Title: A Simple Story
Author: Inchbald, Mrs.
Language: English
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A SIMPLE STORY


BY

MRS. INCHBALD

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

G. L. STRACHEY

LONDON
HENRY FROWDE
1908

OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY


Transcriber’s Note: Table of Contents Added.
Left Archaic spellings, but made minor changes to punctuation.


CONTENTS

 INTRODUCTION
 PREFACE.
 Volume I
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 CHAPTER XV.
 CHAPTER XVI.
 CHAPTER XVII.
 Volume II
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 Volume III
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 Volume IV
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 Plays written by Mrs. Inchbald



INTRODUCTION


_A Simple Story_ is one of those books which, for some reason or other,
have failed to come down to us, as they deserved, along the current of
time, but have drifted into a literary backwater where only the
professional critic or the curious discoverer can find them out. “The
iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy;” and nowhere more
blindly than in the republic of letters. If we were to inquire how it
has happened that the true value of Mrs. Inchbald’s achievement has
passed out of general recognition, perhaps the answer to our question
would be found to lie in the extreme difficulty with which the mass of
readers detect and appreciate mere quality in literature. Their
judgment is swayed by a hundred side-considerations which have nothing
to do with art, but happen easily to impress the imagination, or to fit
in with the fashion of the hour. The reputation of Mrs. Inchbald’s
contemporary, Fanny Burney, is a case in point. Every one has heard of
Fanny Burney’s novels, and _Evelina_ is still widely read. Yet it is
impossible to doubt that, so far as quality alone is concerned,
_Evelina_ deserves to be ranked considerably below _A Simple Story_.
But its writer was the familiar friend of the greatest spirits of her
age; she was the author of one of the best of diaries; and her work was
immediately and immensely popular. Thus it has happened that the name
of Fanny Burney has maintained its place upon the roll of English
novelists, while that of Mrs. Inchbald is forgotten.

But the obscurity of Mrs. Inchbald’s career has not, of course, been
the only reason for the neglect of her work. The merits of _A Simple
Story_ are of a kind peculiarly calculated to escape the notice of a
generation of readers brought up on the fiction of the nineteenth
century. That fiction, infinitely various as it is, possesses at least
one characteristic common to the whole of it—a breadth of outlook upon
life, which can be paralleled by no other body of literature in the
world save that of the Elizabethans. But the comprehensiveness of view
shared by Dickens and Tolstoy, by Balzac and George Eliot, finds no
place in Mrs. Inchbald’s work. Compared with _A Simple Story_ even the
narrow canvases of Jane Austen seem spacious pictures of diversified
life. Mrs. Inchbald’s novel is not concerned with the world at large,
or with any section of society, hardly even with the family; its
subject is a group of two or three individuals whose interaction forms
the whole business of the book. There is no local colour in it, no
complexity of detail nor violence of contrast; the atmosphere is vague
and neutral, the action passes among ill-defined sitting-rooms, and the
most poignant scene in the story takes place upon a staircase which has
never been described. Thus the reader of modern novels is inevitably
struck, in _A Simple Story_, by a sense of emptiness and thinness,
which may well blind him to high intrinsic merits. The spirit of the
eighteenth century is certainly present in the book, but it is the
eighteenth century of France rather than of England. Mrs. Inchbald no
doubt owed much to Richardson; her view of life is the indoor
sentimental view of the great author of _Clarissa_; but her treatment
of it has very little in common with his method of microscopic analysis
and vast accumulation. If she belongs to any school, it is among the
followers of the French classical tradition that she must be placed. _A
Simple Story_ is, in its small way, a descendant of the Tragedies of
Racine; and Miss Milner may claim relationship with Madame de Clèves.

Besides her narrowness of vision, Mrs. Inchbald possesses another
quality, no less characteristic of her French predecessors, and no less
rare among the novelists of England. She is essentially a stylist—a
writer whose whole conception of her art is dominated by stylistic
intention. Her style, it is true, is on the whole poor; it is often
heavy and pompous, sometimes clumsy and indistinct; compared with the
style of such a master as Thackeray it sinks at once into
insignificance. But the interest of her style does not lie in its
intrinsic merit so much as in the use to which she puts it. Thackeray’s
style is mere ornament, existing independently of what he has to say;
Mrs. Inchbald’s is part and parcel of her matter. The result is that
when, in moments of inspiration, she rises to the height of her
opportunity, when, mastering her material, she invests her expression
with the whole intensity of her feeling and her thought, then she
achieves effects of the rarest beauty—effects of a kind for which one
may search through Thackeray in vain. The most triumphant of these
passages is the scene on the staircase of Elmwood House—a passage which
would be spoilt by quotation and which no one who has ever read it
could forget. But the same quality is to be found throughout her work.
“Oh, Miss Woodley!” exclaims Miss Milner, forced at last to confess to
her friend what she feels towards Dorriforth, “I love him with all the
passion of a mistress, and with all the tenderness of a wife.” No young
lady, even in the eighteenth century, ever gave utterance to such a
sentence as that. It is the sentence, not of a speaker, but of a
writer; and yet, for that very reason, it is delightful, and comes to
us charged with a curious sense of emotion, which is none the less real
for its elaboration. In _Nature and Art_, Mrs. Inchbald’s second novel,
the climax of the story is told in a series of short paragraphs, which,
for bitterness and concentration of style, are almost reminiscent of
Stendhal:

The jury consulted for a few minutes. The verdict was “Guilty”.

She heard it with composure.

But when William placed the fatal velvet on his head and rose to
pronounce sentence, she started with a kind of convulsive motion,
retreated a step or two back, and, lifting up her hands with a scream,
exclaimed—

“Oh, not from _you_!”

The piercing shriek which accompanied these words prevented their being
heard by part of the audience; and those who heard them thought little
of their meaning, more than that they expressed her fear of dying.

Serene and dignified, as if no such exclamation had been uttered,
William delivered the fatal speech, ending with “Dead, dead, dead”.

She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried back to prison in
a swoon; while he adjourned the court to go to dinner.

Here, no doubt, there is a touch of melodrama; but it is the melodrama
of a rhetorician, and, in that fine “She heard it with composure”,
genius has brushed aside the forced and the obvious, to express, with
supreme directness, the anguish of a soul.

For, in spite of Mrs. Inchbald’s artificialities, in spite of her lack
of that kind of realistic description which seems to modern readers the
very blood and breath of a good story, she has the power of doing what,
after all, only a very few indeed of her fellow craftsmen have ever
been able to do—she can bring into her pages the living pressure of a
human passion, she can invest, if not with realism, with something
greater than realism—with the sense of reality itself—the pains, the
triumphs, and the agitations of the human heart. “The heart,” to use
the old-fashioned phrase—there is Mrs. Inchbald’s empire, there is the
sphere of her glory and her command. Outside of it, her powers are weak
and fluctuating. She has no firm grasp of the masculine elements in
character: she wishes to draw a rough man, Sandford, and she draws a
rude one; she tries her hand at a hero, Rushbrook, and she turns out a
prig. Her humour is not faulty, but it is exceedingly slight. What an
immortal figure the dim Mrs. Horton would have become in the hands of
Jane Austen! In _Nature and Art_, her attempts at social satire are
superficial and overstrained. But weaknesses of this kind—and it would
be easy to prolong the list—are what every reader of the following
pages will notice without difficulty, and what no wise one will regard.
“Il ne faut point juger des hommes par ce qu’ils ignorent, mais par ce
qu’ils savent;” and Mrs. Inchbald’s knowledge was as profound as it was
limited. Her Miss Milner is an original and brilliant creation, compact
of charm and life. She is a flirt, and a flirt not only adorable, but
worthy of adoration. Did Mrs. Inchbald take the suggestion of a heroine
with imperfections from the little masterpiece which, on more sides
than one, closely touches her’s—Manon Lescaut? Perhaps; and yet, if
this was so, the borrowing was of the slightest, for it is only in the
fact that she _is_ imperfect that Miss Milner bears to Manon any
resemblance at all. In every other respect, the English heroine is the
precise contrary of the French one: she is a creature of fiery will, of
high bearing, of noble disposition; and her shortcomings are born, not
of weakness, but of excess of strength. Mrs. Inchbald has taken this
character, she has thrown it under the influence of a violent and
absorbing passion, and, upon that theme, she has written her delicate,
sympathetic, and artificial book.

As one reads it, one cannot but feel that it is, if not directly and
circumstantially, at least in essence, autobiographical. One finds
oneself speculating over the author, wondering what was her history,
and how much of it was Miss Milner’s. Unfortunately the greater part of
what we should most like to know of Mrs. Inchbald’s life has vanished
beyond recovery. She wrote her Memoirs, and she burnt them; and who can
tell whether even there we should have found a self-revelation?
Confessions are sometimes curiously discreet, and, in the case of Mrs.
Inchbald, we may be sure that it is only what was indiscreet that would
really be worth the hearing. Yet her life is not devoid of interest. A
brief sketch of it may be welcome to her readers.

Elizabeth Inchbald was born on the 15th of October, 1753, at
Standingfield, near Bury St. Edmunds in Suffolk;[1] one of the numerous
offspring of John and Mary Simpson. The Simpsons, who were Roman
Catholics, held a moderate farm in Standingfield, and ranked among the
gentry of the neighbourhood. In Elizabeth’s eighth year, her father
died; but the family continued at the farm, the elder daughters
marrying and settling in London, while Elizabeth grew up into a
beautiful and charming girl. One misfortune, however, interfered with
her happiness—a defect of utterance which during her early years
rendered her speech so indistinct as to be unintelligible to strangers.
She devoted herself to reading and to dreams of the great world. At
thirteen, she declared she would rather die than live longer without
seeing the world; she longed to go to London; she longed to go upon the
stage. When, in 1770, one of her brothers became an actor at Norwich,
she wrote secretly to his manager, Mr. Griffith, begging for an
engagement. Mr. Griffith was encouraging, and, though no definite steps
were taken, she was sufficiently charmed with him to write out his name
at length in her diary, with the inscription “Each dear letter of thy
name is harmony.” Was Mr. Griffith the hero of the company as well as
its manager? That, at any rate, was clearly Miss Simpson’s opinion; but
she soon had other distractions. In the following year she paid a visit
to her married sisters in London, where she met another actor, Mr.
Inchbald, who seems immediately to have fallen in love with her, and to
have proposed. She remained cool. “In spite of your eloquent pen,” she
wrote to him, with a touch of that sharp and almost bitter sense that
was always hers, “matrimony still appears to me with less charms than
terrors: the bliss arising from it, I doubt not, is superior to any
other—but best not to be ventured for (in my opinion), till some little
time have proved the emptiness of all other; which it seldom fails to
do.” Nevertheless, the correspondence continued, and, early in 1772,
some entries in her diary give a glimpse of her state of mind:—

_Jan. 22_. Saw Mr. Griffith’s picture.

_Jan. 28_. Stole it.

_Jan. 29_. Rather disappointed at not receiving a letter from Mr.
Inchbald.

A few months later she did the great deed of her life: she stepped
secretly into the Norwich coach, and went to London. The days that
followed were full of hazard and adventure, but the details of them are
uncertain. She was a girl of eighteen, absolutely alone, and
astonishingly attractive—“tall,” we are told, “slender, straight, of
the purest complexion, and most beautiful features; her hair of a
golden auburn, her eyes full at once of spirit and sweetness;” and it
was only to be expected that, in such circumstances, romance and daring
would soon give place to discomfort and alarm. She attempted in vain to
obtain a theatrical engagement; she found herself, more than once,
obliged to shift her lodging; and at last, after ten days of
trepidation, she was reduced to apply for help to her married sisters.
This put an end to her difficulties, but, in spite of her efforts to
avoid notice, her beauty had already attracted attention, and she had
received a letter from a stranger, with whom she immediately entered
into correspondence. She had all the boldness of innocence, and, in
addition, a force of character which brought her safely through the
risks she ran. While she was still in her solitary lodging, a
theatrical manager, named Dodd, attempted to use his position as a
cover for seduction. She had several interviews with him alone, and the
story goes that, in the last, she snatched up a basin of hot water and
dashed it in his face. But she was not to go unprotected for long; for
within two months of her arrival in London she had married Mr.
Inchbald.

The next twelve years of Mrs. Inchbald’s life were passed amid the
rough and tumble of the eighteenth-century stage. Her husband was
thirty-seven when she married him, a Roman Catholic like herself, and
an actor who depended for his living upon ill-paid and uncertain
provincial engagements. Mrs. Inchbald conquered her infirmity of speech
and threw herself into her husband’s profession. She accompanied him to
Bristol, to Scotland, to Liverpool, to Birmingham, appearing in a great
variety of rôles, but never with any very conspicuous success. The
record of these journeys throws an interesting light upon the
conditions of the provincial companies of those days. Mrs. Inchbald and
her companions would set out to walk from one Scotch town to another;
they would think themselves lucky if they could climb on to a passing
cart, to arrive at last, drenched with rain perhaps, at some wretched
hostelry. But this kind of barbarism did not stand in the way of an
almost childish gaiety. In Yorkshire, we find the Inchbalds, the
Siddonses, and Kemble retiring to the moors, in the intervals of
business, to play blindman’s buff or puss in the corner. Such were the
pastimes of Mrs. Siddons before the days of her fame. No doubt this
kind of lightheartedness was the best antidote to the experience of
being “saluted with volleys of potatoes and broken bottles”, as the
Siddonses were by the citizens of Liverpool, for having ventured to
appear on their stage without having ever played before the King. On
this occasion, the audience, according to a letter from Kemble to Mrs.
Inchbald, “extinguished all the lights round the house; then jumped
upon the stage; brushed every lamp out with their hats; took back their
money; left the theatre, and determined themselves to repeat this till
they have another company.” These adventures were diversified by a
journey to Paris, undertaken in the hope that Mr. Inchbald, who found
himself without engagements, might pick up a livelihood as a painter of
miniatures. The scheme came to nothing, and the Inchbalds eventually
went to Hull, where they returned to their old profession. Here, in
1779, suddenly and somewhat mysteriously, Mr. Inchbald died. To his
widow the week that followed was one of “grief, horror, and almost
despair”; but soon, with her old pertinacity, she was back at her work,
settling at last in London, and becoming a member of the Covent Garden
company. Here, for the next five years, she earned for herself a meagre
living, until, quite unexpectedly, deliverance came. In her moments of
leisure she had been trying her hand upon dramatic composition; she had
written some farces, and, in 1784, one of them, _A Mogul Tale_, was
accepted, acted, and obtained a great success. This was the
turning-point of her career. She followed up her farce with a series of
plays, either original or adapted, which, almost without exception,
were well received, so that she was soon able to retire from the stage
with a comfortable competence. She had succeeded in life; she was
happy, respected, free.

Mrs. Inchbald’s plays are so bad that it is difficult to believe that
they brought her a fortune. But no doubt it was their faults that made
them popular—their sentimentalities, their melodramatic absurdities,
their strangely false and high-pitched moral tone. They are written in
a jargon which resembles, if it resembles anything, an execrable prose
translation from very flat French verse. “Ah, Manuel!” exclaims one of
her heroines, “I am now amply punished by the Marquis for all my
cruelty to Duke Cordunna—he to whom my father in my infancy betrothed
me, and to whom I willingly pledged my faith, hoping to wed; till
Romono, the Marquis of Romono, came from the field of glory, and with
superior claims of person as of fame, seized on my heart by force, and
perforce made me feel I had never loved till then.” Which is the more
surprising—that actors could be found to utter such speeches, or that
audiences could be collected to applaud them? Perhaps, for us, the most
memorable fact about Mrs. Inchbald’s dramatic work is that one of her
adaptations (from the German of Kotzebue) was no other than that
_Lovers’ Vows_ which, as every one knows, was rehearsed so brilliantly
at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall,
and which, after all, was _not_ performed at Sir Thomas Bertram’s. But
that is an interest _sub specie aeternitatis_; and, from the temporal
point of view, Mrs. Inchbald’s plays must be regarded merely as
means—means towards her own enfranchisement, and that condition of
things which made possible _A Simple Story_. That novel had been
sketched as early as 1777; but it was not completely written until
1790, and not published until the following year. A second edition was
printed immediately, and several more followed; the present reprint is
taken from the fourth, published in 1799—but with the addition of the
characteristic preface, which, after the second edition, was dropped.
The four small volumes of these early editions, with their large type,
their ample spacing, their charming flavour of antiquity, delicacy, and
rest—may be met with often enough in secluded corners of secondhand
bookshops, or on some neglected shelf in the library of a country
house. For their own generation, they represented a distinguished title
to fame. Mrs. Inchbald—to use the expression of her biographer—“was
ascertained to be one of the greatest ornaments of her sex.” She was
painted by Lawrence, she was eulogized by Miss Edgeworth, she was
complimented by Madame de Stael herself. She had, indeed, won for
herself a position which can hardly be paralleled among the women of
the eighteenth century—a position of independence and honour, based
upon talent, and upon talent alone. In 1796 she published _Nature and
Art_, and ten years later appeared her last work—a series of
biographical and critical notices prefixed to a large collection of
acting plays. During the greater part of the intervening period she
lived in lodgings in Leicester Square—or “Leicester Fields” as the
place was still often called—in a house opposite that of Sir Joshua
Reynolds. The œconomy which she had learnt in her early days she
continued to practise; dressing with extraordinary plainness, and often
going without a fire in winter; so that she was able, through her
self-sacrifice, to keep from want a large band of poor relatives and
friends. The society she mixed with was various, but, for the most
part, obscure. There were occasional visits from the now triumphant
Mrs. Siddons; there were incessant propositions—but alas! they were
equivocal—from Sir Charles Bunbury; for the rest, she passed her life
among actor-managers and humble playwrights and unremembered medical
men. One of her friends was William Godwin, who described her to Mrs.
Shelley as a “piquante mixture between a lady and a milkmaid”, and who,
it is said, suggested part of the plot of _A Simple Story_. But she
quarreled with him when he married Mary Wollstonecraft, after whose
death she wrote to him thus—“With the most sincere sympathy in all you
have suffered—with the most perfect forgiveness of all you have said to
me, there must nevertheless be an end to our acquaintance _for ever_. I
respect your prejudices, but I also respect my own.” Far more intimate
were her relations with Dr. Gisborne—a mysterious figure, with whom, in
some tragic manner that we can only just discern, was enacted her final
romance. His name—often in company with that of another physician, Dr.
Warren, for whom, too, she had a passionate affection—occurs frequently
among her papers; and her diary for December 17, 1794, has this
entry:—“Dr. Gisborne drank tea here, and staid very late: he talked
seriously of marrying—but not _me_.” Many years later, one September,
she amused herself by making out a list of all the Septembers since her
marriage, with brief notes as to her state of mind during each. The
list has fortunately survived, and some of the later entries are as
follows:—

1791. London; after my novel, Simple Story ... very happy.

1792. London; in Leicester Square ... cheerful, content, and sometimes
rather happy....

1794. Extremely happy, but for poor Debby’s death.

1795. My brother George’s death, and an intimate acquaintance with Dr.
Gisborne—not happy....

1797. After an alteration in my teeth, and the death of Dr. Warren—yet
far from unhappy.

1798. Happy, but for suspicion amounting almost to certainty of a rapid
appearance of age in my face....

1802. After feeling wholly indifferent about Dr. Gisborne—very happy
but for ill health, ill looks, &c.

1803. After quitting Leicester Square probably for ever—after caring
scarce at all or thinking of Dr. Gisborne ... very happy....

1806.... After the death of Dr. Gisborne, too, often very unhappy, yet
mostly cheerful, and on my return to London nearly happy.

The record, with all its quaintness, produces a curious impression of
stoicism—of a certain grim acceptance of the facts of life. It would
have been a pleasure, certainly, but an alarming pleasure, to have
known Mrs. Inchbald.

In the early years of the century, she gradually withdrew from London,
establishing herself in suburban boarding-houses, often among sisters
of charity, and devoting her days to the practice of her religion. In
her early and middle life she had been an indifferent Catholic:
“Sunday. Rose late, dressed, and read in the Bible about David,
&c.”—this is one of the very few references in her diary to anything
approaching a religious observance during many years. But, in her old
age, her views changed; her devotions increased with her retirement;
and her retirement was at last complete. She died, in an obscure
Kensington boarding-house, on August 1, 1821. She was buried in
Kensington churchyard. But, if her ghost lingers anywhere, it is not in
Kensington: it is in the heart of the London that she had always loved.
Yet, even there, how much now would she find to recognize? Mrs.
Inchbald’s world has passed away from us for ever; and, as we walk
there to-day amid the press of the living, it is hard to believe that
she too was familiar with Leicester Square.

G. L. STRACHEY.

[1] The following account is based upon the _Memoirs of Mrs. Inchbald,
including her familiar correspondence with the most distinguished
persons of her time_, edited by James Boaden, Esq.—a discursive, vague,
and not unamusing book.



A
SIMPLE STORY,

IN FOUR VOLUMES,

BY

MRS. INCHBALD.



VOL. I.

_THE FOURTH EDITION._

LONDON:
Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,
Paternoster Row.
1799.



PREFACE.


It is said, _a book should be read with the same spirit with which it
has been written_. In that case, fatal must be the reception of
this—for the writer frankly avows, that during the time she has been
writing it, she has suffered every quality and degree of weariness and
lassitude, into which no other employment could have betrayed her.

It has been the destiny of the writer of this Story to be occupied
throughout her life, in what has the least suited either her
inclination or capacity—with an invincible impediment in her speech, it
was her lot for thirteen years to gain a subsistence by public
speaking—and, with the utmost detestation to the fatigue of inventing,
a constitution suffering under a sedentary life, and an education
confined to the narrow boundaries prescribed her sex, it has been her
fate to devote a tedious seven years to the unremitting labour of
literary productions—whilst a taste for authors of the first rank has
been an additional punishment, forbidding her one moment of those
self-approving reflections, which are assuredly due to the industrious.
But, alas! in the exercise of the arts, industry scarce bears the name
of merit. What then is to be substituted in the place of genius? GOOD
FORTUNE. And if these volumes should be attended by the good fortune
that has accompanied her other writings, to that divinity, and that
alone, she shall attribute their success.

Yet, there is a _first cause_ still, to whom I cannot here forbear to
mention my obligations.

The Muses, I trust, will pardon me, that to them I do not feel myself
obliged—for, in justice to their heavenly inspirations, I believe they
have never yet favoured me with one visitation; but sent in their
disguise NECESSITY, who, being the mother of Invention, gave me all
mine—while FORTUNE kindly smiled, and was accessory to the cheat.

But this important secret I long wished, and endeavoured to conceal;
yet one unlucky moment candidly, though unwittingly, divulged it—I
frankly owned, “That Fortune having chased away Necessity, there
remained no other incitement to stimulate me to a labour I abhorred.”
It happened to be in the power of the person to whom I confided this
secret, to send NECESSITY once more. Once more, then, bowing to its
empire, I submit to the task it enjoins.

This case has something similar to a theatrical anecdote told (I think)
by Colly Cibber:

“A performer of a very mean salary, played the Apothecary in Romeo and
Juliet so exactly to the satisfaction of the audience, that this little
part, independent of the other characters, drew immense houses whenever
the play was performed. The manager in consequence, thought it but
justice to advance the actor’s salary; on which the poor man (who, like
the character he represented, had been half starved before) began to
live so comfortably, he became too plump for the part; and being of no
importance in any thing else, the manager of course now wholly
discharged him—and thus, actually reducing him to the want of a piece
of bread, in a short time he became a proper figure for the part
again.”

Welcome, then, thou all-powerful principle, NECESSITY! THOU, who art
the instigator of so many bad authors and actors—THOU, who from my
infancy seldom hast forsaken me, still abide with me. I will not
complain of any hardship thy commands require, so thou dost not urge my
pen to prostitution. In all thy rigour, oh! do not force my toil to
libels—or what is equally pernicious—panegyric on the unworthy!



A SIMPLE STORY.



CHAPTER I.


Dorriforth, bred at St. Omer’s in all the scholastic rigour of that
college, was, by education, and the solemn vows of his order, a Roman
Catholic priest—but nicely discriminating between the philosophical and
the superstitious part of that character, and adopting the former only,
he possessed qualities not unworthy the first professors of
Christianity. Every virtue which it was his vocation to preach, it was
his care to practise; nor was he in the class of those of the
religious, who, by secluding themselves from the world, fly the merit
they might have in reforming mankind. He refused to shelter himself
from the temptations of the layman by the walls of a cloister, but
sought for, and found that shelter in the centre of London, where he
dwelt, in his own prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance.

He was about thirty, and had lived in the metropolis near five years,
when a gentleman above his own age, but with whom he had from his youth
contracted a most sincere friendship, died, and left him the sole
guardian of his daughter, who was then eighteen.

The deceased Mr. Milner, on his approaching dissolution, perfectly
sensible of his state, thus reasoned with himself before he made the
nomination:—“I have formed no intimate friendship during my whole life,
except one—I can be said to know the heart of no man, except the heart
of Dorriforth. After knowing his, I never sought acquaintance with
another—I did not wish to lessen the exalted estimation of human nature
which he had inspired. In this moment of trembling apprehension for
every thought which darts across my mind, and more for every action
which I must soon be called to answer for; all worldly views here
thrown aside, I act as if that tribunal, before which I every moment
expect to appear, were now sitting in judgment upon my purpose. The
care of an only child is the great charge that in this tremendous
crisis I have to execute. These earthly affections that bind me to her
by custom, sympathy, or what I fondly call parental love, would direct
me to study her present happiness, and leave her to the care of those
whom she thinks her dearest friends; but they are friends only in the
sunshine of fortune; in the cold nipping frost of disappointment,
sickness, or connubial strife, they will forsake the house of care,
although the very house which they may have themselves built.”

Here the excruciating anguish of the father, overcame that of the dying
man.

“In the moment of desertion,” continued he, “which I now picture to
myself, where will my child find comfort? That heavenly aid which
religion gives, and which now, amidst these agonizing tortures, cheers
with humbler hope my afflicted soul; that, she will be denied.”

It is in this place proper to remark, that Mr. Milner was a member of
the church of Rome, but on his marriage with a lady of Protestant
tenets, they mutually agreed their sons should be educated in the
religious opinion of their father, and their daughters in that of their
mother. One child only was the result of their union, the child whose
future welfare now occupied the anxious thoughts of her expiring
father. From him the care of her education had been with-held, as he
kept inviolate his promise to her departed mother on the article of
religion, and therefore consigned his daughter to a boarding-school for
Protestants, whence she returned with merely such ideas of religion as
ladies of fashion at her age mostly imbibe. Her little heart employed
in all the endless pursuits of personal accomplishments, had left her
mind without one ornament, except such as nature gave; and even they
were not wholly preserved from the ravages made by its rival, _Art_.

While her father was in health he beheld, with extreme delight, his
accomplished daughter, without one fault which taste or elegance could
have imputed to her; nor ever enquired what might be her other
failings. But, cast on a bed of sickness, and upon the point of leaving
her to her fate, those failings at once rushed on his thought—and all
the pride, the fond enjoyment he had taken in beholding her open the
ball, or delight her hearers with her wit, escaped his remembrance; or,
not escaping it, were lamented with a sigh of compassion, or a
contemptuous frown, at such frivolous qualifications.

“Something essential,” said he to himself, “must be
considered—something to prepare her for an hour like this. Can I then
leave her to the charge of those who themselves never remember such an
hour will come? Dorriforth is the only person I know, who, uniting the
moral virtues to those of religion, and pious faith to native honour,
will protect, without controlling, instruct, without tyrannizing,
comfort, without flattering; and, perhaps in time, make good by choice,
rather than by constraint, the dear object of his dying friend’s sole
care.”

Dorriforth, who came post from London to visit Mr. Milner in his
illness, received a few moments before his death all his injunctions,
and promised to fulfil them. But, in this last token of his friend’s
esteem, he still was restrained from all authority to direct his ward
in one religious opinion, contrary to those her mother had professed,
and in which she herself had been educated.

“Never perplex her mind with an idea that may disturb, but cannot
reform”—were his latest words; and Dorriforth’s reply gave him entire
satisfaction.

Miss Milner was not with her father at this affecting period—some
delicately nervous friend, with whom she was on a visit at Bath,
thought proper to conceal from her not only the danger of his death,
but even his indisposition, lest it might alarm a mind she thought too
susceptible. This refined tenderness gave poor Miss Milner the almost
insupportable agony of hearing that her father was no more, even before
she was told he was not in health. In the bitterest anguish she flew to
pay her last duty to his remains, and performed it with the truest
filial love, while Dorriforth, upon important business, was obliged to
return to town.



CHAPTER II.


Dorriforth returned to London heavily afflicted for the loss of his
friend; and yet, perhaps, with his thoughts more engaged upon the trust
which that friend had reposed in him. He knew the life Miss Milner had
been accustomed to lead; he dreaded the repulses his admonitions might
possibly meet; and feared he had undertaken a task he was too weak to
execute—the protection of a young woman of fashion.

Mr. Dorriforth was nearly related to one of our first Catholic Peers;
his income was by no means confined, but approaching to affluence; yet
such was his attention to those in poverty, and the moderation of his
own desires, that he lived in all the careful plainness of œconomy. His
habitation was in the house of a Mrs. Horton, an elderly gentlewoman,
who had a maiden niece residing with her, not many years younger than
herself. But although Miss Woodley was thirty-five, and in person
exceedingly plain, yet she possessed such an extreme cheerfulness of
temper, and such an inexhaustible fund of good nature, that she escaped
not only the ridicule, but even the appellation of an old maid.

In this house Dorriforth had lived before the death of Mr. Horton; nor
upon that event had he thought it necessary, notwithstanding his
religious vow of celibacy, to fly the roof of two such innocent females
as Mrs. Horton and her niece. On their part, they regarded him with all
that respect and reverence which the most religious flock shews to its
pastor; and his friendly society they not only esteemed a spiritual,
but a temporal advantage, as the liberal stipend he allowed for his
apartments and board, enabled them to continue in the large and
commodious house which they had occupied during the life of Mr. Horton.

Here, upon Mr. Dorriforth’s return from his journey, preparations were
made for the reception of his ward; her father having made it his
request that she might, for a time at least, reside in the same house
with her guardian, receive the same visits, and cultivate the
acquaintance of his companions and friends.

When the will of her father was made known to Miss Milner, she
submitted, without the least reluctance, to all he had required. Her
mind, at that time impressed with the most poignant sorrow for his
loss, made no distinction of happiness that was to come; and the day
was appointed, with her silent acquiescence, when she was to arrive in
London, and there take up her abode, with all the retinue of a rich
heiress.

Mrs. Horton was delighted with the addition this acquisition to her
family was likely to make to her annual income, and style of living.
The good-natured Miss Woodley was overjoyed at the expectation of their
new guest, yet she herself could not tell why—but the reason was, that
her kind heart wanted a more ample field for its benevolence; and now
her thoughts were all pleasingly employed how she should render, not
only the lady herself, but even all her attendants, happy in their new
situation.

The reflections of Dorriforth were less agreeably engaged—Cares,
doubts, fears, possessed his mind—and so forcibly possessed it, that
upon every occasion which offered, he would inquisitively endeavour to
gain intelligence of his ward’s disposition before he saw her; for he
was, as yet, a stranger not only to the real propensities of her mind,
but even to her person; a constant round of visits having prevented his
meeting her at her father’s, the very few times he had been at his
house, since her final return from school. The first person whose
opinion he, with all proper reserve, asked concerning Miss Milner, was
Lady Evans, the widow of a Baronet, who frequently visited at Mrs.
Horton’s.

But that the reader may be interested in what Dorriforth says and does,
it is necessary to give some description of his person and manners. His
figure was tall and elegant, but his face, except a pair of dark bright
eyes, a set of white teeth, and a graceful fall in his clerical curls
of brown hair, had not one feature to excite admiration—yet such a
gleam of sensibility was diffused over each, that many people mistook
his face for handsome, and all were more or less attracted by it—in a
word, the charm, that is here meant to be described, is a
_countenance_—on _his_ you read the feelings of his heart—saw all its
inmost workings—the quick pulses that beat with hope and fear, or the
gentle ones that moved in a more equal course of patience and
resignation. On this countenance his thoughts were pourtrayed; and as
his mind was enriched with every virtue that could make it valuable, so
was his face adorned with every expression of those virtues—and they
not only gave a lustre to his aspect, but added a harmonious sound to
all he uttered; it was persuasive, it was perfect eloquence; whilst in
his looks you beheld his thoughts moving with his lips, and ever
coinciding with what he said.

With one of those interesting looks which revealed the anxiety of his
heart, and yet with that graceful restraint of all gesticulation, for
which he was remarkable, even in his most anxious concerns, he
addressed Lady Evans, who had called on Mrs. Horton to hear and to
request the news of the day: “Your Ladyship was at Bath last spring—you
know the young lady to whom I have the honour of being appointed
guardian. Pray,”—

He was earnestly intent upon asking a question, but was prevented by
the person interrogated.

“Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me any thing about Miss Milner—when I
saw her she was very young: though indeed that is but three months ago,
and she can’t be much older now.”

“She is eighteen,” answered Dorriforth, colouring with regret at the
doubts which this lady had increased, but not inspired.

“And she is very beautiful, that I can assure you,” said Lady Evans.

“Which I call no qualification,” said Dorriforth, rising from his chair
in evident uneasiness.

“But where there is nothing else, let me tell you, beauty is
something.”

“Much worse than nothing, in my opinion,” returned Dorriforth.

“But now, Mr. Dorriforth, do not from what I have said, frighten
yourself, and imagine your ward worse than she really is—all I know of
her, is merely, that she’s young, idle, indiscreet, and giddy, with
half a dozen lovers in her suite; some coxcombs, others men of
gallantry, some single, and others married.”

Dorriforth started. “For the first time of my life,” cried he with a
manly sorrow, “I wish I had never known her father.”

“Nay,” said Mrs. Horton, who expected every thing to happen just as she
wished, (for neither an excellent education, the best company, or long
experience had been able to cultivate or brighten this good lady’s
understanding,) “Nay,” said she, “I am sure, Mr. Dorriforth, you will
soon convert her from all her evil ways.”

“Dear me,” returned Lady Evans, “I am sure I never meant to hint at any
thing evil—and for what I have said, I will give you up my authors if
you please; for they were not observations of my own; all I do is to
mention them again.”

The good-natured Miss Woodley, who sat working at the window, an
humble, but an attentive listener to this discourse, ventured here to
say exactly six words: “Then don’t mention them any more.”

“Let us change the subject,” said Dorriforth.

“With all my heart,” cried Lady Evans; “and I am sure it will be to the
young lady’s advantage.”

“Is Miss Milner tall or short?” asked Mrs. Horton, still wishing for
farther information.

“Oh, tall enough of all conscience,” returned she; “I tell you again
that no fault can be found with her person.”

“But if her mind is defective”—exclaimed Dorriforth, with a sigh——

“That may be improved as well as the person,” cried Miss Woodley.

“No, my dear,” returned Lady Evans, “I never heard of a pad to make
straight an ill-shapen disposition.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Miss Woodley, “good company, good books,
experience, and the misfortunes of others, may have more power to form
the mind to virtue, than”——

Miss Woodley was not permitted to proceed, for Lady Evans rising
hastily from her seat, cried, “I must be gone—I have an hundred people
waiting for me at home—besides, were I inclined to hear a sermon, I
should desire Mr. Dorriforth to preach, and not you.”

Just then Mrs. Hillgrave was announced. “And here is Mrs. Hillgrave,”
continued she—“I believe, Mrs. Hillgrave, you know Miss Milner, don’t
you? The young lady who has lately lost her father.”

Mrs. Hillgrave was the wife of a merchant who had met with severe
losses: as soon as the name of Miss Milner was uttered, she lifted up
her hands, and the tears started in her eyes.

“There!” cried Lady Evans, “I desire you will give your opinion of her,
and I am sorry I cannot stay to hear it.” Saying this, she curtsied and
took her leave.

When Mrs. Hillgrave had been seated a few minutes, Mrs. Horton, who
loved information equally with the most inquisitive of her sex, asked
the new visitor—“If she might be permitted to know, why, at the mention
of Miss Milner, she had seemed so much affected?”

This question exciting the fears of Dorriforth, he turned anxiously
round, attentive to the reply.

“Miss Milner,” answered she, “has been my benefactress and the best I
ever had.” As she spoke, she took out her handkerchief and wiped away
the tears that ran down her face.

“How so?” cried Dorriforth eagerly, with his own eyes moistened with
joy, nearly as much as her’s were with gratitude.

“My husband, at the commencement of his distresses,” replied Mrs.
Hillgrave, “owed a sum of money to her father, and from repeated
provocations, Mr. Milner was determined to seize upon all our
effects—his daughter, however, by her intercessions, procured us time,
in order to discharge the debt; and when she found _that_ time was
insufficient, and her father no longer to be dissuaded from his
intention, she secretly sold some of her most valuable ornaments to
satisfy his demand, and screen us from its consequences.”

