Chapter 40 - Page 2

cried Emily, "his having purchased the house.
But was he without a residence that he bought the deanery?"

"Oh no! he has a palace in town, and three seats in the country; but none
in Northamptonshire but this," said the lady, with a laugh. "To own the
truth he did offer to let George Denbigh have it for the next summer, but
the Colonel chose to be nearer Eltringham; and I take it, it was only a
ruse in the earl to cloak his own designs. You may depend upon it, we
trumpeted your praises to him incessantly in Westmoreland."

"And is Colonel Denbigh in town?" said Mrs. Wilson, stealing an anxious
glance towards her niece, who, in spite of all her efforts, sensibly
changed color.

"Oh, yes! and Laura is as happy--as happy--as myself," said Lady
Chatterton, with a glow on her cheeks, as she attended to the request of
her housekeeper, and left the room.

Her guests sat in silence, occupied with their own reflections, while they
heard a summons at the door of the house. It was opened, and footsteps
approached the door of their own room. It was pushed partly open, as a
voice on the other side said, speaking to a servant without,--

"Very well. Do not disturb your lady. I am in no haste."

At the sound of its well known tones, both the ladies almost sprang from
their seats. Here could be no resemblance, and a moment removed their
doubts. The speaker entered. It was Denbigh.

He stood for a moment fixed as a statue: It was evident the surprise was
mutual. His face was pale as death, and then instantly was succeeded by a
glow of fire. Approaching them, he paid his compliments with great
earnestness, and in a voice in which his softest tones preponderated.

"I am happy, very happy, to be so fortunate in again meeting with such
friends, and so unexpectedly."

Mrs. Wilson bowed in silence to his compliment, and Emily, pale as
himself, sat with her eyes fastened on the carpet, without daring to trust
her voice with an attempt to speak.

After struggling with his mortified feelings for a moment, Denbigh rose
from the chair he had taken, and drawing near the sofa on which the ladies
were placed, exclaimed with fervor,

"Tell me, dear madam, lovely, too lovely Miss Moseley, has one act of
folly, of wickedness if you please, lost me your good opinion for ever?
Derwent had given me hopes that you yet retained some esteem for my
character, lowered, as I acknowledge it to be, in my own estimation."

"The Duke of Derwent? Mr. Denbigh!"

"Do not; do not use a name, dear madam, almost hateful to me," cried he,
in a tone of despair.

"If," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely,