, sank back into a chair and wept
aloud.

Throwing open the door of an adjoining room, and retaining the hand of the
invalid, the doctor gently led the way, followed by his wife and son. The
former, having recovered from the first burst of her sorrow, and
regardless of everything else, now anxiously watched the enfeebled step of
the stranger. On reaching the door, they both turned and bowed to the
company in a manner of so much dignity, mingled with sweetness, that all,
not excepting Mr. Benfield, rose from their seats to return the
salutation. On passing from the dining parlor, the door was closed,
leaving the company standing round the table in mute astonishment and
commiseration. Not a word had been spoken, and the rector's family had
left them without apology or explanation. Francis, however soon returned,
and was followed in a few minutes by his mother, who, slightly apologizing
for her absence, turned the discourse on the approaching Sunday, and the
intention of Francis to preach on that day. The Moseleys were too well
bred to make any inquiries, and the deanery family was afraid. Sir Edward
retired at a very early hour, and was followed by the remainder of the
party.

"Well," cried Mrs. Jarvis, as they drove from the door, "this may be good
breeding, but, for my part, I think both the doctor and Mrs. Ives behaved
very rudely, with the crying and sobbing."

"They are nobody of much consequence," cried her eldest daughter, casting
a contemptuous glance on a plain travelling chaise which stood before the
rector's stables.

"'Twas sickening," said Miss Sarah, with a shrug; while her father,
turning his eyes on each speaker in succession, very deliberately helped
himself to a pinch of snuff, his ordinary recourse against a family
quarrel. The curiosity of the ladies was, however, more lively than they
chose to avow and Mrs. Jarvis bade her maid go over to the rectory that
evening, with her compliments to Mrs. Ives; she had lost a lace veil,
which her maid knew, and she thought it might have been left at the
rectory.

"And, Jones, when you are there, you can inquire of the servants; mind, of
the servants--I would not distress Mrs. Ives for the world; how
Mr.--Mr.--what's his name--Oh!--I have forgotten his name; just bring me
his name too. Jones; and, as it may make some difference in our party,
just find out how long they stay; and--and--- any other little thing,
Jones, which can be of use, you know."

Off went Jones, and within an hour she had returned. With an important
look, she commenced her narrative, the daughters being accidentally
present, and it might be on purpose.

"Why, ma'am, I went across the fields, and William was good enough to go
with me; so when we got there, I rang, and they showed us into the
servants' room, and I gave my message, and the veil was not there. Why,
ma'am, there's the veil now, on the back o' that chair."

"Very well, very well, Jones, never mind the veil," cried the impatient
mistress.

"So, ma'am, while they were looking for the veil, I just asked one of the
maids, what company had arrived, but"--(here Jones looked very suspicious,
and shook her head ominously:) "would you think it, ma'am, not a soul of
them knew! But, ma'am, there was the doctor and his son, praying and
reading with the old gentleman the whole time--and"--

"And what, Jones?"

"Why, ma'am, I expect he has been a great sinner, or he wouldn't want so
much praying just as he is about to die."

"Die!" cried all three at once: "will he die?"

"O yes," continued Jones, "they all agree he must die; but this praying so
much, is just like the criminals. I'm sure no honest person needs so much
praying, ma'am."

"No, indeed," said the mother. "No, indeed," responded the daughters, as
they retired to their several rooms for the night.




Chapter V.



There is something in the season of Spring which peculiarly excites the
feelings of devotion. The dreariness of winter has passed, and with it,
the deadened affections of our nature. New life, new vigor, arises within
us, as we walk abroad and feel the genial gales of April breathe upon us;
and our hopes, our wishes, awaken with the revival of the vegetable world.
It is then that the heart, which has been impressed with the goodness of
the Creator, feels that goodness brought, as it were, into very contact
with the senses. The eye loves to wander over the bountiful provisions
nature is throwing forth in every direction for our comfort, and fixes its
gaze on the clouds, which, having lost the chilling thinness of winter,
roll in rich volumes, amidst the clear and softened fields of azure so
peculiar to the season, leading the mind insensibly, to dwell on the
things of another and a better world. It was on such a day, that the
inhabitants of B---- thronged toward the village church, for the double
purpose of pouring out their thanksgivings, and of hearing the first
efforts of their rector's son in the duties of his sacred calling.

Amongst the crowd whom curiosity or a better feeling had drawn forth, were
to be seen the flaring equipage of the Jarvises, and the handsome
carriages of Sir Edward Moseley and his sister. All the members of the
latter family felt a lively anxiety for the success of the young divine.
But knowing, as they well did, the strength of his native talents, the
excellence of his education, and the fervor of his piety, it was an
anxiety that partook more of hope than of fear. There was one heart,
however, amongst them, that palpitated with an emotion that hardly
admitted of control, as they approached the sacred edifice, for it had
identified itself completely with the welfare of the rector's son. There
never was a softer, truer heart, than that which now almost audibly beat
within the bosom of Clara Moseley; and she had given it to the young
divine with all its purity and truth.

The entrance of a congregation into the sanctuary will at all times
furnish, to an attentive observer, food for much useful speculation, if it
be chastened with a proper charity for the weaknesses of others; and most
people are ignorant of the insight they are giving into their characters
and dispositions, by such an apparently trivial circumstance as their
weekly approach to the tabernacles of the Lord. Christianity, while it
chastens and amends the heart, leaves the natural powers unaltered; and it
cannot be doubted that its operation is, or ought to be, proportionate to
the abilities and opportunities of the subject of its holy
impression--"Unto whomsoever much is given, much will be required." While
we acknowledge, that the thoughts might be better employed in preparing
for those humiliations, of the spirit and thanksgiving of the heart which
are required of all, and are so necessary to all, we must be indulged in a
hasty view of some of the personages of our history, as they entered the
church of B----.