Dorriforth, pleased at this recital, took Mrs. Hillgrave by the hand,
and told her, “she should never want a friend.”

“Is Miss Milner tall, or short?” again asked Mrs. Horton, fearing, from
the sudden pause which had ensued, the subject should be dropped.

“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Hillgrave.

“Is she handsome, or ugly?”

“I really can’t tell.”

“It is very strange you should not take notice!”

“I did take notice, but I cannot depend upon my own judgment—to me she
appeared beautiful as an angel; but perhaps I was deceived by the
beauties of her disposition.”



CHAPTER III.


This gentlewoman’s visit inspired Mr. Dorriforth with some confidence
in the principles and character of his ward. The day arrived on which
she was to leave her late father’s seat, and fix her abode at Mrs.
Horton’s; and her guardian, accompanied by Miss Woodley, went in his
carriage to meet her, and waited at an inn on the road for her
reception.

After many a sigh paid to the memory of her father, Miss Milner, upon
the tenth of November, arrived at the place, half-way on her journey to
town, where Dorriforth and Miss Woodley were expecting her. Besides
attendants, she had with her a gentleman and lady, distant relations of
her mother’s, who thought it but a proper testimony of their civility
to attend her part of the way, but who so much envied her guardian the
trust Mr. Milner had reposed in him, that as soon as they had delivered
her safe into his care, they returned.

When the carriage, which brought Miss Milner, stopped at the inn gate,
and her name was announced to Dorriforth, he turned pale—something like
a foreboding of disaster trembled at his heart, and consequently spread
a gloom over all his face. Miss Woodley was even obliged to rouse him
from the dejection into which he was cast, or he would have sunk
beneath it: she was obliged also to be the first to welcome his lovely
charge.—Lovely beyond description.

But the natural vivacity, the gaiety which report had given to Miss
Milner, were softened by her recent sorrow to a meek sadness—and that
haughty display of charms, imputed to her manners, was changed to a
pensive demeanor. The instant Dorriforth was introduced to her by Miss
Woodley as her “Guardian, and her deceased father’s most beloved
friend,” she burst into tears, knelt down to him for a moment, and
promised ever to obey him as her father. He had his handkerchief to his
face at the time, or she would have beheld the agitation—the remotest
sensations of his heart.

This affecting introduction being over, after some minutes passed in
general conversation, the carriages were again ordered; and, bidding
farewell to the relations who had accompanied her, Miss Milner, her
guardian, and Miss Woodley departed for town; the two ladies in Miss
Milner’s carriage, and Dorriforth in that in which he came.

Miss Woodley, as they rode along, made no attempts to ingratiate
herself with Miss Milner; though, perhaps, such an honour might
constitute one of her first wishes—she behaved to her but as she
constantly behaved to every other human creature—that, was sufficient
to gain the esteem of a person possessed of an understanding equal to
Miss Milner’s—she had penetration to discover Miss Woodley’s unaffected
worth, and was soon induced to reward it with the warmest friendship.



CHAPTER IV.


After a night’s rest in London, less violently impressed with the loss
of her father, reconciled, if not already attached to her new
acquaintance, her thoughts pleasingly occupied with the reflection that
she was in that gay metropolis—a wild and rapturous picture of which
her active fancy had often formed—Miss Milner waked from a peaceful and
refreshing sleep, with much of that vivacity, and with all those airy
charms, which for a while had yielded their transcendent power to the
weaker influence of her filial sorrow.

Beautiful as she had appeared to Miss Woodley and to Dorriforth on the
preceding day, when she joined them this morning at breakfast,
re-possessed of her lively elegance and dignified simplicity, they
gazed at her, and at each other alternately, with astonishment!—and
Mrs. Horton, as she sat at the head of her tea-table, felt herself but
as a menial servant: such command has beauty if united with sense and
virtue. In Miss Milner it was so united. Yet let not our
over-scrupulous readers be misled, and extend their idea of her virtue
so as to magnify it beyond that which frail mortals commonly possess;
nor must they cavil, if, on a nearer view, they find it less—but let
them consider, that if she had more faults than generally belong to
others, she had likewise more temptations.

From her infancy she had been indulged in all her wishes to the extreme
of folly, and started habitually at the unpleasant voice of control.
She was beautiful; she had been too frequently told the high value of
that beauty, and thought every moment passed in wasteful idleness
during which she was not gaining some new conquest. She had a quick
sensibility, which too frequently discovered itself in the immediate
resentment of injuries or neglect. She had, besides, acquired the
dangerous character of a wit; but to which she had no real pretensions,
although the most discerning critic, hearing her converse, might fall
into this mistake. Her replies had all the effect of repartee, not
because she possessed those qualities which can properly be called wit,
but that what she said was delivered with an energy, an instantaneous
and powerful conception of the sentiment, joined with a real or a
well-counterfeited simplicity, a quick turn of the eye, and an arch
smile. Her words were but the words of others, and, like those of
others, put into common sentences; but the delivery made them pass for
wit, as grace in an ill-proportioned figure will often make it pass for
symmetry.

And now—leaving description—the reader must form a judgment of her by
her actions; by all the round of great or trivial circumstances that
shall be related.

At breakfast, which had just begun at the commencement of this chapter,
the conversation was lively on the part of Miss Milner, wise on the
part of Dorriforth, good on the part of Miss Woodley, and an endeavour
at all three on the part of Mrs. Horton. The discourse at length drew
from Mr. Dorriforth this observation:

“You have a greater resemblance of your father, Miss Milner, than I
imagined you had from report: I did not expect to find you so like
him.”

“Nor did I, Mr. Dorriforth, expect to find you any thing like what you
are.”

“No?—pray what did you expect to find me?”

“I expected to find you an elderly man, and a plain man.”

This was spoken in an artless manner, but in a tone which obviously
declared she thought her guardian young and handsome. He replied, but
not without some little embarrassment, “A plain man you shall find me
in all my actions.”

“Then your actions are to contradict your appearance.”

For in what she said, Miss Milner had the quality peculiar to wits, of
hazarding the thought that first occurs, which thought, is generally
truth. On this, he paid her a compliment in return.

“You, Miss Milner, I should suppose, must be a very bad judge of what
is plain, and what is not.”

“How so?”

“Because I am sure you will readily own you do not think yourself
handsome; and allowing that, you instantly want judgment.”

“And I would rather want judgment than beauty,” she replied, “and so I
give up the one for the other.”

With a serious face, as if proposing a very serious question,
Dorriforth continued, “And you really believe you are not handsome?”

“I should, if I consulted my own opinion, believe that I was not; but
in some respects I am like Roman Catholics; I don’t believe upon my own
understanding, but from what other people tell me.”

“And let this convince you,” replied Dorriforth, “that what we teach is
truth; for you find you would be deceived did you not trust to persons
who know better than yourself. But, my dear Miss Milner, we will talk
upon some other topic, and never resume this again—we differ in
opinion, I dare say, on one subject only, and this difference I hope
will never extend itself to any other. Therefore, let not religion be
named between us; for as I have resolved never to persecute you, in
pity be grateful, and do not persecute me.”

Miss Milner looked with surprise that any thing so lightly said, should
be so seriously received. The kind Miss Woodley ejaculated a short
prayer to herself, that heaven would forgive her young friend the
involuntary sin of religious ignorance—while Mrs. Horton, unperceived,
as she imagined, made the sign of the cross upon her forehead as a
guard against the infectious taint of heretical opinions. This pious
ceremony Miss Milner by chance observed, and now shewed such an evident
propensity to burst into a fit of laughter, that the good lady of the
house could no longer contain her resentment, but exclaimed, “God
forgive you,” with a severity so different from the idea which the
words conveyed, that the object of her anger was, on this, obliged
freely to indulge that impulse which she had in vain been struggling to
suppress; and no longer suffering under the agony of restraint, she
gave way to her humour, and laughed with a liberty so uncontrolled,
that soon left her in the room with none but the tender-hearted Miss
Woodley a witness of her folly.

“My dear Miss Woodley,” (then cried Miss Milner, after recovering
herself) “I am afraid you will not forgive me.”

“No, indeed I will not,” returned Miss Woodley.

But how unimportant, how weak, how ineffectual are _words_ in
conversation—looks and manners alone express—for Miss Woodley, with her
charitable face and mild accents, saying she would not forgive, implied
only forgiveness—while Mrs. Horton, with her enraged voice and aspect,
begging heaven to pardon the offender, palpably said, she thought her
unworthy of all pardon.



CHAPTER V.


Six weeks have now elapsed since Miss Milner has been in London
partaking with delight all its pleasures, while Dorriforth has been
sighing with apprehension, attending to her with precaution, and
praying with zealous fervour for her safety. Her own and her guardian’s
acquaintance, and, added to them, the new friendships (to use the
unmeaning language of the world) which she was continually forming,
crowded so perpetually to the house, that seldom had Dorriforth even a
moment left him from her visits or visitors, to warn her of her
danger:—yet when a moment offered, he caught it eagerly—pressed the
necessity of “Time not always passed in society; of reflection; of
reading; of thoughts for a future state; and of virtues acquired to
make old age supportable.” That forcible power of genuine feeling,
which directs the tongue to eloquence, had its effect while she
listened to him, and she sometimes put on the looks and gesture of
assent—sometimes even spoke the language of conviction; but this the
first call of dissipation would change to ill-timed raillery, or
peevish remonstrance, at being limited in delights her birth and
fortune entitled her to enjoy.

Among the many visitors who attended at her levees, and followed her
wherever she went, there was one who seemed, even when absent from her,
to share her thoughts. This was Lord Frederick Lawnly, the younger son
of a Duke, and the avowed favourite of all the most discerning women of
taste.

He was not more than twenty-three; animated, elegant, extremely
handsome, and possessed of every accomplishment that would captivate a
heart less susceptible of love than Miss Milner’s was supposed to be.
With these allurements, no wonder if she took pleasure in his
company—no wonder if she took pride in having it known that he was
among the number of her devoted admirers. Dorriforth beheld this
growing intimacy with alternate pain and pleasure—he wished to see Miss
Milner married, to see his charge in the protection of another, rather
than of himself; yet under the care of a young nobleman, immersed in
all the vices of the town, without one moral excellence, but such as
might result eventually from the influence of the moment—under such
care he trembled for her happiness—yet trembled more lest her heart
should be purloined without even the authority of matrimonial views.

With sentiments like these, Dorriforth could never disguise his
uneasiness at the sight of Lord Frederick, nor could the latter help
discerning the suspicion of the guardian, and consequently each was
embarrassed in the presence of the other. Miss Milner observed, but
observed with indifference, the sensations of both—there was but one
passion which then held a place in her bosom, and that was vanity;
vanity defined into all the species of pride, vain-glory,
self-approbation—an inordinate desire of admiration, and an immoderate
enjoyment of the art of pleasing, for her own individual happiness, and
not for the happiness of others. Still had she a heart inclined, and
oftentimes affected by tendencies less unworthy; but those approaches
to what was estimable, were in their first impulse too frequently met
and intercepted by some darling folly.

Miss Woodley (who could easily discover a virtue, although of the most
diminutive kind, and scarce through the magnifying glass of calumny
could ever perceive a fault) was Miss Milner’s inseparable companion at
home, and her zealous advocate with Dorriforth, whenever, during her
absence, she became the subject of discourse. He listened with hope to
the praises of her friend, but saw with despair how little they were
merited. Sometimes he struggled to subdue his anger, but oftener strove
to suppress tears of pity for her hapless state.

By this time all her acquaintance had given Lord Frederick to her as a
lover; the servants whispered it, and some of the public prints had
even fixed the day of marriage;—but as no explanation had taken place
on his part, Dorriforth’s uneasiness was increased, and he seriously
told his ward, he thought it would be indispensably prudent in her to
entreat Lord Frederick to discontinue his visits. She smiled with
ridicule at the caution, but finding it repeated, and in a manner that
indicated authority, she promised not only to make, but to enforce the
request. The next time he came she did so, assuring him it was by her
guardian’s desire; “Who, from motives of delicacy, had permitted her to
solicit as a favour, what he could himself make a demand.” Lord
Frederick reddened with anger—he loved Miss Milner; but he doubted
whether, from the frequent proofs he had experienced of his own
inconstancy, he should continue to love—and this interference of her
guardian threatened an explanation or a dismission, before he became
thoroughly acquainted with his own heart.—Alarmed, confounded, and
provoked, he replied,

“By heaven, I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself, and it is
jealousy that makes him treat me in this manner.”

“For shame, my Lord!” cried Miss Woodley, who was present, and who
trembled with horror at the sacrilegious idea.

“Nay, shame to him if he is not in love”—answered his Lordship, “for
who but a savage could behold beauty like her’s without owning its
power?”

“Habit,” replied Miss Milner, “is every thing—Mr. Dorriforth sees and
converses with beauty, but from habit he does not fall in love; as you,
my Lord, from habit, so often do.”

“Then you believe that love is not in my nature?”

“No more of it, my Lord, than habit could very soon extinguish.”

“But I would not have it extinguished—I would rather it should mount to
a flame, for I think it a crime to be insensible of the divine
blessings love can bestow.”

“Then you indulge the passion to avoid a sin?—this very motive deters
Mr. Dorriforth from that indulgence.”

“It ought to deter him, for the sake of his oaths—but monastick vows,
like those of marriage, were made to be broken—and surely when your
guardian looks at you, his wishes”——

“Are never less pure,” she replied eagerly, “than those which dwell in
the bosom of my _celestial_ guardian.”

At that instant Dorriforth entered the room. The colour had mounted
into Miss Milner’s face from the warmth with which she had delivered
her opinion, and his accidental entrance at the very moment this praise
had been conferred upon him in his absence, heightened the blush to a
deep glow on every feature—confusion and earnestness caused even her
lips to tremble and her whole frame to shake.

“What’s the matter?” cried Dorriforth, looking with concern on her
discomposure.

“A compliment paid by herself to you, Sir,” replied Lord Frederick,
“has affected your ward in the manner you have seen.”

“As if she blushed at the untruth,” said Dorriforth.

“Nay, that is unkind,” cried Miss Woodley; “for if you had been here”——

“—I would not have said what I did,” replied Miss Milner, “but left him
to vindicate himself.”

“Is it possible that I can want any vindication? Who would think it
worth their while to slander so unimportant a person as I am?”

“The man who has the charge of Miss Milner,” replied Lord Frederick,
“derives a consequence from her.”

“No ill consequence, I hope, my Lord?” said Dorriforth, with a firmness
in his voice, and with an eye so fixed, that his antagonist hesitated
for a moment in want of a reply—and Miss Milner softly whispering to
him, as her guardian turned his head, to avoid an argument, he bowed
acquiescence. And then, as if in compliment to her, he changed the
subject;—with an air of ridicule he cried,

“I wish, Mr. Dorriforth, you would give me absolution of all my sins,
for I confess they are many, and manifold.”

“Hold, my Lord,” exclaimed Dorriforth, “do not confess before the
ladies, lest, in order to excite their compassion, you should be
tempted to accuse yourself of sins you have never yet committed.”

At this Miss Milner laughed, seemingly so well pleased, that Lord
Frederick, with a sarcastic sneer, repeated,

“From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa still must love the name.”


Whether from an inattention to the quotation, or from a consciousness
it was wholly inapplicable, Dorriforth heard it without one emotion of
shame or of anger—while Miss Milner seemed shocked at the implication;
her pleasantry was immediately suppressed, and she threw open the sash
and held her head out at the window, to conceal the embarrassment these
lines had occasioned.

The Earl of Elmwood was at that juncture announced—a Catholic nobleman,
just come of age, and on the eve of marriage. His visit was to his
cousin, Mr. Dorriforth, but as all ceremonious visits were alike
received by Dorriforth, Miss Milner, and Mrs. Horton’s family, in one
common apartment, Lord Elmwood was ushered into this, and of course
directed the conversation to a different subject.



CHAPTER VI.


With an anxious desire that the affection, or acquaintance, between
Lord Frederick and Miss Milner might be finally dissolved, her guardian
received with infinite satisfaction, overtures of marriage from Sir
Edward Ashton. Sir Edward was not young or handsome; old or ugly; but
immensely rich, and possessed of qualities that made him worthy of the
happiness to which he aspired. He was the man whom Dorriforth would
have chosen before any other for the husband of his ward, and his
wishes made him sometimes hope, against his cooler judgment, that Sir
Edward would not be rejected—he was resolved, at all events, to try the
force of his own power in the strongest recommendation of him.

Notwithstanding that dissimilarity of opinion which, in almost every
instance, subsisted between Miss Milner and her guardian, there was in
general the most punctilious observance of good manners from each
towards the other—on the part of Dorriforth more especially; for his
politeness would sometimes appear even like the result of a system
which he had marked out for himself, as the only means to keep his ward
restrained within the same limitations. Whenever he addressed her there
was an unusual reserve upon his countenance, and more than usual
gentleness in the tone of his voice; this appeared the effect of
sentiments which her birth and situation inspired, joined to a studied
mode of respect, best calculated to enforce the same from her. The
wished-for consequence was produced—for though there was an instinctive
rectitude in the understanding of Miss Milner that would have taught
her, without other instruction, what manners to observe towards her
deputed father; yet, from some volatile thought, or some quick sense of
feeling, which she had not been accustomed to subdue, she was
perpetually on the verge of treating him with levity; but he would
immediately recall her recollection by a reserve too awful, and a
gentleness too sacred for her to violate. The distinction which both
required, was thus, by his skilful management alone, preserved.

One morning he took an opportunity, before her and Miss Woodley, to
introduce and press the subject of Sir Edward Ashton’s hopes. He first
spoke warmly in his praise, then plainly said that he believed she
possessed the power of making so deserving a man happy to the summit of
his wishes. A laugh of ridicule was the only answer; but a sudden frown
from Dorriforth having put an end to it, he resumed his usual
politeness, and said,

“I wish you would shew a better taste, than thus pointedly to
disapprove of Sir Edward.”

“How, Mr. Dorriforth, can you expect me to give proofs of a good taste,
when Sir Edward, whom you consider with such high esteem, has given so
bad an example of his, in approving me?”

Dorriforth wished not to flatter her by a compliment she seemed to have
sought for, and for a moment hesitated what answer to make.

“Reply, Sir, to that question,” she said.

“Why then, Madam,” returned he, “it is my opinion, that supposing what
your humility has advanced be just, yet Sir Edward will not suffer by
the suggestion; for in cases where the heart is so immediately
concerned, as I believe Sir Edward’s to be, taste, or rather reason,
has no power to act.”

“You are in the right, Mr. Dorriforth; this is a proper justification
of Sir Edward—and when I fall in love, I beg that you will make the
same excuse for me.”

“Then,” said he earnestly, “before your heart is in that state which I
have described, exert your reason.”

“I shall,” answered she, “and not consent to marry a man whom I could
never love.”

“Unless your heart is already given away, Miss Milner, what can make
you speak with such a degree of certainty?”

He thought on Lord Frederick when he said this, and he riveted his eyes
upon her as if to penetrate her sentiments, and yet trembled for what
he should find there. She blushed, and her looks would have confirmed
her guilty, if the unembarrassed and free tone of her voice, more than
her words, had not preserved her from that sentence.

“No,” she replied, “my heart is not given away; and yet I can venture
to declare, Sir Edward will never possess an atom of it.”

“I am sorry, for both your sakes, that these are your sentiments,” he
replied. “But as your heart is still your own,” (and he seemed rejoiced
to find it was) “permit me to warn you how you part with a thing so
precious—the dangers, the sorrows you hazard in bestowing it, are
greater than you may be aware of. The heart once gone, our thoughts,
our actions, are no more our own, than that is.” He seemed _forcing_
himself to utter all this, and yet broke off as if he could have said
much more, if the extreme delicacy of the subject had not prevented
him.

When he left the room, and she heard the door shut after him, she said,
with an inquisitive thoughtfulness, “What can make good people so
skilled in all the weaknesses of the bad? Mr. Dorriforth, with all
those prudent admonitions, appears rather like a man who has passed his
life in the gay world, experienced all its dangerous allurements, all
its repentant sorrows; than like one who has lived his whole time
secluded in a monastery, or in his own study. Then he speaks with such
exquisite sensibility on the subject of love, that he commends the very
thing which he attempts to depreciate. I do not think my Lord Frederick
would make the passion appear in more pleasing colours by painting its
delights, than Mr. Dorriforth could in describing its sorrows—and if he
talks to me frequently in this manner, I shall certainly take pity on
Lord Frederick, for the sake of his adversary’s eloquence.”

Miss Woodley, who heard the conclusion of this speech with the
tenderest concern, cried, “Alas! you then think seriously of Lord
Frederick!”

“Suppose I do, wherefore that _alas!_ Miss Woodley?”

“Because I fear you will never be happy with him.”

“That is plainly telling me he will not be happy with me.”

“I do not know—I cannot speak of marriage from experience,” answered
Miss Woodley, “but I think I can guess what it is.”

“Nor can I speak of love from experience,” replied Miss Milner, “but I
think I can guess what it is.”

“But do not fall in love, my dear,” (cried Miss Woodley, with her
accustomed simplicity of heart, as if she had been asking a favour that
depended upon the will of the person entreated,) “pray do not fall in
love without the approbation of your guardian.”

Her young friend smiled at the inefficacious prayer, but promised to do
all she could to oblige her.



CHAPTER VII.


Sir Edward, not wholly discouraged by the denial with which Dorriforth
had, with delicacy, acquainted him, still hoped for a kind reception,
and was so often at the house of Mrs. Horton, that Lord Frederick’s
jealousy was excited, and the tortures he suffered in consequence,
convinced him, beyond a doubt, of the sincerity of his affection. Every
time he beheld the object of his passion, (for he still continued his
visits, though not so frequently as heretofore) he pleaded his cause
with such ardour, that Miss Woodley, who was sometimes present, and
ever compassionate, could not resist wishing him success. He now
unequivocally offered marriage, and entreated that he might lay his
proposals before Mr. Dorriforth, but this was positively forbidden.

Her reluctance he imputed, however, more to the known partiality of her
guardian for the addresses of Sir Edward, than to any motive which
depended upon herself; and to Mr. Dorriforth he conceived a greater
dislike than ever; believing that through his interposition, in spite
of his ward’s attachment, he might yet be deprived of her. But Miss
Milner declared both to him and to her friend, that love had, at
present, gained no influence over her mind. Yet did the watchful Miss
Woodley oftentimes hear a sigh escape from her unknown to herself, till
she was reminded of it, and then a sudden blush would instantly
overspread her face. This seeming struggle with her passion, endeared
her more than ever to Miss Woodley, and she would even risk the
displeasure of Dorriforth by her compliance with every new pursuit that
might amuse the time, which else her friend passed in heaviness of
heart.

Balls, plays, incessant company, at length roused her guardian from
that mildness with which he had been accustomed to treat her. Night
after night his sleep had been disturbed by fears for her when abroad;
morning after morning it had been broken by the clamour of her return.
He therefore gravely said to her one forenoon as he met her
accidentally upon the staircase,

“I hope, Miss Milner, you pass this evening at home?”

Unprepared for the sudden question, she blushed and replied,
“Yes.”—Though she knew she was engaged to a brilliant assembly, for
which her milliner had been consulted a whole week.

She, however, flattered herself that what she had said might be excused
as a mistake, the lapse of memory, or some other trifling fault, when
he should know the truth. The truth was earlier divulged than she
expected—for just as dinner was removed, her footman delivered a
message to her from her milliner concerning a new dress for the
evening—the _present evening_ particularly marked. Her guardian looked
astonished.

“I thought, Miss Milner, you gave me your word that you would pass this
evening at home?”

“I mistook—for I had before given my word that I should pass it
abroad.”

“Indeed!” cried he.

“Yes, indeed; and I believe it is right that I should keep my first
promise; is it not?”

“The promise you gave me then, you do not think of any consequence?”

“Yes, certainly, if you do.”

“I do.”

“And mean, perhaps, to make it of more consequence than it deserves, by
being offended.”

“Whether or not, I _am_ offended—you shall find I am.” And he looked
so.

She caught his piercing eyes—hers were immediately cast down; and she
trembled—either with shame or with resentment.

Mrs. Horton rose from her seat—moved the decanters and fruit round the
table—stirred the fire—and came back to her seat again, before another
word was uttered. Nor had this good woman’s officious labours taken the
least from the awkwardness of the silence, which, as soon as the bustle
she had made was over, returned in its full force.

At last, Miss Milner rising with alacrity, was preparing to go out of
the room, when Dorriforth raised his voice, and in a tone of authority
said,

“Miss Milner, you shall not leave the house this evening.”

“Sir!” she exclaimed with a kind of doubt of what she had heard—a
surprise, which fixed her hand on the door she had half opened, but
which now she shewed herself irresolute whether to open wide in
defiance, or to shut submissively. Before she could resolve, he rose
from his chair, and said, with a force and warmth she had never heard
him use before,

“I command you to stay at home this evening.” And he walked immediately
out of the apartment by another door.

Her hand fell motionless from that which she held—she appeared
motionless herself—till Mrs. Horton, “Beseeching her not to be uneasy
at the treatment she had received,” made her tears flow as if her heart
was breaking.

Miss Woodley would have said something to comfort her, but she had
caught the infection, and could not utter a word. It was not from any
real cause of grief that she wept; but there was a magnetic quality in
tears, which always attracted hers.

Mrs. Horton secretly enjoyed this scene, though the real well meaning
of her heart, and ease of her conscience, did not suffer her to think
so. She, however, declared she had “long prognosticated it would come
to this;” and she “only thanked heaven it was no worse.”

“What could be worse, Madam?” cried Miss Milner; “am not I disappointed
of the ball?”

“You don’t mean to go then?” said Mrs. Horton; “I commend your
prudence; and I dare say it is more than your guardian gives you credit
for.”

“Do you think I would go,” answered Miss Milner, with an eagerness that
for a time suppressed her tears, “in contradiction to his will?”

“It is not the first time, I believe, you have acted contrary to that,
Miss Milner,” replied Mrs. Horton, and affected a tenderness of voice,
to soften the harshness of her words.

“If you think so, Madam, I see nothing that should prevent me now.” And
she flung out of the room as if she had resolved to disobey him. This
alarmed poor Miss Woodley.

“My dear aunt,” she cried to Mrs. Horton, “follow and prevail upon Miss
Milner to give up her design; she means to be at the ball in opposition
to her guardian’s will.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Horton, “I’ll not be instrumental in detering her—if
she does it may be for the best; it may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer
knowledge what means are proper to convert her from evil.”

“But, my dear Madam, she must be preserved from the evil of
disobedience; and as you tempted, you will be the most likely to
dissuade her. But if you will not, I must endeavour.”

Miss Woodley was leaving the room to perform this good work, when Mrs.
Horton, in imitation of the example given her by Dorriforth, cried,

“Niece, I command you not to stir out of this room this evening.”

Miss Woodley obediently sat down—and though her thoughts and heart were
in the chamber of her friend, she never marked by one impertinent word,
or by one line of her face, the restraint she suffered.

At the usual hour, Mr. Dorriforth and his ward were summoned to tea:—he
entered with a countenance which evinced the remains of anger; his eye
gave testimony of his absent thoughts; and though he took up a pamphlet
affecting to read, it was plain to discern that he scarcely knew he
held it in his hand.

Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as intent upon something else
as Dorriforth’s—she longed for the event of this misunderstanding; and
though she wished no ill to Miss Milner, yet with an inclination bent
upon seeing something new—without the fatigue of going out of her own
house—she was not over scrupulous what that novelty might be. But for
fear she should have the imprudence to speak a word upon the subject
which employed her thoughts, or even to look as if she thought of it at
all; she pinched her lips close together, and cast her eyes on vacancy,
lest their significant regards might expose her to detection. And for
fear any noise should intercept even the sound of what might happen,
she walked across the room more softly than usual, and more softly
touched every thing she was obliged to lay her hand on.

Miss Woodley thought it her duty to be mute; and now the gingle of a
tea spoon was like a deep-toned bell, all was so quiet.

Mrs. Horton, too, in the self-approving reflection that she was not in
a quarrel or altercation of any kind, felt herself at this moment
remarkably peaceful and charitable. Miss Woodley did not recollect
_herself_ so, but was so in reality—in her, peace and charity were
instinctive virtues, accident could not increase them.

The tea had scarce been made, when a servant came with Miss Milner’s
compliments, and she “did not mean to have any tea.” The pamphlet shook
in Dorriforth’s hand while this message was delivered—he believed her
to be dressing for her evening’s entertainment, and now studied in what
manner he should prevent, or resent her disobedience to his commands.
He coughed—drank his tea—endeavoured to talk, but found it
difficult—sometimes read—and in this manner near two hours were passed
away, when Miss Milner came into the room.—Not dressed for a ball, but
as she had risen from dinner. Dorriforth read on, and seemed afraid of
looking up, lest he should see what he could not have pardoned. She
drew a chair and sat at the table by the side of her delighted friend.

After a few minutes’ pause, and some little embarrassment on the part
of Mrs. Horton, at the disappointment she had to encounter from this
unexpected dutiful conduct, she asked Miss Milner, “if she would now
have any tea?” She replied, “No, I thank you, Ma’am,” in a voice so
languid, compared with her usual one, that Dorriforth lifted up his
eyes from the book; and seeing her in the same dress that she had worn
all the day, turned them hastily away from her again—not with a look of
triumph, but of confusion.

Whatever he might have suffered if he had seen her decorated, and
prepared to bid defiance to his commands, yet even upon that trial, he
would not have endured half the painful sensations he now for a moment
felt—he felt himself to blame.

He feared that he had treated her with too much severity—he admired her
condescension, accused himself for having exacted it—he longed to ask
her pardon—he did not know how.

A cheerful reply from her, to a question of Miss Woodley’s, embarrassed
him still more—he wished that she had been sullen, he then would have
had a temptation, or pretence, to have been sullen too.

With all these sentiments crowding fast upon his heart, he still read,
or seemed to read, as if he took no notice of what was passing; till a
servant came into the room and asked Miss Milner at what time she
should want the carriage? to which she replied, “I don’t go out
to-night.” Dorriforth then laid the book out of his hand, and by the
time the servant had left the room, thus began:

“Miss Milner, I give you, I fear, some unkind proofs of my regard. It
is often the ungrateful task of a friend to be troublesome—sometimes
unmannerly. Forgive the duties of my office, and believe that no one is
half so much concerned if it robs you of any degree of happiness, as I
myself am.”

What he said, he looked with so much sincerity, that had she been
burning with rage at his late behaviour, she must have forgiven him,
for the regret which he so forcibly exprest. She was going to reply,
but found she could not, without accompanying her words with tears,
therefore, after the first attempt, she desisted.

On this he rose from his chair, and going to her, said, “Once more shew
your submission by obeying me a second time to-day. Keep your
appointment, and be assured that I shall issue my commands with more
circumspection for the future, as I find how strictly they are complied
with.”

Miss Milner, the gay, the vain, the dissipated, the haughty Miss
Milner, sunk underneath this kindness, and wept with a gentleness and
patience, which did not give more surprise than it gave joy to
Dorriforth. He was charmed to find her disposition so
tractable—prophesied to himself the future success of his guardianship,
and her eternal as well as temporal happiness from this specimen.



CHAPTER VIII.


Although Dorriforth was the good man that he has been described, there
were in his nature shades of evil—there was an obstinacy which he
himself, and his friends termed firmness of mind; but had not religion
and some opposite virtues weighed heavily in the balance, it would
frequently have degenerated into implacable stubbornness.

The child of a sister once beloved, who married a young officer against
her brother’s consent, was at the age of three years left an orphan,
destitute of all support but from his uncle’s generosity: but though
Dorriforth maintained, he would never see him. Miss Milner, whose heart
was a receptacle for the unfortunate, no sooner was told the melancholy
history of Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, the parents of the child, than she
longed to behold the innocent inheritor of her guardian’s resentment,
and took Miss Woodley with her to see the boy. He was at a farm house a
few miles from town; and his extreme beauty and engaging manners,
wanted not the sorrows to which he had been born, to give him farther
recommendation to the kindness of her, who had come to visit him. She
looked at him with admiration and pity, and having endeared herself to
him by the most affectionate words and caresses, on her bidding him
farewell, he cried most pitiously to go along with her. Unused at any
time to resist temptations, whether to reprehensible, or to laudable
actions, she yielded to his supplications, and having overcome a few
scruples of Miss Woodley’s, determined to take young Rushbrook to town,
and present him to his uncle. This idea was no sooner formed than
executed. By making a present to the nurse, she readily gained her
consent to part with him for a day or two, and the signs of joy denoted
by the child on being put into the carriage, repaid her beforehand for
every reproof she might receive from her guardian, for the liberty she
had taken.

“Besides,” said she to Miss Woodley, who had still her fears, “do you
not wish his uncle should have a warmer interest in his care than
duty?—it is duty alone which induces Mr. Dorriforth to provide for him;
but it is proper that affection should have some share in his
benevolence—and how, hereafter, will he be so fit an object of the love
which compassion excites, as he is at present?”

Miss Woodley acquiesced. But before they arrived at their own door it
came into Miss Milner’s remembrance, that there was a grave sternness
in the manners of her guardian when provoked, the recollection of which
made her a little apprehensive for what she had done—her friend, who
knew him better than she did, was more so. They both became silent as
they approached the street where they lived—for Miss Woodley having
once represented her fears, and having suppressed them in resignation
to Miss Milner’s better judgment, would not repeat them—and Miss Milner
would not confess they were now troubling her.

Just, however, as the coach stopped at the door, she had the forecast
and the humility to say, “We will not tell Mr. Dorriforth the child is
his nephew, unless he should appear fond, and pleased with him, and
then I think we may venture without any danger.”

This was agreed; and when Dorriforth entered the room just before
dinner, poor Harry Rushbrook was introduced as the son of a lady who
frequently visited there. The deception passed—his uncle shook hands
with him, and at length highly pleased with his engaging manner, and
applicable replies, took him on his knee, and kissed him with
affection. Miss Milner could scarce restrain the joy it gave her; but
unluckily, Dorriforth said soon after to the child, “And now tell me
your name.”

“Harry Rushbrook,” replied he, with force and clearness of voice.

Dorriforth was holding him fondly round the waist as he stood with his
feet upon his knees; and at this reply he did not _throw_ him from
him—but he removed his hands, which had supported him, so suddenly,
that the child, to prevent falling on the floor, threw himself about
his uncle’s neck. Miss Milner and Miss Woodley turned aside to conceal
their tears. “I had like to have been down,” cried Harry, fearing no
other danger. But his uncle took hold of each hand which had twined
around him, and placed him immediately on the ground. The dinner being
that instant served, he gave no greater marks of his resentment than
calling for his hat, and walking instantly out of the house.

Miss Milner cried for anger; yet she did not shew less kindness to the
object of this vexatious circumstance: she held him in her arms while
she sat at table, and repeatedly said to him, (though he had not the
sense to thank her) “That she would always be his friend.”

The first emotions of resentment against Dorriforth being passed, she
returned with her little charge to the farm house, before it was likely
his uncle should come back; another instance of obedience, which Miss
Woodley was impatient her guardian should know; she therefore enquired
where he was, and sent him a note for the sole purpose of acquainting
him with it, offering at the same time an apology for what had
happened. He returned in the evening seemingly reconciled, nor was a
word mentioned of the incident which had occurred in the former part of
the day; yet in his countenance remained a perfect remembrance of it,
without one trait of compassion for his helpless nephew.



CHAPTER IX.


There are few things so mortifying to a proud spirit as to suffer by
immediate comparison—men can hardly bear it, but to women the
punishment is intolerable; and Miss Milner now laboured under this
humiliation to a degree which gave her no small inquietude.

Miss Fenton, young, of exquisite beauty, elegant manners, gentle
disposition, and discreet conduct, was introduced to Miss Milner’s
acquaintance by her guardian, and frequently, sometimes inadvertently,
held up by him as a pattern for her to follow—for when he did not say
this in direct terms, it was insinuated by the warmth of his panegyric
on those virtues in which Miss Fenton excelled, and in which his ward
was obviously deficient. Conscious of her own inferiority in these
subjects of her guardian’s praise, Miss Milner, instead of being
inspired to emulation, was provoked to envy.

Not to admire Miss Fenton was impossible—to find one fault with her
person or sentiments was equally impossible—and yet to love her was
unlikely.

That serenity of mind which kept her features in a continual placid
form, though enchanting at the first glance, upon a second or third,
fatigued the sight for want of variety; and to have seen her distorted
with rage, convulsed with mirth, or in deep dejection, had been to her
advantage. But her superior soul appeared above those emotions, and
there was more inducement to worship her as a saint than to love her as
a woman. Yet Dorriforth, whose heart was not formed (at least not
educated) for love, regarding her in the light of friendship only,
beheld her as the most perfect model for her sex. Lord Frederick on
first seeing her was struck with her beauty, and Miss Milner
apprehended she had introduced a rival; but he had not seen her three
times, before he called her “The most insufferable of Heaven’s
creatures,” and vowed there was more charming variation in the plain
features of Miss Woodley.

