Chapter 6 - Page 2

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.