On the countenance of the baronet, was the dignity and composure of a mind
at peace with itself and mankind. His step was rather more deliberate than
common; his eye rested on the pavement, and on turning into his pew, as he
prepared to kneel, in the first humble petition of our beautiful service,
he raised it towards the altar with an expression of benevolence and
reverence, that spoke contentment, not unmixed with faith.

In the demeanor of Lady Moseley, all was graceful and decent, while
nothing could be properly said to be studied. She followed her husband
with a step of equal deliberation, though it was slightly varied by a
manner which, while it appeared natural to herself, might have been
artificial in another: a cambric handkerchief concealed her face as she
sank composedly by the side of Sir Edward, in a style which showed, that
while she remembered her Maker, she had not entirely forgotten herself.

The walk of Mrs. Wilson was quicker than that of her sister. Her eye,
directed before her, was fixed, as if in settled gaze, on that eternity
which she was approaching. The lines of her contemplative face were
unaltered, unless there might be traced a deeper shade of humility than
was ordinarily seen on her pale, but expressive countenance: her petition
was long; and on rising from her humble posture, the person was indeed to
be seen, but the soul appeared absorbed in contemplations beyond the
limits of this sphere.

There was a restlessness and varying of color, in the ordinarily placid
Clara, which prevented a display of her usual manner; while Jane walked
gracefully, and with a tincture of her mother's manner, by her side. She
stole one hastily withdrawn glance to the deanery pew ere she kneeled, and
then, on rising, handed her smelling-bottle affectionately to her elder
sister.

Emily glided behind her companions with a face beaming with a look of
innocence and love. As she sank in the act of supplication, the rich glow
of her healthful cheek lost some of its brilliancy; but, on rising, it
beamed with a renewed lustre, that plainly indicated a heart touched with
the sanctity of its situation.

In the composed and sedate manner of Mr. Jarvis, as he steadily pursued
his way to the pew of Sir William Harris, you might have been justified
in expecting the entrance of another Sir Edward Moseley in substance, if
not in externals. But the deliberate separation of the flaps of his coat,
as he comfortably seated himself, when you thought him about to kneel,
followed by a pinch of snuff as he threw his eye around the building, led
you at once to conjecture, that what at first had been mistaken for
reverence, was the abstraction of some earthly calculation; and that his
attendance was in compliance with custom, and not a little depended upon
the thickness of his cushions, and the room he found for the disposition
of two rather unwieldy legs.

The ladies of the family followed, in garments carefully selected for the
advantageous display of their persons. As they sailed into their seats,
where it would seem the improvidence of Sir William's steward had
neglected some important accommodation (some time being spent in
preparation to be seated), the old lady, whose size and flesh really put
kneeling out of the question, bent forward for a moment at an angle of
eighty with the horizon, while her daughters prettily bowed their heads,
with all proper precaution for the safety of their superb millinery.

At length the rector, accompanied by his son, appeared from the vestry.
There was a dignity and solemnity in the manner in which this pious divine
entered on the duties of his profession, which disposed the heart to
listen with reverence and humility to precepts that were accompanied with
so impressive an exterior. The stillness of expectation pervaded the
church, when the pew opener led the way to the same interesting father and
son whose entrance had interrupted the guests the preceding day, at the
rectory. Every eye was turned on the emaciated parent, bending into the
grave, and, as it were, kept from it by the supporting tenderness of his
child. Hastily throwing open the door of her own pew, Mrs. Ives buried
her face in her handkerchief; and her husband had proceeded far in the
morning service before she raised it again to the view of the
congregation. In the voice of the rector, there was an unusual softness
and tremor that his people attributed to the feelings of a father about to
witness the first efforts of an only child, but which in reality were
owing to another and a deeper cause.

Prayers were ended, and the younger Ives ascended the pulpit. For a moment
he paused; when, casting an anxious glance to the pew of the baronet, he
commenced his sermon. He had chosen for his discourse the necessity of
placing our dependence on divine grace. After having learnedly, but in the
most unaffected manner, displayed the necessity of this dependence, as
derived from revelation, he proceeded to paint the hope, the resignation,
the felicity of a Christian's death-bed. Warmed by the subject, his
animation soon lent a heightened interest to his language; and at a moment
when all around him were entranced by the eloquence of the youthful
divine, a sudden and deep-drawn sigh drew every eye to the rector's pew.
The younger stranger sat motionless as a statue, holding in his arms the
lifeless body of his parent, who had fallen that moment a corpse by his
side. All was now confusion: the almost insensible young man was relieved
from his burden; and, led by the rector, they left the church. The
congregation dispersed in silence, or assembled in little groups, to
converse on the awful event they had witnessed. None knew the deceased; he
was the rector's friend, and to his residence the body was removed. The
young man was evidently his child; but here all information ended. They
had arrived in a private chaise, but with post horses, and without
attendants. Their arrival at the parsonage was detailed by the Jarvis
ladies with a few exaggerations that gave additional interest to the whole
event, and which, by creating an impression with some whom gentler
feelings would not have restrained, that there was something of mystery
about them, prevented many distressing questions to the Ives's, that the
baronet's family forbore putting, on the score of delicacy. The body left
B---- at the close of the week, accompanied by Francis Ives and the
unweariedly attentive and interesting son. The doctor and his wife went
into deep mourning, and Clara received a short note from her lover, on the
morning of their departure, acquainting her with his intended absence for
a month, but throwing no light upon the affair. The London papers,
however, contained the following obituary notice, and which, as it could
refer to no other person, as a matter of course, was supposed to allude to
the rector's friend.