Miss Milner had a heart affectionate to her own sex, even where she saw
them in possession of superior charms; but whether from the spirit of
contradiction, from feeling herself more than ordinarily offended by
her guardian’s praise of this lady, or that there was a reserve in Miss
Fenton that did not accord with her own frank and ingenuous
disposition, so as to engage her esteem, certain it is that she took
infinite satisfaction in hearing her beauty and virtues depreciated or
turned into ridicule, particularly if Mr. Dorriforth was present. This
was painful to him upon many accounts; perhaps an anxiety for his
ward’s conduct was not among the least; and whenever the circumstance
occurred, he could with difficulty restrain his anger. Miss Fenton was
not only a person whose amiable qualities he admired, but she was soon
to be allied to him by her marriage with his nearest relation, Lord
Elmwood, a young nobleman whom he sincerely loved.

Lord Elmwood had discovered all that beauty in Miss Fenton which every
common observer could not but see. The charms of her mind and of her
fortune had been pointed out by his tutor; and the utility of the
marriage, in perfect submission to his precepts, he never permitted
himself to question.

This preceptor held with a magisterial power the government of his
pupil’s passions; nay, governed them so entirely, that no one could
perceive (nor did the young Lord himself know) that he had any.

This rigid monitor and friend was a Mr. Sandford, bred a Jesuit in the
same college at which Dorriforth had since been educated, but before
his time the order was compelled to take another name. Sandford had
been the tutor of Dorriforth as well as of his cousin, Lord Elmwood,
and by this double tie seemed now entailed upon the family. As a
Jesuit, he was consequently a man of learning; possessed of steadiness
to accomplish the end of any design once meditated, and of sagacity to
direct the conduct of men more powerful, but less ingenious, than
himself. The young Earl, accustomed in his infancy to fear him as his
master, in his youthful manhood received every new indulgence with
gratitude, and at length loved him as a father—nor had Dorriforth as
yet shaken off similar sensations.

Mr. Sandford perfectly knew how to influence the sentiments and
sensations of all human kind, but yet he had the forbearance not to
“draw all hearts towards him.” There were some whose hatred he thought
not unworthy of his pious labours; and in that pursuit he was more
rapid in his success than even in procuring esteem. It was an
enterprise in which he succeeded with Miss Milner even beyond his most
sanguine wish.

She had been educated at an English boarding school, and had no idea of
the superior and subordinate state of characters in a foreign
seminary—besides, as a woman, she was privileged to say any thing she
pleased; and as a beautiful woman, she had a right to expect that
whatever she pleased to say, should be admired.

Sandford knew the hearts of women, as well as those of men, though he
had passed little of his time in their society—he saw Miss Milner’s
heart at the first view of her person; and beholding in that little
circumference a weight of folly that he wished to eradicate, he began
to toil in the vineyard, eagerly courting her detestation of him, in
the hope he could also make her abominate herself. In the
mortifications of slight he was expert; and being a man of talents,
whom all companies, especially her friends, respected, he did not begin
by wasting that reverence so highly valued upon ineffectual
remonstrances, of which he could foresee the reception, but wakened her
attention by his neglect of her. He spoke of her in her presence as of
an indifferent person, sometimes forgetting even to name her when the
subject required it; then would ask her pardon, and say that he “Really
did not recollect her,” with such seeming sorrow for his fault, that
she could not think the offence intended, and of course felt the
affront more acutely.

While, with every other person she was the principle, the cause upon
whom a whole party depended for conversation, cards, musick, or
dancing, with Mr. Sandford she found that she was of no importance.
Sometimes she tried to consider this disregard of her as merely the
effect of ill-breeding; but he was not an ill-bred man: he was a
gentleman by birth, and one who had kept the best company—a man of
sense and learning. “And such a man slights me without knowing it,” she
said—for she had not dived so deeply into the powers of simulation, as
to suspect that such careless manners were the result of art.

This behaviour of Mr. Sandford had its desired effect—it humbled her in
her own opinion more than a thousand sermons would have done preached
on the vanity of youth and beauty. She felt an inward shame at the
insignificance of these qualities that she never knew before, and would
have been cured of all her pride, had she not possessed a degree of
spirit beyond the generality of her sex—such a degree as even Mr.
Sandford, with all his penetration, did not expect. She determined to
resent his treatment; and, entering the lists as his declared enemy,
give to the world a reason why he did not acknowledge her sovereignty,
as well as the rest of her devoted subjects.

She now commenced hostilities against all his arguments, his learning,
and his favourite axioms; and by a happy talent of ridicule, in want of
other weapons for this warfare, she threw in the way of the holy Father
as great trials of his patience, as any that his order could have
substituted in penance. Many things he bore like a martyr—at others,
his fortitude would forsake him, and he would call on her guardian, his
former pupil, to interpose with his authority: she would then declare
that she only had acted thus “to try the good man’s temper, and that if
he had combated with his fretfulness a few moments longer, she would
have acknowledged his claim to canonization; but that having yielded to
the sallies of his anger, he must now go through numerous other
probations.”

If Miss Fenton was admired by Dorriforth, by Sandford she was
adored—and, instead of placing her as an example to Miss Milner, he
spoke of her as of one endowed beyond Miss Milner’s power of imitation.
Often, with a shake of his head and a sigh, would he say,

“No; I am not so hard upon you as your guardian: I only desire you to
love Miss Fenton; to resemble her, I believe, is above your ability.”

This was too much to bear composedly—and poor Miss Woodley, who was
generally a witness of these controversies, felt a degree of sorrow at
every sentence which like the foregoing chagrined and distressed her
friend. Yet as she suffered too for Mr. Sandford, the joy of her
friend’s reply was abated by the uneasiness it gave to _him_. But Mrs.
Horton felt for none but the right reverend priest; and often did she
feel so violently interested in his cause, that she could not refrain
giving an answer herself in his behalf—thus doing the duty of an
adversary with all the zeal of an advocate.



CHAPTER X.


Mr. Sandford finding his friend Dorriforth frequently perplexed in the
management of his ward, and he himself thinking her incorrigible, gave
his counsel, that a suitable match should be immediately sought out for
her, and the care of so dangerous a person given into other hands.
Dorriforth acknowledged the propriety of this advice, but lamented the
difficulty of pleasing his ward as to the quality of her lover; for she
had refused, besides Sir Edward Ashton, many others of equal
pretensions. “Depend upon it then,” cried Sandford, “that her
affections are engaged; and it is proper that you should know to whom.”
Dorriforth thought he did know, and mentioned Lord Frederick; but said
that he had no farther authority for the supposition than what his
observation had given him, for that every explanation both upon his and
her side had been evaded. “Take her then,” cried Sandford, “into the
country, and if Lord Frederick should not follow, there is an end of
your suspicions.”

“I shall not easily prevail upon Miss Milner to leave town,” replied
he, “while it is in the highest fashion.”

“You can but try,” returned Sandford; “and if you should not succeed
now, at least fix the time you mean to go during the autumn, and be
firm to your determination.”

“But in the autumn,” replied Dorriforth, “Lord Frederick will of course
be in the country; and as his uncle’s estate is near our residence, he
will not then so evidently follow her, as he would if I could induce
her to go now.”

It was agreed the attempt should be made. Instead of receiving this
abrupt proposal with uneasiness, Miss Milner, to the surprise of all
present, immediately consented; and gave her guardian an opportunity of
saying several of the kindest and politest things upon her ready
compliance.

“A token of approbation from you, Mr. Dorriforth,” returned she, “I
always considered with high estimation—but your commendations are now
become infinitely superior in value by their scarcity; for I do not
believe that since Miss Fenton and Mr. Sandford came to town, I have
received one testimony of your esteem.”

Had these words been uttered with pleasantry, they might have passed
without observation; but at the conclusion of the period, resentment
flew to Miss Milner’s face, and she darted a piercing look at Mr.
Sandford, which more pointedly expressed that she was angry with him,
than if she had spoken volumes in her usual strain of raillery.
Dorriforth was confused—but the concern which she had so plainly
evinced for his good opinion throughout all that she had been saying,
silenced any rebuke he might else have given her, for this
unwarrantable charge against his friend. Mrs. Horton was shocked at the
irreverent manner in which Mr. Sandford was treated—and Miss Woodley
turned to him with a benevolent smile upon her face, hoping to set him
an example of the manner in which he should receive the reproach. Her
good wishes did not succeed—yet he was perfectly unruffled, and replied
with coolness,

“The air of the country has affected the lady already—but it is a
comfortable thing,” continued he, “that in the variety of humours to
which some women are exposed, they cannot be uniform even in deceit.”

“Deceit!” cried Miss Milner, “in what am I deceitful? did I ever
pretend that I had an esteem for you?”

“That would not have been deceit, Madam, but merely good manners.”

“I never, Mr. Sandford, sacrificed truth to politeness.”

“Except when the country has been proposed, and you thought it
politeness to appear satisfied.”

“And I _was_ satisfied, till I recollected that you might probably be
of the party—then, every grove was changed into a wilderness, every
rivulet into a stagnated pool, and every singing bird into a croaking
raven.”

“A very poetical description,” returned he calmly. “But, Miss Milner,
you need not have had any apprehensions of _my_ company in the country,
for I understand the seat to which your guardian means to go, belongs
to you; and you may depend upon it, Madam, that I shall never enter a
house in which you are the mistress.”

“Nor any house, I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but in which you are
yourself the master.”

“What do you mean, Madam? (and for the first time he elevated his
voice,) am I the master here?”

“Your servants,” replied she, looking at the company, “will not tell
you so; but I do.”

“You condescend, Mr. Sandford,” cried Mrs. Horton, “in talking so much
to a young heedless woman; but I know you do it for her good.”

“Well, Miss Milner,” cried Dorriforth, (and the most cutting thing he
could say,) “since I find my proposal of the country has put you out of
humour, I shall mention it no more.”

With all that quantity of resentment, anger, or rage, which sometimes
boiled in the veins of Miss Milner, she was yet never wanting in that
respect towards her guardian, which with-held her from ever uttering
one angry sentence, directed immediately to him; and a severe word of
his, instead of exasperating, was sure to subdue her. This was the case
at present—his words wounded her to the heart, but she had not the
asperity to reply to them as she thought they merited, and she burst
into tears. Dorriforth, instead of being concerned, as he usually was
at seeing her uneasy, appeared on the present occasion provoked. He
thought her weeping was a new reproach to his friend Mr. Sandford, and
that to suffer himself to be moved by it, would be a tacit condemnation
of his friend’s conduct. She understood his thoughts, and getting the
better of her tears, apologised for her weakness; adding,

“She could never bear with indifference an unjust accusation.”

“To prove that mine was unjust, Madam,” replied Dorriforth; “be
prepared to quit London, without any marks of regret, in a few days.”

She bowed assent; the necessary preparations were agreed upon; and
while with apparent satisfaction she adjusted the plan of her journey,
(like those who behave well, not so much to please themselves as to vex
their enemies,) she secretly triumphed in the mortification she hoped
that Mr. Sandford would receive from her obedient behaviour.

The news of this intended journey was of course soon made public. There
is a secret charm in being pitied, when the misfortune is but ideal;
and Miss Milner found infinite gratification in being told, “That her’s
was a cruel case, and that it was unjust and barbarous to force so much
beauty into concealment while London was filled with her admirers; who,
like her, would languish in consequence of her solitude.” These things,
and a thousand such, a thousand times repeated, she still listened to
with pleasure; yet preserved the constancy not to shrink from her
resolution of submitting.

Those involuntary sighs, however, that Miss Woodley had long ago
observed, became still more frequent; and a tear half starting in her
eye was an additional subject of her friend’s observation. Yet though
Miss Milner at those times was softened into melancholy, she by no
means appeared unhappy. Her friend was acquainted with love only by
name; yet she was confirmed from these increased symptoms, in what she
before only suspected, that _love_ must be the foundation of her care.
“Her senses have been captivated by the person and accomplishments of
Lord Frederick,” said Miss Woodley to herself, “but her understanding
compels her to see his faults, and reproaches her passion.—And, oh!”
cried she, “could her guardian and Mr. Sandford know of this conflict,
how much would they have to admire; how little to condemn!”

With such friendly thoughts, and with the purest intentions, Miss
Woodley did not fail to give both gentlemen reason to believe, a
contention of this nature was the actual state of Miss Milner’s mind.
Dorriforth was affected at the description, and Sandford urged more
than ever the necessity of leaving town. In a few days they departed;
Mrs. Horton, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner, and Mr. Dorriforth, accompanied
by Miss Fenton, whom Miss Milner, knowing it to be the wish of her
guardian, invited, for three months before her marriage, to her country
seat. Elmwood House, or rather Castle, the seat of Lord Elmwood, was
only a few miles distant from this residence, and he was expected to
pass great part of the summer there, with his tutor, Mr. Sandford.

In the neighbourhood was also (as it has been already said) an estate
belonging to an uncle of Lord Frederick’s, and most of the party
suspected they should soon see him on a visit there. To that
expectation they in great measure attributed Miss Milner’s visible
content.



CHAPTER XI.


With this party Miss Milner arrived at her country house, and for near
six weeks, all around was the picture of tranquillity; her satisfaction
was as evident as every other person’s; and all severe admonition being
at this time unnecessary, either to exhort her to her duty, or to warn
her against her folly, she was even in perfect good humour with Miss
Fenton, and added friendship to hospitality.

Mr. Sandford, who came with Lord Elmwood to the neighbouring seat,
about a week after the arrival of Miss Milner at her’s, was so
scrupulously exact in the observance of his word, “_Never to enter a
house of Miss Milner’s,_” that he would not even call upon his friend
Dorriforth there—but in their walks, and at Lord Elmwood’s, the two
parties would occasionally join, and of course Sandford and she at
those times met—yet so distant was the reserve on either side, that not
a single word upon any occasion was ever exchanged between them.

Miss Milner did not like Mr. Sandford; yet as there was no cause of
inveterate rancour, admiring him too as a man who meant well, and being
besides of a most forgiving temper, she frequently felt concerned that
he did not speak to her, although it had been to find fault as
usual—and one morning as they were all, after a long ramble, drawing
towards her house, where Lord Elmwood was invited to dine, she could
not restrain dropping a tear at seeing Sandford turn back and wish them
a “Good day.”

But though she had the generosity to forgive an affront, she had not
the humility to make a concession; and she foresaw that nothing less
than some very humble atonement on her part would prevail upon the
haughty priest to be reconciled. Dorriforth saw her concern upon this
last trifling occasion with a secret pleasure, and an admiration that
she had never before excited. She once insinuated to him to be a
mediator between them; but before any accommodation could take place,
the peace and composure of their abode were disturbed by the arrival of
Sir Edward Ashton at Lord Elmwood’s, where it appeared as if he had
been invited in order to pursue his matrimonial plan.

At a dinner given by Lord Elmwood, Sir Edward was announced as an
unexpected visitor; Miss Milner did not suppose him such, and she
turned pale when his name was uttered. Dorriforth fixed his eyes upon
her with some tokens of compassion, while Sandford seemed to exult, and
by his repeated “Welcomes” to the Baronet, gave proofs how much he was
rejoiced to see him. All the declining enmity of Miss Milner was
renewed at this behaviour, and suspecting Sandford as the instigator of
the visit, she could not overcome her displeasure, but gave way to it
in a manner she thought the most mortifying. Sir Edward, in the course
of conversation, enquired “What neighbours were in the country;” and
she, with an appearance of high satisfaction, named Lord Frederick
Lawnly as being hourly expected at his uncle’s. The colour spread over
Sir Edward’s face—Dorriforth was confounded—and Mr. Sandford looked
enraged.

“Did Lord Frederick tell _you_ he should be down?” Sandford asked of
Dorriforth.

To which he replied, “No.”

“But I hope, Mr. Sandford, you will permit _me_ to know?” said Miss
Milner. For as she now meant to torment him by what she said, she no
longer constrained herself to silence—and as he harboured the same kind
intention towards her, he had no longer any objection to make a reply,
and therefore answered,

“No, madam, if it depended upon my permission, you should _not_ know.”

“Not _any thing_, Sir, I dare say; you would keep me in utter
ignorance.”

“I would.”

“From a self-interested motive, Mr. Sandford—that I might have a
greater respect for you.”

Some of the company laughed—Mrs. Horton coughed—Miss Woodley
blushed—Lord Elmwood sneered—Dorriforth frowned—and Miss Fenton looked
just as she did before.

The conversation was changed as soon as possible, and early in the
evening the party from Milner Lodge returned home.

Miss Milner had scarce left her dressing room, where she had been
taking off some part of her dress, when Dorriforth’s servant came to
acquaint her that his master was alone in his study, and begged to
speak with her. She felt herself tremble—she immediately experienced a
consciousness that she had not acted properly at Lord Elmwood’s; for
she felt a presentiment that her guardian was going to upbraid her, and
her heart whispered that he had never yet reproached her without a
cause.

Miss Woodley just then entered her apartment, and she found herself so
much a coward, as to propose that she should go with her, and aid her
with a word or two occasionally in her excuse.

“What you, my dear,” returned Miss Woodley, “who not three hours ago
had the courage to vindicate your own cause before a whole company, of
whom many were your adversaries; do _you_ want an advocate before your
guardian alone, who has ever treated you with tenderness?”

“It is that very tenderness which frightens me; which intimidates, and
strikes me dumb. Is it possible I can return impertinence to the
language and manners which Mr. Dorriforth uses? and as I am debarred
from that resource, what can I do but stand before him like a guilty
creature, acknowledging my faults.”

She again entreated her friend to go with her; but on a positive
refusal, from the impropriety of such an intrusion, she was obliged at
length to go by herself.

How much does the difference of exterior circumstances influence not
only the manners, but even the persons of some people! Miss Milner in
Lord Elmwood’s drawing room, surrounded by listeners, by admirers, (for
even her enemies could not look at her without admiration) animated
with approbation and applause—and Miss Milner, with no giddy observer
to give her actions a false éclat, destitute of all but her own
understanding, (which secretly condemns her) upon the point of
receiving censure from her guardian and friend, are two different
beings. Though still beautiful beyond description, she does not look
even in person the same. In the last-mentioned situation, she was
shorter in stature than in the former—she was paler—she was thinner—and
a very different contour presided over her whole air, and all her
features.

When she arrived at the door of the study, she opened it with a
trepidation she could hardly account for, and entered to Dorriforth the
altered woman she has been represented. His heart had taken the most
decided part against her, and his face had assumed the most severe
aspect of reproach; but her appearance gave an instantaneous change to
his whole mind, and countenance.

She halted, as if she feared to approach—he hesitated, as if he knew
not how to speak. Instead of the anger with which he was prepared to
begin, his voice involuntarily softened, and without knowing what he
said, he began,

“My dear Miss Milner.”—

She expected he was angry, and in her confusion his gentleness was lost
upon her. She imagined that what he said might be censure, and she
continued to tremble, though he repeatedly assured her, that he meant
only to advise, not upbraid her.

“For as to all those little disputes between Mr. Sandford and you,”
said he, “I should be partial if I blamed you more than him—indeed,
when you take the liberty to condemn him, his character makes the
freedom appear in a more serious light than when he complains of
you—and yet, if he provokes your retorts, he alone must answer for
them; nor will I undertake to decide betwixt you. But I have a question
to ask you, and to which I require a serious and unequivocal answer. Do
you expect Lord Frederick in the country?”

Without hesitation she replied, “I do.”

“One more question I have to ask, madam, and to which I expect a reply
equally unreserved. Is Lord Frederick the man you approve for your
husband?”

Upon this close interrogation she discovered an embarrassment, beyond
any she had ever yet betrayed, and faintly replied,

“No, he is not.”

“Your words tell me one thing,” answered Dorriforth, “but your looks
declare another—which am I to believe?”

“Which you please,” was her answer, while she discovered an insulted
dignity, that astonished, without convincing him.

“But then why encourage him to follow you hither, Miss Milner?”

“Why commit a thousand follies (she replied in tears) every hour of my
life?”

“You then promote the hopes of Lord Frederick without one serious
intention of completing them? This is a conduct against which it is my
duty to guard you, and you shall no longer deceive either him or
yourself. The moment he arrives, it is my resolution that you refuse to
see him, or consent to become his wife.”

In answer to the alternative thus offered, she appeared averse to both
propositions; and yet came to no explanation why; but left her guardian
at the end of the conference as much at a loss to decide upon her true
sentiments, as he was before he had thus seriously requested he might
be informed of them; but having stedfastly taken the resolution which
he had just communicated, he found that resolution a certain relief to
his mind.



CHAPTER XII.


Sir Edward Ashton, though not invited by Miss Milner, yet frequently
did himself the honour to visit her at her house; sometimes he
accompanied Lord Elmwood, at other times he came to see Dorriforth
alone, who generally introduced him to the ladies. But Sir Edward was
either so unwilling to give pain to the object of his love, or so
intimidated by her frowns, that he seldom addressed her with a single
word, except the usual compliments at entering, and retiring. This
apprehension of offending, without one hope of pleasing, had the most
awkward effect upon the manners of the worthy Baronet; and his
endeavours to insinuate himself into the affections of the woman he
loved, merely by not giving her offence either in speaking to her or
looking at her, formed a character so whimsical, that it frequently
forced a smile from Miss Milner, though his very name had often power
to throw a gloom over her face: she looked upon him as the cause of her
being hurried to the election of a lover, before her own mind could
well direct her where to fix. Besides, his pursuit was troublesome,
while it was no triumph to her vanity, which by the addresses of Lord
Frederick, was in the highest manner gratified.

His Lordship now arrives in the country, and calls one morning at Miss
Milner’s; her guardian sees his carriage coming up the avenue, and
gives orders to the servants, to say their lady is not at home, but
that Mr. Dorriforth is: Lord Frederick leaves his compliments and goes
away.

The ladies all observed his carriage and servants. Miss Milner flew to
her glass, adjusted her dress, and in her looks expressed every sign of
palpitation—but in vain she keeps her eye fixed upon the door of the
apartment; no Lord Frederick appears.

After some minutes of expectation, the door opens and her guardian
comes in;—she was disappointed; he perceived that she was, and he
looked at her with a most serious face;—she immediately called to mind
the assurance he had given her, “That her acquaintance with Lord
Frederick in its then improper state should not continue,” and between
chagrin and confusion, she was at a loss how to behave.

Though the ladies were all present, Dorriforth said, without the
smallest reserve, “Perhaps, Miss Milner, you may think I have taken an
unwarrantable liberty, in giving orders to your servants to deny you to
Lord Frederick; but until his Lordship and I have had a private
conference, or you condescend to declare your sentiments more fully in
regard to his visits, I think it my duty to put an end to them.”

“You will always perform your duty, Mr. Dorriforth, I have no doubt,
whether I concur or not.”

“Yet believe me, madam, I should perform it more cheerfully, if I could
hope that it was sanctioned by your inclinations.”

“I am not mistress of my inclinations, Sir, or they should conform to
yours.”

“Place them under my direction, and I will answer for it they will.”

A servant came in—“Lord Frederick is returned, Sir, and says he should
be glad to see you.”

“Shew him into the study,” cried Dorriforth hastily, and rising from
his chair, left the room.

“I hope they won’t quarrel,” said Mrs. Horton, meaning, that she
thought they would.

“I am sorry to see you so uneasy, Miss Milner,” said Miss Fenton, with
perfect unconcern.

As the badness of the weather had prevented their usual morning’s
exercise, the ladies were employed at their needles till the dinner
bell called them away. “Do you think Lord Frederick is gone?” then
whispered Miss Milner to Miss Woodley.—“I think not,” she replied.—“Go
ask of the servants, dear creature.” And Miss Woodley went out of the
room. She soon returned and said, apart, “He is now getting into his
chariot; I saw him pass in violent haste through the hall; he seemed to
fly.”

“Ladies, the dinner is waiting,” cried Mrs. Horton, and they repaired
to the dining room, where Dorriforth soon after came, and engrossed
their whole attention by his disturbed looks, and unusual silence.
Before dinner was over, he was, however, more himself, but still he
appeared thoughtful and dissatisfied. At the time of their evening walk
he excused himself from accompanying them, and they saw him in a
distant field with Mr. Sandford in earnest conversation; for Sandford
and he often stopped on one spot for a quarter of an hour, as if the
interest of the subject had so engaged them, they stood still without
knowing it. Lord Elmwood, who had joined the ladies, walked home with
them; Dorriforth entered soon after, in a much less gloomy humour than
when he went out, and told his relation, that he and the ladies would
dine with him the next day if he was disengaged; and it was agreed they
should.

Still Dorriforth was in some perturbation, but the immediate cause was
concealed till the day following, when, about an hour before the
company’s departure from the Castle, Miss Milner and Miss Woodley were
desired, by a servant, to walk into a separate apartment, in which they
found Mr. Dorriforth with Mr. Sandford waiting for them. Her guardian
made an apology to Miss Milner for the form, the ceremony, of which he
was going to make use; but he trusted, the extreme weight which
oppressed his mind, lest he should mistake the real sentiments of a
person whose happiness depended upon his correct knowledge of them,
would plead his excuse.

“I know, Miss Milner,” continued he, “the world in general allows to
unmarried women great latitude in disguising their mind with respect to
the man they love. I too, am willing to pardon any little dissimulation
that is but consistent with a modesty that becomes every woman upon the
subject of marriage. But here, to what point I may limit, or you may
extend, this kind of venial deceit, may so widely differ, that it is
not impossible for me to remain unacquainted with your sentiments, even
after you have revealed them to me. Under this consideration, I wish
once more to hear your thoughts in regard to matrimony, and to hear
them before one of your own sex, that I may form an opinion by her
constructions.”

To all this serious oration, Miss Milner made no other reply than by
turning to Mr. Sandford, and asking, “If he was the person of her own
sex, to whose judgment her guardian was to submit his own?”

“Madam,” cried Sandford angrily, “you are come hither upon serious
business.”

“Any business must be serious to me, Mr. Sandford, in which you are
concerned; and if you had called it _sorrowful_, the epithet would have
suited as well.”

“Miss Milner,” said her guardian, “I did not bring you here to contend
with Mr. Sandford.”

“Then why, Sir, bring him hither? for where he and I are, there must be
contention.”

“I brought him hither, Madam, or I should rather say, brought you to
this house, merely that he might be present on this occasion, and with
his discernment relieve me from a suspicion, that my own judgment is
neither able to suppress nor to confirm.”

“Are there any more witnesses you may wish to call in, Sir, to remove
your doubts of my veracity? if there are, pray send for them before you
begin your interrogations.”

He shook his head—she continued.

“The whole world is welcome to hear what I say, and every different
person is welcome to judge me differently.”

“Dear Miss Milner,”—cried Miss Woodley, with a tone of reproach for the
vehemence with which she had spoken.

“Perhaps, Miss Milner,” said Dorriforth, “you will not now reply to
those questions I was going to put?”

“Did I ever refuse, Sir,” returned she with a self-approving air, “to
comply with any request that you have seriously made? Have I ever
refused obedience to your commands whenever you thought proper to lay
them upon me? If not, you have no right to suppose that I will do so
now.”

He was going to reply, when Mr. Sandford sullenly interrupted him, and
making towards the door, cried, “When you come to the point for which
you brought me here, send for me again.”

“Stay now,” said Dorriforth. “And Miss Milner,” continued he, “I not
only entreat, but command you to tell me—have you given your word, or
your affections to Lord Frederick Lawnly?”

The colour spread over her face, and she replied—“I thought confessions
were always to be in secret; however, as I am not a member of your
church, I submit to the persecution of a heretic, and I answer—Lord
Frederick has neither my word, nor any share in my affections.”

Sandford, Dorriforth, and Miss Woodley looked at each other with a
degree of surprise that for some time kept them silent. At length
Dorriforth said, “And it is your firm intention never to become his
wife?”

To which she answered—“At present it is.”

“At present! do you suspect you shall change your sentiments?”

“Women sometimes do.”

“But before that change can take place, your acquaintance will be at an
end: for it is that which I shall next insist upon, and to which you
can have no objection.”

She replied, “I had rather it should continue.”

“On what account?” cried Dorriforth.

“Because it entertains me.”

“For shame, for shame!” returned he; “it endangers your character and
your happiness. Yet again, do not suffer me to interfere, if the
breaking with Lord Frederick can militate against your felicity.”

“By no means,” she answered; “Lord Frederick makes part of my
amusement, but could never constitute my felicity.”

“Miss Woodley,” said Dorriforth, “do you comprehend your friend in the
same literal and unequivocal sense that I do?”

“Certainly I do, Sir.”

“And pray, Miss Woodley,” said he, “were those the sentiments which you
have always entertained?”

Miss Woodley hesitated—he continued. “Or has this conversation altered
them?”

She hesitated again, then answered—“This conversation has altered
them.”

“And yet you confide in it!” cried Sandford, looking at her with
contempt.

“Certainly I do,” replied Miss Woodley.

“Do not you then, Mr. Sandford?” asked Dorriforth.

“I would advise you to act as if I did,” replied Sandford.

“Then, Miss Milner,” said Dorriforth, “you see Lord Frederick no
more—and I hope I have your permission to apprize him of this
arrangement.”

“You have, Sir,” she replied with a completely unembarrassed
countenance and voice.

Her friend looked at her as if to discover some lurking wish, adverse
to all these protestations, but she could not discern one. Sandford too
fixed his penetrating eyes upon her, as if he would look through her
soul, but finding it perfectly composed, he cried out,

“Why then not write his dismission herself, and save you, Mr.
Dorriforth, the trouble of any farther contest with him?”

“Indeed, Miss Milner,” said Dorriforth, “that would oblige me; for it
is with great reluctance that I meet him upon this subject—he was
extremely impatient and importunate when he was last with me—he took
advantage of my ecclesiastical situation to treat me with a levity and
ill breeding, that I could ill have suffered upon any other
consideration than a compliance with my duty.”

“Dictate what you please, Mr. Dorriforth, and I will write it,” said
she, with a warmth like the most unaffected inclination. “And while
you, Sir,” she continued, “are so indulgent as not to distress me with
the importunities of any gentleman to whom I am averse, I think myself
equally bound to rid you of the impertinence of every one to whom you
may have objection.”

“But,” answered he, “rest assured I have no material objection to my
Lord Frederick, except from that dilemma, in which your acquaintance
with him has involved us all; and I should conceive the same against
any other man, where the same circumstance occurred. As you have now,
however, freely and politely consented to the manner in which it has
been proposed that you shall break with him, I will not trouble you a
moment longer upon a subject on which I have so frequently explained my
wishes, but conclude it by assuring you, that your ready acquiescence
has given me the sincerest satisfaction.”

“I hope, Mr. Sandford,” said she, turning to him with a smile, “I have
given _you_ satisfaction likewise?”

Sandford could not say yes, and was ashamed to say no; he, therefore,
made answer only by his looks, which were full of suspicion. She,
notwithstanding, made him a very low courtesy. Her guardian then handed
her out of the apartment into her coach, which was waiting to take her,
Miss Woodley, and himself, home.



CHAPTER XIII.


Notwithstanding the seeming readiness with which Miss Milner had
resigned all farther acquaintance with Lord Frederick, during the short
ride home she appeared to have lost great part of her wonted spirits;
she was thoughtful, and once sighed heavily. Dorriforth began to fear
that she had not only made a sacrifice of her affections, but of her
veracity; yet, why she had done so, he could not comprehend.

As the carriage moved slowly through a lane between Elmwood Castle and
her own house, on casting her eyes out of the window, Miss Milner’s
countenance was brightened in an instant, and that instant Lord
Frederick, on horse-back, was at the coach door, and the coachman
stopped.

“Oh, Miss Milner,” cried he, (with a voice and manner that could give
little suspicion of the truth of what he said) “I am overjoyed at the
happiness of seeing you, even though it is but an accidental meeting.”

She was evidently glad to see _him_; but the earnestness with which he
spoke, put her upon her guard not to express the like, and she said, in
a cool constrained manner, she “Was glad to see his Lordship.”

The reserve with which she spoke, gave Lord Frederick immediate
suspicion who was in the coach with her, and turning his head quickly,
he met the stern eye of Dorriforth; upon which, without the smallest
salutation, he turned from him again abruptly and rudely. Miss Milner
was confused, and Miss Woodley in torture, at this palpable affront, to
which Dorriforth alone appeared indifferent.

“Go on,” said Miss Milner to the footman, “desire the coachman to drive
on.”

“No,” cried Lord Frederick, “not till you have told me when I shall see
you again.”

“I will write you word, my Lord,” replied she, something alarmed. “You
shall have a letter immediately after I get home.”

As if he guessed what its contents were to be, he cried out with
warmth, “Take care, then, Madam, how you treat me in that letter—and
you, Mr. Dorriforth,” turning to him, “do you take care what it
contains; for if it is dictated by you, to you I shall send the
answer.”

Dorriforth, without making any reply, or casting a look at him, put his
head out of the window on the opposite side, and called, in a very
angry tone, to the coachman, “How dare you not drive on, when your Lady
orders you?”

The sound of Dorriforth’s voice in anger, was to the servants so
unusual, that it acted like electricity upon the man, and he drove on
at the instant with such rapidity, that Lord Frederick was in a moment
left many yards behind. As soon, however, as he recovered from the
surprise into which this sudden command had thrown him, he rode with
speed after the carriage, and followed it, till it arrived at the door
of Miss Milner’s house; there, giving himself up to the rage of love,
or to rage against Dorriforth for the contempt he had shewn to him, he
leaped from his horse when Miss Milner stepped from her carriage, and
seizing her hand, entreated her “Not to desert him, in compliance with
the injunctions of monkish hypocrisy.”

Dorriforth heard this, standing silently by, with a manly scorn upon
his countenance.

Miss Milner struggled to loose her hand, saying, “Excuse me from
replying to you now, my Lord.”

In return, he lifted her hand eagerly to his lips, and began to devour
it with kisses; when Dorriforth, with an instantaneous impulse, rushed
forward, and struck him a violent blow in the face. Under the force of
this assault, and the astonishment it excited, Lord Frederick
staggered, and letting fall the hand of Miss Milner, her guardian
immediately laid hold of it, and led her into the house.

She was terrified beyond description; and with extreme difficulty Mr.
Dorriforth conveyed her to her own chamber, without taking her in his
arms. When, by the assistance of her maid, he had placed her upon a
sofa—covered with shame and confusion for what he had done, he fell
upon his knees before her, and earnestly “Entreated her forgiveness for
the indelicacy he had been guilty of in her presence.” And that he had
alarmed her, and had forgot the respect which he thought sacredly her
due, seemed the only circumstance which then dwelt upon his thoughts.

She felt the indecorum of the posture he had condescended to take, and
was shocked. To see her guardian at her feet, struck her with a sense
of impropriety, as if she had seen a parent there. All agitation and
emotion, she implored him to rise, and, with a thousand protestations,
declared, “That she thought the rashness of the action was the highest
proof of his regard for her.”

Miss Woodley now entered; her care being ever employed upon the
unfortunate, Lord Frederick had been the object of it: she had waited
by his side, and, with every good purpose, had preached patience to
him, while he was smarting under the pain, but more under the shame, of
his chastisement. At first, his fury threatened a retort upon the
servants around him (and who refused his entrance into the house) of
the punishment he had received. But, in the certainty of an _amende
honorable_, which must hereafter be made, he overcame the many
temptations which the moment offered, and re-mounting his horse rode
away from the scene of his disgrace.

No sooner had Miss Woodley entered the room, and Dorriforth had
resigned to her the care of his ward, than he flew to the spot where he
had left Lord Frederick, negligent of what might be the event if he
still remained there. After enquiring, and being told that he was gone,
Dorriforth returned to his own apartment; and with a bosom torn by more
excruciating sensations than those which he had given to his adversary.

The reflection that struck him first with remorse, as he shut the door
upon himself, was:—“I have departed from my character—from the sacred
character, and the dignity of my profession and sentiments—I have
departed from myself. I am no longer the philosopher, but the ruffian—I
have treated with an unpardonable insult a young nobleman, whose only
offence was love, and a fond desire to insinuate himself into the
favour of his mistress. I must atone for this outrage in whatever
manner he may choose; and the law of honour and of justice (though in
this one instance contrary to the law of religion) enjoins, that if he
demands my life in satisfaction for his wounded feelings, it is his
due. Alas! that I could have laid it down this morning, unsullied with
a cause for which it will make but inadequate atonement.”

His next reproach was—“I have offended and filled with horror, a
beautiful young woman, whom it was my duty to have protected from those
brutal manners, to which I myself have exposed her.”

