Chapter VI.

The sun had just risen on one of the loveliest vales of Caernarvonshire, as a travelling chaise and six swept proudly up to the door of a princely mansion, which was so situated as to command a prospect of the fertile and extensive domains, whose rental filled the coffers of its owner, with a beautiful view of the Irish channel in the distance.

Every thing around this stately edifice bespoke the magnificence of its ancient possessors and taste of its present master--It was irregular, but built of the best materials, and tastes of the different ages in which its various parts had been erected; and now in the nineteenth century, preserved the baronial grandeur of the thirteenth, mingled with the comforts of this later period.

The lofty turrets of its towers were tipt with the golden light of the sun, and the neighbouring peasantry had commenced their daily labours, as the different attendants of the equipage we have mentioned, collected around it at the great entrance to the building. The beautiful black horses, with coats as shining as the polished leather with which they were caparisoned--the elegant and fashionable finish of the vehicle--with its numerous grooms, postilions, and footmen, all wearing the livery of one master, gave evidence of his wealth and rank.

In attendance there were four outriders, walking leisurely about, awaiting the appearance of those for whose comforts and pleasures they were kept to contribute; while a fifth, who, like the others, was equipped with a horse, appeared to bear a doubtful station--his form was athletic and apparently drilled into a severer submission than could be seen in the movements of the liveried attendants; his dress was peculiar--it was neither menial nor military--- but partook of both; his horse was heavier and better managed than those of the others, and by its side was a charger, that was prepared for the use of no common equestrian. Both were coal black, as were all the others of the cavalcade; but the pistols of the two latter, and housings of their saddles, bore the aspect of use and elegance united.

The postilions were mounted and listlessly waiting with their comrades the pleasure of their superiors; when the laughs and jokes of the menials were instantly succeeded by a respectful and profound silence, as a

gentleman and lady appeared on the portico of the building. The former was a young man of commanding stature, and genteel appearance; and his air---

although that of one used to command, softened by a character of benevolence and gentleness, that might be rightly judged as giving birth to the willing alacrity, to which all his requests or orders were attended.

The lady was also young, and resembledhim greatly both in features and expression--both were noble---both were handsome---the former was attired for the road---the latter had thrown a shawl around her elegant form, and by her morning dress, showed a separation of the two was about to happen---taking the hand of the gentleman with both her own, as the pressed it with fingers interlocked, the lady said, in a voice of music, and with great affection:

"Then, my dear brother, I shall certainly hear from you within the week, and see you next?"

"Certainly," replied the gentleman, as he tenderly paid his adieus, and throwing himself into the chaise, it dashed from the door, like the passage of a meteor---the horsemen followed, the unridden charger, obedient to the orders of his keeper, wheeled gracefully into his station, and in an instant they were all lost amidst the wood, through which the road to the park gates conducted them.

After lingering without until the last of her brother's followers had receded from her sight, the lady retired through the ranks of liveried footmen and maids, whom curiosity or respect, had collected as spectators to the departure of their master.

It might be relevant to relate the subject of the young man's reflections; who wore a gloom on his expressive features amidst the pageantry that surrounded him, which showed the insufficiency of wealth and honours to fill thesum of human happiness. As his carriage rolled proudly up an eminence ere he had reached the confines of his extensive park, his eye rested for a moment, on a scene, in which meadows- forests--fields, waving with golden corn--comfortable farm houses, surrounded with innumerable cottages, were to be seen, in almost endless variety, and innumerable groups--all these owned him for their lord, and one quiet smile of satisfaction beamed on his face as he gazed on the unlimited view before him---could the heart of that youth have been read, it would at that moment have told a story different from the feelings such a scene is apt to excite; it would have spoken the consciousness of well-applied wealth---the

gratification of contemplating its own meritorious deeds, and a heartfelt gratitude to the being, which had enabled him to become the dispenser of happiness to so many of his fellow-creatures.

"Which way, my lord, so early," cried a gentleman in a phaeton, as he drew up, to pay his own parting compliments, on his way to a watering place.

"To Eltringham, Sir Owen, to attend the marriage of my kinsman, Mr.

Denbigh, to one of the sisters of the marquess." A few more questions and answers, and the gentlemen exchanging friendly adieus, pursued each his own course---Sir Owen Ap Rice, for Cheltenham, and the Earl of Pendennyss to act as grooms-man to his cousin.

The gates of Eltringham were open to the admission of many an equipage on the following day, and the heart of the Lady Laura beat quick, as the sound of wheels, at different times, reached her ears; at last an unusual movement in the house drew her to a window of her dressing-room, and the blood rushed to her heart, as she beheld the equipages which were rapidly approaching, and through the mist which stole over her eyes, saw alight from the first, the Duke of Derwent and the bride-groom---the next contained the Lord Pendennyss---and the last the bishop of --; Lady Laura waited to see no more, but with a heart filled with terror---hope---joy and uneasiness, threw herself into the arms of one of her sisters.