"Died, suddenly, at B----, on the 20th instant, George Denbigh, Esq., aged
63."




Chapter VI.



During the week of mourning, the intercourse between Moseley Hall and the
rectory was confined to messages and notes of inquiry after each other's
welfare: but the visit of the Moseleys to the deanery had been returned;
and the day after the appearance of the obituary paragraph, the family of
the latter dined by invitation at the Hall. Colonel Egerton had recovered
the use of his leg, and was included in the party. Between this gentleman
and Mr. Benfield there appeared, from the first moment of their
introduction, a repugnance which was rather increased by time, and which
the old gentleman manifested by a demeanor loaded with the overstrained
ceremony of the day, and which, in the colonel, only showed itself by
avoiding, when possible, all intercourse with the object of his aversion.
Both Sir Edward and Lady Moseley, on the contrary, were not slow in
manifesting their favorable impressions in behalf of the gentleman. The
latter, in particular, having ascertained to her satisfaction that he was
the undoubted heir to the title, and most probably to the estates of his
uncle, Sir Edgar Egerton, felt herself strongly disposed to encourage an
acquaintance she found so agreeable, and to which she could see no
reasonable objection. Captain Jarvis, who was extremely offensive to her,
from his vulgar familiarity, she barely tolerated, from the necessity of
being civil, and keeping up sociability in the neighborhood. It is true,
she could not help being surprised that a gentleman, as polished, as the
colonel, could find any pleasure in an associate like his friend, or even
in the hardly more softened females of his family; then again, the
flattering suggestion would present itself, that possibly he might have
seen Emily at Bath, or Jane elsewhere, and availed himself of the
acquaintance of young Jarvis to get into their neighborhood. Lady Moseley
had never been vain, or much interested about the disposal of her own
person, previously to her attachment to her husband: but her daughters
called forth not a little of her natural pride--we had almost said of her
selfishness.

The attentions of the colonel were of the most delicate and insinuating
kind; and Mrs. Wilson several times turned away in displeasure at herself,
for listening with too much satisfaction to nothings, uttered in an
agreeable manner, or, what was worse, false sentiments supported with the
gloss of language and a fascinating deportment. The anxiety of this lady
on behalf of Emily kept her ever on the alert, when chance, or any chain
of circumstances, threw her in the way of forming new connexions of any
kind; and of late, as her charge approached the period of life her sex
were apt to make that choice from which there is no retreat, her
solicitude to examine the characters of the men who approached her was
really painful. As to Lady Moseley, her wishes disposed her to be easily
satisfied, and her mind naturally shrank from an investigation to which
she felt herself unequal; while Mrs. Wilson was governed by the
convictions of a sound discretion, matured by long and deep reasoning, all
acting on a temper at all times ardent, and a watchfulness calculated to
endure to the end.

"Pray, my lady," said Mrs. Jarvis, with a look of something like
importance, "have you made any discovery about this Mr. Denbigh, who died
in the church lately?"

"I did not know, ma'am," replied Lady Moseley, "there was any discovery to
be made."

"You know, Lady Moseley," said Colonel Egerton, "that in town, all the
little accompaniments of such a melancholy death would have found their
way into the prints; and I suppose this is what Mrs. Jarvis alludes to."

"Oh yes," cried Mrs. Jarvis, "the colonel is right." But the colonel was
always right with that lady.

Lady Moseley bowed her head with dignity, and the colonel had too much
tact to pursue the conversation; but the captain, whom nothing had ever
yet abashed, exclaimed,

"These Denbighs could not be people of much importance--I have never heard
the name before."

"It is the family name of the Duke of Derwent, I believe," dryly remarked
Sir Edward.

"Oh, I am sure neither the old man nor his son looked much like a duke, or
so much as an officer either," exclaimed Mrs. Jarvis, who thought the
latter rank the dignity in degree next below nobility.

"There sat, in the parliament of this realm, when I was a member, a
General Denbigh," said Mr. Benfield, with his usual deliberation; "he was
always on the same side with Lord Gosford and myself. He and his friend,
Sir Peter Howell, who was the admiral that took the French squadron, in
the glorious administration of Billy Pitt, and afterwards took an island
with this same General Denbigh: aye, the old admiral was a hearty blade; a
good deal such a looking man as my Hector would make."

Hector was Mr. Benfield's bull dog.

"Mercy," whispered John to Clara, "that's your grandfather that is to be
uncle Benfield is speaking of."

Clara smiled, as she ventured to say, "Sir Peter was Mrs. Ives's father,
sir."

"Indeed!" said the old gentleman, with a look of surprise, "I never knew
that before; I cannot say they resemble each other much."

"Pray, uncle, does Frank look much like the family?" asked John, with an
air of unconquerable gravity.

"But, sir," interrupted Emily, "were General Denbigh and Admiral Ho well
related?"