Again—“I have drawn upon myself the just upbraidings of my faithful
preceptor and friend; of the man in whose judgment it was my delight to
be approved—above all, I have drawn upon myself the stings of my
conscience.”

“Where shall I pass this sleepless night?” cried he, walking repeatedly
across his chamber; “Can I go to the ladies? I am unworthy of their
society. Shall I go and repose my disturbed mind on Sandford? I am
ashamed to tell him the cause of my uneasiness. Shall I go to Lord
Frederick, and humbling myself before him, beg his forgiveness? He
would spurn me for a coward. No”——(and he lifted up his eyes to Heaven)
“Thou all great, all wise and omnipotent Being, Thou whom I have most
offended, it is to Thee alone that I have recourse in this hour of
tribulation, and from Thee alone I solicit comfort. And the confidence
in which I now address myself to Thee, encouraged by that long
intercourse which religion has effected, repays me amply in this one
moment, for the many years of my past life devoted with my best, though
imperfect, efforts to thy service.”



CHAPTER XIV.


Although Miss Milner had not foreseen any fatal event resulting from
the indignity offered to Lord Frederick, yet she passed a night very
different from those to which she had been accustomed. No sooner was
she falling into a sleep, than a thousand vague, but distressing, ideas
darted across her imagination. Her heart would sometimes whisper to her
when she was half asleep, “Lord Frederick is banished from you for
ever.” She shakes off the uneasiness this idea brings along with it—she
then starts, and sees the blow still aimed at him by Dorriforth. No
sooner has she driven away this painful image, than she is again
awakened by beholding her guardian at her feet sueing for pardon. She
sighs, she trembles, and is chilled with terror.

Relieved by tears, towards the morning she sinks into a slumber, but
waking, finds the same images crowding all together upon her mind: she
is doubtful to which to give the preference—one, however, rushes the
foremost, and continues so. She knows not the fatal consequence of
ruminating, nor why she dwells upon that, more than upon all the rest,
but it will give place to none.

She rises languid and disordered, and at breakfast, adds fresh pain to
Dorriforth by her altered appearance.

He had scarce left the room, when an officer waited upon him with a
challenge from Lord Frederick. To the message delivered by this
gentleman, he replied,

“Sir, as a clergyman, more especially of the church of Rome, I know not
whether I am not exempt from answering a demand of this kind; but not
having had forbearance to avoid an offence, I will not claim an
exemption that would only indemnify me from making reparation.”

“You will then, Sir, meet Lord Frederick at the appointed hour?” said
the officer.

“I will, Sir; and my immediate care shall be to find a gentleman who
will accompany me.”

The officer withdrew, and when Dorriforth was again alone, he was going
once more to reflect, but he durst not. Since yesterday, reflection,
for the first time, was become painful to him; and even as he rode the
short way to Lord Elmwood’s immediately after, he found his own
thoughts were so insufferable, that he was obliged to enter into
conversation with his servant. Solitude, that formerly charmed him,
would, at those moments, have been worse than death.

At Lord Elmwood’s, he met Sandford in the hall, and the sight of him
was no longer welcome—he knew how different the principles which he had
just adopted were to those of that reverend friend, and without his
complaining, or even suspecting what had happened, his presence was a
sufficient reproach. He passed him as hastily as he could, and
enquiring for Lord Elmwood, disclosed to him his errand. It was to ask
him to be his second;—the young Earl started, and wished to consult his
tutor, but that, his kinsman strictly forbade; and having urged his
reasons with arguments, which at least _he_ could not refute, he was at
length prevailed upon to promise that he would accompany him to the
field, which was at the distance only of a few miles, and the parties
were to be there at seven on the same evening.

As soon as his business with Lord Elmwood was settled, Dorriforth
returned home, to make preparations for the event which might ensue
from this meeting. He wrote letters to several of his friends, and one
to his ward, in writing which, he could with difficulty preserve the
usual firmness of his mind. Sandford going into Lord Elmwood’s library
soon after his relation had left him, expressed his surprise at finding
he was gone; upon which that nobleman having answered a few questions,
and given a few significant hints that he was entrusted with a secret,
frankly confessed, what he had promised to conceal.

Sandford, as much as a holy man could be, was enraged at Dorriforth for
the cause of the challenge, but was still more enraged at his
wickedness in accepting it. He applauded his pupil’s virtue in making
the discovery, and congratulated himself that he should be the
instrument of saving not only his friend’s life, but of preventing the
scandal of his being engaged in a duel.

In the ardour of his designs, he went immediately to Miss
Milner’s—entered that house which he had so long refused to enter, and
at a time when he was upon aggravated bad terms with its owner.

He asked for Dorriforth, went hastily into his apartment, and poured
upon him a torrent of rebukes. Dorriforth bore all he said with the
patience of a devotee, but with the firmness of a man. He owned his
fault, but no eloquence could make him recall the promise he had given
to repair the injury. Unshaken by the arguments, persuasions, and
menaces of Sandford, he gave an additional proof of that inflexibility
for which he had been long distinguished—and after a dispute of two
hours, they parted, neither of them the better for what either had
advanced, but Dorriforth something the worse; his conscience gave
testimony to Sandford’s opinion, “that he was bound by ties more sacred
than worldly honour.” But while he owned, he would not yield to the
duty.

Sandford left him, determined, however, that Lord Elmwood should not be
accessory in his guilt, and this he declared; upon which Dorriforth
took the resolution of seeking another second.

In passing through the house on his return home, Sandford met, by
accident, Mrs. Horton, Miss Milner, and the other two ladies returning
from a saunter in the garden. Surprised at the sight of Mr. Sandford in
her house, Miss Milner would not express that surprise, but going up to
him with all the friendly benevolence which in general played about her
heart, she took hold of one of his hands, and pressed it with a
kindness which told him more forcibly that he was welcome, than if she
had made the most elaborate speech to convince him of it. He, however,
seemed little touched with her behaviour, and as an excuse for breaking
his word, cried,

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I was brought hither in my anxiety to
prevent murder.”

“Murder!” exclaimed all the ladies.

“Yes,” answered he, addressing himself to Miss Fenton, “your betrothed
husband is a party concerned; he is going to be second to Mr.
Dorriforth, who means this very evening to be killed by my Lord
Frederick, or to kill him, in addition to the blow that he gave him
last night.”

Mrs. Horton exclaimed, “if Mr. Dorriforth dies, he dies a martyr.”

Miss Woodley cried with fervour, “Heaven forbid!”

Miss Fenton cried, “dear me!”

While Miss Milner, without uttering one word, sunk speechless on the
floor.

They lifted her up and brought her to the door which entered into the
garden. She soon recovered; for the tumult of her mind would not suffer
her to remain inactive, and she was rouzed, in spite of her weakness,
to endeavour to ward off the impending disaster. In vain, however, she
attempted to walk to her guardian’s apartment—she sunk as before, and
was taken to a settee, while Miss Woodley was dispatched to bring him
to her.

Informed of the cause of her indisposition, he followed Miss Woodley
with a tender anxiety for her health, and with grief and confusion that
he had so carelessly endangered it. On his entering the room Sandford
beheld the inquietude of his mind, and cried, “Here is your
_Guardian_,” with a cruel emphasis on the word.

He was too much engaged by the sufferings of his ward to reply to
Sandford. He placed himself on the settee by her, and with the utmost
tenderness, reverence, and pity, entreated her not to be concerned at
an accident in which he, and he alone, had been to blame; but which he
had no doubt would be accommodated in the most amicable manner.

“I have one favour to require of you, Mr. Dorriforth,” said she, “and
that is, your promise, your solemn promise, which I know is ever
sacred, that you will not meet my Lord Frederick.”

He hesitated.

“Oh, Madam,” cried Sandford, “he is grown a libertine now, and I would
not believe his word, if he were to give it you.”

“Then, Sir,” returned Dorriforth angrily, “you _may_ believe my word,
for I will keep that which I gave to _you_. I will give Lord Frederick
all the restitution in my power. But my dear Miss Milner, let not this
alarm you; we may not find it convenient to meet this many a day; and
most probably some fortunate explanation may prevent our meeting at
all. If not, reckon but among the many duels that are fought, how few
are fatal: and even in that case, how small would be the loss to
society, if——” He was proceeding.

“I should ever deplore the loss!” cried Miss Milner; “on such an
occasion, I could not survive the death of either.”

“For my part,” he replied, “I look upon my life as much forfeited to my
Lord Frederick, to whom I have given a high offence, as it might in
other instances have been forfeited to the offended laws of the land.
Honour, is the law of the polite part of the land; we know it; and when
we transgress against it knowingly, we justly incur our punishment.
However, Miss Milner, this affair will not be settled immediately, and
I have no doubt, but that all will be as you could wish. Do you think I
should appear thus easy,” added he with a smile, “if I were going to be
shot at by my Lord Frederick?”

“Very well!” cried Sandford, with a look that evinced he was better
informed.

“You will stay within then, all this day?” said Miss Milner.

“I am engaged to dinner,” he replied; “it is unlucky—I am sorry for
it—but I’ll be at home early in the evening.”

“Stained with human blood,” cried Sandford, “or yourself a corpse.”

The ladies lifted up their hands!—Miss Milner rose from her seat, and
threw herself at her guardian’s feet.

“You kneeled to me last night, I now kneel to you,” (she cried) “kneel,
never desiring to rise again, if you persist in your intention. I am
weak, I am volatile, I am indiscreet, but I have a heart from which
some impressions can never—oh! never, be erased.”

He endeavoured to raise her, she persisted to kneel—and here the
affright, the terror, the anguish, she endured, discovered to her, her
own sentiments—which, till that moment, she had doubted—and she
continued,

“I no longer pretend to conceal my passion—I love Lord Frederick
Lawnly.”

Her guardian started.

“Yes, to my shame I love him:” (cried she, all emotion) “I meant to
have struggled with the weakness, because I supposed it would be
displeasing to you—but apprehension for his safety has taken away every
power of restraint, and I beseech you to spare his life.”

“This is exactly what I thought,” cried Sandford, with an air of
triumph.

“Good heaven!” cried Miss Woodley.

“But it is very natural,” said Mrs. Horton.

“I own,” said Dorriforth, (struck with amaze, and now taking her from
his feet with a force that she could not resist) “I own, Miss Milner, I
am greatly affected and wounded at this contradiction in your
character.”—

“But did not I say so?” cried Sandford, interrupting him.

“However,” continued he, “you may take my word, though you have
deceived me in your’s, that Lord Frederick’s life is secure. For your
sake, I would not endanger it for the universe. But let this be a
warning to you”——

He was proceeding with the most austere looks, and pointed language,
when observing the shame, and the self-reproach that agitated her mind,
he divested himself in great measure of his resentment, and said,
mildly,

“Let this be a warning to you, how you deal in future with the friends
who wish you well. You have hurried me into a mistake that might have
cost me my life, or the life of the man you love; and thus exposed
_you_ to misery, more bitter than death.”

“I am not worthy of your friendship, Mr. Dorriforth,” said she, sobbing
with grief, “and from this moment forsake me.”

“No, Madam, not in the moment you first discover to me, how I can make
you happy.”

The conversation appearing now to become of a nature in which the rest
of the company could have no share whatever, they were all, except Mr.
Sandford, retiring; when Miss Milner called Miss Woodley back, saying,
“Stay you with me; I was never so unfit to be left without your
friendship.”

“Perhaps at present you can dispense with mine?” said Dorriforth. She
made no answer. He then, once more assured her Lord Frederick’s life
was safe, and was quitting the room—but when he recollected in what
humiliation he had left her, turning towards her as he opened the door,
he added,

“And be assured, Madam, that my esteem for you, shall be _the same as
ever_.”

Sandford, as he followed him, bowed, and repeated the same words—“And,
Madam, be assured that my esteem for you, shall be the same as ever.”



CHAPTER XV.


This taunting reproof from Sandford made little impression upon Miss
Milner, whose thoughts were all fixed on a subject of much more
importance than the opinion which he entertained of her. She threw her
arms about her friend the moment they were left alone, and asked, with
anxiety, “What she thought of her behaviour?” Miss Woodley, who could
not approve of the duplicity she had betrayed, still wished to
reconcile her as much as possible to her own conduct, and replied, she
“Highly commended the frankness with which she had, at last,
acknowledged her sentiments.”

“Frankness!” cried Miss Milner, starting. “Frankness, my dear Miss
Woodley! What you have just now heard me say, is all a falsehood.”

“How, Miss Milner!”

“Oh, Miss Woodley,” returned she, sobbing upon her bosom, “pity the
agonies of my heart, my heart, by nature sincere, when such are the
fatal propensities it cherishes, that I must submit to the grossest
falsehoods rather than reveal the truth.”

“What can you mean?” cried Miss Woodley, with the strongest amazement
in her face.

“Do you suppose I love Lord Frederick? Do you suppose I _can_ love him?
Oh fly, and prevent my guardian from telling him such an untruth.”

“What can you mean?” repeated Miss Woodley; “I protest you terrify me.”
For this inconsistency in the behaviour of Miss Milner, appeared as if
her senses had been deranged.

“Fly,” she resumed, “and prevent the inevitable ill consequence which
will ensue, if Lord Frederick should be told this falsehood. It will
involve us all in greater disquiet than we suffer at present.”

“Then what has influenced you, my dear Miss Milner?”

“That which impels all my actions—an unsurmountable instinct—a
fatality, that will for ever render me the most miserable of human
beings; and yet you, even you, my dear Miss Woodley, will not pity me.”

Miss Woodley pressed her closely in her arms, and vowed, “That while
she was unhappy, from whatever cause, she still would pity her.”

“Go to Mr. Dorriforth then, and prevent him from imposing upon Lord
Frederick.”

“But that imposition is the only means of preventing the duel,” replied
Miss Woodley. “The moment I have told him that your affection was but
counterfeited, he will no longer refuse accepting the challenge.”

“Then at all events I am undone,” exclaimed Miss Milner, “for the duel
is horrible, even beyond every thing else.”

“How so?” returned Miss Woodley, “since you have declared you do not
care for Lord Frederick?”

“But are you so blind,” returned Miss Milner with a degree of madness
in her looks, “as to believe I do not care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh! Miss
Woodley! I love him with all the passion of a mistress, and with all
the tenderness of a wife.”

Miss Woodley at this sentence sat down—it was on a chair that was close
to her—her feet could not have taken her to any other. She trembled—she
was white as ashes, and deprived of speech. Miss Milner, taking her by
the hand, said,

“I know what you feel—I know what you think of me—and how much you hate
and despise me. But Heaven is witness to all my struggles—nor would I,
even to myself, acknowledge the shameless prepossession, till forced by
a sense of his danger”——

“Silence,” cried Miss Woodley, struck with horror.

“And even now,” resumed Miss Milner, “have I not concealed it from all
but you, by plunging myself into a new difficulty, from which I know
not how I shall be extricated? And do I entertain a hope? No, Miss
Woodley, nor ever will. But suffer me to own my folly to you—to entreat
your soothing friendship to free me from my weakness. And, oh! give me
your advice, to deliver me from the difficulties which surround me.”

Miss Woodley was still pale, and still silent.

Education, is called second nature; in the strict (but not enlarged)
education of Miss Woodley, it was more powerful than the first—and the
violation of oaths, persons, or things consecrated to Heaven, was, in
her opinion, if not the most enormous, yet among the most terrific in
the catalogue of crimes.

Miss Milner had lived so long in a family who had imbibed those
opinions, that she was convinced of their existence; nay, her own
reason told her that solemn vows of every kind, ought to be sacred; and
the more she respected her guardian’s understanding, the less did she
call in question his religious tenets—in esteeming him, she esteemed
all his notions; and among the rest, venerated those of his religion.
Yet that passion, which had unhappily taken possession of her whole
soul, would not have been inspired, had there not subsisted an early
difference, in their systems of divine faith. Had she been early taught
what were the sacred functions of a Roman ecclesiastic, though all her
esteem, all her admiration, had been attracted by the qualities and
accomplishments of her guardian, yet education, would have given such a
prohibition to her love, that she would have been precluded from it, as
by that barrier which divides a sister from a brother.

This, unfortunately, was not the case; and Miss Milner loved Dorriforth
without one conscious check to tell her she was wrong, except that
which convinced her—her love would be avoided by him with detestation,
and with horror.

Miss Woodley, something recovered from her first surprise, and
sufferings—for never did her susceptible mind suffer so
exquisitely—amidst all her grief and abhorrence, felt that pity was
still predominant—and reconciled to the faults of Miss Milner by her
misery, she once more looked at her with friendship, and asked, “What
she could do to render her less unhappy?”

“Make me forget,” replied Miss Milner, “every moment of my life since I
first saw you—that moment was teeming with a weight of cares, under
which I must labour till my death.”

“And even in death,” replied Miss Woodley, “do not hope to shake them
off. If unrepented in this world”——

She was proceeding—but the anxiety her friend endured, would not suffer
her to be free from the apprehension, that, notwithstanding the
positive assurance of her guardian, if he and Lord Frederick should
meet, the duel might still take place; she therefore rang the bell and
enquired if Mr. Dorriforth was still at home?—the answer was—“He had
rode out. You remember,” said Miss Woodley, “he told you he should dine
from home.” This did not, however, dismiss her fears, and she
dispatched two servants different ways in pursuit of him, acquainting
them with her suspicions, and charging them to prevent the duel.
Sandford had also taken his precautions; but though he knew the time,
he did not know the exact place of their appointment, for that Lord
Elmwood had forgot to enquire.

The excessive alarm which Miss Milner discovered upon this occasion,
was imputed by the servants, and by others who were witnesses of it, to
her affection for Lord Frederick; while none but Miss Woodley knew, or
had the most distant suspicion of the real cause.

Mrs. Horton and Miss Fenton, who were sitting together expatiating on
the duplicity of their own sex in the instance just before them, had,
notwithstanding the interest of the discourse, a longing desire to
break it off; for they were impatient to see this poor frail being whom
they were loading with their censure. They longed to see if she would
have the confidence to look them in the face: them, to whom she had so
often protested, that she had not the smallest attachment to Lord
Frederick, but from motives of vanity.

These ladies heard with infinite satisfaction that dinner had been
served, but met Miss Milner at the table with a less degree of pleasure
than they had expected; for her mind was so totally abstracted from any
consideration of _them_, that they could not discern a single blush, or
confused glance, which their presence occasioned. No, she had before
them divulged nothing of which she was ashamed; she was only ashamed
that what she had said was not true. In the bosom of Miss Woodley alone
was that secret entrusted which could call a blush into her face, and
before her, she _did_ feel confusion—before the gentle friend, to whom
she had till this time communicated all her faults without
embarrassment, she now cast down her eyes in shame.

Soon after the dinner was removed, Lord Elmwood entered; and that
gallant young nobleman declared—“Mr. Sandford had used him ill, in not
permitting him to accompany his relation; for he feared that Mr.
Dorriforth would now throw himself upon the sword of Lord Frederick,
without a single friend near to defend him.” A rebuke from the eye of
Miss Woodley, which from this day had a command over Miss Milner,
restrained her from expressing the affright she suffered from this
intimation. Miss Fenton replied, “As to that, my Lord, I see no reason
why Mr. Dorriforth and Lord Frederick should not now be friends.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Horton; “for as soon as my Lord Frederick is
made acquainted with Miss Milner’s confession, all differences must be
reconciled.”

“What confession?” asked Lord Elmwood.

Miss Milner, to avoid hearing a repetition of that which gave her pain
even to recollect, rose in order to retire into her own apartment, but
was obliged to sit down again, till she received the assistance of Lord
Elmwood and her friend, who led her into her dressing room. She
reclined upon a sofa there, and though left alone with that friend, a
silence followed of half an hour; nor when the conversation began, was
the name of Dorriforth once uttered—they were grown cool and
considerate since the discovery, and both were equally fearful of
naming him.

The vanity of the world, the folly of riches, the charms of retirement,
and such topics engaged their discourse, but not their thoughts, for
near two hours; and the first time the word Dorriforth was spoken, was
by a servant, who with alacrity opened the dressing room door, without
previously rapping, and cried, “Madam, Mr. Dorriforth.”

Dorriforth immediately came in, and went eagerly to Miss Milner. Miss
Woodley beheld the glow of joy and of guilt upon her face, and did not
rise to give him her seat, as was her custom, when she was sitting by
his ward and he came to her with intelligence. He therefore stood while
he repeated all that had happened in his interview with Lord Frederick.

But with her gladness to see her guardian safe, she had forgot to
enquire of the safety of his antagonist; of the man whom she had
pretended to love so passionately—even smiles of rapture were upon her
face, though Dorriforth might be returned from putting him to death.
This incongruity of behaviour Miss Woodley observed, and was
confounded—but Dorriforth, in whose thoughts a suspicion either of her
love for him, or indifference for Lord Frederick, had no place, easily
reconciled this inconsistency, and said,

“You see by my countenance that all is well, and therefore you smile on
me before I tell you what has passed.”

This brought her to the recollection of her conduct, and now with looks
ill constrained, she attempted the expression of an alarm she did not
feel.

“Nay, I assure you Lord Frederick is safe,” he resumed, “and the
disgrace of his blow washed entirely away, by a few drops of blood from
this arm.” And he laid his hand upon his left arm, which rested in his
waistcoat as a kind of sling.

She cast her eyes there, and seeing where the ball had entered the coat
sleeve, she gave an involuntary scream, and sunk upon the sofa. Instead
of that affectionate sympathy which Miss Woodley used to exert upon her
slightest illness or affliction, she now addressed her in an unpitying
tone, and said, “Miss Milner, you have heard Lord Frederick is safe,
you have therefore nothing to alarm you.” Nor did she run to hold a
smelling bottle, or to raise her head. Her guardian seeing her near
fainting, and without any assistance from her friend, was going himself
to give it; but on this, Miss Woodley interfered, and having taken her
head upon her arm, assured him, “It was a weakness to which Miss Milner
was accustomed: that she would ring for her maid, who knew how to
relieve her instantly with a few drops.” Satisfied with this,
Dorriforth left the room; and a surgeon being come to examine his
wound, he retired into his own chamber.



CHAPTER XVI.


The power delegated by the confidential to those entrusted with their
secrets, Miss Woodley was the last person on earth to abuse—but she was
also the last, who, by an accommodating complacency, would participate
in the guilt of her friend—and there was no guilt, except that of
murder, which she thought equal to the crime in question, if it was
ever perpetrated. Adultery, reason would perhaps have informed her, was
a more pernicious evil to society; but to a religious mind, what sound
is so horrible as _sacrilege_? Of vows made to God or to man, the
former must weigh the heaviest. Moreover, the sin of infidelity in the
married state, is not a little softened to common understandings, by
its frequency; whereas, of religious vows broken by a devotee she had
never heard; unless where the offence had been followed by such
examples of divine vengeance, such miraculous punishments in this
world, (as well as eternal punishment in the other) as served to
exaggerate the wickedness.

She, who could, and who did pardon Miss Milner, was the person who saw
her passion in the severest light, and resolved upon every method,
however harsh, to root it from her heart—nor did she fear success,
resting on the certain assurance, that however deep her love might be
fixed, it would never be returned. Yet this confidence did not prevent
her taking every precaution, lest Dorriforth should come to the
knowledge of it. She would not have his composed mind disturbed with
such a thought—his steadfast principles so much as shaken by the
imagination—nor overwhelm him with those self-reproaches which his
fatal attraction, unpremeditated as it was, would still have drawn upon
him.

With this plan of concealment, in which the natural modesty of Miss
Milner acquiesced, there was but one effort for which this unhappy ward
was not prepared; and that was an entire separation from her guardian.
She had, from the first, cherished her passion without the most remote
prospect of a return—she was prepared to see Dorriforth, without ever
seeing him more nearly connected to her than as her guardian and
friend; but not to see him at all—for _that_, she was not prepared.

But Miss Woodley reflected upon the inevitable necessity of this
measure before she made the proposal; and then made it with a firmness
that might have done honour to the inflexibility of Dorriforth himself.

During the few days that intervened between her open confession of a
passion for Lord Frederick and this proposed plan of separation, the
most intricate incoherence appeared in the character of Miss Milner—and
in order to evade a marriage with him, and conceal, at the same time,
the shameful propensity which lurked in her breast, she was once even
on the point of declaring a passion for Sir Edward Ashton.

In the duel which had taken place between Lord Frederick and
Dorriforth, the latter had received the fire of his antagonist, but
positively refused to return it; by which he had kept his promise not
to endanger his Lordship’s life, and had reconciled Sandford, in great
measure, to his behaviour—and Sandford now (his resolution once broken)
no longer refused entering Miss Milner’s house, but came whenever it
was convenient, though he yet avoided the mistress of it as much as
possible; or showed by every word and look, when she was present, that
she was still less in his favour than she had ever been.

He visited Dorriforth on the evening of his engagement with Lord
Frederick, and the next morning breakfasted with him in his own
chamber; nor did Miss Milner see her guardian after his first return
from that engagement before the following noon. She enquired, however,
of his servant how he did, and was rejoiced to hear that his wound was
but slight—yet this enquiry she durst not make before Miss Woodley.

When Dorriforth made his appearance the next day, it was evident that
he had thrown from his heart a load of cares; and though they had left
a languor upon his face, content was in his voice, in his manners, in
every word and action. Far from seeming to retain any resentment
against his ward, for the danger into which her imprudence had led him,
he appeared rather to pity her indiscretion, and to wish to soothe the
perturbation which the recollection of her own conduct had evidently
raised in her mind. His endeavours were successful—she was soothed
every time he spoke to her; and had not the watchful eye of Miss
Woodley stood guard over her inclinations, she had plainly discovered,
that she was enraptured with the joy of seeing him again himself, after
the danger to which he had been exposed.

These emotions, which she laboured to subdue, passed, however, the
bounds of her ineffectual resistance, when at the time of retiring
after dinner, he said to her in a low voice, but such as it was meant
the company should hear, “Do me the favour, Miss Milner, to call at my
study some time in the evening; I have to speak with you upon
business.”

She answered, “I will, Sir.” And her eyes swam with delight, in
expectation of the interview.

Let not the reader, nevertheless, imagine, there was in that ardent
expectation, one idea which the most spotless mind, in love, might not
have indulged without reproach. Sincere love (at least among the
delicate of the female sex) is often gratified by that degree of
enjoyment, or rather forbearance, which would be torture in the pursuit
of any other passion. Real, delicate, and restrained love, such as Miss
Milner’s, was indulged in the sight of the object only; and having
bounded her wishes by her hopes, the height of her happiness was
limited to a conversation, in which no other but themselves took a
part.

Miss Woodley was one of those who heard the appointment, but the only
one who conceived with what sensation it was received.

While the ladies remained in the same room with Dorriforth, Miss Milner
thought of little, except of him. As soon as they withdrew into another
apartment, she remembered Miss Woodley; and turning her head suddenly,
saw her friend’s face imprinted with suspicion and displeasure: this at
first was painful to her—but recollecting that in a couple of hours she
was to meet her guardian alone—to speak to him, and hear him speak to
her only—every other thought was absorbed in that one, and she
considered with indifference, the uneasiness, or the anger of her
friend.

Miss Milner, to do justice to her heart, did not wish to beguile
Dorriforth into the snares of love: could any supernatural power have
endowed her with the means, and at the same time have shewn to her the
ills that must arise from such an effect of her charms, she had
assuredly virtue enough to have declined the conquest; but without
enquiring what she proposed, she never saw him, without previously
endeavouring to look more attractive, than she would have desired,
before any other person. And now, without listening to the thousand
exhortations that spoke in every feature of Miss Woodley, she flew to a
looking-glass, to adjust her dress in a manner that she thought most
enchanting.

Time stole away, and the time of going to her guardian arrived. In his
presence, unsupported by the presence of any other, every grace that
she had practised, every look that she had borrowed to set off her
charms, were annihilated; and she became a native beauty, with the
artless arguments of reason only for her aid. Awed thus by his power,
from every thing but what she really was, she never was perhaps half so
bewitching, as in those timid, respectful, and embarrassed moments she
passed alone with him. He caught at those times her respect, her
diffidence, nay, even her embarrassment; and never would one word of
anger pass on either side.

On the present occasion, he first expressed the high satisfaction that
she had given him, by at length revealing to him the real state of her
mind.

“And when I take every thing into consideration, Miss Milner,” added
he, “I rejoice that your sentiments happen to be such as you have
owned. For, although my Lord Frederick is not the very man I could have
wished for your perfect happiness; yet, in the state of human
perfection and human happiness, you might have fixed your affections
with perhaps less propriety; and still, where my unwillingness to
thwart your inclinations might not have permitted me to contend with
them.”

Not a word of reply did this demand; or if it had, not a word could she
have given.

“And now, Madam, the reason of my desire to speak with you—is, to know
the means you think most proper to pursue, in order to acquaint Lord
Frederick, that notwithstanding this late repulse, there are hopes of
your partiality in his favour.”

“Defer the explanation,” she replied eagerly.

“I beg your pardon—it cannot be. Besides, how can you indulge a
disposition thus unpitying? Even so ardently did I desire to render the
man who loves you happy, that though he came armed against my life, had
I not reflected, that previous to our engagement it would appear like
fear, and the means of bartering for his forgiveness, I should have
revealed your sentiments the moment I had seen him. When the engagement
was over, I was too impatient to acquaint you with his safety, to think
then on gratifying him. And indeed, the delicacy of the declaration,
after the many denials which you have no doubt given him, should be
considered. I therefore consult your opinion upon the manner in which
it shall be made.”

“Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments of surprise, and
that pity, which the fate impending inspired? and which might urge me
to express myself of Lord Frederick, in a manner my cooler thoughts
will not warrant?”

“There was nothing in your expressions, my dear Miss Milner, the least
equivocal—if you were off your guard when you pleaded for Lord
Frederick, as I believe you were, you said more sincerely what you
thought; and no discreet, or rather indiscreet attempts to retract, can
make me change these sentiments.”

“I am very sorry,” she replied, confused and trembling.

“Why sorry? Come give me commission to reveal your partiality. I’ll not
be too hard upon you—a hint from me will do. Hope is ever apt to
interpret the slightest words to its own use, and a lover’s hope is
beyond all others, sanguine.”

“I never gave Lord Frederick hope.”

“But you never plunged him into despair.”

“His pursuit intimates that I never have, but he has no other proof.”

“However light and frivolous you have been upon frivolous subjects, yet
I must own, Miss Milner, that I did expect when a case of this
importance came seriously before you, you would have discovered a
proper stability in your behaviour.”

“I do, Sir; and it was only when I was affected with a weakness, which
arose from accident, that I have betrayed inconsistency.”

“You then assert again, that you have no affection for my Lord
Frederick?”

“Not enough to become his wife.”

“You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder you should be so; it
shews a prudent foresight which does you honour—but, my dear, are there
no dangers in a single state? If I may judge, Miss Milner, there are
many more to a young lady of your accomplishments, than if you were
under the protection of a husband.”

“My father, Mr. Dorriforth, thought your protection sufficient.”

“But that protection was rather to direct your choice, than to be the
cause of your not choosing at all. Give me leave to point out an
observation which, perhaps, I have too frequently made before, but upon
this occasion I must intrude it once again. Miss Fenton is its
object—her fortune is inferior to your’s, her personal attractions are
less”——

Here the powerful glow of joy, and of gratitude, for an opinion so
negligently, and yet so sincerely expressed, flew to Miss Milner’s
face, neck, and even to her hands and fingers; the blood mounted to
every part of her skin that was visible, for not a fibre but felt the
secret transport, that Dorriforth thought her more beautiful than the
beautiful Miss Fenton.

If he observed her blushes, he was unsuspicious of the cause, and went
on.

“There is, besides, in the temper of Miss Fenton, a sedateness that
might with less hazard ensure her safety in an unmarried life; and yet
she very properly thinks it her duty, as she does not mean to seclude
herself by any vows to the contrary, to become a wife—and in obedience
to the counsel of her friends, will be married within a very few
weeks.”

“Miss Fenton may marry from obedience, I never will.”

“You mean to say, that love shall alone induce you.”

“I do.”

“If you would point out a subject upon which I am the least able to
reason, and on which my sentiments, such as they are, are formed only
from theory, (and even there, more cautioned than instructed) it is the
subject of love. And yet, even that little which I know, tells me,
without a doubt, that what you said yesterday, pleading for Lord
Frederick’s life, was the result of the most violent and tender love.”

“The _little you know_ then, Mr. Dorriforth, has deceived you; had you
_known more_, you would have judged otherwise.”

“I submit to the merit of your reply; but without allowing me a judge
at all, I will appeal to those who were present with me.”

“Are Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford to be the connoisseurs?”

“No; I’ll appeal to Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley.”

“And yet, I believe,” replied she with a smile, “I believe theory must
only be the judge even there.”

“Then from all you have said, Madam, on this occasion, I am to conclude
that you still refuse to marry Lord Frederick?”

“You are.”

“And you submit never to see him again?”

“I do.”

“All you then said to me, yesterday, was false?”

“I was not mistress of myself at the time.”

“Therefore it was truth!—for shame, for shame!”

At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Sandford walked in—he started
back on seeing Miss Milner, and was going away; but Dorriforth called
to him to stay, and said with warmth,

“Tell me, Mr. Sandford, by what power, by what persuasion, I can
prevail upon Miss Milner to confide in me as her friend; to lay her
heart open, and credit mine when I declare to her, that I have no view
in all the advice I give to her, but her immediate welfare.”

“Mr. Dorriforth, you know my opinion of that lady,” replied Sandford;
“it has been formed ever since my first acquaintance with her, and it
continues the same.”

“But instruct me how I am to inspire her with confidence,” returned
Dorriforth; “how I am to impress her with a sense of that, which is for
her advantage?”

“You can work no miracles,” replied Sandford, “you are not holy
enough.”

“And yet my ward,” answered Dorriforth, “appears to be acquainted with
that mystery; for what but the force of a miracle can induce her to
contradict to-day, what before you, and several other witnesses, she
positively acknowledged yesterday?”

“Do you call that miraculous?” cried Sandford; “the miracle had been if
she had _not_ done so—for did she not yesterday contradict what she
acknowledged the day before? and will she not to-morrow disavow what
she says to-day?”

“I wish that she may—” replied Dorriforth mildly, for he saw the tears
flowing down her face at the rough and severe manner in which Sandford
had spoken, and he began to feel for her uneasiness.

“I beg pardon,” cried Sandford, “for speaking so rudely to the mistress
of the house—I have no business here, I know; but where _you_ are, Mr.
Dorriforth, unless I am turned out, I shall always think it my duty to
come.”

Miss Milner curtsied, as much as to say, he was welcome to come. He
continued,

“I was to blame, that upon a nice punctilio, I left you so long without
my visits, and without my counsel; in that time, you have run the
hazard of being murdered, and what is worse, of being excommunicated;
for had you been so rash as to have returned your opponent’s fire, not
all my interest at Rome would have obtained remission of the
punishment.”

Miss Milner, through all her tears, could not now restrain her
laughter. On which he resumed;

“And here do I venture, like a missionary among savages—but if I can
only save you from their scalping knives—from the miseries which that
lady is preparing for you, I am rewarded.”

Sandford spoke this with great fervour, and the offence of her love
never appeared to her in so tremendous a point of view, as when thus,
unknowingly, alluded to by him.

“_The miseries that lady is preparing for you_,” hung upon her ears
like the notes of a raven, and sounded equally ominous. The words
“_murder_” and “_excommunication_” he had likewise uttered; all the
fatal effects of sacrilegious love. Frightful superstitions struck her
to the heart, and she could scarcely prevent falling down under their
oppression.

Dorriforth beheld the difficulty she had in sustaining herself, and
with the utmost tenderness went towards her, and supporting her, said,
“I beg your pardon—I invited you hither with a far different intention
than your uneasiness, and be assured——”

Sandford was beginning to speak, when Dorriforth resumed,—“Hold, Mr.
Sandford, the lady is under my protection, and I know not whether it is
not requisite that you should apologize to her, and to me, for what you
have already said.”

“You asked my opinion, or I had not given it you—would you have me,
like _her_, speak what I do not think?”

“Say no more, Sir,” cried Dorriforth—and leading her kindly to the
door, as if to defend her from his malice, told her, “He would take
another opportunity of renewing the subject.”



CHAPTER XVII.


When Dorriforth was alone with Sandford, he explained to him what
before he had only hinted; and this learned Jesuit frankly confessed,
“That the mind of woman was far above, or rather beneath, his
comprehension.” It was so, indeed—for with all his penetration, and few
even of that school had more, he had not yet penetrated into the
recesses of Miss Milner’s heart.

Miss Woodley, to whom she repeated all that had passed between herself,
her guardian, and Sandford, took this moment, in the agitation of her
spirits, to alarm her still more by prophetic insinuations; and at
length represented to her here, for the first time, the necessity,
“That Mr. Dorriforth and she no longer should remain under the same
roof.” This was like the stroke of sudden death to Miss Milner, and
clinging to life, she endeavoured to avert the blow by prayers, and by
promises. Her friend loved her too sincerely to be prevailed upon.

