“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.”