"Not that I ever knew, Emmy dear. Sir Frederick Denbigh did not look much
like the admiral; he rather resembled (gathering himself up into an air of
formality, and bowing stiffly to Colonel Egerton) this gentleman, here."

"I have not the honor of the connexion," observed the colonel, withdrawing
behind the chair of Jane.

Mrs. Wilson changed the conversation to one more general; but the little
that had fallen from Mr. Benfield gave reason for believing a connexion,
in some way of which they were ignorant, existed between the descendants
of the two veterans, and which explained the interest they felt in each
other.

During dinner, Colonel Egerton placed himself next to Emily, and Miss
Jarvis took, the chair on the other side. He spoke of the gay world, of
watering-places, novels, plays, and still finding his companion reserved,
and either unwilling or unable to talk freely, he tried his favorite
sentiment. He had read poetry, and a remark of his lighted up a spark of
intelligence in the beautiful face of his companion that for a moment
deceived him; but as he went on to point out his favorite beauties, it
gave place to a settled composure, which at last led him to imagine the
casket contained no gem equal to the promise of its brilliant exterior.
After resting from one of his most labored displays of feeling and
imagery, he accidentally caught the eyes of Jane fastened on him with an
expression of no dubious import, and the soldier changed his battery. In
Jane he found a more willing auditor; poetry was the food she lived on,
and in works of the imagination she found her greatest delight. An
animated discussion of the merits of their favorite authors now took
place; to renew which, the colonel early left the dining-room for the
society of the ladies; John, who disliked drinking excessively, being
happy of an excuse to attend him.

The younger ladies had clustered together round a window and even Emily in
her heart rejoiced that the gentlemen had come to relieve herself and
sisters from the arduous task of entertaining women who appeared not to
possess a single taste or opinion in common with themselves.

"You were saying, Miss Moseley," observed the colonel in his most
agreeable manner, as he approached them, "you thought Campbell the most
musical poet we have; I hope you will unite with me in excepting Moore."

Jane colored, as with some awkwardness she replied, "Moore was certainly
very poetical."

"Has Moore written much?" innocently asked Emily.

"Not half as much as he ought," cried Miss Jarvis. "Oh! I could live on
his beautiful lines."

Jane turned away in disgust; and that evening, while alone with Clara, she
took a volume of Moore's songs, and very coolly consigned them to the
flames. Her sister naturally asked an explanation of so extraordinary a
procedure.

"Oh!" cried Jane, "I can't abide the book, since that vulgar Miss Jarvis
speaks of it with so much interest. I really believe aunt Wilson is right
in not suffering Emily to read such things." And Jane, who had often
devoured the treacherous lines with ardor, shrank with fastidious delicacy
from the indulgence of a perverted taste, when it became exposed, coupled
with the vulgarity of unblushing audacity.

Colonel Egerton immediately changed the subject to one less objectionable,
and spoke of a campaign he had made in Spain. He possessed the happy
faculty of giving an interest to all he advanced, whether true or not; and
as he never contradicted, or even opposed unless to yield gracefully, when
a lady was his opponent, his conversation insensibly attracted, by
putting the sex in good humor with themselves. Such a man, aided by the
powerful assistants of person and manners, and no inconsiderable
colloquial talents, Mrs. Wilson knew to be extremely dangerous as a
companion to a youthful female heart; and as his visit was to extend to a
couple of months, she resolved to reconnoitre the state of her pupil's
opinion forthwith in reference to his merits. She had taken too much pains
in forming the mind of Emily to apprehend she would fall a victim to the
eye; but she also knew that personal grace sweetened a benevolent
expression, and added force even to the oracles of wisdom. She labored a
little herself under the disadvantage of what John called a didactic
manner, and which, although she had not the ability, or rather taste, to
amend, she had yet the sense to discern. It was the great error of Mrs.
Wilson to attempt to convince, where she might have influenced; but her
ardor of temperament, and great love of truth, kept her, as it were,
tilting with the vices of mankind, and consequently sometimes in
unprofitable combat. With her charge, however, this could never be said to
be the case, Emily knew her heart, felt her love, and revered her
principles too deeply, to throw away an admonition, or disregard a
precept, that fell from lips she knew never spoke idly or without
consideration.

John had felt tempted to push the conversation with Miss Jarvis, and he
was about to utter something rapturous respecting the melodious poison of
Little's poems, as the blue eye of Emily rested on him in the fulness of
sisterly affection and checking his love of the ridiculous, he quietly
yielded to his respect for the innocence of his sisters; and, as if eager
to draw the attention of all from the hateful subject, he put question
after question to Egerton concerning the Spaniards and their customs.

"Did you ever meet Lord Pendennyss in Spain, Colonel Egerton?" inquired
Mrs. Wilson, with interest.

"Never, madam," he replied. "I have much reason to regret that our service
lay in different parts of the country: his lordship was much with the
duke, and I made the campaign under Marshal Beresford."

Emily left the group at the window, and taking a seat on the sofa by the
side of her aunt, insensibly led her to forget the gloomy thoughts which
had begun to steal over her; which the colonel, approaching where they
sat, continued, by asking--

"Are you acquainted with the earl, madam?"

"Not in person, but by character," said Mrs. Wilson, in a melancholy
manner.

"His character as a soldier was very high. He had no superior of his years
in Spain, I am told."

No reply was made to this remark, and Emily endeavored anxiously to draw
the mind of her aunt to reflections of a more agreeable nature. The
colonel, whose vigilance to please was ever on the alert, kindly aided
her, and they soon succeeded.