“But in what manner can I accomplish the separation?” cried she, “for
till I marry we are obliged, by my father’s request, to live in the
same house.”

“Miss Milner,” answered Miss Woodley, “much as I respect the will of a
dying man, I regard your and Mr. Dorriforth’s present and eternal
happiness much more; and it is my resolution that you _shall part_. If
_you_ will not contrive the means, that duty falls on me, and without
any invention I see the measure at once.”

“What is it?” cried Miss Milner eagerly.

“I will reveal to Mr. Dorriforth, without hesitation, the real state of
your heart; which your present inconsistency of conduct will but too
readily confirm.”

“You would not plunge me into so much shame, into so much anguish!”
cried she, distractedly.

“No,” replied Miss Woodley, “not for the world, if you will separate
from him by any mode of your own—but that you _shall_ separate is my
determination; and in spite of all your sufferings, this shall be the
expedient, unless you instantly agree to some other.”

“Good Heaven, Miss Woodley! is this your friendship?”

“Yes—and the truest friendship I have to bestow. Think what a task I
undertake for your sake and his, when I condemn myself to explain to
him your weakness. What astonishment! what confusion! what remorse, do
I foresee painted upon his face! I hear him call you by the harshest
names, and behold him fly from your sight for ever, as an object of his
detestation.”

“Oh spare the dreadful picture.—Fly from my sight for ever! Detest my
name! Oh! my dear Miss Woodley, let but his friendship for me still
remain, and I will consent to any thing. You may command me. I will go
away from him directly—but let us part in friendship—Oh! without the
friendship of Mr. Dorriforth, life would be a heavy burthen indeed.”

Miss Woodley immediately began to contrive schemes for their
separation; and, with all her invention alive on the subject, the
following was the only natural one that she could form.

Miss Milner, in a letter to her distant relation at Bath, was to
complain of the melancholy of a country life, which she was to say her
guardian imposed upon her; and she was to entreat the lady to send a
pressing invitation that she would pass a month or two at her house;
this invitation was to be laid before Dorriforth for his approbation,
and the two ladies were to enforce it, by expressing their earnest
wishes for his consent. This plan having been properly regulated, the
necessary letter was sent to Bath, and Miss Woodley waited with
patience, but with a watchful guard upon the conduct of her friend,
till the answer should arrive.

During this interim a tender and complaining epistle from Lord
Frederick was delivered to Miss Milner; to which, as he received no
answer, he prevailed upon his uncle, with whom he resided, to wait upon
her, and obtain a verbal reply; for he still flattered himself, that
fear of her guardian’s anger, or perhaps his interception of the letter
which he had sent, was the sole cause of her apparent indifference.

The old gentleman was introduced both to Miss Milner and to Mr.
Dorriforth, but received from each an answer so explicit, that left his
nephew no longer in doubt but that all farther pursuit was vain.

Sir Edward Ashton about this time also submitted to a formal
dismission; and had the mortification to reflect, that he was bestowing
upon the object of his affections, the tenderest proof of his regard,
by absenting himself entirely from her society.

Upon this serious and certain conclusion to the hopes of Lord
Frederick, Dorriforth was more astonished than ever at the conduct of
his ward. He had once thought her behaviour in this respect was
ambiguous, but since her confession of a passion for that nobleman, he
had no doubt but in the end she would become his wife. He lamented to
find himself mistaken, and thought it proper now to condemn her
caprice, not merely in words, but in the general tenor of his
behaviour. He consequently became more reserved, and more austere than
he had been since his first acquaintance with her; for his manners, not
from design, but imperceptibly to himself, had been softened since he
became her guardian, by that tender respect which he had uniformly paid
to the object of his protection.

Notwithstanding the severity he now assumed, his ward, in the prospect
of parting from him, grew melancholy; Miss Woodley’s love to her friend
rendered her little otherwise; and Dorriforth’s peculiar gravity,
frequently rigour, could not but make their whole party less cheerful
than it had been. Lord Elmwood too, at this time was lying dangerously
ill of a fever; Miss Fenton of course was as much in sorrow as her
nature would permit her to be, and both Sandford and Dorriforth in
extreme concern upon his Lordship’s account.

In this posture of affairs, the letter of invitation arrives from Lady
Luneham at Bath; it was shewn to Dorriforth; and to prove to his ward
that he is so much offended, as no longer to feel that excessive
interest in her concerns which he once felt, he gives an opinion on the
subject with indifference—he desires “Miss Milner will do what she
herself thinks proper.” Miss Woodley instantly accepts this permission,
writes back, and appoints the day upon which her friend means to set
off for the visit.

Miss Milner is wounded at the heart by the cold and unkind manners of
her guardian, but dares not take one step to retrieve his opinion.
Alone, or to her friend, she sighs and weeps: he discovers her sorrow,
and is doubtful whether the departure of Lord Frederick from that part
of the country is not the cause.

When the time she was to set out for Bath was only two days off, the
behaviour of Dorriforth took, by degrees, its usual form, if not a
greater share of polite and tender attention than ever. It was the
first time he had parted from Miss Milner since he became her guardian,
and he felt upon the occasion, a reluctance. He had been angry with
her, he had shewn her that he was, and he now began to wish that he had
not. She is not happy, (he considered within himself) every word and
action declares she is not; I may have been too severe, and added
perhaps to her uneasiness. “At least we will part on good terms,” said
he—“Indeed, my regard for her is such, I cannot part otherwise.”

She soon discerned his returning kindness, and it was a gentle tie that
would have fastened her to that spot for ever, but for the firm
resistance of Miss Woodley.

“What will the absence of a few months effect?” said she, pleading her
own cause; “At the end of a few months at farthest, he will expect me
back, and where then will be the merit of this separation?”

“In that time,” replied Miss Woodley, “we may find some method to make
it longer.” To this she listened with a kind of despair, but uttered,
she “Was resigned,”—and she prepared for her departure.

Dorriforth was all anxiety that every circumstance of her journey
should be commodious; he was eager she should be happy; and he was
eager she should see that he entirely forgave her. He would have gone
part of the way with her, but for the extreme illness of Lord Elmwood,
in whose chamber he passed most of the day, and slept in Elmwood House
every night.

On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his hand and
conducted Miss Milner to the carriage, all the way he led her she could
not restrain her tears; which increased, as he parted from her, to
convulsive sobs. He was affected by her grief; and though he had
previously bid her farewell, he drew her gently on one side, and said,
with the tenderest concern,

“My dear Miss Milner, we part friends?—I hope we do?—On my side, depend
upon it, that I regret nothing so much at our separation, as having
ever given you a moment’s pain.”

“I believe so,” was all she could utter, for she hastened from him,
lest his discerning eye should discover the cause of the weakness which
thus overcame her. But her apprehensions were groundless; the rectitude
of his own heart was a bar to the suspicion of her’s. He once more
kindly bade her adieu, and the carriage drove away.

Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley accompanied her part of the journey, about
thirty miles, where they were met by Sir Harry and Lady Luneham. Here
was a parting nearly as affecting as that between her and her guardian.
Miss Woodley, who for several weeks had treated her friend with a
rigidness she herself hardly supposed was in her nature, now bewailed
that she had done so; implored her forgiveness; promised to correspond
with her punctually, and to omit no opportunity of giving her every
consolation short of cherishing her fatal passion—but in that, and that
only, was the heart of Miss Milner to be consoled.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.



A
SIMPLE STORY,

IN FOUR VOLUMES,

BY

MRS. INCHBALD.



VOL. II.

_THE FOURTH EDITION._

LONDON:

Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,
Paternoster Row.

1799.



A SIMPLE STORY



CHAPTER I.


When Miss Milner arrived at Bath, she thought it the most altered place
she had ever seen—she was mistaken—it was herself that was changed.

The walks were melancholy, the company insipid, the ball-room
fatiguing—for, she had left behind all that could charm or please her.

Though she found herself much less happy than when she was at Bath
before, yet she felt, that she would not, even to enjoy all that past
happiness, be again reduced to the being she was at that period. Thus
does the lover consider the extinction of his passion with the same
horror as the libertine looks upon annihilation; the one would rather
live hereafter, though in all the tortures described as constituting
his future state, than cease to exist; so, there are no tortures which
a lover would not suffer, rather than cease to love.

In the wide prospect of sadness before her, Miss Milner’s fancy caught
hold of the only comfort which presented itself; and this, faint as it
was, in the total absence of every other, her imagination painted to
her as excessive. The comfort was a letter from Miss Woodley—a letter,
in which the subject of her love would most assuredly be mentioned, and
in whatever terms, it would still be the means of delight.

A letter arrived—she devoured it with her eyes. The post mark denoting
from whence it came, the name of “Milner Lodge” written on the top,
were all sources of pleasure—and she read slowly every line it
contained, to procrastinate the pleasing expectation she enjoyed, till
she should arrive at the name of Dorriforth. At last, her impatient eye
caught the word, three lines beyond the place she was
reading—irresistibly, she skipped over those lines, and fixed on the
point to which she was attracted.

Miss Woodley was cautious in her indulgence; she made the slightest
mention of Dorriforth; saying only, “He was extremely concerned, and
even dejected, at the little hope there was of his cousin, Lord
Elmwood’s, recovery.” Short and trivial as this passage was, it was
still more important to Miss Milner than any other in the letter—she
read it again and again, considered, and reflected upon it. Dejected,
thought she, what does that word exactly mean?—did I ever see Mr.
Dorriforth dejected?—how, I wonder, does he look in that state? Thus
did she muse, while the cause of his dejection, though a most serious
one, and pathetically described by Miss Woodley, scarce arrested her
attention once. She ran over with haste the account of Lord Elmwood’s
state of health; she certainly pitied him while she thought of him, but
she did not think of him long. To die, was a hard fate for a young
nobleman just in possession of his immense fortune, and on the eve of
marriage with a beautiful young woman; but Miss Milner thought that an
abode in Heaven might be still better than all this, and she had no
doubt but his Lordship would go thither. The forlorn state of Miss
Fenton ought to have been a subject for compassion, but she knew that
lady had resignation to bear any lot with patience, and that a trial of
her fortitude might be more flattering to her vanity than to be
Countess of Elmwood: in a word, she saw no one’s misfortunes equal to
her own, because she saw no one so little able to bear misfortune.

She replied to Miss Woodley’s letter, and dwelt very long on that
subject which her friend had passed over lightly; this was another
indulgence; and this epistolary intercourse was now the only enjoyment
she possessed. From Bath she paid several visits with Lady Luneham—all
were alike tedious and melancholy.

But her guardian wrote to her, and though it was on a topic of sorrow,
the letter gave her joy—the sentiments it expressed were merely
common-place, yet she valued them as the dearest effusions of
friendship and affection; and her hands trembled, and her heart beat
with rapture while she wrote the answer, though she knew it would not
be received by him with one emotion like those which she experienced.
In her second letter to Miss Woodley, she prayed like a person insane
to be taken home from confinement, and like a lunatic protested, in
sensible language, she “Had no disorder.” But her friend replied, “That
very declaration proves its violence.” And she assured her, nothing
less than placing her affections elsewhere, should induce her to
believe but that she was incurable.

The third letter from Milner Lodge brought the news of Lord Elmwood’s
death. Miss Woodley was exceedingly affected by this event, and said
little else on any other subject. Miss Milner was shocked when she read
the words “He is dead”, and instantly thought,

“How transient are all sublunary things! Within a few years _I_ shall
be dead—and how happy will it then be, if I have resisted every
temptation to the alluring pleasures of this life!” The happiness of a
peaceful death occupied her contemplation for near an hour; but at
length, every virtuous and pious sentiment this meditation inspired,
served but to remind her of the many sentences she had heard from her
guardian’s lips upon the same subject—her thoughts were again fixed on
him, and she could think of nothing besides.

In a short time after this, her health became impaired from the
indisposition of her mind; she languished, and was once in imminent
danger. During a slight delirium of her fever, Miss Woodley’s name and
her guardian’s were incessantly repeated; Lady Luneham sent them
immediate word of this, and they both hastened to Bath, and arrived
there just as the violence and danger of her disorder had ceased. As
soon as she became perfectly recollected, her first care, knowing the
frailty of her heart, was to enquire what she had uttered while
delirious. Miss Woodley, who was by her bedside, begged her not to be
alarmed on that account, and assured her she knew, from all her
attendants, that she had only spoken with a friendly remembrance (as
was really the case) of those persons who were dear to her.

She wished to know whether her guardian was come to see her, but she
had not the courage to ask before her friend; and she in her turn was
afraid by the too sudden mention of his name, to discompose her. Her
maid, however, after some little time, entered the chamber, and
whispered Miss Woodley. Miss Milner asked inquisitively “What she
said?”

The maid replied softly, “Lord Elmwood, Madam, wishes to come and see
you for a few moments, if you will allow him.”

At this reply Miss Milner stared wildly.

“I thought,” said she, “I thought Lord Elmwood had been dead—are my
senses disordered still?”

“No, my dear,” answered Miss Woodley, “it is the present Lord Elmwood
who wishes to see you; he whom you left ill when you came hither, _is_
dead.”

“And who is the present Lord Elmwood?” she asked.

Miss Woodley, after a short hesitation, replied—“Your guardian.”

“And so he is,” cried Miss Milner; “he is the next heir—I had forgot.
But is it possible that he is here?”

“Yes—” returned Miss Woodley with a grave voice and manner, to moderate
that glow of satisfaction which for a moment sparkled even in her
languid eye, and blushed over her pallid countenance. “Yes—as he heard
you were ill, he thought it right to come and see you.”

“He is very good,” she answered, and the tear started in her eyes.

“Would you please to see his Lordship?” asked her maid.

“Not yet, not yet,” she replied; “let me recollect myself first.” And
she looked with a timid doubt upon her friend, to ask if it was proper.

Miss Woodley could hardly support this humble reference to her
judgment, from the wan face of the poor invalid, and taking her by the
hand, whispered, “You shall do what you please.” In a few minutes Lord
Elmwood was introduced.

To those who sincerely love, every change of situation or circumstances
in the object beloved, appears an advantage. So, the acquisition of a
title and estate was, in Miss Milner’s eye, an inestimable advantage to
her guardian; not on account of their real value; but that any change,
instead of diminishing her passion, would have served only to increase
it—even a change to the utmost poverty.

When he entered—the sight of him seemed to be too much for her, and
after the first glance she turned her head away. The sound of his voice
encouraged her to look once more—and then she riveted her eyes upon
him.

“It is impossible, my dear Miss Milner,” he gently whispered, “to say,
what joy I feel that your disorder has subsided.”

But though it was impossible to say, it was possible to _look_ what he
felt, and his looks expressed his feelings. In the zeal of those
sensations, he laid hold of her hand, and held it between his—this he
did not himself know—but she did.

“You have prayed for me, my Lord, I make no doubt?” said she, and
smiled, as if thanking him for those prayers.

“Fervently, ardently!” returned he; and the fervency with which he had
prayed spoke in every feature.

“But I am a protestant, you know, and if I had died such, do you
believe I should have gone to Heaven?”

“Most assuredly, that would not have prevented you.”

“But Mr. Sandford does not think so.”

“He must; for he means to go there himself.”

To keep her guardian with her, Miss Milner seemed inclined to converse;
but her solicitous friend gave Lord Elmwood a look, which implied that
it might be injurious to her, and he retired.

They had only one more interview before he left the place; at which
Miss Milner was capable of sitting up—he was with her, however, but a
very short time, some necessary concerns relative to his late kinsman’s
affairs, calling him in haste to London. Miss Woodley continued with
her friend till she saw her entirely reinstated in her health: during
which time her guardian was frequently the subject of their private
conversation; and upon those occasions Miss Milner has sometimes
brought Miss Woodley to acknowledge, “That could Mr. Dorriforth have
possibly foreseen the early death of the last Lord Elmwood, it had been
more for the honour of his religion (as that ancient title would now
after him become extinct), if he had preferred marriage vows to those
of celibacy.”



CHAPTER II.


When the time for Miss Woodley’s departure arrived, Miss Milner
entreated earnestly to accompany her home, and made the most solemn
promises that she would guard not only her behaviour, but her very
thoughts, within the limitation her friend should prescribe. Miss
Woodley at length yielded thus far, “That as soon as Lord Elmwood was
set out on his journey to Italy, where she had heard him say that he
should soon be obliged to go, she would no longer deny her the pleasure
of returning; and if (after the long absence which must consequently
take place between him and her) she could positively affirm the
suppression of her passion was the happy result, she would then take
her word, and risk the danger of seeing them once more reside
together.”

This concession having been obtained, they parted; and as winter was
now far advanced, Miss Woodley returned to her aunt’s house in town,
from whence Mrs. Horton was, however, preparing to remove, in order to
superintend Lord Elmwood’s house, (which had been occupied by the late
Earl,) in Grosvenor Square; and her niece was to accompany her.

If Lord Elmwood was not desirous Miss Milner should conclude her visit
and return to his protection, it was partly from the multiplicity of
affairs in which he was at this time engaged, and partly from having
Mr. Sandford now entirely placed with him as his chaplain; for he
dreaded, that living in the same house, their natural antipathy might
be increased even to aversion. Upon this account, he once thought of
advising Mr. Sandford to take up his abode elsewhere; but the great
pleasure he took in his society, joined to the bitter mortification he
knew such a proposal would be to his friend, would not suffer him to
make it.

Miss Milner all this time was not thinking upon those she hated, but on
those she loved. Sandford never came into her thoughts, while the image
of Lord Elmwood never left them. One morning, as she sat talking to
Lady Luneham on various subjects, but thinking alone on him, Sir Harry
Luneham, with another gentleman, a Mr. Fleetmond, came in, and the
conversation turned upon the improbability, during the present Lord
Elmwood’s youth, that he should ever inherit the title and estate which
had now fallen to him—and, said Mr. Fleetmond, “Independent of rank and
fortune, it must be matter of infinite joy to Mr. Dorriforth.”

“No,” answered Sir Harry, “independent of rank and fortune, it must be
a motive of concern to him; for he must now regret, beyond measure, his
folly in taking priest’s orders, thus depriving himself of the hopes of
an heir, so that his title, at his death, will be lost.”

“By no means,” replied Mr. Fleetmond; “he may yet have an heir, for he
will certainly marry.”

“Marry!” cried the Baronet.

“Yes,” answered the other, “it was that I meant by the joy it might
probably give him, beyond the possession of his estate and title.”

“How he married?” said Lady Luneham, “Has he not taken a vow never to
marry?”

“Yes,” answered Mr. Fleetmond, “but there are no _religious_ vows, from
which the sovereign Pontiff at Rome cannot grant a dispensation, as
those commandments which are made by the church, the church has always
the power to revoke; and when it is for the general good of religion,
his Holiness thinks it incumbent on him, to publish his bull, and remit
all penalties for their non-observance; and certainly it is for the
honour of the Catholics, that this Earldom should continue in a
Catholic family. In short, I’ll venture to lay a wager, my Lord Elmwood
is married within a year.”

Miss Milner, who listened with attention, feared she was in a dream, or
deceived by the pretended knowledge of Mr. Fleetmond, who might know
nothing—yet all that he had said was very probable; and he was himself
a Roman Catholic, so that he must be well informed on the subject upon
which he spoke. If she had heard the direst news that ever sounded in
the ears of the most susceptible of mortals, the agitation of her mind
and person could not have been stronger—she felt, while every word was
speaking, a chill through all her veins—a pleasure too exquisite, not
to bear along with it the sensation of exquisite pain; of which she was
so sensible, that for a few moments it made her wish that she had not
heard the intelligence; though, very soon after, she would not but have
heard it for the world.

As soon as she had recovered from her first astonishment and joy, she
wrote to Miss Woodley an exact account of what she had heard, and
received this answer:

“I am sorry any body should have given you this piece of information,
because it was a task, in executing which, I had promised myself
extreme satisfaction—but from the fear that your health was not yet
strong enough to support, without some danger, the burthen of hopes
which I knew would, upon this occasion, press upon you, I deferred my
communication and it has been anticipated. Yet, as you seem in doubt as
to the reality of what you have been told, perhaps this confirmation of
it may fall very little short of the first news; especially when it is
enforced by my request, that you will come to us, as soon as you can
with propriety leave Lady Luneham.

“Come, my dear Miss Milner, and find in your once rigid monitor a
faithful confidante. I will no longer threaten to disclose a secret you
have trusted me with, but leave it to the wisdom, or sensibility of
_his_ heart, (who is now to penetrate into the hearts of our sex, in
search of one that may beat in unison with his own) to find it out. I
no longer condemn, but congratulate you on your passion; and will
assist you with all my advice and my earnest wishes, that it may obtain
a return.”

This letter was another of those excruciating pleasures, that almost
reduced Miss Milner to the grave. Her appetite forsook her; and she
vainly endeavoured, for several nights, to close her eyes. She thought
so much upon the prospect of accomplishing her wishes, that she could
admit no other idea; nor even invent one probable excuse for leaving
Lady Luneham before the appointed time, which was then at the distance
of two months. She wrote to Miss Woodley to beg her contrivance, to
reproach her for keeping the secret so long from her, and to thank her
for having revealed it in so kind a manner at last. She begged also to
be acquainted how Mr. Dorriforth (for still she called him by that
name) spoke and thought of this sudden change in his destiny.

Miss Woodley’s reply was a summons for her to town upon some pretended
business, which she avoided explaining, but which entirely silenced
Lady Luneham’s entreaties for her stay.

To her question concerning Lord Elmwood she answered, “It is a subject
on which he seldom speaks—he appears just the same he ever did, nor
could you by any part of his conduct, conceive that any such change had
taken place.” Miss Milner exclaimed to herself, “I am glad he is not
altered—if his words, looks, or manners, were any thing different from
what they formerly were, I should not like him so well.” And just the
reverse would have been the case, had Miss Woodley sent her word he was
changed. The day for her leaving Bath was fixed; she expected it with
rapture, but before its arrival, sunk under the care of expectation;
and when it came, was so much indisposed, as to be obliged to defer her
journey for a week.

At length she found herself in London—in the house of her guardian—and
that guardian no longer bound to a single life, but _enjoined_ to
marry. He appeared in her eyes, as in Miss Woodley’s, the same as ever;
or perhaps more endearing than ever, as it was the first time she had
beheld him with hope. Mr. Sandford did _not_ appear the same; yet he
was in reality as surly and as disrespectful in his behaviour to her as
usual; but she did not observe, or she did not feel his morose temper
as heretofore—he seemed amiable, mild, and gentle; at least this was
the happy medium through which her self-complacent mind began to see
him; for good humour, like the jaundice, makes every one of its own
complexion.



CHAPTER III.


Lord Elmwood was preparing to go abroad, for the purpose of receiving
in form, the dispensation from his vows; it was, however, a subject he
seemed carefully to avoid speaking upon; and when by any accident he
was obliged to mention it, it was without any marks either of
satisfaction or concern.

Miss Milner’s pride began to be alarmed. While he was Mr. Dorriforth,
and confined to a single life, his indifference to her charms was
rather an honourable than a reproachful trait in his character, and in
reality, she admired him for the insensibility. But on the eve of being
at liberty, and on the eve of making his choice, she was offended
_that_ choice was not immediately fixed upon her. She had been
accustomed to receive the devotion of every man who saw her, and not to
obtain it of the man from whom, of all others, she most wished it, was
cruelly humiliating. She complained to Miss Woodley, who advised her to
have patience; but that was one of the virtues in which she was the
least practised.

Encouraged, nevertheless, by her friend in the commendable desire of
gaining the affections of him, who possessed all her own, she, however,
left no means unattempted for the conquest—but she began with too great
a certainty of success, not to be sensible of the deepest mortification
in the disappointment—nay, she anticipated a disappointment, as she had
before anticipated her success; by turns feeling the keenest emotions
from hope and from despair.

As these passions alternately governed her, she was alternately in
spirits or dejected; in good or in ill humour; and the vicissitudes of
her prospect at length gave to her behaviour an air of caprice, which
not all her follies had till now produced. This was not the way to
secure the affections of Lord Elmwood; she knew it was not; and before
him she was under some restriction. Sandford observed this, and without
reserve, added to the list of her other failings, hypocrisy. It was
plain to see that Mr. Sandford esteemed her less and less every day;
and as he was the person who most influenced the opinion of her
guardian, he became to her, very soon, an object not merely of dislike,
but of abhorrence.

These mutual sentiments were discoverable in every word and action,
while they were in each other’s company; but still in his absence, Miss
Milner’s good nature, and total freedom from malice, never suffered her
to utter a sentence injurious to his interest. Sandford’s charity did
not extend thus far; and speaking of her with severity one evening
while she was at the opera, “His meaning,” as he said, “but to caution
her guardian against her faults,” Lord Elmwood replied,

“There is one fault, however, Mr. Sandford, I cannot lay to her
charge.”

“And what is that, my Lord?” cried Sandford, eagerly, “What is that one
fault, which Miss Milner has not?”

“I never,” replied Lord Elmwood, “heard Miss Milner, in your absence,
utter a syllable to your disadvantage.”

“She dares not, my Lord, because she is in fear of you and she knows
you would not suffer it.”

“She then,” answered his Lordship, “pays me a much higher compliment
than you do; for you freely censure _her_, and yet imagine I _will_
suffer it.”

“My Lord,” replied Sandford, “I am undeceived now, and shall never take
that liberty again.”

As Lord Elmwood always treated Sandford with the utmost respect, he
began to fear he had been deficient upon this occasion; and the
disposition which had induced him to take his ward’s part, was likely,
in the end, to prove unfavourable to her; for perceiving Sandford was
offended at what had passed, as the only means of retribution, he began
himself to lament her volatile and captious propensities; in which
lamentation, Sandford, now forgetting his affront, joined with the
heartiest concurrence, adding,

“You, Sir, having now other cares to employ your thoughts, ought to
insist upon her marrying, or retiring into the country.”

She returned home just as this conversation was finished, and Sandford,
the moment she entered, rang for his candle to retire. Miss Woodley,
who had been at the opera with Miss Milner, cried,

“Bless me, Mr. Sandford, are you not well, you are going to leave us so
early?”

He replied, “No, I have a pain in my head.”

Miss Milner, who never listened to complaints without sympathy, rose
immediately from her seat, saying,

“I think I never heard you, Mr. Sandford, complain of indisposition
before. Will you accept of my specific for the head-ache? Indeed it is
a certain relief—I’ll fetch it instantly.”

She went hastily out of the room, and returned with a bottle, which,
she assured him, “Was a present from Lady Luneham, and would certainly
cure him.” And she pressed it upon him with such an anxious
earnestness, that with all his churlishness he could not refuse taking
it.

This was but a common-place civility, such as is paid by one enemy to
another every day; but the _manner_ was the material part. The
unaffected concern, the attention, the good will, she demonstrated in
this little incident, was that which made it remarkable, and
immediately took from Lord Elmwood the displeasure to which he had been
just before provoked, or rather transformed it into a degree of
admiration. Even Sandford was not insensible to her behaviour, and in
return, when he left the room, “Wished her a good night.”

To her and Miss Woodley, who had not been witnesses of the preceding
conversation, what she had done appeared of no merit; but to the mind
of Lord Elmwood, the merit was infinite; and upon the departure of
Sandford, he began to be unusually cheerful. He first pleasantly
reproached the ladies for not offering him a place in their box at the
opera.

“Would you have gone, my Lord?” asked Miss Milner, highly delighted.

“Certainly,” returned he, “had you invited me.”

“Then from this day I give you a general invitation; nor shall any
other company be admitted but those whom you approve.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said he.

“And you,” continued she, “who have been accustomed only to
church-music, will be more than any one, enchanted with hearing the
softer music of love.”

“What ravishing pleasures you are preparing for me!” returned he—“I
know not whether my weak senses will be able to support them!”

She had her eyes upon him when he spoke this, and she discovered in
his, that were fixed upon her, a sensibility unexpected—a kind of
fascination which enticed her to look on, while her eyelids fell
involuntarily before its mighty force, and a thousand blushes crowded
over her face. He was struck with these sudden signals; hastily
recalled his former countenance, and stopped the conversation.

Miss Woodley, who had been a silent observer for some time, now thought
a word or two from her would be acceptable rather than troublesome.

“And pray, my Lord,” said she, “when do you go to France?”

“To Italy you mean;—I shall not go at all,” said he. “My superiors are
very indulgent, for they dispense with all my duties. I ought, and I
meant, to have gone abroad; but as a variety of concerns require my
presence in England, every necessary ceremony has taken place here.”

“Then your Lordship is no longer in orders?” said Miss Woodley.

“No; they have been resigned these five days.”

“My Lord, I give you joy,” said Miss Milner.

He thanked her, but added with a sigh, “If I have given up content in
search of joy, I shall perhaps be a loser by the venture.” Soon after
this, he wished them a good night, and retired.

Happy as Miss Milner found herself in his company, she saw him leave
the room with infinite satisfaction, because her heart was impatient to
give a loose to its hopes on the bosom of Miss Woodley. She bade Mrs.
Horton immediately good night; and, in her friend’s apartment, gave way
to all the language of passion, warmed with the confidence of meeting
its return. She described the sentiments she had read in Lord Elmwood’s
looks; and though Miss Woodley had beheld them too, Miss Milner’s fancy
heightened the expression of every glance, till her construction
became, by degrees, so extremely favourable to her own wishes, that had
not her friend been present, and known in what measure to estimate
those symptoms, she must infallibly have thought, by the joy to which
they gave birth, that he had openly avowed a passion for her.

Miss Woodley, therefore, thought it her duty to allay these ecstasies,
and represented to her, she might be deceived in her hopes—or even
supposing his wishes inclined towards her, there were yet great
obstacles between them.—“Would not Sandford, who directed his every
thought and purpose, be consulted upon this? and if he was, upon what,
but the most romantic affection on the part of Lord Elmwood, had Miss
Milner to depend? and his Lordship was not a man to be suspected of
submitting to the excess of any passion.” Thus did Miss Woodley argue,
lest her friend should be misled by her wishes; yet, in her own mind,
she scarce harboured a doubt that any thing would thwart them. The
succeeding circumstance proved she was mistaken.

Another gentleman of family and fortune made overtures to Miss Milner;
and her guardian, so far from having his thoughts inclined towards her
on his own account, pleaded this lover’s cause even with more zeal than
he had pleaded for Sir Edward and Lord Frederick; thus at once
destroying all those plans of happiness which poor Miss Milner had
formed.

In consequence, her melancholy humour was now predominant; she confined
herself at home, and yet, by her own order, was denied to all her
visitors. Whether this arose from pure melancholy, or the still
lingering hope of making her conquest, by that sedateness of manners
which she knew her guardian admired, she herself perhaps did not
perfectly know. Be that as it may, Lord Elmwood could not but observe
this change, and one morning thought fit to mention, and to applaud it.

Miss Woodley and she were at work together when he came into the room;
and after sitting several minutes, and talking upon indifferent
subjects, to which his ward replied with a dejection in her voice and
manner—he said,

“Perhaps I am wrong, Miss Milner, but I have observed that you are
lately more thoughtful than usual.”

She blushed, as she always did when the subject was herself. He
continued, “Your health appears perfectly restored, and yet I have
observed you take no delight in your former amusements.”

“Are you sorry for that, my Lord?”

“No, I am extremely glad; and I was going to congratulate you upon the
change. But give me leave to enquire, to what lucky accident we may
attribute this alteration?”

“Your Lordship then thinks all my commendable deeds arise from
accident, and that I have no virtues of my own.”

“Pardon me, I think you have many.” This he spoke emphatically; and her
blushes increased.

He resumed—“How can I doubt of a lady’s virtues, when her countenance
gives me such evident proofs of them? Believe me, Miss Milner, that in
the midst of your gayest follies, while you thus continue to blush, I
shall reverence your internal sensations.”

“Oh! my Lord, did you know some of them, I am afraid you would think
them unpardonable.”

This was so much to the purpose, that Miss Woodley found herself
alarmed—but without reason—Miss Milner loved too sincerely to reveal it
to the object. He answered,

“And did you know some of mine, you might think them _equally_
unpardonable.”

She turned pale, and could no longer guide her needle—in the fond
transport of her heart she imagined that his love for her, was among
the sensations to which he alluded. She was too much embarrassed to
reply, and he continued,

“We have all much to pardon in one another: and I know not whether the
officious person who forces, even his good advice, is not as blameable
as the obstinate one, who will not listen to it. And now, having made a
preface to excuse you, should you once more refuse mine, I shall
venture to give it.”

“My Lord, I have never yet refused to follow your advice, but where my
own peace of mind was so nearly concerned, as to have made me culpable,
had I complied.”

“Well, Madam, I submit to your determinations; and shall never again
oppose your inclination to remain single.”

This sentence, as it excluded the idea of soliciting for himself, gave
her the utmost pain; and her eye glanced at him, full of reproach. He
did not observe it, but went on.

“While you continue unmarried, it seems to have been your father’s
intention that you should continue under my immediate care; but as I
mean for the future to reside chiefly in the country—answer me
candidly, do you think you could be happy there, for at least three
parts of the year?”

After a short hesitation, she replied, “I have no objection.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he returned eagerly, “for it is my earnest
desire to have you with me—your welfare is dear to me as my own; and
were we apart, continual apprehensions would prey upon my mind.”

The tear started in her eye, at the earnestness that accompanied these
words; he saw it, and to soften her still more with the sense of his
esteem for her, he increased his earnestness while he said,

“If you will take the resolution to quit London for the time I mention,
there shall be no means omitted to make the country all you can wish—I
shall insist upon Miss Woodley’s company for both our sakes; and it
will not only be _my_ study to form such a society as you may approve,
but I am certain it will be likewise the study of Lady Elmwood——”

He was going on, but as if a poniard had thrust her to the heart, she
writhed under this unexpected stroke.

He saw her countenance change—he looked at her steadfastly.

It was not a common change from joy to sorrow, from content to
uneasiness, which Miss Milner discovered—she felt, and she expressed
anguish—Lord Elmwood was alarmed and shocked. She did not weep, but she
called Miss Woodley to come to her, with a voice that indicated a
degree of agony.

“My Lord,” (cried Miss Woodley, seeing his consternation and trembling
lest he should guess the secret,) “My Lord, Miss Milner has again
deceived you—you must not take her from London—it is that, and that
alone, which is the cause of her uneasiness.”

He seemed more amazed still—and still more shocked at her duplicity
than at her torture. “Good Heaven!” exclaimed he, “How am I to
accomplish her wishes? What am I to do? How can I judge, if she will
not confide in me, but thus for ever deceive me?”

She leaned, pale as death, on the shoulder of Miss Woodley, her eye
fixed with apparent insensibility to all that was said, while he
continued,

“Heaven is my witness, if I knew—If I could conceive the means how to
make her happy, I would sacrifice my own happiness to hers.”

“My Lord,” said Miss Woodley with a smile, “perhaps I may call upon you
hereafter to fulfil your word.”

He was totally ignorant what she meant, nor had he leisure, from the
confusion of his thoughts, to reflect upon her meaning; he nevertheless
replied, with warmth, “Do. You shall find I’ll perform it.—Do. I will
faithfully perform it.”

Though Miss Milner was conscious this declaration could not, in
delicacy, be ever adduced against him; yet the fervent and solemn
manner in which he made it, cheered her spirits; and as persons enjoy
the reflection of having in their possession some valuable gem, though
they are determined never to use it, so she upon this, was comforted
and grew better. She now lifted up her head, and leaned it on her hand,
as she sat by the side of a table—still she did not speak, but seemed
overcome with sorrow. As her situation became, however, less alarming,
her guardian’s pity and affright began to take the colour of
resentment; and though he did not say so, he was, and looked, highly
offended.

At this juncture Mr. Sandford entered. On beholding the present party,
it required not his sagacity to see at the first view, that they were
all uneasy; but instead of the sympathy this might have excited in some
dispositions, Mr. Sandford, after casting a look at each of them,
appeared in high spirits.

“You seem unhappy, my Lord,” said he, with a smile.

“You do _not_—Mr. Sandford,” Lord Elmwood replied.

“No, my Lord, nor would I, were I in your situation. What should make a
man of sense out of temper but a worthy object!” And he looked at Miss
Milner.

“There are no objects unworthy our care:” replied Lord Elmwood.

“But there are objects on whom all care is fruitless, your Lordship
will allow.”

“I never yet despaired of any one, Mr. Sandford.”

“And yet there are persons, of whom it is presumption to entertain
hopes.” And he looked again at Miss Milner.

“Does your head ache, Miss Milner?” asked her friend, seeing her hold
it with her hand.

“Very much,” returned she.

“Mr. Sandford,” said Miss Woodley, “did you use all those drops Miss
Milner gave you for a pain in the head?”