"Ah!" exclaimed Lord Henry Stapleton, about a week after the wedding of his sister, as he took John by the arm, suddenly, while the latter was taking his morning walk to the residence of the dowager Lady Chatterton, "Moseley, you dissipated youth, in town yet; you told me you should stay but a day, and here I find you at the end of a fortnight." John blushed a little at the consciousness of his reasons for sending a written, instead of carrying a verbal report, of the result of his journey, as he replied,

"Yes, my lord, my friend Chatterton unexpectedly arrived, and so--and so--"

"And so you did not go, I presume you mean," cried Lord Henry, with a laugh.

"Yes," said John, "and so I staid--but where is Denbigh?"

"Where?--why with his wife, where every well-behaved man should be, especially for the first month," rejoined the sailor gayly.

"Wife!" echoed John, as soon as he felt able to give utterance to his words--"wife! is he married?"

"Married," cried Lord Henry, imitating his manner, "are you yet to learn that; why did you ask for him?"

"Ask for him," said Moseley, yet lost in astonishment; "but when--

how--where did he marry--my lord?"

Lord Henry looked at him for a moment, with a surprise little short of his own, as he answered more gravely.

"When?--last Tuesday; how? by special license, and the Bishop of --; where? --at Eltringham;--yes, my dear fellow," continued he, with his former gayety, "George is my brother now--and a fine fellow he is."

"I really wish your lordship much joy," said John, struggling to command his feelings.

"Thank you--thank you," replied the sailor; "a jolly time we had of it, Moseley --I wish, with all my heart, you had been there--no bolting or running away, as soon as spliced, but a regularly constructed, old fashioned wedding--all my doings--I wrote Laura that time was scarce, and I had noneto throw away on fooleries; so dear, good soul, she consented to let me have every thing my own way--we had Derwent and Pendennyss, the marquess, Lord William, and myself, for grooms-men, and my three sisters

--ah, that was bad, but there was no helping it--Lady Harriet Denbigh, and an old maid, a cousin of ours, for brides-maids--could not help the old maid either, upon my honour, or I would."

How much of what he said Moseley heard, we cannot say, for had he talked an hour longer he would have been uninterrupted-- Lord Henry was too much engaged with his description to notice his companions taciturnity or surprise, and after walking a square or two together they parted; the sailor being on the wing for his frigate at Yarmouth.

John continued his course, musing on the intelligence he had just heard--that Denbigh could forget Emily so soon, he would not believe, and he greatly feared he had been driven into a step, from despair, that he might hereafter repent of--his avoiding himself, was now fully explained--but would Lady Laura Stapleton accept a man for a husband at so short a notice? and for the first time a suspicion that something in the character of Denbigh was wrong, mingled in his reflections on his sister's refusal of his offers.

Lord and Lady Herriefield were on the eve of their departure for the continent, (for Catherine had been led to the altar the precedingweek,) as a southern climate was prescribed by his physicians as necessary to his

constitution; and the dowager and Grace were about to proceed to a seat of the baron's within a couple of miles of Bath-- Chatterton himself had his own engagements, but promised to be there in company with his friend Derwent within a fortnight; their former visit having been postponed by the marriages in their respective families.

John had been assiduous in his attentions, during the season of forced gayety which followed the nuptials of Kate; and as the dowager's time was monopolised with the ceremonials of that event, Grace had risen greatly in his estimation--if Grace Chatterton was not more unhappy than usual, at what she thought was the destruction of her sister's happiness, it was owing to the presence and evident affections of John Moseley.

The carriage of Lord Herriefield was in waiting as John rang for admittance; on opening the door and entering the drawing-room, he saw the bride and bride-groom, with their mother and sister, accoutred for an excursion amongst the shops of Bond-street; for Kate was dying to find a vent for some of her surplus pin-money--her husband to show his handsome wife in the face of the world-- the mother to witness the success of her matrimonial schemes---and Grace was forced to obey her mother's commands, in accompanying her sister as an attendant, not to be dispensed with at all, in her circumstances.

The entrance of John at that instant, though nothing more than what occurred every day at that hour, deranged the whole plan: the dowager, for a moment, forgot her resolution, and forgot the necessity of Grace's appearance, as she exclaimed with evident satisfaction,

"Here is Mr. Moseley come to keep you company, Grace, so after all you must consult your head-ache and stay at home. Indeed, my love, I never can consent you should go out. I not only wish, but insist you remain within this morning."

Lord Herriefield looked at his mother-in-law in some surprise as he listened to her injunctions, and threw a suspicious glance on his own rib at the moment, which spoke as plainly as looks can speak.

"Is it possible I have been taken in after all."

Grace was unused to resist her mother's commands, and throwing off her hat and shawl, reseated herself with more composure than she would have done, had not the attentions of Moseley been more delicate and pointed of late than formerly.

As they passed the porter, Lady Chatterton observed to him significantly--" nobody at home, Willis:"--"Yes, my lady," was the laconic reply, and Lord Herriefield, as he took his seat by the side of his wife in the carriage, thought she was not as handsome as usual.