The merchant withdrew, with his family and guest, in proper season: and
Mrs. Wilson, heedful of her duty, took the opportunity of a quarter of an
hour's privacy in her own dressing-room in the evening, to touch gently on
the subject of the gentlemen they had seen that day.

"How are you pleased, Emily, with your new acquaintances?" familiarly
commenced Mrs. Wilson.

"Oh! aunt, don't ask me; as John says, they are _net_ indeed."

"I am not sorry," continued the aunt, "to have you observe more closely
than you have been used to the manners of such women as the Jarvises; they
are too abrupt and unpleasant to create a dread of any imitation; but the
gentlemen are heroes in very different styles."

"Different from each other, indeed."

"To which do you give the preference, my dear?"

"Preference, aunt!" said her niece, with a look of astonishment;
"preference is a strong word for either; but I rather think the captain
the most eligible companion of the two. I do believe you see the worst of
him; and although I acknowledge it to be bad enough, he might amend; but
the colonel"--

"Go on," said Mrs. Wilson.

"Why, everything about the colonel seems so seated, so ingrafted in his
nature, so--so very self-satisfied, that I am afraid it would be a
difficult task to take the first step in amendment--to convince him of its
necessity?

"And is it then so necessary?"

Emily looked up from arranging some laces, with an expression of surprise,
as he replied:

"Did you not hear him talk of those poems, and attempt to point out the
beauties of several works? I thought everything he uttered was referred to
taste, and that not a very natural one; at least," she added with a laugh,
"it differed greatly from mine. He seemed to forget altogether there was
such a thing as principle: and then he spoke of some woman to Jane, who
had left her father for her lover, with so much admiration of her
feelings, to take up with poverty and love, as he called it, in place of
condemning her want of filial piety--I am sure, aunt, if you had heard
that, you would not admire him so much."

"I do not admire him at all, child; I only want to know your sentiments,
and I am happy to find them so correct. It is as you think; Colonel
Egerton appears to refer nothing to principle: even the more generous
feelings I am afraid are corrupted in him, from too low intercourse with
the surface of society. There is by far too much pliability about him for
principle of any kind, unless indeed it be a principle to please, no
matter how. No one, who has deeply seated opinions of right and wrong,
will ever abandon them, even in the courtesies of polite intercourse: they
may be silent but never acquiescent: in short, my dear, the dread of
offending our Maker ought to be so superior to that of offending our
fellow creatures, that we should endeavor, I believe, to be even more
unbending to the follies of the world than we are."

"And yet the colonel is what they call a good companion--I mean a pleasant
one."

"In the ordinary meaning of the words, he is certainly, my dear; yet you
soon tire of sentiments which will not stand the test of examination, and
of a manner you cannot but see is artificial. He may do very well for a
companion, but very ill for a friend; in short, Colonel Egerton has
neither been satisfied to yield to his natural impressions, nor to obtain
new ones from a proper source; he has copied from bad models, and his work
must necessarily be imperfect."

Kissing her niece, Mrs. Wilson then retired into her own room, with the
happy assurance that she had not labored in vain; but that, with divine
aid, she had implanted a guide in the bosom of her charge that could not
fail, with ordinary care, to lead her straight through the devious path of
female duties.




Chapter VII.



A Month now passed in the ordinary occupations and amusements of a country
life, during which both Lady Moseley and Jane manifested a desire to keep
up the deanery acquaintance, that surprised Emily a little, who had ever
seen her mother shrink from communications with those whose breeding
subjected her own delicacy, to the little shocks she could but ill
conceal. In Jane this desire was still more inexplicable; for Jane had, in
a decided way very common to her, avowed her disgust of the manners of
their new associates at the commencement of the acquaintance; and yet Jane
would now even quit her own society for that of Miss Jarvis, especially if
Colonel Egerton happened to be of the party The innocence of Emily
prevented her scanning the motives for the conduct of her sister; and she
set seriously about an examination into her own deportment to find the
latent cause, in order, wherever an opportunity should offer, to evince
her regret, had it been her misfortune, to have erred by the tenderness of
her own manner.

For a short time the colonel seemed at a loss where to make his choice;
but a few days determined him, and Jane was evidently the favorite. It is
true, that in the presence of the Jarvis ladies he was more guarded and
general in his attentions; but as John, from a motive of charity, had
taken the direction of the captain's sports into his own hands; and as
they were in the frequent habit of meeting at the Hall preparatory to
their morning excursion, the colonel suddenly became a sportsman. The
ladies would often accompany them in their morning excursions; and as
John would certainly be a baronet, and the colonel might not if his uncle
married, he had the comfort of being sometimes ridden, as well as of
riding.

One morning, having all prepared for an excursion on horseback, as they
stood at the door ready to mount, Francis Ives drove up in his father's
gig, and for a moment arrested the party. Francis was a favorite with the
whole Moseley family, and their greetings were warm and sincere. He found
they meant to take the rectory in their ride, and insisted that they
should proceed. "Clara would take a seat with him." As he spoke, the cast
of his countenance brought the color into the cheeks of his intended; she
suffered herself, however, to be handed into the vacant seat in the gig,
and they moved on. John, who was at the bottom good-natured, and loved
both Francis and Clara very sincerely, soon set Captain Jarvis and his
sister what he called "scrub racing," and necessity, in some measure,
compelled the rest of the equestrians to hard riding, in order to keep up
with the sports.

"That will do, that will do," cried John, casting his eye back, and
perceiving they had lost sight of the gig, and nearly so of Colonel
Egerton and Jane, "why you carry it off like a jockey, captain; better
than any amateur I have ever seen, unless indeed it be your sister."

The lady encouraged by his commendations, whipped on, followed by her
brother and sister at half speed.

"There, Emily," said John, quietly dropping by her side "I see no reason
you and I should break our necks, to show the blood of our horses. Now do
you know I think we are going to have a wedding in the family soon?"

Emily looked at him in amazement.

"Frank has got a living; I saw it the moment he drove up. He came in like
somebody. Yes, I dare say he has calculated the tithes already a dozen
times."

John was right. The Earl of Bolton had, unsolicited, given him the desired
living of his own parish; and Francis was at the moment pressing the
blushing Clara to fix the day that was to put a period to his long
probation. Clara, who had not a particle of coquetry about her, promised
to be his as soon as he was inducted, an event that was to take place the
following week; and then followed those delightful little arrangements and
plans with which youthful hope is so fond of filling up the void of life.

"Doctor," said John, as he came out of the rectory to assist Clara from
the gig, "the parson here is a careful driver; see, he has not turned a
hair."

He kissed the burning cheek of his sister as she touched the ground, and
whispered significantly.

"You need tell me nothing, my dear--I know all--I consent."

Mrs. Ives folded her future daughter to her bosom; and the benevolent
smile of the good rector, together with the kind and affectionate manner
of her sisters, assured Clara the approaching nuptials were anticipated,
as a matter of course. Colonel Egerton offered his compliments to Francis
on his preferment to the living, with the polish of high breeding, and not
without an appearance of interest; and Emily thought him for the first
time as handsome as he was generally reputed to be. The ladies undertook
to say something civil in their turn, and John put the captain, by a hint,
on the same track.

"You are quite lucky, sir," said the captain, "in getting so good a living
with so little trouble; I wish you joy of it with all my heart: Mr.
Moseley tells me it is a capital thing now for a gentleman of your
profession. For my part. I prefer a scarlet coat to a black one, but
there must be parsons you know, or how should we get married or say
grace?"

Francis thanked him for his good wishes, and Egerton paid a handsome
compliment to the liberality of the earl; "he doubted not he found that
gratification which always attends a disinterested act;" and Jane
applauded the sentiment with a smile.

The baronet, when he was made acquainted with the situation of affairs,
promised Francis that no unnecessary delay should intervene, and the
marriage was happily arranged for the following week. Lady Moseley, when
she retired to the drawing-room after dinner, commenced a recital of the
ceremony and company to be invited on the occasion. Etiquette and the
decencies of life were not only the forte, but the fault of this lady; and
she had gone on to the enumeration of about the fortieth personage in the
ceremonials, before Clara found courage to say, that "Mr. Ives and myself
both wish to be married at the altar, and to proceed to Bolton Rectory
immediately after the ceremony." To this her mother warmly objected; and
argument and respectful remonstrance had followed each other for some
time, before Clara submitted in silence, with difficulty restraining her
tears. This appeal to the better feelings of the mother triumphed; and the
love of parade yielded to love of her offspring. Clara, with a lightened
heart, kissed and thanked her, and accompanied by Emily left the room;
Jane had risen to follow them, but catching a glimpse of the tilbury of
Colonel Egerton she reseated herself.

He had merely driven over at the earnest entreaties of the ladies to beg
Miss Jane would accept a seat back with him; "they had some little project
on foot, and could not proceed without her assistance."

Mrs. Wilson looked gravely at her sister, as she smiled acquiescence to
his wishes; and the daughter, who but the minute before had forgotten
there was any other person in the world but Clara, flew for her hat and
shawl, in order, as he said to herself, that the politeness of Colonel
Egerton might not keep him waiting. Lady Moseley resumed her seat by the
side of her sister with an air of great complacency, as she returned from
the window, after having seen her daughter off. For some time each was
occupied quietly with her needle, when Mrs. Wilson suddenly broke the
silence by saying:

"Who is Colonel Egerton?"

Lady Moseley looked up for a moment in amazement, but recollecting
herself, answered,

"The nephew and heir of Sir Edgar Egerton, sister."

This was spoken in a rather positive way, as if it were unanswerable; yet
as there was nothing harsh in the reply, Mrs. Wilson continued,

"Do you not think him attentive to Jane?"

Pleasure sparkled in the still brilliant eyes of Lady Moseley, as she
exclaimed--

"Do you think so?"

"I do; and you will pardon me if I say improperly so. I think you were
wrong in suffering Jane to go with him this afternoon."

"Why improperly, Charlotte? If Colonel Egerton is polite enough to show
Jane such attentions, should I not be wrong in rudely rejecting them?"

"The rudeness of refusing a request that is improper to grant is a very
venial offence. I confess I think it improper to allow any attentions to
be forced on us that may subject us to disagreeable consequences; but the
attentions of Colonel Egerton are becoming marked, Anne."

"Do you for a moment doubt their being honorable, or that he dares to
trifle with a daughter of Sir Edward Moseley?"

"I should hope not, certainly, although it may be well to guard even
against such a misfortune. But I am of opinion it is quite as important to
know whether he is _worthy_ to be her husband as it is to know that he is
in a situation to become so."