“Yes:” answered he, “I did.” But the question at that moment somewhat
embarrassed him.

“And I hope you found benefit from them:” said Miss Milner, with great
kindness, as she rose from her seat, and walked slowly out of the room.

Though Miss Woodley followed her, so that Mr. Sandford was left alone
with Lord Elmwood, and might have continued his unkind insinuations
without one restraint, yet his lips were closed for the present. He
looked down on the carpet—twitched himself upon his chair—and began to
talk of the weather.



CHAPTER IV.


When the first transports of despair were past, Miss Milner suffered
herself to be once more in hope. She found there were no other means to
support her life; and to her comfort, her friend was much less severe
on the present occasion than she expected. No engagement between
mortals was, in Miss Woodley’s opinion, binding like that entered into
with heaven; and whatever vows Lord Elmwood had possibly made to
another, she justly supposed that no woman’s love for him equalled Miss
Milner’s—it was prior to all others too; that established her claim to
contend at least for success; and in a contention, what rival would not
fall before her?

It was not difficult to guess who this rival was; or if they were a
little time in suspence, Miss Woodley soon arrived at the certainty, by
inquiring of Mr. Sandford; who, unsuspecting why she asked, readily
informed her the intended Lady Elmwood was no other than Miss Fenton;
and that their marriage would be solemnized as soon as the mourning for
the late Lord Elmwood was over. This last intelligence made Miss
Woodley shudder—she repeated it, however, to Miss Milner, word for
word.

“Happy! happy woman!” exclaimed Miss Milner of Miss Fenton; “she has
received the first fond impulse of his heart, and has had the
transcendent happiness of teaching him to love!”

“By no means,” returned Miss Woodley, finding no other suggestion
likely to comfort her; “do not suppose that his marriage is the result
of love—it is no more than a duty, a necessary arrangement, and this
you may plainly see by the wife on whom he has fixed. Miss Fenton was
thought a proper match for his cousin, and that same propriety has
transferred her to him.”

It was easy to convince Miss Milner that all her friend said was truth,
for she wished it so. “And oh!” she exclaimed, “could I but stimulate
passion, against the cold influence of propriety;—Do you think, my dear
Miss Woodley,” (and she looked with such begging eyes, it was
impossible not to answer as she wished,) “do you think it would be
unjust to Miss Fenton, were I to inspire her destined husband with a
passion which she may not have inspired, and which I believe _she_
cannot feel?”

Miss Woodley paused a minute, and then answered, “No:”—but there was a
hesitation in her manner of delivery—she _did_ say, “No:” but she
looked as if she was afraid she ought to have said “Yes.” Miss Milner,
however, did not give her time to recall the word, or to alter its
meaning by adding others to it, but ran on eagerly, and declared, “As
that was her opinion, she would abide by it, and do all she could to
supplant her rival.” In order, nevertheless, to justify this
determination, and satisfy the conscience of Miss Woodley, they both
concluded that Miss Fenton’s heart was not engaged in the intended
marriage, and consequently that she was indifferent whether it ever
took place or not.

Since the death of the late Earl, she had not been in town; nor had the
present Earl been near the place where she resided, since the week in
which her lover died; of course, nothing similar to love could have
been declared at so early a period; and if it had been made known at a
later, it must only have been by letter, or by the deputation of Mr.
Sandford, who they knew had been once in the country to visit her; but
how little he was qualified to enforce a tender passion, was a
comfortable reflection.

Revived by these conjectures, of which some were true, and others
false; the very next day a gloom overspread their bright prospects, on
Mr. Sandford’s saying, as he entered the breakfast-room,

“Miss Fenton, ladies, desired me to present her compliments.”

“Is she in town?” asked Mrs. Horton.

“She came yesterday morning,” returned Sandford, “and is at her
brother’s, in Ormond-street; my Lord and I supped there last night, and
that made us so late home.”

Lord Elmwood entered soon after, and bowing to his ward, confirmed what
had been said, by telling her, that “Miss Fenton had charged him with
her kindest respects.”

“How does poor Miss Fenton look?” Mrs. Horton asked Lord Elmwood.

To which question Sandford replied, “Beautiful—she looks beautifully.”

“She has got over her uneasiness, I suppose then?” said Mrs. Horton—not
dreaming that she was asking the questions before her new lover.

“Uneasy!” replied Sandford, “uneasy at any trial this world can send?
That would be highly unworthy of her.”

“But sometimes women do fret at such things:” replied Mrs. Horton,
innocently.

Lord Elmwood asked Miss Milner—“If she meant to ride, this delightful
day?”

While she was hesitating—

“There are different kinds of women,” (said Sandford, directing his
discourse to Mrs. Horton;) “there is as much difference between some
women, as between good and evil spirits.”

Lord Elmwood asked Miss Milner again—If she took an airing?

She replied, “No.”

“And beauty,” continued Sandford, “when endowed upon spirits that are
evil, is a mark of their greater, their more extreme wickedness.
Lucifer was the most beautiful of all the angels in Paradise”—

“How do you know?” said Miss Milner.

“But the beauty of Lucifer,” (continued Sandford, in perfect neglect
and contempt of her question,) “was an aggravation of his guilt;
because it shewed a double share of ingratitude to the Divine Creator
of that beauty.”

“Now you talk of angels,” said Miss Milner, “I wish I had wings; and I
should like to fly through the park this morning.”

“You would be taken for an angel in good earnest,” said Lord Elmwood.

Sandford was angry at this little compliment, and cried, “I should
think the serpent’s skin would be much more characteristic.”

“My Lord,” cried she, “does not Mr. Sandford use me ill?” Vext with
other things, she felt herself extremely hurt at this, and made the
appeal almost in tears.

“Indeed, I think he does.” And he looked at Sandford as if he was
displeased.

This was a triumph so agreeable to her, that she immediately pardoned
the offence; but the offender did not so easily pardon her.

“Good morning, ladies,” said Lord Elmwood, rising to go away.

“My Lord,” said Miss Woodley, “you promised Miss Milner to accompany
her one evening to the opera; this is opera night.”

“Will you go, my Lord?” asked Miss Milner, in a voice so soft, that he
seemed as if he wished, but could not resist it.

“I am to dine at Mr. Fenton’s to-day,” he replied; “and if he and his
sister will go, and you will allow them part of your box, I will
promise to come.”

This was a condition by no means acceptable to her; but as she felt a
desire to see him in company of his intended bride, (for she fancied
she could perceive his secret sentiments, could she once see them
together) she answered not ungraciously, “Yes, my compliments to Mr.
and Miss Fenton, and I hope they will favour me with their company.”

“Then, Madam, if they come, you may expect me—else not.” He bowed and
left the room.

All the day was passed in anxious expectation by Miss Milner, what
would be the event of the evening: for upon her penetration that
evening all her future prospects she thought depended. If she saw by
his looks, by his words, or assiduities, that he loved Miss Fenton, she
flattered herself she would never think of him again with hope; but if
she observed him treat her with inattention or indifference, she would
cherish, from that moment, the fondest expectations. Against that short
evening her toilet was consulted the whole day: the alternate hope and
fear which fluttered in her heart, gave a more than usual brilliancy to
her eyes, and more than usual bloom to her complection. But vain was
her beauty; vain all her care to decorate that beauty; vain her many
looks to her box-door in hopes to see it open—Lord Elmwood never came.

The music was discord—every thing she saw was disgusting—in a word, she
was miserable.

She longed impatiently for the curtain to drop, because she was uneasy
where she was—yet she asked herself, “Shall I be less unhappy at home?
Yes; at home I shall see Lord Elmwood, and that will be happiness. But
he will behold me with neglect, and that will be misery! Ungrateful
man! I will no longer think of him.” Yet could she have thought of him,
without joining in the same idea Miss Fenton, her anguish had been
supportable; but while she painted them as lovers, the tortures of the
rack are but a few degrees more painful than those which she endured.

There are but few persons who ever felt the real passion of jealousy,
because few have felt the real passion of love; but with those who have
experienced them both, jealousy not only affects the mind, but every
fibre of their frame; and Miss Milner’s every limb felt agonizing
torment, when Miss Fenton, courted and beloved by Lord Elmwood, was
present to her imagination.

The moment the opera was finished, she flew hastily down stairs, as if
to fly from the sufferings she experienced. She did not go into the
coffee-room, though repeatedly urged by Miss Woodley, but waited at the
door till her carriage drew up.

Piqued—heart-broken—full of resentment against the object of her
uneasiness, and inattentive to all that passed, a hand gently touched
her own; and the most humble and insinuating voice said, “Will you
permit me to lead you to your carriage?” She was awakened from her
revery, and found Lord Frederick Lawnly by her side. Her heart, just
then melting with tenderness to another, was perhaps more accessible
than heretofore; or bursting with resentment, thought this the moment
to retaliate. Whatever passion reigned that instant, it was favourable
to the desires of Lord Frederick, and she looked as if she was glad to
see him: he beheld this with the rapture and the humility of a lover;
and though she did not feel the least particle of love in return, she
felt gratitude in proportion to the insensibility with which she had
been treated by her guardian; and Lord Frederick’s supposition was not
very erroneous, if he mistook this gratitude for a latent spark of
affection. The mistake, however, did not force from him his respect: he
handed her to her carriage, bowed low, and disappeared. Miss Woodley
wished to divert her thoughts from the object which could only make her
wretched, and as they rode home, by many encomiums upon Lord Frederick,
endeavoured to incite her to a regard for him; Miss Milner was
displeased at the attempt, and exclaimed,

“What! love a rake, a man of professed gallantry? impossible. To me, a
common rake is as odious as a common prostitute is to a man of the
nicest feelings. Where can be the joy, the pride, of inspiring a
passion which fifty others can equally inspire?”

“Strange,” cried Miss Woodley, “that you, who possess so many follies
incident to your sex, should, in the disposal of your heart, have
sentiments so contrary to women in general.”

“My dear Miss Woodley,” returned she, “put in competition the languid
addresses of a libertine, with the animated affection of a sober man,
and judge which has the dominion? Oh! in my calendar of love, a solemn
Lord Chief Justice, or a devout archbishop, ranks before a licentious
king.”

Miss Woodley smiled at an opinion which she knew half her sex would
ridicule; but by the air of sincerity with which it was delivered, she
was convinced her recent behaviour to Lord Frederick was but the mere
effect of chance.

Lord Elmwood’s carriage drove to his door just at the time her’s did;
Mr. Sandford was with him, and they were both come from passing the
evening at Mr. Fenton’s.

“So, my Lord,” said Miss Woodley, as soon as they met in the apartment,
“you did not come to us?”

“No,” answered he, “I was sorry; but I hope you did not expect me.”

“Not expect you, my Lord?” cried Miss Milner; “Did not you say that you
would come?”

“If I had, I certainly should have come,” returned he, “but I only said
so conditionally.”

“That I am a witness to,” cried Sandford, “for I was present at the
time, and he said it should depend upon Miss Fenton.”

“And she, with her gloomy disposition,” said Miss Milner, “chose to sit
at home.”

“Gloomy disposition!” repeated Sandford: “She has a great share of
sprightliness—and I think I never saw her in better spirits than she
was this evening, my Lord.”

Lord Elmwood did not speak.

“Bless me, Mr. Sandford,” cried Miss Milner, “I meant no reflection
upon Miss Fenton’s disposition; I only meant to censure her taste for
staying at home.”

“I think,” replied Mr. Sandford, “a much heavier censure should be
passed upon those who prefer rambling abroad.”

“But I hope, ladies, my not coming,” said Lord Elmwood, “was no
inconvenience to you; for you had still, I see, a gentleman with you.”

“Oh! yes, two gentlemen:” answered the son of Lady Evans, a lad from
school, whom Miss Milner had taken along with her.

“What two?” asked Lord Elmwood.

Neither Miss Milner nor Miss Woodley answered.

“You know, Madam,” said young Evans, “that handsome gentleman who
handed you into your carriage, and you called my Lord.”

“Oh! he means Lord Frederick Lawnly:” said Miss Milner carelessly, but
a blush of shame spread over her face.

“And did he hand you into your coach?” asked Lord Elmwood earnestly.

“By mere accident, my Lord,” Miss Woodley replied, “for the crowd was
so great——”

“I think, my Lord,” said Sandford, “it was very lucky that you were
_not_ there.”

“Had Lord Elmwood been with us, we should not have had occasion for the
assistance of any other,” said Miss Milner.

“Lord Elmwood has been with you, Madam,” returned Sandford, “very
frequently, and yet—”

“Mr. Sandford,” said Lord Elmwood, interrupting him, “it is near
bed-time, your conversation keeps the ladies from retiring.”

“Your Lordship’s does not,” said Miss Milner, “for you say nothing.”

“Because, Madam, I am afraid to offend.”

“But do not you also hope to please? and without risking the one, it is
impossible to arrive at the other.”

“I think, at present, the risk would be too hazardous, and so I wish
you a good night.” And he went out of the room somewhat abruptly.

“Lord Elmwood,” said Miss Milner, “is very grave—he does not look like
a man who has been passing the evening with the woman he loves.”

“Perhaps he is melancholy at parting from her,” said Miss Woodley.

“More likely offended,” said Sandford, “at the manner in which that
lady has spoken of her.”

“Who, I? I protest I said nothing——”

“Nothing! Did not you say that she was gloomy?”

“Nothing but what I thought—I was going to add, Mr. Sandford.”

“When you think unjustly, you should not express your thoughts.”

“Then, perhaps, I should never speak.”

“And it were better you did not, if what you say is to give pain. Do
you know, Madam, that my Lord is going to be married to Miss Fenton?”

“Yes,” answered Miss Milner.

“Do you know that he loves her?”

“No,” answered Miss Milner.

“How! do you suppose he does not?”

“I suppose that he does, yet I don’t know it.”

“Then if you suppose that he does, how can you have the imprudence to
find fault with her before him?”

“I did not. To call her gloomy, was, I knew, to commend her both to him
and to you, who admire such tempers.”

“Whatever her temper is, _every one_ admires it; and so far from its
being what you have described, she has great vivacity; vivacity which
comes from the heart.”

“No, if it _came_ from thence, I should admire it too; but, if she has
any, it rests there, and no one is the better for it.”

“Pshaw!” said Miss Woodley, “it is time for us to retire; you and Mr.
Sandford must finish your dispute in the morning.”

“Dispute, Madam!” said Sandford, “I never disputed with any one beneath
a doctor of divinity in my life. I was only cautioning your friend not
to make light of those virtues which it would do her honour to possess.
Miss Fenton is a most amiable young woman, and worthy of just such a
husband as my Lord Elmwood will make her.”

“I am sure,” said Miss Woodley, “Miss Milner thinks so—she has a high
opinion of Miss Fenton—she was at present only jesting.”

“But, Madam, a jest is a very pernicious thing, when delivered with a
malignant sneer. I have known a jest destroy a lady’s reputation—I have
known a jest give one person a distaste for another—I have known a jest
break off a marriage.”

“But I suppose there is no apprehension of that in the present case?”
said Miss Woodley—wishing he might answer in the affirmative.

“Not that I can foresee. No, Heaven forbid,” he replied, “for I look
upon them to be formed for each other—their dispositions, their
pursuits, their inclinations the same. Their passions for each other
just the same—pure—white as snow.”

“And I dare say, not warmer,” replied Miss Milner.

He looked provoked beyond measure.

“My dear,” cried Miss Woodley, “how can you talk thus? I believe in my
heart you are only envious, because my Lord Elmwood has not offered
himself to you.”

“To her!” said Sandford, affecting an air of the utmost surprise; “to
her! Do you think he received a dispensation from his vows, to become
the husband of a coquette—a——.”—He was going on.

“Nay, Mr. Sandford,” cried Miss Milner, “I believe, after all, my worst
crime, in your eyes, is that of being a heretic.”

“By no means—it is the only circumstance that can apologize for your
faults; and if you had not that excuse, there would be none for you.”

“Then, at present, there _is_ an excuse—I thank you, Mr. Sandford—this
is the kindest thing you ever said to me. But I am vext to see that you
are sorry you have said it.”

“Angry at your being a heretic!” he resumed—“Indeed I should be much
more concerned to see you a disgrace to our religion.”

Miss Milner had not been in a good humour the whole evening—she had
been provoked several times to the full extent of her patience: but
this harsh sentence hurried her beyond all bounds, and she arose from
her seat in the most violent agitation, exclaiming, “What have I done
to be thus treated?”

Though Mr. Sandford was not a man easily intimidated, he was upon this
occasion evidently alarmed; and stared about him with so violent an
expression of surprise, that it partook, in some degree, of fear. Miss
Woodley clasped her friend in her arms, and cried with the tenderest
affection and pity, “My dear Miss Milner, be composed.”

Miss Milner sat down, and was so for a minute; but her dead silence was
almost as alarming to Sandford as her rage had been; and he did not
perfectly recover himself till he saw tears pouring down her face. He
then heaved a sigh of content that all had thus ended; but in his heart
resolved never to forget the ridiculous affright into which he had been
thrown. He stole out of the room without uttering a syllable—but as he
never retired to rest before he had repeated a long form of evening
prayer, when this evening he came to that part which supplicates “Grace
for the wicked,” he mentioned Miss Milner’s name with the most fervent
devotion.



CHAPTER V.


Of the many restless nights that Miss Milner passed, this was not one.
It is true, she had a weight of care upon her heart, even heavier than
usual, but the burden had overcome her strength: wearied out with
hopes, with fears, and, at the end, with disappointment and rage, she
sunk at once into a deep slumber. But the more forgetfulness had then
prevailed, the more powerful was the force of remembrance when she
awoke. At first, so sound her sleep had been, that she had a difficulty
in calling to mind why she was unhappy; but that she _was_ unhappy she
well recollected—when the cause came to her memory, she would have
slept again—but it was impossible.

Though her rest had been sound, it had not been refreshing—she was far
from well, and sent word of her indisposition, as an apology for not
being present at breakfast. Lord Elmwood looked concerned when the
message was delivered—Mr. Sandford shook his head.

“Miss Milner’s health is not good!” said Mrs. Horton a few minutes
after.

Lord Elmwood laid down the newspaper to attend to her.

“To me, there is something very extraordinary about her!” continued
Mrs. Horton, finding she had caught his Lordship’s attention.

“So there is to me!” added Sandford, with a sarcastic sneer.

“And so there is to me!” said Miss Woodley, with a serious face and a
heartfelt sigh.

Lord Elmwood gazed by turns at each, as each delivered their
sentiments—and when they were all silent, he looked bewildered, not
knowing what judgment to form from any of these sentences.

Soon after breakfast, Mr. Sandford withdrew to his own apartment: Mrs.
Horton, in a little time, went to hers: Lord Elmwood and Miss Woodley
were left alone. He immediately rose from his seat, and said,

“I think, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner was extremely to blame, though I
did not chuse to tell her so before Mr. Sandford, in giving Lord
Frederick an opportunity of speaking to her, unless she means that he
shall renew his addresses.”

“That, I am certain,” replied Miss Woodley, “she does _not_ mean—and I
assure you, my Lord, seriously, it was by mere accident she saw him
yesterday evening, or permitted his attendance upon her to her
carriage.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he returned quickly; “for although I am not of
a suspicious nature, yet in regard to her affections for him, I cannot
but still have my doubts.”

“You need have none, my Lord,” replied Miss Woodley, with a smile of
confidence.

“And yet you must own her behaviour has warranted them—has it not been
in this particular incoherent and unaccountable?”

“The behaviour of a person in love, no doubt,” answered Miss Woodley.

“Don’t I say so?” replied he warmly; “and is not that a just reason for
my suspicions?”

“But is there only one man in the world on whom those suspicions can
fix?” said Miss Woodley, with the colour mounting into her face.

“Not that I know of—not one more that I know of,” he replied, with
astonishment at what she had insinuated, and yet with a perfect
assurance that she was in the wrong.

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” answered she.

“Nay, that is impossible too,” returned he with anxiety—“You share her
confidence—you are perpetually with her; and if she did not confide in
you, (which I know, and rejoice that she does) you would yet be
acquainted with all her inclinations.”

“I believe I am _perfectly_ acquainted with them,” replied Miss
Woodley, with a significance in her voice and manner which convinced
him there was some secret to learn.

After a hesitation——

“It is far from me,” replied he, “to wish to be entrusted with the
private sentiments of those who desire to with-hold them from me; much
less would I take any unfair means to be informed of them. To ask any
more questions of you, I believe, would be unfair. Yet I cannot but
lament that I am not as well informed as you are. I wish to prove my
friendship to Miss Milner, but she will not suffer me—and every step
that I take for her happiness, I take in the most perplexing
uncertainty.”

Miss Woodley sighed—but she did not speak. He seemed to wait for her
reply; but as she made none, he proceeded—

“If ever breach of confidence could be tolerated, I certainly know no
occasion that would so justly authorise it as the present. I am not
only proper from character, but from circumstances, to be relied
upon—my interest is so nearly connected with the interest, and my
happiness with the happiness of my ward, that those principles, as well
as my honour, would protect her against every peril arising from my
being trusted.”

“Oh! my Lord,” cried Miss Woodley, with a most forcible accent, “_You_
are the last person on earth she would pardon me for entrusting.”

“Why so?” said he, warmly. “But that is the way—the person who is our
friend we distrust—where a common interest is concerned, we are ashamed
of drawing on a common danger—afraid of advice, though that advice is
to save us.——Miss Woodley,” said he, changing his voice with excess of
earnestness, “do you not believe, that I would do anything to make Miss
Milner happy?”

“Any thing in honour, my Lord.”

“She can desire nothing farther,” he replied in agitation. “Are her
desires so unwarrantable, that I cannot grant them?”

Miss Woodley again did not speak—and he continued——

“Great as my friendship is, there are certainly bounds to it—bounds
that shall save her in spite of herself:”—and he raised his voice.

“In the disposal of themselves,” resumed he, with a less vehement tone,
“that great, that terrific disposal in marriage, (at which I have
always looked with fear and dismay) there is no accounting for the
rashness of a woman’s choice, or sometimes for the depravity of her
taste. But in such a case, Miss Milner’s election of a husband shall
not direct mine. If she does not know how to estimate her own value, I
do. Independent of her fortune, she has beauty to captivate the heart
of any man; and with all her follies, she has a frankness in her
manner, an unaffected wisdom in her thoughts, a vivacity in her
conversation, and withal, a softness in her demeanour, that might alone
engage the affections of a man of the nicest sentiments, and the
strongest understanding. I will not see all these qualities and
accomplishments debased. It is my office to protect her from the
consequences of a degrading choice, and I will.”

“My Lord, Miss Milner’s taste is not a depraved one; it is but too
refined.”

“What can you mean by that, Miss Woodley? You talk mysteriously. Is she
not afraid that I will thwart her inclinations?”

“She is sure that you will, my Lord.”

“Then must the person be unworthy of her.”

Miss Woodley rose from her seat—she clasped her hands—every look and
every gesture proved her alternate resolution and irresolution of
proceeding. Lord Elmwood’s attention was arrested before; but now it
was fixed to a degree which her extraordinary manner only could
occasion.

“My Lord,” said she, with a tremulous voice, “promise me, declare to
me, nay, swear to me, that it shall ever remain a secret in your own
breast, and I will reveal to you, on whom she has placed her
affections.”

This preparation made Lord Elmwood tremble, and he ran over instantly
in his mind all the persons he could recollect, in order to arrive at
the knowledge by thought, quicker than by words. It was in vain he
tried; and he once more turned his inquiring eyes upon Miss Woodley. He
saw her silent and covered with confusion. Again he searched his own
thoughts; nor ineffectually as before. At the first glance, the object
was presented, and he beheld—_himself_.

The rapid emotion of varying passions, which immediately darted over
his features, informed Miss Woodley that her secret was discovered—she
hid her face, while the tears that fell down to her bosom, confirmed
the truth of his suggestion, beyond what oaths could have done. A short
interval of silence followed, during which, she suffered tortures for
the manner in which he would next address her—two seconds gave her this
reply:

“For God’s sake take care what you are doing—you are destroying my
prospects of futurity—you are making this world too dear to me.”

Her drooping head was then lifted up, and she caught the eye of
Dorriforth; she saw it beam expectation, amazement, joy, ardour, and
love.——Nay, there was a fire, a vehemence in the quick fascinating rays
it sent forth, she never before had seen—it filled her with alarm—she
wished him to love Miss Milner, but to love her with moderation. Miss
Woodley was too little versed in the subject, to know, this would have
been not to love at all; at least, not to the extent of breaking
through engagements, and all the various obstacles that still militated
against their union.

Lord Elmwood was sensible of the embarrassment his presence gave Miss
Woodley, and understood the reproaches which she seemed to vent upon
herself in silence. To relieve her from both, he laid his hand with
force upon his heart, and said, “Do you believe me?”

“I do, my Lord,” she answered, trembling.

“I will make no unjust use of what I know,” he replied with firmness.

“I believe you, my Lord.”

“But for what my passions now dictate,” continued he, “I will not
answer. They are confused—they are triumphant at present. I have never
yet, however, been vanquished by them; and even upon this occasion, my
reason shall combat them to the last—and my reason shall fail me,
before I do wrong.”

He was going to leave the room—she followed him, and cried, “But, my
Lord, how shall I see again the unhappy object of my treachery?”

“See her,” replied he, “as one to whom you meant no injury, and to whom
you have done none.”

“But she would account it an injury.”

“We are not judges of what belongs to ourselves,” he replied—“I am
transported at the tidings you have revealed, and yet, perhaps, I had
better never have heard them.”

Miss Woodley was going to say something farther, but as if incapable of
attending to her, he hastened out of the room.



CHAPTER VI.


Miss Woodley stood for some time to consider which way she was to go.
The first person she met, would enquire why she had been weeping? and
if Miss Milner was to ask the question, in what words could she tell,
or in what manner deny the truth? To avoid her was her first caution,
and she took the only method; she had a hackney-coach ordered, rode
several miles out of town, and returned to dinner with so little
remains of her swoln eyes, that complaining of the head-ache was a
sufficient excuse for them.

Miss Milner was enough recovered to be present at dinner, though she
scarce tasted a morsel. Lord Elmwood did not dine at home, at which
Miss Woodley rejoiced, but at which Mr. Sandford appeared highly
disappointed. He asked the servants several times, what he said when he
went out? They replied, “Nothing more than that he should not be at
home to dinner.”

“I can’t imagine where he dines?” said Sandford.

“Bless me, Mr. Sandford, can’t you guess?” (cried Mrs. Horton, who by
this time was made acquainted with his intended marriage) “He dines
with Miss Fenton to be sure.”

“No,” replied Sandford, “he is not there; I came from thence just now,
and they had not seen him all day.” Poor Miss Milner, on this, ate
something; for where we hope for nothing, we receive small indulgencies
with joy.

Notwithstanding the anxiety and trouble under which Miss Woodley had
laboured all the morning, her heart for many weeks had not felt so
light as it did this day at dinner. The confidence that she reposed in
the promises of Lord Elmwood—the firm reliance she had upon his
delicacy and his justice—the unabated kindness with which her friend
received her, while she knew that no one suspicious thought had taken
harbour in her bosom—and the conscious integrity of her own intentions,
though she might have been misled by her judgment, all comforted her
with the hope, she had done nothing she ought to wish recalled. But
although she felt thus tranquil, in respect to what she had divulged,
yet she was a good deal embarrassed with the dread of next seeing Lord
Elmwood.

Miss Milner, not having spirits to go abroad, passed the evening at
home. She read part of a new opera, played upon her guitar, mused,
sighed, occasionally talked with Miss Woodley, and so passed the
tedious hours till near ten, when Mrs. Horton asked Mr. Sandford to
play a game at piquet, and on his excusing himself, Miss Milner offered
in his stead, and was gladly accepted. They had just begun to play when
Lord Elmwood came into the room—Miss Milner’s countenance immediately
brightened, and though she was in a negligent morning dress, and looked
paler than usual, she did not look less beautiful. Miss Woodley was
leaning on the back of her chair to observe the game, and Mr. Sandford
sat reading one of the Fathers at the other side of the fire place.
Lord Elmwood, as he advanced to the table, bowed, not having seen the
ladies since the morning, or Miss Milner that day: they returned the
salute, and he was going up to Miss Milner, (as if to enquire of her
health) when Mr. Sandford, laying down his book, said,

“My Lord, where have you been all day?”

“I have been very busy,” replied he, and walking from the card-table,
went up to him.

Miss Milner played one card for another.

“You have been at Mr. Fenton’s this evening, I suppose?” said Sandford.

“No; not at all to-day.”

“How came that about, my Lord?”

Miss Milner played the ace of diamonds instead of the king of hearts.

“I shall call to-morrow,” answered Lord Elmwood; and then walking with
a very ceremonious air up to Miss Milner, said, “He hoped she was
perfectly recovered.”

Mrs. Horton begged her “To mind what she was about.” She replied, “I am
much better, Sir.”

He then returned to Sandford again; but never, during all this time,
did his eye once encounter Miss Woodley’s; and she, with equal care,
avoided his.

Some cold dishes were now brought up for supper—Miss Milner lost her
deal, and the game ended.

As they were arranging themselves at the supper-table, “Do, Miss
Milner,” said Mrs. Horton, “have something warm for your supper; a
chicken boiled, or something of that kind; you have eat nothing
to-day.”

With feelings of humanity, and apparently no other sensation—but never
did he feel his philanthropy so forcible—Lord Elmwood said, “Let me beg
of you, Miss Milner, to have something provided for you.”

The earnestness and emphasis with which these few words were
pronounced, were more flattering than the finest turned compliment
would have been; her gratitude was expressed in blushes, and by
assuring him she was now “So well, as to sup on the dishes before her.”
She spoke, however, and had not made the trial; for the moment she
carried a morsel to her lips, she laid it on her plate again, and
turned paler, from the vain endeavour to force her appetite. Lord
Elmwood had always been attentive to her; but now he watched her as he
would a child; and when he saw by her struggles that she could not eat,
he took her plate from her; gave her something else; and all with a
care and watchfulness in his looks, as if he had been a tender-hearted
boy, and she his darling bird, the loss of which would embitter all the
joy of his holidays.

This attention had something in it so tender, so officious, and yet so
sincere, that it brought the tears into Miss Woodley’s eyes, attracted
the notice of Mr. Sandford, and the observation of Mrs. Horton; while
the heart of Miss Milner overflowed with a gratitude, that gave place
to no sentiment except her love.

To relieve the anxiety which her guardian expressed, she endeavoured to
appear cheerful, and that anxiety, at length, really made her so. He
now pressed her to take one glass of wine with such solicitude, that he
seemed to say a thousand things besides. Sandford still made his
observations, and being unused to conceal his thoughts before the
present company, he said bluntly,

“Miss Fenton was indisposed the other night, my Lord, and you did not
seem half thus anxious about her.”

Had Sandford laid all Lord Elmwood’s estate at Miss Milner’s feet, or
presented her with that eternal bloom which adorns the face of a
goddess, he would have done less to endear himself to her, than by this
one sentence—she looked at him with a most benign countenance, and felt
affliction that she had ever offended him.

“Miss Fenton,” Lord Elmwood replied, “has a brother with her: her
health and happiness are in _his_ care—Miss Milner’s are in mine.”

“Mr. Sandford,” said Miss Milner, “I am afraid that I behaved uncivilly
to you last night—will you accept of an atonement?”

“No, Madam,” returned he, “I accept no expiation without amendment.”

“Well, then,” said she, smiling, “suppose I promise never to offend you
again, what then?”

“Why, then, you’ll break your promise.”

“Do not promise him,” said Lord Elmwood, “for he means to provoke you
to it.”

In the like conversation the evening passed, and Miss Milner retired to
rest in far better spirits than her morning’s prospect had given her
the least pretence to hope. Miss Woodley, too, had cause to be well
pleased; but her pleasure was in great measure eclipsed by the
reflection, that there was such a person as Miss Fenton—she wished she
had been equally acquainted with her’s as with Miss Milner’s heart, and
she would then have acted without injustice to either; but Miss Fenton
had of late shunned their society, and even in their company was of a
temper too reserved ever to discover her mind; Miss Woodley was
obliged, therefore, to act to the best of her own judgment only, and
leave all events to Providence.



CHAPTER VII.


Within a few days, in the house of Lord Elmwood, every thing, and every
person, wore a new face. He, was the professed lover of Miss
Milner—she, the happiest of human beings—Miss Woodley partaking in the
joy—Mr. Sandford lamenting, with the deepest concern, that Miss Fenton
had been supplanted; and what added poignantly to his concern was, that
she had been supplanted by Miss Milner. Though a churchman, he bore his
disappointment with the impatience of one of the laity: he could hardly
speak to Lord Elmwood; he would not look at Miss Milner, and was
displeased with every one. It was his intention, when he first became
acquainted with Lord Elmwood’s resolution, to quit his house; and as
the Earl had, with the utmost degree of inflexibility, resisted all his
good counsel upon this subject, he resolved, in quitting him, never to
be his adviser again. But, in preparing to leave his friend, his pupil,
his patron, and yet him, who, upon most occasions, implicitly obeyed
his will, the spiritual got the better of the temporal man, and he
determined to stay, lest in totally abandoning him to the pursuit of
his own passions, he should make his punishment even greater than his
offence. “My Lord,” said he, “on the stormy sea, upon which you are
embarked, though you will not shun the rocks that your faithful pilot
would point out, he will, nevertheless, sail in your company, and
lament over your watery grave. The more you slight my advice, the more
you want it; so that, until you command me to leave your house, (as I
suppose you will soon do, to oblige your Lady) I will continue along
with you.”

Lord Elmwood liked him sincerely, and was glad that he took this
resolution; yet as soon as his reason and affections had once told him
that he ought to break with Miss Fenton, and marry his ward, he became
so decidedly of this opinion, that Sandford’s never had the most
trivial weight; nor would he even flatter the supposed authority he
possessed over him, by urging him to remain in his house a single day,
contrary to his inclinations. Sandford observed, with grief, this
firmness; but finding it vain to contend, submitted—not, however, with
a good grace.

Amidst all the persons affected by this change in Lord Elmwood’s
marriage-designs, Miss Fenton was, perhaps, affected the least—she
would have been content to have married, she was content to live
single. Mr. Sandford had been the first who made overtures to her on
the part of Lord Elmwood, and was the first sent to ask her to dispense
with the obligation.—She received both of these proposals with the same
insipid smile of approbation, and the same cold indifference at the
heart.

It was a perfect knowledge of this disposition in his intended wife
which had given to Lord Elmwood’s thoughts on matrimony, the idea of
dreary winter; but the sensibility of Miss Milner had now reversed that
prospect into perpetual spring; or the dearer variety of spring,
summer, and autumn.

It was a knowledge also of this torpor in Miss Fenton’s nature, from
which he formed the purpose of breaking with her; for Lord Elmwood
still retained enough of the sanctity of his former state to have
yielded up his own happiness, and even that of his beloved ward, rather
than have plunged one heart into affliction by his perfidy. This,
before he offered his hand to Miss Milner, he was perfectly convinced
would not be the case—even Miss Fenton herself assured him, that her
thoughts were more upon the joys of Heaven than upon those of earth;
and as this circumstance would, she believed, induce her to retire into
a convent, she thought it a happy, rather than an unhappy, event. Her
brother, on whom her fortune devolved if she took this resolution, was
exactly of her opinion.

Lost in the maze of happiness that surrounded her, Miss Milner
oftentimes asked her heart, and her heart whispered like a flatterer,
“Yes;” Are not my charms even more invincible than I ever believed them
to be? Dorriforth, the grave, the pious, the anchorite Dorriforth, by
their force, is animated to all the ardour of the most impassioned
lover—while the proud priest, the austere guardian is humbled, if I but
frown, into the veriest slave of love. She then asked, “Why did I not
keep him longer in suspense? He could not have loved me more, I
believe: but my power over him might have been greater still. I am the
happiest of women in the affection he has proved to me, but I wonder
whether it would exist under ill treatment? If it would not, he still
does not love me as I wish to be loved—if it would, my triumph, my
felicity, would be enhanced.” These thoughts were mere phantoms of the
brain, and never, by system, put into action; but, repeatedly indulged,
they were practised by casual occurrences; and the dear-bought
experiment of being loved in spite of her faults, (a glory proud women
ever aspire to) was, at present, the ambition of Miss Milner.

Unthinking woman! she did not reflect, that to the searching eye of
Lord Elmwood, she had faults, with her utmost care to conceal or
overcome them, sufficient to try all his love, and all his patience.
But what female is not fond of experiments? To which, how few do not
fall a sacrifice!

Perfectly secure in the affections of the man she loved, her declining
health no longer threatened her; her declining spirits returned as
before; and the suspicions of her guardian being now changed to the
liberal confidence of a doting lover, she again professed all her
former follies, all her fashionable levities, and indulged them with
less restraint than ever.

For a while, blinded by his passion, Lord Elmwood encouraged and
admired every new proof of her restored happiness; nor till sufferance
had tempted her beyond her usual bounds, did he remonstrate. But she,
who, as his ward, had been ever gentle, and (when he strenuously
opposed) always obedient; became, as a mistress, sometimes haughty,
and, to opposition, always insolent. He was surprised, but the novelty
pleased him. And Miss Milner, whom he tenderly loved, could put on no
change, or appear in no new character that did not, for the time she
adopted it, seem to become her.

Among the many causes of complaint which she gave him, want of œconomy,
in the disposal of her income, was one. Bills and drafts came upon him
without number, while the account, on her part, of money expended,
amounted chiefly to articles of dress that she sometimes never wore,
toys that were out of fashion before they were paid for, and charities
directed by the force of whim. Another complaint was, as usual, extreme
late hours, and often company that he did not approve.

She was charmed to see his love struggling with his censure—his
politeness with his anxiety—and by the light, frivolous, or resentful
manner in which she treated his admonitions, she triumphed in shewing
to Miss Woodley, and, more especially to Mr. Sandford, how much she
dared upon the strength of his affections.

Everything in preparation for their marriage, which was to take place
at Elmwood House during the summer months, she resolved for the short
time she had to remain in London to let no occasion pass of tasting all
those pleasures that were not likely ever to return; but which, though
eager as she was in their pursuit, she never placed in competition with
those she hoped would succeed—those more sedate and superior joys, of
domestic and conjugal happiness. Often, merely to hasten on the tedious
hours that intervened, she varied and diverted them, with the many
recreations her intended husband could not approve.

It so happened, and it was unfortunate it did, that a lawsuit
concerning some possessions in the West Indies, and other intricate
affairs that came with his title and estate, frequently kept Lord
Elmwood from his house part of the day; sometimes the whole evening;
and when at home, would often closet him for hours with his lawyers.
But while he was thus off his guard, Sandford never was—and had Miss
Milner been the dearest thing on earth to him, he could not have
watched her more narrowly; or had she been the frailest thing on earth,
he could not have been more hard upon her, in all the accounts of her
conduct he gave to her guardian. Lord Elmwood knew, on the other hand,
that Sandford’s failing was to think ill of Miss Milner—he pitied him
for it, and he pitied her for it—and in all the aggravation which his
representations gave to her real follies, affection for them both, in
the heart of Dorriforth, stood between that and every other impression.

But facts are glaring; and he, at length, beheld those faults in their
true colours, though previously pointed out by the prejudice of Mr.
Sandford.

As soon as Sandford perceived his friend’s uneasiness, “There, my
Lord!” cried he, exultingly, “did I not always say the marriage was an
improper one? but you would not be ruled—you would not see.”

“Can you blame _me_ for not seeing,” replied his Lordship, “when _you_
were blind? Had you been dispassionate, had you seen Miss Milner’s
virtues as well as her faults, I should have believed, and been guided
by you—but you saw her failings only, and therein have been equally
deceived with me, who have only beheld her perfections.”

“My observations, however, my Lord, would have been of most use to you;
for I have seen what to avoid.”

“But mine have been the most gratifying,” replied he; “for I have
seen—what I must always love.”

Sandford sighed, and lifted up his hands.

“Mr. Sandford,” resumed Lord Elmwood, with a voice and manner such as
he used to put on when not all the power of Sandford, or of any other,
could change his fixed determination, “Mr. Sandford, my eyes are now
open to every failing, as well as to every accomplishment; to every
vice, as well as to every virtue of Miss Milner; nor will I suffer
myself to be again prepossessed in her favour, by your prejudice
against her—for I believe it was compassion at your unkind treatment,
that first gained her my heart.”

“I, my Lord?” cried Sandford; “do not load me with the burthen—with the
mighty burthen of your love for her.”

“Do not interrupt me. Whatever your meaning has been, the effect of it
is what I have described. Now, I will no longer,” continued he, “have
an enemy, such as you have been, to heighten her charms, which are too
transcendent in their native state. I will hear no more complaints
against her, but I will watch her closely myself—and if I find her mind
and heart (such as my suspicions have of late whispered) too frivolous
for that substantial happiness I look for with an object so beloved,
depend upon my word—the marriage shall yet be broken off.”

“I depend upon your word; it _will_ then,”—replied Sandford eagerly.

“You are unjust, Sir, in saying so before the trial,” replied Lord
Elmwood, “and your injustice shall make me more cautious, lest I follow
your example.”

“But, my Lord——”

“My mind is made up, Mr. Sandford,” returned he, interrupting him; “I
am no longer engaged to Miss Milner than she shall deserve I should
be—but, in my strict observations upon her conduct, I will take care
not to wrong her as you have done.”

“My Lord, call my observations wrong, when you have reflected upon them
as a man, and not as a lover—divest yourself of your passion, and meet
me upon equal ground.”

“I will meet no one—I will consult no one—my own judgment shall be the
judge, and in a few months marry, or—_banish me from her for ever_.”

There was something in these last words, in the tone and firmness with
which they were delivered, that the heart of Sandford rested upon with
content—they bore the symptoms of a menace that would be executed; and
he parted from his patron with congratulations upon his wisdom, and
with giving him the warmest assurances of his firm reliance on his
_word_.

Lord Elmwood having come to this resolution, was more composed than he
had been for several days before; while the horror of domestic
wrangles—a family without subordination—a house without œconomy—in a
word, a wife without discretion, had been perpetually present to his
mind.

Mr. Sandford, although he was a man of understanding, of learning, and
a complete casuist, yet all the faults he himself committed, were
entirely—for want of knowing better. He constantly reproved faults in
others, and he was most assuredly too good a man not to have corrected
and amended his own, had they been known to him—but they were not. He
had been for so long a time the superior of all with whom he lived, had
been so busied with instructing others, that he had not recollected
that himself wanted instructions—and in such awe did his habitual
severity keep all about him, that although he had numerous friends, not
one told him of his failings—except just now Lord Elmwood, but whom, in
this instance, as a man in love, he would not credit. Was there not
then some reason for him to suppose he _had_ no faults? his enemies,
indeed, hinted that he had, but enemies he never harkened to; and thus,
with all his good sense, wanted the sense to follow the rule, _Believe
what your enemies say of you, rather than what is said by your
friends_. This rule attended to, would make a thousand people amiable,
who are now the reverse; and would have made _him_ a perfectly upright
character. For could an enemy to whom he would have listened, have
whispered to Sandford as he left Lord Elmwood, “Cruel, barbarous man!
you go away with your heart satisfied, nay, even elated, in the
prospect that Miss Milner’s hopes, on which she alone exists, those
hopes which keep her from the deepest affliction, and cherish her with
joy and gladness, will all be disappointed. You flatter yourself it is
for the sake of your friend, Lord Elmwood, that you rejoice, and
because he has escaped a danger. You wish him well; but there is
another cause for your exultation which you will not seek to know—it
is, that in his safety, shall dwell the punishment of his ward. For
shame! for shame! forgive her faults, as this of yours requires to be
forgiven.”

Had any one said this to Sandford, whom he would have credited, or had
his own heart suggested it, he was a man of that rectitude and
conscientiousness, that he would have returned immediately to Lord
Elmwood, and have strengthened all his favourable opinions of his
intended wife—but having no such monitor, he walked on, highly
contented, and meeting Miss Woodley, said, with an air of triumph,

“Where’s your friend? where’s Lady Elmwood?”

Miss Woodley smiled, and answered—She was gone with such and such
ladies to an auction. “But why give her that title already, Mr.
Sandford?”

“Because,” answered he, “I think she will never have it.”

“Bless me, Mr. Sandford,” said Miss Woodley, “you shock me!”

“I thought I should,” replied he, “and therefore I told it you.”

“For Heaven’s sake what has happened?”

“Nothing new—her indiscretions only.”

“I know she is imprudent,” said Miss Woodley—“I can see that her
conduct is often exceptionable—but then Lord Elmwood surely loves her,
and love will overlook a great deal.”

“He _does_ love her—but he has understanding and resolution. He loved
his sister too, tenderly loved her, and yet when he had taken the
resolution, and passed his word that he would never see her again—even
upon her death-bed he would not retract it—no entreaties could prevail
upon him. And now, though he maintains, and I dare say loves, her
child, yet you remember, when you brought him home, that he would not
suffer him in his sight.”

“Poor Miss Milner!” said Miss Woodley, in the most pitying accents.

“Nay,” said Sandford, “Lord Elmwood has not _yet_ passed his word, that
he will never see her more—he has only threatened to do it; but I know
enough of him to know, that his threats are generally the same as if
they were executed.”

“You are very good,” said Miss Woodley, “to acquaint me of this in
time—I may now warn Miss Milner of it, and she may observe more
circumspection.”

“By no means,” cried Sandford, hastily—“What would you warn her for? It
will do her no good—besides,” added he, “I don’t know whether Lord
Elmwood does not expect secrecy on my part; and if he does——”

“But, with all deference to your opinion,” said Miss Woodley, (and with
all deference did she speak) “don’t you think, Mr. Sandford, that
secrecy upon this occasion would be wicked? For consider the anguish
that it may occasion to my friend; and if, by advising her, we can save
her from——” She was going on.——

“You may call it wicked, Madam, not to inform her of what I have hinted
at,” cried he; “but I call it a breach of confidence—if it _was_
divulged to me in confidence——”

He was going to explain; but Miss Milner entered, and put an end to the
discourse. She had been passing the whole morning at an auction, and
had laid out near two hundred pounds in different things for which she
had no one use, but bought them because they were said to be
cheap—among the rest was a lot of books upon chemistry, and some Latin
authors.

“Why, Madam,” cried Sandford, looking over the catalogue where her
purchases were marked by a pencil, “do you know what you have done? You
can’t read a word of these books.”

“Can’t I, Mr. Sandford? But I assure you that you will be very much
pleased with them, when you see how elegantly they are bound.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Horton, “why have you bought china? You and my
Lord Elmwood have more now, than you have places to put them in.”

“Very true, Mrs. Horton—I forgot that—but then you know I can give
these away.”

Lord Elmwood was in the room at the conclusion of this conversation——he
shook his head and sighed.

“My Lord,” said she, “I have had a very agreeable morning; but I wished
for you—if you had been with me, I should have bought a great many
other things; but I did not like to appear unreasonable in your
absence.”

Sandford fixed his inquisitive eyes upon Lord Elmwood, to observe his
countenance—he smiled, but appeared thoughtful.

“And, oh! my Lord, I have bought you a present,” said she.

“I do not wish for a present, Miss Milner.”

“What not from me? Very well.”

“If you present me with yourself, it is all that I ask.”

Sandford moved upon his chair, as if he sat uneasy.

“Why then, Miss Woodley,” said Miss Milner, “_you_ shall have the
present. But then it won’t suit you—it is for a gentleman. I’ll keep it
and give it to my Lord Frederick the first time I meet with him. I saw
him this morning, and he looked divinely—I longed to speak to him.”

Miss Woodley cast, by stealth, an eye of apprehension upon Lord
Elmwood’s face, and trembled at seeing it flushed with resentment.

Sandford stared with both his eyes full upon him: then threw himself
upright on his chair, and took a pinch of snuff upon the strength of
the Earl’s uneasiness.

A silence ensued.

After a short time—“You all appear melancholy,” said Miss Milner: “I
wish I had not come home yet.”

Miss Woodley was in agony—she saw Lord Elmwood’s extreme displeasure,
and dreaded lest he should express it by some words he could not
recall, or she could not forgive—therefore, whispering to her she had
something particular to say, she took her out of the room.

The moment she was gone, Mr. Sandford rose nimbly from his seat, rubbed
his hands, walked briskly across the room, then asked Lord Elmwood in a
cheerful tone, “Whether he dined at home to-day?”

That which had given Sandford cheerfulness, had so depressed Lord
Elmwood, that he sat dejected and silent. At length he answered in a
faint voice, “No, I believe I shall _not_ dine at home.”

“Where is your Lordship going to dine?” asked Mrs. Horton; “I thought
we should have had your company to-day; Miss Milner dines at home, I
believe.”

“I have not yet determined where I shall dine,” replied he, taking no
notice of the conclusion of her speech.

“My Lord, if you mean to go to the hotel, I’ll go with you, if you
please,” cried Sandford officiously.

“With all my heart, Sandford—” and they both went out together, before
Miss Milner returned to the apartment.



CHAPTER VIII.


Miss Woodley, for the first time, disobeyed the will of Mr. Sandford;
and as soon as Miss Milner and she were alone, repeated all he had
revealed to her; accompanying the recital, with her usual testimonies
of sympathy and affection. But had the genius of Sandford presided over
this discovery, it could not have influenced the mind of Miss Milner to
receive the intelligence with a temper more exactly the opposite of
that which it was the intention of the informer to recommend. Instead
of shuddering at the menace Lord Elmwood had uttered, she said, she
“Dared him to perform it.” “He dares not,” repeated she.

“Why dares not?” said Miss Woodley.

“Because he loves me too well—because his own happiness is too dear to
him.”

“I believe he loves you,” replied Miss Woodley, “and yet there is a
doubt if——”

“There shall be no longer a doubt,” cried Miss Milner, “I’ll put him to
the proof.”

“For shame, my dear! you talk inconsiderately—what can you mean by
proof?”

“I mean I will do something that no prudent man _ought_ to forgive; and
yet, with all his vast share of prudence, _he_ shall forgive it, and
make a sacrifice of just resentment to partial affection.”

“But if you should be disappointed, and he should _not_ make the
sacrifice?” said Miss Woodley.

“Then I have only lost a man who had no regard for me.”

“He may have a great regard for you, notwithstanding.”

“But for the love I have felt, and do still feel, for my Lord Elmwood,
I will have something more than a _great regard_ in return.”

“You have his love, I am sure.”

“But is it such as mine? _I_ could love _him_ if he had a thousand
faults. And yet,” said she, recollecting herself, “and yet, I believe
his being faultless, was the first cause of my passion.”

Thus she talked on—sometimes in anger, sometimes apparently
jesting—till her servant came to let her know the dinner was served.
Upon entering the dining-room, and seeing Lord Elmwood’s place at table
vacant, she started back. She was disappointed of the pleasure she
expected in dining with him; and his sudden absence, so immediately
after the intelligence that she had received from Miss Woodley,
increased her uneasiness. She drew her chair, and sat down with an
indifference, that said she should not eat; and as soon as she was
seated, she put her fingers sullenly to her lips, nor touched her knife
and fork, nor spoke a word in reply to any thing that was said to her
during the whole dinner. Miss Woodley and Mrs. Horton were both too
well acquainted with the good disposition of her heart, to take
offence, or appear to notice this behaviour. They dined, and said
nothing either to provoke or sooth her. Just as the dinner was going to
be removed, a loud rap came at the door—“Who is that?” said Mrs.
Horton. One of the servants went to the window, and answered, “My Lord
and Mr. Sandford, Madam.”

“Come back to dinner as I live,” cried Mrs. Horton.

Miss Milner continued her position and said nothing—but at the corners
of her mouth, which her fingers did not entirely cover, there were
discoverable, a thousand dimpled graces like small convulsive fibres,
which a restrained smile upon Lord Elmwood’s return, had sent there.

Lord Elmwood and Sandford entered.

“I am glad you are returned, my Lord,” said Mrs. Horton, “for Miss
Milner would not eat a morsel.”

“It was only because I had no appetite,” returned she, blushing like
crimson.

“We should not have come back,” said Sandford, “but at the place where
we went to dine, all the rooms were filled with company.”

Lord Elmwood put the wing of a fowl on Miss Milner’s plate, but without
previously asking if she chose any; yet she condescended to eat—they
spoke to each other too in the course of conversation, but it was with
a reserve that appeared as if they had been quarrelling, and felt so to
themselves, though no such circumstance had happened.

Two weeks passed away in this kind of distant behaviour on both sides,
without either of them venturing a direct quarrel, and without either
of them expressing (except inadvertently) their strong affection for
each other.

During this time they were once, however, very near becoming the
dearest friends in expression, as well as in sentiment. This arose from
a favour that he had granted in compliance with her desire, though that
desire had not been urged, but merely insinuated; and as it was a
favour which he had refused to the repeated requests of many of his
friends, the value of the obligation was heightened.

She and Miss Woodley had taken an airing to see the poor child, young
Rushbrook. Lord Elmwood inquiring of the ladies how they had passed
their morning, Miss Milner frankly told him; and added, “What pain it
gave her to leave the child behind, as he had again cried to come away
with her.”

“Go for him then to-morrow,” said Lord Elmwood, “and bring him home.”

“Home!” she repeated, with surprise.

“Yes,” replied he, “if you desire it, this shall be his home—you shall
be a mother, and I will, henceforward, be a father to him.”

Sandford, who was present, looked unusually sour at this high token of
regard for Miss Milner; yet, with resentment on his face, he wiped a
tear of joy from his eye, for the boy’s sake—his frown was the force of
prejudice, his tear the force of nature.

Rushbrook was brought home; and whenever Lord Elmwood wished to shew a
kindness to Miss Milner, without directing it immediately to her, he
took his nephew upon his knee, talked to him, and told him, he “Was
glad they had become acquainted.”

In the various, though delicate, struggles for power between Miss
Milner and her guardian, there was not one person a witness to these
incidents, who did not suppose, that all would at last end in
wedlock—for the most common observer perceived, that ardent love was
the foundation of every discontent, as well as of every joy they
experienced. One great incident, however, totally reversed the hope of
all future accommodation.

The fashionable Mrs. G—— gave a masked ball; tickets were presented to
persons of quality and fashion; among the rest, three were sent to Miss
Milner. She had never been at a masquerade, and received them with
ecstasy—the more especially, as the masque being at the house of a
woman of fashion, she did not conceive there could be any objection to
her going. She was mistaken—the moment she mentioned it to Lord
Elmwood, he desired her, somewhat sternly, “Not to think of being
there.” She was vexed at the prohibition, but more at the manner in
which it was delivered, and boldly said, “That she should certainly
go.”

She expected a rebuke for this, but what alarmed her much more, he said
not a word; but looked with a resignation, which foreboded her sorrow
greater than the severest reproaches would have done. She sat for a
minute, reflecting how to rouse him from this composure—she first
thought of attacking him with upbraidings; then she thought of soothing
him; and at last of laughing at him. This was the most dangerous of
all, and yet, this she ventured upon.

“I am sure your Lordship,” said she, “with all your saintliness, can
have no objection to my being present at the masquerade, if I go as a
Nun.”

He made no reply.

“That is a habit,” continued she, “which covers a multitude of
faults—and, for that evening, I may have the chance of making a
conquest even of you—nay, I question not, if under that inviting
attire, even the pious Mr. Sandford would not ogle me.”

“Hush!” said Miss Woodley.

“Why hush?” cried Miss Milner, aloud, though Miss Woodley had spoken in
a whisper, “I am sure,” continued she, “I am only repeating what I have
read in books about nuns and their confessors.”

“Your conduct, Miss Milner,” replied Lord Elmwood “gives evident proofs
of the authors you have read; you may spare yourself the trouble of
quoting them.”

Her pride was hurt at this, beyond bearing; and as she could not, like
him, govern her anger, it flushed in her face, and almost forced her
into tears.

“My Lord,” said Miss Woodley, (in a tone so soft and peaceful, that it
should have calmed the resentment of both,) “my Lord, suppose you were
to accompany Miss Milner? there are tickets for three, and you can then
have no objection.”

Miss Milner’s brow was immediately smoothed; and she fetched a sigh, in
anxious expectation that he would consent.

“I go, Miss Woodley?” he replied, with astonishment, “Do you imagine I
would play the buffoon at a masquerade?”

Miss Milner’s face changed into its former state.

“I have seen grave characters there, my Lord,” said Miss Woodley.

“Dear Miss Woodley,” cried Miss Milner, “why persuade Lord Elmwood to
put on a mask, just at the time he has laid it aside?”

His patience was now tempted to its height, and he answered, “If you
suspect me of inconsistency, Madam, you shall find me changed.”

Pleased that she had been able at last to irritate him, she smiled with
a degree of triumph, and in that humour was going to reply; but before
she could speak four words, and before she thought of it, he abruptly
left the room.

She was highly offended at this insult, and declared, “From that moment
she banished him from her heart for ever.” And to prove that she set
his love and his anger at equal defiance, she immediately ordered her
carriage, and said, she “Was going to some of her acquaintance, whom
she knew to have tickets, and with whom she would fix upon the habit
she was to appear in at the masquerade; for nothing, unless she was
locked up, should alter the resolution she had formed, of being there.”
To remonstrate at that moment, Miss Woodley knew would be in vain—her
coach came to the door, and she drove away.

She did not return to dinner, nor till it was late in the evening; Lord
Elmwood was at home, but he never once mentioned her name.

She came home, after he had retired, in great spirits; and then, for
the first time, in her whole life, appeared careless what he might
think of her behaviour:—but her whole thoughts were occupied upon the
business which had employed the chief of her day; and her dress
engrossed all her conversation, as soon as Miss Woodley and she were
alone. She told her, she had been shewn the greatest variety of
beautiful and becoming dresses she had ever beheld; “and yet,” said
she, “I have at last fixed upon a very plain one; but one I look so
well in, that you will hardly know me, when I have it on.”

“You are seriously then resolved to go,” said Miss Woodley, “if you
hear no more on the subject from your guardian?”

“Whether I do hear or not, Miss Woodley, I am equally resolved to go.”

“But you know, my dear, he has desired you not—and you used always to
obey his commands.”

“As my guardian, I certainly did obey him; and I could obey him as a
husband; but as a lover, I will not.”

“Yet that is the way never to have him for a husband.”

“As he pleases—for if he will not submit to be my lover, I will not
submit to be his wife—nor has he the affection that I require in a
husband.”

Thus the old sentiments, repeated again and again, prevented a
separation till towards morning.

Miss Milner, for that night, dreamed less of her guardian than of the
masquerade. On the evening of the next day it was to be—she was up
early, breakfasted in her dressing room, and remained there most of the
day, busied in a thousand preparations for the night; one of them was,
to take every particle of powder out of her hair, and have it curled
all over in falling ringlets. Her next care was, that her dress should
exactly fit, and display her fine person to the best advantage—it did
so. Miss Woodley entered as it was trying on, and was all astonishment
at the elegance of the habit, and its beautiful effect upon her
graceful person; but, most of all, she was astonished at her venturing
on such a character—for though it represented the goddess of Chastity,
yet from the buskins, and the petticoat festooned far above the ankle,
it had, on a first glance, the appearance of a female much less
virtuous. Miss Woodley admired this dress, yet objected to it; but as
she admired first, her objections after had no weight.

“Where is Lord Elmwood?” said Miss Milner—“he must not see me.”

“No, for heaven’s sake,” cried Miss Woodley, “I would not have him see
you in such a disguise for the universe.”

“And yet,” returned the other, with a sigh, “why am I then thus pleased
with my dress? for I had rather he should admire me than all the world
besides, and yet he is not to see me in it.”

“But he would not admire you so dressed,” said Miss Woodley.

“How shall I contrive to avoid him,” said Miss Milner, “if in the
evening he should offer to hand me into my carriage? But I believe he
will not be in good humour enough for that.”

“You had better dress at the house of the ladies with whom you go,”
said Miss Woodley; and this was agreed upon.

At dinner they learnt that Lord Elmwood was to go that evening to
Windsor, in order to be in readiness for the king’s hunt early in the
morning. This intelligence having dispersed Miss Milner’s fears, she
concluded upon dressing at home.

Lord Elmwood appeared at dinner, in an even, but not in a good temper;
the subject of the masquerade was never brought up, nor indeed was it
once in his thoughts; for though he was offended at his ward’s
behaviour on the occasion, and considered that she committed a fault in
telling him, “She would go,” yet he never suspected she meant to do so,
not even at the time she said it, much less that she would persist,
coolly and deliberately, in so direct a contradiction to his will. She,
for her part, flattered herself, that his going to Windsor, was
intended in order to give her an opportunity of passing the evening as
she pleased, without his being obliged to know of it, and consequently
to complain. Miss Woodley, who was willing to hope as she wished, began
to be of the same opinion; and, without reluctance, dressed herself as
a wood-nymph to accompany her friend.



CHAPTER IX.


At half after eleven, Miss Milner’s chair, and another with Miss
Woodley, took them from Lord Elmwood’s, to call upon the party
(wood-nymphs and huntresses) who were to accompany them, and make up
the suit of Diana.

They had not left the house two minutes, when a thundering rap came at
the door—it was Lord Elmwood in a post chaise. Upon some occasion the
next day’s hunt was deferred: he had been made acquainted with it, and
came from Windsor at that late hour. After he had informed Mrs. Horton
and Mr. Sandford, who were sitting together, of the cause of his sudden
return, and had supper ordered for him, he enquired, “What company had
just left the house?”

“We have been alone the whole evening, my Lord,” replied Mrs. Horton.

“Nay,” returned he, “I saw two chairs, with several servants, come out
of the door as I drove up, but what livery I could not discern.”

“We have had no creature here,” repeated Mrs. Horton.

“Nor has Miss Milner had visitors?” asked he.

This brought Mrs. Horton to her recollection, and she cried, “Oh! now I
know;”——and then checked herself, as if she knew too much.

“What do you know, Madam?” said he, sharply.

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Horton, “I know nothing—” and she lifted up her
hands and shook her head.

“So all people say, who know a great deal,” cried Sandford, “and I
suspect that is at present your case.”

“Then I know more than I wish, I am sure, Mr. Sandford,” returned she,
shrugging up her shoulders.

Lord Elmwood was all impatience.

“Explain, Madam, explain.”

“Dear my Lord,” said she, “if your Lordship will recollect, you may
just have the same knowledge that I have.”

“Recollect what?” said he sternly.

“The quarrel you and your ward had about the masquerade.”

“What of that? she is not gone there?” he cried.

“I am not sure she is,” returned Mrs. Horton; “but if your Lordship saw
two sedan chairs going out of this house, I cannot but suspect it must
be Miss Milner and my niece going to the masquerade.”

He made no answer, but rang the bell violently. A servant entered.
“Send Miss Milner’s maid hither,” said he, “immediately.” The man
withdrew.

“Nay, my Lord,” cried Mrs. Horton, “any of the other servants could
tell you just as well, whether Miss Milner is at home, or gone out.”

“Perhaps not,” replied he.

The maid entered.

“Where is your mistress?” said Lord Elmwood.

The woman had received no orders to conceal where the ladies were gone,
and yet a secret influence which governs the thoughts of all
waiting-women and chambermaids, whispered to her that she ought not to
tell the truth.

“Where is your mistress?” repeated he, in a louder voice than before.

“Gone out, my Lord,” she replied.

“Where?”

“My Lady did not tell me.”

“And don’t you know?”

“No, my Lord:” she answered, and without blushing.

“Is this the night of the masquerade?” said he.

“I don’t know, my Lord, upon my word; but, I believe, my Lord, it is
not.”

Sandford, as soon as Lord Elmwood had asked the last question, ran
hastily to the table, at the other side of the room, took something
from it, and returned to his place again—and when the maid said, “It
was not the night of the masquerade,” he exclaimed, “But it is, my
Lord, it is—yes, it is,” and shewing a newspaper in his hand, pointed
to the paragraph which contained the information.

“Leave the room,” said Lord Elmwood to the woman, “I have done with
you.” She withdrew.

“Yes, yes, here it is,” repeated Sandford, with the paper in his
hand.——He then read the paragraph: “‘_The masquerade at the honorable
Mrs. G——’s this evening_’—This evening, my Lord, you find—‘_it is
expected will be the most brilliant, of any thing of the kind for these
many years past._’”

“They should not put such things in the papers,” said Mrs. Horton, “to
tempt young women to their ruin.” The word ruin grated upon Lord
Elmwood’s ear, and he said to the servant who came to wait on him,
while he supped, “Take the supper away.” He had not attempted either to
eat, or even to sit down; and he now walked backwards and forwards in
the room, lost in thought and care.

A little time after, one of Miss Milner’s footmen came in upon some
occasion, and Mr. Sandford said to him, “Pray did you attend your lady
to the masquerade?”

“Yes, Sir,” replied the man.

Lord Elmwood stopped himself short in his walk, and said to the
servant, “You did?”

“Yes, my Lord,” replied he.

He walked again.

“I should like to know what she was dressed in,” said Mrs. Horton: and
turning to the servant, “Do you know what your lady had on?”

“Yes, Madam,” replied the man, “she was in men’s clothes.”

“How!” cried Lord Elmwood.

“You tell a story, to be sure,” said Mrs. Horton to the servant.

“No,” cried Sandford, “I am sure he does not; for he is an honest good
young man, and would not tell a lie upon any account—would you,
George?”

Lord Elmwood ordered Miss Milner’s woman to be again sent up. She came.

“In what dress did your lady go to the masquerade?” asked he, and with
a look so extremely morose, it seemed to command the answer in a single
word, and that word to be truth.

A mind, with a spark of sensibility more than this woman possessed,
could not have equivocated with such an interrogator, but her reply
was, “She went in her own dress, my Lord.”

“Was it a man’s or a woman’s?” asked he, with a look of the same
command.

“Ha, ha, my Lord,” (half laughing and half crying) “a woman’s dress, to
be sure, my Lord.”

On which Sandford cried——

“Call the footman up, and let him confront her.”

He was called; but Lord Elmwood, now disgusted at the scene, withdrew
to the further end of the room, and left Sandford to question them.

With all the authority and consequence of a country magistrate,
Sandford—his back to the fire, and the witnesses before him, began with
the footman.

“In what dress do you say, that you saw your lady, when you attended,
and went along with her, to the masquerade?”

“In men’s clothes,” replied the man, boldly and firmly as before.

“Bless my soul, George, how can you say such a thing?” cried the woman.

“What dress do _you_ say she went in?” cried Sandford to her.

“In women’s clothes, indeed, Sir.”

“This is very odd!” said Mrs. Horton.

“Had she on, or had she not on, a coat?” asked Sandford.

“Yes, Sir, a petticoat,” replied the woman.

“Do _you_ say she had on a petticoat?” said Sandford to the man.

“I can’t answer exactly for that,” replied he, “but I know she had
boots on.”

“They were not boots,” replied the maid with vehemence—“indeed, Sir,
(turning to Sandford) they were only half boots.”

“My girl,” said Sandford kindly to her, “your own evidence convicts
your mistress—What has a woman to do with _any_ boots?”

Impatient at this mummery, Lord Elmwood rose, ordered the servants out
of the room, and then, looking at his watch, found it was near one. “At
what hour am I to expect her home?” said he.

“Perhaps not till three in the morning,” answered Mrs. Horton.

“Three! more likely six,” cried Sandford.

“I can’t wait with patience till that time,” answered Lord Elmwood,
with a most anxious sigh.

“You had better go to bed, my Lord,” said Mrs. Horton; “and, by
sleeping, the time will pass away unperceived.”

“If I _could_ sleep, Madam.”

“Will you play a game of cards, my Lord?” said Sandford, “for I will
not leave you till she comes home; and though I am not used to sit up
all night——”

“All night!” repeated Lord Elmwood; “she dares not stay all night.”

“And yet, after going,” said Sandford, “in defiance to your commands, I
should suppose she dared.”

“She is in good company, at least, my Lord,” said Mrs. Horton.

“She does not know herself what company she is in,” replied he.

“How should she,” cried Sandford, “where every one hides his face?”

Till five o’clock in the morning, in conversation such as this, the
hours passed away. Mrs. Horton, indeed, retired to her chamber at two,
and left the gentlemen to a more serious discourse; but a discourse
still less advantageous to poor Miss Milner.

She, during this time, was at the scene of pleasure she had painted to
herself, and all the pleasure it gave her was, that she was sure she
should never desire to go to a masquerade again. Its crowd and bustle
fatigued her—its freedom offended her delicacy—and though she perceived
that she was the first object of admiration in the place, yet there was
one person still wanting to admire; and the remorse at having
transgressed his injunctions for so trivial an entertainment, weighed
upon her spirits, and added to its weariness. She would have come away
sooner than she did, but she could not, with any degree of good
manners, leave the company with whom she went; and not till half after
four, were they prevailed on to return.

Daylight just peeped through the shutters of the room in which Lord
Elmwood and Sandford were sitting, when the sound of her carriage, and
the sudden stop it made at the door, caused Lord Elmwood to start from
his chair. He trembled extremely, and looked pale. Sandford was ashamed
to seem to notice it, yet he could not help asking him, “To take a
glass of wine.” He took it—and for once, evinced he was reduced so low,
as to be _glad_ of such a resource.

What passion thus agitated Lord Elmwood at this crisis, it is hard to
define—perhaps it was indignation at Miss Milner’s imprudence, and
exultation at being on the point of revenge—perhaps it was emotion
arising from joy, to find that she was safe—perhaps it was perturbation
at the regret he felt that he must upbraid her—perhaps it was not one
alone of these sensations, but all of them combined.

She, wearied out with the tedious night’s dissipation, and far less
joyous than melancholy, had fallen asleep as she rode home, and came
half asleep out of her carriage. “Light me to my bed-chamber
instantly,” said she to her maid, who waited in the hall to receive
her. But one of Lord Elmwood’s valets went up to her, and answered,
“Madam, my Lord desires to see you before you retire.”

“Your Lord!” she cried, “Is he not out of town?”

“No, Madam, my Lord has been at home ever since you went out; and has
been sitting up with Mr. Sandford, waiting for you.”

She was wide awake immediately. The heaviness was removed from her
eyes, but fear, grief, and shame, seized upon her heart. She leaned
against her maid, as if unable to support herself under those feelings,
and said to Miss Woodley,

“Make my excuse—I cannot see him to-night—I am unfit—indeed I cannot.”

Miss Woodley was alarmed at the idea of going to him by herself, and
thus, perhaps, irritating him still more: she, therefore, said, “He has
sent for _you_; for heaven’s sake, do not disobey him a second time.”

“No, dear Madam, don’t,” cried her woman, “for he is like a lion—he has
been scolding me.”

“Good God!” (exclaimed Miss Milner, and in a tone that seemed
prophetic) “Then he is not to be my husband, after all.”

“Yes,” cried Miss Woodley, “if you will only be humble, and appear
sorry. You know your power over him, and all may yet be well.”

She turned her speaking eyes upon her friend, the tears starting from
them, her lips trembling—“Do I not appear sorry?” she cried.

The bell at that moment rang furiously, and they hastened their steps
to the door of the apartment where Lord Elmwood was.

“No, this shuddering is only fright,” replied Miss Woodley—“Say to him
you are sorry, and beg his pardon.”

“I cannot,” said she, “if Mr. Sandford is with him.”

The servant opened the door, and she and Miss Woodley went in. Lord
Elmwood, by this time, was composed, and received her with a slight
inclination of his head—she bowed to him in return, and said, with some
marks of humility,

“I suppose, my Lord, I have done wrong.”

“You have indeed, Miss Milner,” answered he; “but do not suppose, that
I mean to upbraid you: I am, on the contrary, going to release you from
any such apprehension _for the future_.”

Those last three words he delivered with a countenance so serious and
so determined, with an accent so firm and so decided, they pierced
through her heart. Yet she did not weep, or even sigh; but her friend,
knowing what she felt, exclaimed, “Oh?” as if for her.

She herself strove with her anguish, and replied, (but with a faltering
voice) “I expected as much, my Lord.”

“Then, Madam, you perhaps expect _all_ that I intend?”

“In regard to myself,” she replied, “I suppose I do.”

“Then,” said he, “you may expect that in a few days we shall part.”

“I am prepared for it, my Lord,” she answered, and, while she said so,
sunk upon a chair.

“My Lord, what you have to say farther,” said Miss Woodley, in tears,
“defer till the morning—Miss Milner, you see, is not able to bear it
now.”

“I have nothing to _say_ further,” replied he coolly—“I have now only
to act.”

“Lord Elmwood,” cried Miss Milner, divided between grief and anger,
“you think to terrify me by your menaces—but I can part with you—heaven
knows I can—your late behaviour has reconciled me to a separation.”

On this he was going out of the room—but Miss Woodley, catching hold of
him, cried, “Oh! my Lord, do not leave her in this sorrow—pity her
weakness, and forgive it.” She was proceeding; and he seemed as if
inclined to listen, when Sandford called out in a tone of voice so
harsh,

“Miss Woodley, what do you mean?”—She gave a start, and desisted.

Lord Elmwood then turned to Sandford, and said, “Nay, Mr. Sandford, you
need entertain no doubts of me—I have judged, and have deter——”

He was going to say _determined_; but Miss Milner, who dreaded the
word, interrupted the period, and exclaimed, “Oh! could my poor father
know the days of sorrow I have experienced since his death, how would
he repent his fatal choice of a protector!”