Lady Chatterton that morning unguardedly laid the foundation of years of misery for her eldest daughter; or rather the foundations were already laid in the ill-assorted, and heartless, unprincipled union she had laboured with success to effect. But she had that morning stripped the mask from her own character prematurely, and excited suspicions in the breast of her son-in-law, time only served to confirm and memory to brood over.

Lord Herriefield had been too long in the world not to understand all the ordinary arts of match-makers and match-hunters. Like most of his own sex, who have associated freely with the worst part of the other, his opinions of female excellencies were by no means extravagant or romantic.

Kate had pleased his eye; she was of a noble family; young, and at that moment interestingly quiet, having nothing particularly in view. She had a taste of her own, and Lord Herriefield was by no means in conformity with it; consequently she expended none of those pretty little arts upon him she occasionally practised, and which his experience would immediately have detected. Her disgust he had attributed to disinterestedness, and as Kate had fixed her eye on a young officer lately returned from France, and her mother, on a Duke who was mourning the death of his third wife, devising means to console him with a fourth--the Viscount had got a good deal enamoured with the lady, before either she or her mother, took any particular notice there was such a beingin existence. His title was not the most elevated--but it was ancient. His paternal acres were not numerous--

but his East-India shares were. He was not very young--but he was not very old; and as the Duke died of a fit of the gout in his stomach--and the officer run away with a girl in her teens from a boarding-school-- the Dowager and her daughter, after thoroughly scanning the fashionable world, determined, for want of a better, he would do.

It is not to be supposed that the mother and child held any open communications with each other, to this effect. The delicacy and pride of both would have been greatly injured by such a suspicion; yet they arrived simultaneously at the same conclusion, and at another of equal importance to the completion of their schemes on the person of the Viscount. It was to

adhere to the same conduct which had made him a captive, as most likely to ensure the victory.

There was such a general understanding between the two, it can excite no surprise they co-operated so harmoniously, as it were by signal.

For two people, correctly impressed with their duties and responsibilities, to arrive at the same conclusion in the government of their conduct, would be merely a matter of course; and so with those who are more or less under the dominion of the world. They will pursue their plans with a degree of concurrence amounting nearly to sympathy; and thus had Kate and her mother--until this morning, kept up the masquerade so well, that the Viscount was as confiding as a country Corydon--when he first witnessed the Dowager's management with Grace and John, and his wife's careless disregard of a thing, which appeared too much a matter of course, to be quite agreeable to his newly awakened distrust.

Grace Chatterton both sang and played exquisitely; it was, however, seldom she could sufficiently overcome, her desire to excel, when John was her auditor, to appear to her usual advantage.

As the party went down stairs, and Moseley had gone with them part of the way, she threw herself unconsciously on a seat, and began a beautiful song, fashionable at the time. Her feelings were in consonance with the words--and Grace was very happy in both execution and voice.

John had reached the back of her seat before she was sensible of his return, and Grace lost her self command immediately. She rose and took her seat on a sopha, whither the young man took his by her side.

"Ah Grace," said John, and the lady's heart beat high, "you do sing as you do every thing, admirably."

"I am happy you think so, Mr. Moseley," returned Grace, looking every where but in his face.

John's eyes ran over her beauties, as with palpitating bosom and varying colour, shesat confused at the warmth of his language. and manner.

Fortunately, a remarkably striking likeness of the Dowager, which graced the room, hung directly over their heads--and John, taking her unresisting hand, continued: "Dear Grace, you resemble your brother very much in features, and, what is better, in character."

"I would wish," said Grace, venturing to look up, "to resemble your sister Emily in the latter."

"And why not to be her sister, dear Grace," said he with ardor. "You are worthy to become her sister. Tell me, Grace-- dear Miss Chatterton--can you--will you make me the happiest of men--may I present another inestimable daughter to my parents."

As John paused for an answer, Grace looked up, and he waited her reply in evident anxiety; but as she continued silent--now pale as death, and now the colour of the rose--he added:

"I hope I have not offended you, dearest Grace--you are all that is desirable to me-- my hopes--my happiness--are centered in you--unless you consent to become my wife, I must be wretched."

Grace burst into a flood of tears, as her lover, interested deeply in their cause, gently drew her towards him--her head sunk upon his shoulder, as she faintly whispered something, that was inaudible--but which her lover interpreted into every thing he mostwished to hear. John was in extacies---

every unpleasant feeling of suspicion had left him---of Grace's innocence of manoeuvring, he never doubted, but John did not relish the idea of being entrapped into any thing, even a step which he desired---an uninterrupted communication, between the young people, followed; it was as confiding as their affections--and the return of the dowager and her children, first recalled them to the recollection of other people.

One glance of the eye was enough for Lady Chatterton--she saw the traces of tears on the cheeks and in the eyes of Grace, and the dowager was satisfied; she knew his friends would not object; and as Grace attended her to her dressing room, she cried, on entering it, "well, child, when is the wedding to be? you will wear me out in so much gayety."

Grace was shocked, but did not, as formerly, weep over her mother's interference in agony and dread--John had opened his whole soul to her, observing the greatest delicacy to her mother, and she now felt her happiness placed in the keeping of a man, whose honour, she believed, far exceeded that of any other human being.