“Few men can support such a veil of hypocrisy as that with which I sometimes think Denbigh must deceive even himself.  His case is an extraordinary exception to a very sacred rule—­’that the tree is known by its fruits,’” replied her aunt.  “There is no safer way of judging of character that one’s opportunities will not admit of more closely investigating, than by examining into and duly appreciating early impressions.  The man or woman who has constantly seen the practice of piety before them, from infancy to the noon of life, will seldom so far abandon the recollection of virtue as to be guilty of great enormities.  Even Divine Truth has promised that his blessings or his curses shall extend to many generations.  It is true, that with our most most guarded prudence we may be deceived.”  Mrs. Wilson paused and sighed heavily, as her own case, connected with the loves of Denbigh and her niece, occurred strongly to her mind.  “Yet,” she continued, “we may lessen the danger much by guarding against it; and it seems to me no more than what self-preservation requires in a young woman.  But for a religious parent to neglect it, is a wilful abandonment of a most solemn duty.”

As Mrs. Wilson concluded, her niece, who had recovered the command of her feelings pressed her hand in silence to her lips, and showed a disposition to retire from a spot which she found recalled too many recollections of a man whose image it was her imperious duty to banish, on every consideration of propriety and religion.

Their walk into the house was silent, and their thoughts were drawn from the unpleasant topic by finding a letter from Julia, announcing her intended departure from this country, and her wish to take leave of them in London before she sailed.  As she had mentioned the probable day for that event, both the ladies were delighted to find it was posterior to the time fixed by Sir Edward for their own visit to the capital.

Had Jane, instead of Emily, been the one that suffered through the agency of Mrs. Fitzgerald, however innocently on the part of the lady, her violent and uncontrolled passions would have either blindly united the innocent with the guilty in her resentments; or, if a sense of justice had vindicated the lady in her judgment, yet her pride and ill-guided delicacy would have felt her name a reproach, that would have forbidden any intercourse with her or any belonging to her.

Not so with her sister.  The sufferings of Mrs. Fitzgerald had taken a strong hold on her youthful feelings, and a similarity of opinions and practices on the great object of their lives, had brought them together in a manner no misconduct in a third person could weaken.  It is true, the recollection of Denbigh was intimately blended with the fate of Mrs. Fitzgerald.  But Emily sought support against her feeling from a quarter that rather required an investigation of them than a desire to drown care with thought.