"On what points, Charlotte, would you wish to be more assured? You know
his birth and probable fortune--you see his manners and disposition; but
these latter are things for Jane to decide on; _she_ is to live with him,
and it is proper she should be suited in these respects."

"I do not deny his fortune or his disposition, but I complain that we give
him credit for the last, and for still more important requisites, without
evidence of his possessing any of them. His principles, his habits, his
very character, what do we know of them? I say we, for you know, Anne,
your children are as dear to me as my own would have been."

"I believe you sincerely, but the things you mention are points for Jane
to decide on. If she be pleased, I have no right to complain. I am
determined never to control the affections of my children."

"Had you said, never _to force_ the affections of your children, you would
have said enough, Anne; but to control, or rather to guide the affections
of a child, especially a daughter, is, in some cases, a duty as imperative
as it would be to avert any other impending calamity. Surely the proper
time to do this is before the affections of the child are likely to
endanger her peace of mind."

"I have seldom seen much good result from the interference of parents,"
said Lady Moseley, a little pertinaciously.

"True; for to be of use, unless in extraordinary cases, it should not be
seen. You will pardon me, Anne, but I have often thought parents are too
often in extremes--determined to make the election for their children, or
leaving them entirely to their own vanity and inexperience, to govern not
only their own lives, but, I may say, to leave an impression on future
generations. And, after all, what is this love? In nineteen cases in
twenty of what we call affairs of the heart, it would be better to term
them affairs of the _imagination."_

"And is there not a great deal of imagination in all love?" inquired Lady
Moseley, smiling.

"Undoubtedly, there is some; but there is one important difference: in
affairs of the imagination, the admired object is gifted with all those
qualities we esteem, as a matter of course, and there is a certain set of
females who are ever ready to bestow this admiration on any applicant for
their favors who may not be strikingly objectionable. The necessity of
being courted makes our sex rather too much disposed to admire improper
suitors."

"But how do you distinguish affairs of the heart, Charlotte, from those of
the fancy?"

"When the heart takes the lead, it is not difficult to detect it. Such
sentiments generally follow long intercourse, and opportunities of judging
the real character. They are the only attachments that are likely to stand
the test of worldly trials."

"Suppose Emily to be the object of Colonel Egerton's pursuit, then,
sister, in what manner would you proceed to destroy the influence I
acknowledge he is gaining over Jane?"

"I cannot suppose such a case," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely; and then,
observing that her sister looked as if she required an explanation, she
continued--

"My attention has been directed to the forming of such principles, and
such a taste, if I may use the expression, under those principles, that I
feel no apprehension Emily will ever allow her affections to be ensnared
by a man of the opinions and views of Colonel Egerton. I am impressed with
a twofold duty in watching the feelings of my charge. She has so much
singleness of heart, such real strength of native feeling, that, should an
improper man gain possession of her affections, the struggle between her
duty and her love would be weighty indeed; and should it proceed so far as
to make it her duty to love an unworthy object, I am sure she would sink
under it. Emily would die in the same, circumstances under which Jane
would only awake from a dream, and be wretched."

"I thought you entertained a better opinion of Jane, sister," said Lady
Moseley, reproachfully.

"I think her admirably calculated to make an invaluable wife and mother;
but she is so much under the influence of her fancy, that she seldom gives
her heart an opportunity of displaying its excellences; and again, she
dwells so much upon imaginary perfections, that adulation has become
necessary to her. The man who flatters her delicately will be sure to win
her esteem; and every woman might love the being possessed of the
qualities she will not fail to endow him with."

"I do not know that I rightly understand how you would avert all these sad
consequences of improvident affections?" said Lady Moseley.

"Prevention is better than cure--I would first implant such opinions as
would lessen the danger of intercourse; and as for particular attentions
from improper objects, it should be my care to prevent them, by
prohibiting, or rather impeding, the intimacy which might give rise to
them. And least of all," said Mrs. Wilson, with a friendly smile, as she
rose to leave the room, "would I suffer a fear of being impolite to
endanger the happiness of a young woman intrusted to my care."




Chapter VIII.



Francis, who labored with the ardor of a lover, soon completed the
necessary arrangements and alterations in his new parsonage. The living
was a good one, and as the rector was enabled to make a very considerable
annual allowance from the private fortune his wife had brought him, and as
Sir Edward had twenty thousand pounds in the funds for each of his
daughters, one portion of which was immediately settled on Clara, the
youthful couple had not only a sufficient, but an abundant provision for
their station in life; and they entered on their matrimonial duties with
as good a prospect of happiness as the ills of this world can give to
health, affection, and competency. Their union had been deferred by Dr.
Ives until his son was established, with a view to keep him under his own
direction during the critical period of his first impressions in the
priesthood; and as no objection now remained, or rather, the only one he
ever felt was removed by the proximity of Bolton to his own parish, he now
joyfully united the lovers at the altar of the village church, in the
presence of his wife and Clara's immediate relatives. On leaving the
church Francis handed his bride into his own carriage, which conveyed them
to their new residence, amidst the good wishes of his parishioners, and
the prayers of their relatives and friends. Dr. and Mrs. Ives retired to
the rectory, to the sober enjoyment of the felicity of their only child;
while the baronet and his lady felt a gloom that belied all the wishes of
the latter for the establishment of her daughters. Jane and Emily acted as
bridesmaids to their sister, and as both the former and her mother had
insisted there should be two groomsmen as a counterpoise, John was
empowered with a carte-blanche to make a provision accordingly. At first
he intimated his intention of calling on Mr. Benfield, but he finally
settled down, to the no small mortification of the before-mentioned
ladies, into writing a note to his kinsman, Lord Chatterton, whose
residence was then in London, and who in reply, after expressing his
sincere regret that an accident would prevent his having the pleasure of
attending, stated the intention of his mother and two sisters to pay them
an early visit of congratulation, as soon as his own health would allow of
his travelling. This answer arrived only the day preceding that fixed for
the wedding, and at the very moment they were expecting his lordship in
proper person.

"There," cried Jane, in triumph, "I told you it was silly to send so far
on so sudden an occasion; now, after all, what is to be done--it will be
so awkward when Clara's friends call to see her--Oh! John, John, you are a
Marplot."

"Jenny, Jenny, you are a make-plot," said John, coolly taking up his hat
to leave the room.

"Which way, my son?" said the baronet, who met him at the door.

"To the deanery, sir, to try to get Captain Jarvis to act as bridesmaid--I
beg his pardon, groomsman, to-morrow--Chatterton has been thrown from a
horse and can't come.''

"John!"

"Jenny!"

"I am sure," said Jane, indignation glowing in her pretty face, "that if
Captain Jarvis is to be an attendant, Clara must excuse my acting. I do
not choose to be associated with Captain Jarvis."

"John," said his mother, with dignity, "your trifling is unseasonable;
certainly Colonel Egerton is a more fitting person on every account, and I
desire, under present circumstances, that you ask the colonel."

"Your ladyship's wishes are orders to me," said John, gaily kissing his
hand as he left the room.

The colonel was but too happy in having it in his power to be of service
in any manner to a gentleman he respected as much as Mr. Francis Ives. He
accepted the duty, and was the only person present at the ceremony who did
not stand within the bonds of consanguinity to the parties. He was invited
by the baronet to dine at the hall, as a matter of course, and
notwithstanding the repeated injunctions of Mrs. Jarvis and her daughters,
to return immediately with an account of the dress of the bride, and with
other important items of a similar nature, the invitation was accepted. On
reaching the hall, Emily retired immediately to her own room, and at her
reappearance when the dinner bell rang, the paleness of her cheeks and the
redness of her eyes afforded sufficient proof that the translation of a
companion from her own to another family was an event, however happy in
itself, not unmingled with grief. The day, however, passed off tolerably
well for people who are expected to be premeditatedly happy, and when, in
their hearts, they are really more disposed to weep than to laugh. Jane
and the colonel had most of the conversation to themselves during dinner:
even the joyous and thoughtless John wearing his gaiety in a less graceful
manner than usual. He was actually detected by his aunt in looking with
moistened eyes at the vacant chair a servant had, from habit, placed at
the table, in the spot where Clara had been accustomed to sit.

"This beef is not done, Saunders," said the baronet to his butler, "or my
appetite is not as good as usual to-day. Colonel Egerton, will you allow
me the pleasure of a glass of sherry?"

The wine was drunk, and the game succeeded the beef; but still Sir Edward
could not eat.

"How glad Clara will be to see us all the day after to-morrow," said Mrs.
Wilson; "your new housekeepers delight in their first efforts in
entertaining their friends."

Lady Moseley smiled through her tears, and turning to her husband said,
"We will go early, my dear, that we may see the improvements Francis has
been making before we dine." The baronet nodded assent, but his heart was
too full to speak; and apologizing to the colonel for his absence, on the
plea of some business with his people, he left the room.

All this time, the attentions of Colonel Egerton to both mother and
daughter were of the most delicate kind. He spoke of Clara as if his
office of groomsman entitled him to an interest in her welfare; with John
he was kind and sociable; and even Mrs. Wilson acknowledged, after he had
taken his leave, that he possessed a wonderful faculty of making himself
agreeable, and she began to think that, under all circumstances, he might
possibly prove as advantageous a connexion as Jane could expect to form.
Had any one, however, proposed him as a husband for Emily, affection would
have quickened her judgment in a way that would have urged her to a very
different decision.

Soon after the baronet left the room, a travelling carriage, with suitable
attendants, drove to the door; the sound of the wheels drew most of the
company to a window. "A baron's coronet!" cried Jane, catching a glimpse
of the ornaments of the harness.

"The Chattertons," echoed her brother, running out of the room to meet
them.

The mother of Sir Edward was a daughter of this family, and the sister of
the grandfather of the present lord. The connexion had always been kept up
with a show of cordiality between Sir Edward and his cousin, although
their manner of living and habits were very different. The baron was a
courtier and a placeman. His estates, which he could not alienate,
produced about ten thousand a year, but the income he could and did spend;
and the high perquisites of his situation under government, amounting to
as much more were melted away year after year, without making the pro
vision for his daughters that his duty and the observance of his promise
to his wife's father required at his hands. He had been dead about two
years, and his son found himself saddled with the support of an
unjointured mother and unportioned sisters. Money was not the idol the
young lord worshipped, nor even pleasure. He was affectionate to his
surviving parent, and his first act was to settle, during his own life,
two thousand a year on her, while he commenced setting aside as much more
for each of his sisters annually. This abridged him greatly in his own
expenditures; yet, as they made but one family, and the dowager was really
a _managing_ woman in more senses than one, they made a very tolerable
figure. The son was anxious to follow the example of Sir Edward M