This sentence, in which his friend’s memory was recalled, with an
additional allusion to her long and secret love for him, affected Lord
Elmwood much—he was moved, but ashamed of being so, and as soon as
possible conquered the propensity to forgive. Yet, for a short
interval, he did not know whether to go out of the room, or to remain
in it; whether to speak, or to be silent. At length he turned towards
her, and said,

“Appeal to your father in some other form—in that (pointing at her
dress) he will not know you. Reflect upon him, too, in your moments of
dissipation, and let his idea controul your indiscretions—not merely in
an hour of contradiction call peevishly upon his name, only to wound
the dearest friend you have.”

There was a degree of truth, and a degree of passionate feeling, in the
conclusion of this speech, that alarmed Sandford—he caught up one of
the candles, and, laying hold of his friend’s elbow, drew him out of
the room, crying, “Come, my Lord, come to your bed-chamber—it is very
late—it is morning—it is time to rise.” And by a continual repetition
of these words, in a very loud voice, drowned whatever Lord Elmwood, or
any other person might have wished either to have said or to have
heard.

In this manner, Lord Elmwood was forced out of the apartment, and the
evening’s entertainment concluded.



CHAPTER X.


Two whole days passed in the bitterest suspense on the part of Miss
Milner, while neither one word or look from Lord Elmwood, denoted the
most trivial change of the sentiments he had declared, on the night of
the masquerade. Still those sentiments, or intentions, were not
explicitly delivered; they were more like intimations, than solemn
declarations—for though he had said, “He would never reproach her _for
the future_,” and that “She might expect they should part,” he had not
positively said they should; and upon this doubtful meaning of his
words, she hung with the strongest agitation of hope and of fear.

Miss Woodley seeing the distress of her mind, (much as she endeavoured
to conceal it) entreated, nay implored of her, to permit her to be a
mediator; to suffer her to ask for a private interview with Lord
Elmwood, and if she found him inflexible, to behave with a proper
spirit in return; but if he appeared not absolutely averse to a
reconciliation, to offer it in so cautious a manner, that it might take
place without farther uneasiness on either side. But Miss Milner
peremptorily forbade this, and acknowledging to her friend every
weakness she felt on the occasion, yet concluded with solemnly
declaring, “That after what had passed between her and Lord Elmwood,
_he_ must be the first to make a concession, before she herself would
condescend to be reconciled.”

“I believe I know Lord Elmwood’s temper,” replied Miss Woodley, “and I
do not think he will be easily induced to beg pardon for a fault which
he thinks _you_ have committed.”

“Then he does not love me.”

“Pshaw! Miss Milner, this is the old argument. He may love you too well
to spoil you—consider that he is your guardian as well as your lover,
he means also to become your husband; and he is a man of such nice
honour, that he will not indulge you with any power before marriage, to
which he does not intend to submit hereafter.”

“But tenderness, affection, the politeness due from a lover to his
mistress demands his submission; and as I now despair of enticing, I
will oblige him to it—at least I’ll make the trial, and know my fate at
once.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“Invite Lord Frederick to the house, and ask my guardian’s consent for
our immediate union; you will then see, what effect that will have upon
his pride.”

“But you will then make it too late for him to be humble. If you
resolve on this, my dear Miss Milner, you are undone at once—you may
thus hurry yourself into a marriage with a man you do not love, and the
misery of your whole future life may be the result. Or, would you force
Mr. Dorriforth (I mean Lord Elmwood) to another duel with my Lord
Frederick?”

“No, call him Dorriforth,” answered she, with the tears stealing from
her eyes; “I thank you for calling him so; for by that name alone, is
he dear to me.”

“Nay, Miss Milner, with what rapture did you not receive his love, as
Lord Elmwood!”

“But under this title he has been barbarous; under the first, he was
all friendship and tenderness.”

Notwithstanding Miss Milner indulged herself in all these soft
bewailings to her friend—before Lord Elmwood she maintained a degree of
pride and steadiness, which surprised even him, who perhaps thought
less of her love for him, than any other person. She now began to fear
she had gone too far in discovering her affection, and resolved to make
trial of a contrary method. She determined to retrieve that haughty
character which had inspired so many of her admirers with passion, and
take the chance of its effect upon this only one, to whom she ever
acknowledged a mutual attachment. But although she acted this character
well—so well, that every one but Miss Woodley thought her in
earnest—yet, with nice and attentive anxiety, she watched even the
slightest circumstances that might revive her hopes, or confirm her
despair. Lord Elmwood’s behaviour was calculated only to produce the
latter—he was cold, polite, and perfectly indifferent. Yet, whatever
his manners now were, they did not remove from her recollection what
they had been—she recalled, with delight, the ardour with which he had
first declared his passion to her, and the thousand proofs he had since
given of its reality. From the constancy of his disposition, she
depended that sentiments like these were not totally eradicated; and
from the extreme desire which Mr. Sandford now, more than ever,
discovered of depreciating her in his patron’s esteem—from the now,
more than common zeal, which urged him to take Lord Elmwood from her
company, whenever he had it in his power, she was led to believe, that
while his friend entertained such strong fears of his relapsing into
love, she had reason to indulge the strongest hopes that he would.

But the reserve, and even indifference, that she had so well assumed
for a few days, and which might perhaps have effected her design, she
had not the patience to persevere in, without calling levity to their
aid. She visited repeatedly without saying where, or with whom—kept
later hours than usual—appeared in the highest spirits—sung, laughed,
and never heaved a sigh—but when she was alone.

Still Lord Elmwood protracted a resolution, that he was determined he
would never break when taken.

Miss Woodley was excessively uneasy, and with cause; she saw her friend
was providing herself with a weight of cares, that she would soon find
infinitely too much for her strength to bear—she would have reasoned
with her, but all her arguments had long since proved unavailing. She
wished to speak to Lord Elmwood upon the subject, and (unknown to her)
plead her excuse; but he apprehended Miss Woodley’s intention, and
evidently shunned her. Mr. Sandford was now the only person to whom she
could speak of Miss Milner, and the delight he took to expatiate on her
faults, was more sorrow to her friend, than not to speak of her at all.
She, therefore, sat a silent spectator, waiting with dread for the time
when she, who now scorned her advice, would fly to her in vain for
comfort.

Sandford had, however, said one thing to Miss Woodley, which gave her a
ray of hope. During their conversation on the subject, (not by way of
consolation to her, but as a reproach to Lord Elmwood) he one day
angrily exclaimed, “And yet, notwithstanding all this provocation, he
has not come to the determination that he will think no more of her—he
lingers and he hesitates—I never saw him so weak upon any occasion
before.”

This was joyful hearing to Miss Woodley; still, she could not but
reflect, the longer he was in coming to this determination, the more
irrevocable it would be, when once taken; and every moment that passed,
she trembled lest it should be the very moment, in which Lord Elmwood
should resolve to banish Miss Milner from his heart.

Amongst her unpardonable indiscretions, during this trial upon the
temper of her guardian, was the frequent mention of many gentlemen, who
had been her professed admirers, and the mention of them with
partiality. Teased, if not tortured, by this, Lord Elmwood still
behaved with a manly evenness of temper, and neither appeared provoked
on the subject, nor insolently careless. In a single instance, however,
this calmness was near deserting him.

Entering the drawing-room, one evening, he started, on seeing Lord
Frederick Lawnly there, in earnest conversation with Miss Milner.

Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley were both indeed present, and Lord
Frederick was talking in an audible voice, upon some indifferent
subjects; but with that impressive manner, in which a man never fails
to speak to the woman he loves, be the subject what it may. The moment
Lord Elmwood started, which was the moment he entered, Lord Frederick
arose.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord,” said Lord Elmwood, “I protest I did not
know you.”

“I ought to entreat your Lordship’s pardon,” returned Lord Frederick,
“for this intrusion, which an accident alone has occasioned. Miss
Milner has been almost overturned by the carelessness of a lady’s
coachman, in whose carriage she was, and therefore suffered me to bring
her home in mine.”

“I hope you are not hurt,” said Lord Elmwood to Miss Milner, but his
voice was so much affected by what he felt that he could scarce
articulate the words. Not with the apprehension that she was hurt, was
he thus agitated, for the gaiety of her manners convinced him _that_
could not be the case, nor did he indeed suppose any accident, of the
kind mentioned, had occurred; but the circumstance of unexpectedly
seeing Lord Frederick had taken him off his guard, and being totally
unprepared, he could not conceal indications of the surprise, and of
the shock it had given him.

Lord Frederick, who had heard nothing of his intended union with his
ward, (for it was even kept a secret, at present, from every servant in
the house) imputed this discomposure to the personal resentment he
might bear him, in consequence of their duel; for though Lord Elmwood
had assured the uncle of Lord Frederick, (who once waited upon him on
the subject of Miss Milner) that all resentment was, on his part,
entirely at an end; and that he was willing to consent to his ward’s
marriage with his nephew, if she would concur; yet Lord Frederick
doubted the sincerity of this, and would still have had the delicacy
not to have entered Lord Elmwood’s house, had he not been encouraged by
Miss Milner, and emboldened by his love. Personal resentment was
therefore the construction he put upon Lord Elmwood’s emotion on
entering the room; but Miss Milner and Miss Woodley knew his agitation
to arise from a far different cause.

After his entrance, Lord Frederick did not attempt once to resume his
seat, but having bowed most respectfully to all present, he took his
leave; while Miss Milner followed him as far as the door, and repeated
her thanks for his protection.

Lord Elmwood was hurt beyond measure; but he had a second concern,
which was, that he had not the power to conceal how much he was
affected. He trembled—when he attempted to speak, he stammered—he
perceived his face burning with confusion, and thus one confusion gave
birth to another, till his state was pitiable.

Miss Milner, with all her assumed gaiety and real insolence, had not,
however, the insolence to seem as if she observed him; she had only the
confidence to observe him by stealth. And Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley,
having opportunely begun a discourse upon some trivial occurrences,
gave him time to recover himself by degrees—yet, still it was merely by
degrees; for the impression which this incident had made, was deep, and
not easily to be erased. The entrance of Mr. Sandford, who knew nothing
of what had happened, was however, another relief; for he began a
conversation with him, which they very soon retired into the library to
terminate. Miss Milner, taking Miss Woodley with her, went directly to
her own apartment, and there exclaimed in rapture,

“He is mine—he loves me—and he is mine for ever.”

Miss Woodley congratulated her upon believing so, but confessed she
herself “Had her fears.”

“What fears?” cried Miss Milner: “don’t you perceive that he loves me?”

“I do,” said Miss Woodley, “but that I always believed; and, I think,
if he loves you now, he has yet the good sense to know that he has
reason to hate you.”

“What has good sense to do with love?” returned Miss Milner—“If a lover
of mine suffers his understanding to get the better of his affection—”

The same arguments were going to be repeated; but Miss Woodley
interrupted her, by requiring an explanation of her conduct as to Lord
Frederick, whom, at least, she was treating with cruelty, if she only
made use of his affection to stimulate that of Lord Elmwood.

“By no means, my dear Miss Woodley,” returned she—“I have, indeed, done
with my Lord Frederick from this day; and he has certainly given me the
proof I wanted of Lord Elmwood’s love; but then I did not engage him to
this by the smallest ray of hope. No; do not suspect me of that, while
my heart was another’s: and I assure you, seriously, that it was from
the circumstance we described he came with me home—yet, I must own,
that if I had not had this design upon Lord Elmwood’s jealousy in idea,
I would have walked on foot through the streets, rather than have
suffered his rival’s civilities. But he pressed his services so
violently, and my Lady Evans (in whose coach I was when the accident
happened) pressed me so violently to accept them, that he cannot expect
any farther meaning from this acquiescence than my own convenience.”

Miss Woodley was going to reply, when she resumed,

“Nay, if you intend to say I have done wrong, still I am not sorry for
it, when it has given me such convincing proofs of Lord Elmwood’s love.
Did you see him? I am afraid you did not see how he trembled? and that
manly voice faltered, as mine does sometimes—his proud heart was
humbled too, as mine is now and then. Oh! Miss Woodley, I have been
counterfeiting indifference to _him_—I now find that all _his_
indifference to _me_ has been counterfeit, and that we not only love,
but love equally.”

“Suppose this all as you hope—I yet think it highly necessary that your
guardian should be informed, seriously informed, it was mere accident
(for, at present, that plea seems but as a subterfuge) which brought
Lord Frederick hither.”

“No, that will be destroying the work so successfully begun. I will not
suffer any explanation to take place, but let my Lord Elmwood act just
as his love shall dictate; and now I have no longer a doubt of its
excess, instead of stooping to him, I wait in the certain expectation
of his submission to me.”



CHAPTER XI.


In vain, for three long days, did Miss Milner wait impatiently for this
submission; not a sign, not a symptom appeared—nay, Lord Elmwood had,
since the evening of Lord Frederick’s visit, (which, at the time it
happened, seemed to affect him so exceedingly) become just the same man
he was before the circumstance occurred; except, indeed, that he was
less thoughtful, and now and then cheerful; but without any appearance
that his cheerfulness was affected. Miss Milner was vext—she was
alarmed—but was ashamed to confess those humiliating sensations, even
to Miss Woodley—she supported, therefore, when in company, the vivacity
she had so long assumed; but gave way, when alone, to a still greater
degree of melancholy than usual. She no longer applauded her scheme of
bringing Lord Frederick to the house, and trembled, lest, on some
pretence, he should dare to call again. But as these were feelings
which her pride would not suffer her to disclose even to her friend,
who would have condoled with her, their effects were doubly poignant.

Sitting in her dressing-room one forenoon with Miss Woodley, and
burthened with a load of grief that she blushed to acknowledge, while
her companion was charged with apprehensions that she too was loath to
disclose, one of Lord Elmwood’s valets tapped gently at the door, and
delivered a letter to Miss Milner. By the person who brought it, as
well as by the address, she knew it came from Lord Elmwood, and laid it
down upon her toilet, as if she was fearful to unfold it.

“What is that?” said Miss Woodley.

“A letter from Lord Elmwood,” replied Miss Milner.

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Miss Woodley.

“Nay,” returned she, “it is, I have no doubt, a letter to beg my
pardon.” But her reluctance to open it plainly evinced she did not
think so.

“Do not read it yet,” said Miss Woodley.

“I do not intend it,” replied she, trembling extremely.

“Will you dine first?” said Miss Woodley.

“No—for not knowing its contents, I shall not know how to conduct
myself towards him.”

Here a silence followed. Miss Milner took up the letter—looked
earnestly at the handwriting on the outside—at the seal—inspected into
its folds—and seemed to wish, by some equivocal method, to guess at the
contents, without having the courage to come at the certain knowledge
of them.

Curiosity, at length, got the better of her fears—she opened the
letter, and, scarce able to hold it while she read, she read the
following words:—

“Madam,

“While I considered you only as my ward, my friendship for you was
unbounded—when I looked upon you as a woman formed to grace a
fashionable circle, my admiration equalled my friendship—and when fate
permitted me to behold you in the tender light of my betrothed wife, my
soaring love left those humbler passions at a distance.

“That you have still my friendship, my admiration, and even my love, I
will not attempt to deceive either myself or you by disavowing; but
still, with a firm assurance, I declare, that prudence outweighs them
all; and I have not, from henceforward, a wish to be regarded by you,
in any other respect than as one ‘who wishes you well.’ That you ever
beheld me in the endearing quality of a destined and an affectionate
husband, (such as I would have proved) was a deception upon my hopes:
they acknowledge the mistake, and are humbled—but I entreat you to
spare their farther trial, and for a single week do not insult me with
the open preference of another. In the short space of that period I
shall have taken my leave of you—_for ever_.

“I shall visit Italy, and some other parts of the Continent; from
whence I propose passing to the West Indies, in order to inspect my
possessions there: nor shall I return to England till after a few
years’ absence; in which time I hope to become once more reconciled to
the change of state I am enjoined—a change I now most fervently wish
could be entirely dispensed with.

“The occasion of my remaining here a week longer, is to settle some
necessary affairs, among which the principal is, that of delivering to
a friend, a man of worth and of tenderness, all those writings which
have invested me with the power of my guardianship—he will, the day
after my departure, (without one upbraiding word) resign them to you in
my name; and even your most respected father, could he behold the
resignation, would concur in its propriety.

“And now, my dear Miss Milner, let not affected resentment, contempt,
or levity, oppose that serenity, which, for the week to come, I wish to
enjoy. By complying with this request, give me to believe, that, since
you have been under my care, you think I have, at least, faithfully
discharged some part of my duty. And wherever I have been inadequate to
your wishes, attribute my demerits to some infirmity of mind, rather
than to a negligence of your happiness. Yet, be the cause what it will,
since these faults have existed, I do not attempt to disavow or
extenuate them, and I beg your pardon.

“However time, and a succession of objects, may eradicate more tender
sentiments, I am sure _never_ to lose the liveliest anxiety for your
welfare—and with all that solicitude, which cannot be described, I
entreat for your own sake, for mine—when we shall be far asunder—and
for the sake of your dead father’s memory, that, _upon every important
occasion, you will call your serious judgment to direct you_.

“I am, Madam,

“Your sincerest friend,

“Elmwood.”

After she had read every syllable of this letter, it dropped from her
hands; but she uttered not a word. There was, however, a paleness in
her face, a deadness in her eye, and a kind of palsy over her frame,
which Miss Woodley, who had seen her in every stage of her uneasiness,
never had seen before.

“I do not want to read the letter,” said Miss Woodley; “your looks tell
me its contents.”

“They will then discover to Lord Elmwood,” replied she, “what I feel;
but Heaven forbid—that would sink me even lower than I am.”

Scarce able to move, she rose, and looked in her glass, as if to
arrange her features, and impose upon him: alas! it was of no avail—a
serenity of mind could alone effect what she desired.

“You must endeavour,” said Miss Woodley, “to feel the disposition you
wish to make appear.”

“I will,” replied she, “I will feel a proper pride—and a proper scorn
of this treatment.”

And so desirous was she to attain the appearance of these sentiments,
that she made the strongest efforts to calm her thoughts, in order to
acquire it.

“I have but a few days to remain with him,” she said to herself, “and
we part for ever—during those few days it is not only my duty to obey
his commands, or rather comply with his request, but it is also my wish
to leave upon his mind an impression, which may not add to the ill
opinion he has formed of me, but, perhaps, serve to diminish it. If, in
every other instance, my conduct has been blameable, he shall, at least
in this, acknowledge its merit. The fate I have drawn upon myself, he
shall find I can be resigned to; and he shall be convinced, that the
woman, of whose weakness he has had so many fatal proofs, is yet in
possession of some fortitude—fortitude, to bid him farewell, without
discovering one affected or one real pang, though her death should be
the immediate consequence.”

Thus she resolved, and thus she acted. The severest judge could not
have arraigned her conduct, from the day she received Lord Elmwood’s
letter, to the day of his departure. She had, indeed, involuntary
weaknesses, but none with which she did not struggle, and, in general,
her struggles were victorious.

The first time she saw him after the receipt of his letter, was on the
evening of the same day—she had a little concert of amateurs of music,
and was herself singing and playing when he entered the room: the
connoisseurs immediately perceived she made a false cadence—but Lord
Elmwood was no connoisseur in the art, and he did not observe it.

They occasionally spoke to each other through the evening, but the
subjects were general—and though their manners every time they spoke,
were perfectly polite, they were not marked with the smallest degree of
familiarity. To describe his behaviour exactly, it was the same as his
letter, polite, friendly, composed, and resolved. Some of the company
staid supper, which prevented the embarrassment that must unavoidably
have arisen, had the family been by themselves.

The next morning each breakfasted in his separate apartments—more
company dined with them—in the evening, and at supper, Lord Elmwood was
from home.

Thus, all passed on as peaceably as he had requested, and Miss Milner
had not betrayed one particle of frailty; when, the third day at
dinner, some gentlemen of his acquaintance being at table, one of them
said,

“And so, my Lord, you absolutely set off on Tuesday morning?”

This was Friday.

Sandford and he both replied at the same time, “Yes.” And Sandford, but
not Lord Elmwood, looked at Miss Milner when he spoke. Her knife and
fork gave a sudden spring in her hand, but no other emotion witnessed
what she felt.

“Aye, Elmwood,” cried another gentleman at table, “you’ll bring home, I
am afraid, a foreign wife, and that I shan’t forgive.”

“It is his errand abroad, I make no doubt,” said another visitor.

Before he could return an answer, Sandford cried, “And what objection
to a foreigner for a wife? do not crowned heads all marry foreigners?
and who happier in the married state than some kings?”

Lord Elmwood directed his eyes to the side of the table, opposite to
that where Miss Milner sat.

“Nay,” (answered one of the guests, who was a country gentleman) “what
do you say, ladies—do you think my Lord ought to go out of his own
nation for a wife?” and he looked at Miss Milner for the reply.

Miss Woodley, uneasy at her friend’s being thus forced to give an
opinion upon so delicate a subject, endeavoured to satisfy the
gentleman, by answering to the question herself: “Whoever my Lord
Elmwood marries, Sir,” said Miss Woodley, “he, no doubt, will be
happy.”

“But what say you, Madam?” asked the visitor, still keeping his eyes on
Miss Milner.

“That whoever Lord Elmwood marries, he _deserves_ to be happy:”
returned she, with the utmost command of her voice and looks; for Miss
Woodley, by replying first, had given her time to collect herself.

The colour flew to Lord Elmwood’s face, as she delivered this short
sentence; and Miss Woodley persuaded herself, she saw a tear start in
his eye.

Miss Milner did not look that way.

In an instant he found means to change the subject, but that of his
journey still employed the conversation; and what horses, servants, and
carriages he took with him, was minutely asked, and so accurately
answered, either by himself or by Mr. Sandford, that Miss Milner,
although she had known her doom before, till now had received no
circumstantial account of it—and as circumstances increase or diminish
all we feel, the hearing these things told, increased the bitterness of
their truth.

Soon after dinner the ladies retired; and from that time, though Miss
Milner’s behaviour continued the same, yet her looks and her voice were
totally altered—for the world, she could not have looked cheerfully;
for the world, she could not have spoken with a sprightly accent; she
frequently began in one, but not three words could she utter, before
her tones sunk into dejection. Not only her colour, but her features
became changed; her eyes lost their brilliancy, her lips seemed to hang
without the power of motion, her head drooped, and her dress was
neglected. Conscious of this appearance, and conscious of the cause
from whence it arose, it was her desire to hide herself from the only
object she could have wished to have charmed. Accordingly, she sat
alone, or with Miss Woodley in her own apartment as much as was
consistent with that civility which her guardian had requested, and
which forbade her totally absenting herself.

Miss Woodley felt so acutely the torments of her friend, that had not
her reason told her, that the inflexible mind of Lord Elmwood, was
fixed beyond her power to shake, she had cast herself at his feet, and
implored the return of his affection and tenderness, as the only means
to save his once-beloved ward from an untimely death. But her
understanding—her knowledge of his firm and immoveable temper; and of
all his provocations—her knowledge of his word, long since given to
Sandford, “That if once resolved, he would not recall his
resolution”—the certainty of the various plans arranged for his
travels, all convinced her, that by any interference, she would only
expose Miss Milner’s love and delicacy, to a contemptuous rejection.

If the conversation did not every day turn upon the subject of Lord
Elmwood’s departure—a conversation he evidently avoided himself—yet,
every day, some new preparation for his journey, struck either the ear
or the eye of Miss Milner—and had she beheld a frightful spectre, she
could not have shuddered with more horror, than when she unexpectedly
passed his large trunks in the hall, nailed and corded, ready to be
sent off to meet him at Venice. At the sight, she flew from the company
that chanced to be with her, and stole to the first lonely corner of
the house to conceal her tears—she reclined her head upon her hands,
and bedewed them with the sudden anguish, that had overcome her. She
heard a footstep advancing towards the spot where she hoped to have
been concealed; she lifted up her eyes, and saw Lord Elmwood. Pride,
was the first emotion his presence inspired—pride, which arose from the
humility into which she was plunged.

She looked at him earnestly, as if to imply, “What now, my Lord?”

He only answered with a bow, which expressed; “I beg your pardon.” And
immediately withdrew.

Thus each understood the other’s language, without either having
uttered a word.

The just construction she put upon his looks and behaviour upon this
occasion, kept up her spirits for some little time; and she blessed
heaven, repeatedly, for the singular favour of shewing to her, clearly,
by this accident, his negligence of her sorrows, his total
indifference.

The next day was the eve of that on which he was to depart—of the day
on which she was to bid adieu to Dorriforth, to her guardian, to Lord
Elmwood; to all her hopes at once.

The moment she awoke on Monday morning, the recollection, that this
was, perhaps, the last day she was ever again to see him, softened all
the resentment his yesterday’s conduct had raised: forgetting his
austerity, and all she had once termed cruelties, she now only
remembered his friendship, his tenderness, and his love. She was
impatient to see him, and promised herself, for this last day, to
neglect no one opportunity of being with him. For that purpose she did
not breakfast in her own room, as she had done for several mornings
before, but went into the breakfast-room, where all the family in
general met. She was rejoiced on hearing his voice as she opened the
door, yet the sound made her tremble so much, that she could scarcely
totter to the table.

Miss Woodley looked at her as she entered, and was never so shocked at
seeing her; for never had she yet seen her look so ill. As she
approached, she made an inclination of her head to Mrs. Horton, then to
her guardian, as was her custom, when she first saw them in a
morning—he looked in her face as he bowed in return, then fixed his
eyes upon the fire-place, rubbed his forehead, and began talking with
Mr. Sandford.

Sandford, during breakfast, by accident cast a glance upon Miss Milner;
his attention was caught by her deadly countenance, and he looked
earnestly. He then turned to Lord Elmwood to see if he was observing
her appearance—he was not—and so much were her thoughts engaged on him
alone, that she did not once perceive Sandford gazing at her.

Mrs. Horton, after a little while observed, “It was a beautiful
morning.”

Lord Elmwood said, “He thought he heard it rain in the night.”

Sandford cried, “For his part he slept too well to know.” And then
(unasked) held a plate with biscuits to Miss Milner—it was the first
civility he had ever in his life offered her; she smiled at the
whimsicality of the circumstance, but she took one in return for his
attention. He looked grave beyond his usual gravity, and yet not with
his usual ill temper. She did not eat what she had so politely taken,
but laid it down soon after.

Lord Elmwood was the first who rose from breakfast, and he did not
return to dinner.

At dinner, Mrs. Horton said, “She hoped he would, however, favour them
with his company at supper.”

To which Sandford replied, “No doubt, for you will hardly any of you
see him in the morning; as we shall be off by six, or soon after.”

Sandford was not going abroad with Lord Elmwood, but was to go with him
as far as Dover.

These words of his—“_Not see Lord Elmwood in the morning_”—[never again
to see him after this evening,] were like the knell of death to Miss
Milner. She felt the symptoms of fainting, and eagerly snatched a glass
of water, which the servant was holding to Sandford, who had called for
it, and drank it off;—as she returned the glass to the servant, she
began to apologize to Mr. Sandford for her seeming rudeness, but before
she could utter what she intended, he said, good-naturedly, “Never
mind—you are very welcome—I am glad you took it.” She looked at him to
observe, whether he had really spoken kindly, or ironically; but before
his countenance could satisfy her, her thoughts were called away from
that trivial matter, and again fixed upon Lord Elmwood.

The moments seemed tedious till he came home to supper, and yet, when
she reflected how short the remainder of the evening would be after
that time, she wished to defer the hour of his return for months. At
ten o’clock he arrived; and at half after ten the family, without any
visitor, met at supper.

Miss Milner had considered, that the period for her to counterfeit
appearances, was diminished now to a most contracted one; and she
rigorously enjoined herself not to shrink from the little which
remained. The certain end, that would be so soon put to this painful
deception, encouraged her to struggle through it with redoubled zeal;
and this was but necessary, as her weakness increased. She therefore
listened, she talked, and even smiled with the rest of the company, nor
did _their_ vivacity seem to arise, from a much less compulsive source
than her own.

It was past twelve, when Lord Elmwood looked at his watch, and rising
from his chair, went up to Mrs. Horton, and taking her hand, said,
“Till I see you again, Madam, I sincerely wish you every happiness.”

Miss Milner fixed her eyes upon the table before her.

“My Lord,” replied Mrs. Horton, “I sincerely wish you health and
happiness likewise.”

He then went to Miss Woodley, and taking her hand, repeated much the
same, as he had said to Mrs. Horton.

Miss Milner now trembled beyond all power of concealment.

“My Lord,” replied Miss Woodley, a good deal affected, “I sincerely
hope my prayers for your happiness may be heard.”

She and Mrs. Horton were both standing as well as Lord Elmwood; but
Miss Milner kept her seat, till his eye was turned upon her, and he
moved slowly towards her; she then rose:—every one who was present,
attentive to what he would now say, and how she would receive what he
said, here cast their eyes upon them, and listened with impatience.
They were all disappointed—he did not utter a syllable. Yet he took her
hand, and held it closely between his. He then bowed most respectfully
and left her.

No “I wish you well;—I wish you health and happiness.” No “Prayers for
blessings on her.” Not even the word “Farewell,” escaped his
lips—perhaps, to have attempted any of these, might have choaked his
utterance.

She had behaved with fortitude the whole evening, and she continued to
do so, till the moment he turned away from her. Her eyes then
overflowed with tears, and in the agony of her mind, not knowing what
she did, she laid her cold hand upon the person next to her—it happened
to be Sandford; but not observing it was he, she grasped his hand with
violence—yet he did not snatch it away, nor look at her with his wonted
severity. And thus she stood, silent and motionless, while Lord
Elmwood, now at the door, bowed once more to all the company, and
retired.

Sandford had still Miss Milner’s hand fixed upon his; and when the door
was shut after Lord Elmwood, he turned his head to look in her face,
and turned it with some marks of apprehension for the grief he might
find there. She strove to overcome that grief, and after a heavy sigh,
sat down, as if resigned to the fate to which she was decreed.

Instead of following Lord Elmwood, as usual, Sandford poured out a
glass of wine, and drank it. A general silence ensued for near three
minutes. At last, turning himself round on his seat, towards Miss
Milner, who sat like a statue of despair at his side, “Will you
breakfast with us to-morrow?” said he.

She made no answer.

“We shan’t breakfast before half after six,” continued he, “I dare say;
and if you can rise so early—why do.”

“Miss Milner,” said Miss Woodley, (for she caught eagerly at the hope
of her passing this night in less unhappiness than she had foreboded)
“pray rise at that hour to breakfast; Mr. Sandford would not invite
you, if he thought it would displease Lord Elmwood.”

“Not I,” replied Sandford, churlishly.

“Then desire her maid to call her:” said Mrs. Horton to Miss Woodley.

“Nay, she will be awake, I have no doubt;” returned her niece.

“No;” replied Miss Milner, “since Lord Elmwood has thought proper to
take his leave of me, without even speaking a word; by my own design,
never will I see him again.” And her tears burst forth, as if her heart
burst at the same time.

“Why did not _you_ speak to _him_?” cried Sandford—“Pray did _you_ bid
_him_ farewell? and I don’t see why one is not as much to be blamed, in
that respect, as the other.”

“I was too weak to say I wished him happy,” cried Miss Milner; “but,
Heaven is my witness, I do wish him so from my soul.”

“And do you imagine he does not wish you so?” cried Sandford. “You
should judge him by your own heart; and what you feel for him, imagine
he feels for you, my dear.”

Though “_my dear_” is a trivial phrase, yet from certain people, and
upon certain occasions, it is a phrase of infinite comfort and
assurance. Mr. Sandford seldom said “my dear” to any one; to Miss
Milner never; and upon this occasion, and from him, it was an
expression most precious.

She turned to him with a look of gratitude; but as she only looked, and
did not speak, he rose up, and soon after said, with a friendly tone he
had seldom used in her presence, “I sincerely wish you a good night.”

As soon as he was gone, Miss Milner exclaimed, “However my fate may
have been precipitated by the unkindness of Mr. Sandford, yet, for that
particle of concern which he has shown for me this night, I will always
be grateful to him.”

“Ay,” cried Mrs. Horton, “good Mr. Sandford may show his kindness now,
without any danger from its consequences. Now Lord Elmwood is going
away for ever, he is not afraid of your seeing him once again.” And she
thought she praised him by this suggestion.



CHAPTER XII.


When Miss Milner retired to her bed-chamber, Miss Woodley went with
her, nor would leave her the whole night—but in vain did she persuade
her to rest—she absolutely refused; and declared she would never, from
that hour, indulge repose. “The part I undertook to perform,” cried
she, “is over—I will now, for my whole life, appear in my own
character, and give a loose to the anguish I endure.”

As daylight showed itself—“And yet I might see him once again,” said
she—“I might see him within these two hours, if I pleased, for Mr.
Sandford invited me.”

“If you think, my dear Miss Milner,” said Miss Woodley, “that a second
parting from Lord Elmwood would but give you a second agony, in the
name of Heaven do not see him any more—but, if you hope your mind would
be easier, were you to bid each other adieu in a more direct manner
than you did last night, let us go down and breakfast with him. I’ll go
before, and prepare him for your reception—you shall not surprise
him—and I will let him know, it is by Mr. Sandford’s invitation you are
coming.”

She listened with a smile to this proposal, yet objected to the
indelicacy of her wishing to see him, after he had taken his leave—but
as Miss Woodley perceived that she was inclined to infringe this
delicacy, of which she had so proper a sense, she easily persuaded her,
it was impossible for the most suspicious person (and Lord Elmwood was
far from such a character) to suppose, that the paying him a visit at
that period of time, could be with the most distant idea of regaining
his heart, or of altering one resolution he had taken.

But though Miss Milner acquiesced in this opinion, yet she had not the
courage to form the determination that she would go.

Daylight now no longer peeped, but stared upon them. Miss Milner went
to the looking-glass, breathed upon her hands and rubbed them on her
eyes, smoothed her hair and adjusted her dress; yet said, after all, “I
dare not see him again.”

“You may do as you please,” said Miss Woodley, “but I will. I that have
lived for so many years under the same roof with him, and on the most
friendly terms, and he going away, perhaps for these ten years, perhaps
for ever, I should think it a disrespect not to see him to the last
moment of his remaining in the house.”

“Then do you go,” said Miss Milner, eagerly; “and if he should ask for
me, I will gladly come, you know; but if he does not ask for me, I will
not—and pray don’t deceive me.”

Miss Woodley promised her not to deceive her; and soon after, as they
heard the servants pass about the house, and the clock had struck six,
Miss Woodley went to the breakfast room.

She found Lord Elmwood there in his travelling dress, standing
pensively by the fire-place—and, as he did not dream of seeing her, he
started when she entered, and, with an appearance of alarm, said, “Dear
Miss Woodley, what’s the matter?” She replied, “Nothing, my Lord; but I
could not be satisfied without seeing your Lordship once again, while I
had it in my power.”

“I thank you,” he returned with a sigh—the heaviest and most
intelligent sigh she ever heard him condescend to give. She imagined,
alas, that he looked as if he wished to ask how Miss Milner did, but
would not allow himself the indulgence. She was half inclined to
mention her to him, and was debating in her mind whether she should or
not, when Mr. Sandford came into the room, saying, as he entered,

“For Heaven’s sake, my Lord, where did you sleep last night?”

“Why do you ask!” said he.

“Because,” replied Sandford, “I went into your bed-chamber just now,
and I found your bed made. You have not slept there to-night.”

“I have slept no where,” returned he; “I could not sleep—and having
some papers to look over, and to set off early, I thought I might as
well not go to bed at all.”

Miss Woodley was pleased at the frank manner in which he made this
confession, and could not resist the strong impulse to say, “You have
done just then, my Lord, like Miss Milner, for she has not been in bed
the whole night.”

Miss Woodley spoke this in a negligent manner, and yet, Lord Elmwood
echoed back the words with solicitude, “Has not Miss Milner been in bed
the whole night?”

“If she is up, why does not she come and take some coffee?” said
Sandford, as he began to pour it out.

“If she thought it would be agreeable,” returned Miss Woodley, “I dare
say she would.” And she looked at Lord Elmwood while she spoke, though
she did not absolutely address him; but he made no reply.

“Agreeable!” returned Sandford, angrily—“Has she then a quarrel with
any body here? or does she suppose any body here bears enmity to _her_?
Is she not in peace and charity?”

“Yes,” replied Miss Woodley, “that I am sure she is.”

“Then bring her hither,” cried Sandford, “directly. Would she have the
wickedness to imagine we are not all friends with her?”

Miss Woodley left the room, and found Miss Milner almost in despair,
lest she should hear Lord Elmwood’s carriage drive off before her
friend’s return.

“Did he send for me?” were the words she uttered as soon as she saw
her.

“Mr. Sandford did, in his presence,” returned Miss Woodley, “and you
may go with the utmost decorum, or I would not tell you so.”

She required no protestations of this, but readily followed her beloved
adviser, whose kindness never appeared in so amiable a light as at that
moment.

On entering the room, through all the dead white of her present
complection, she blushed to a crimson. Lord Elmwood rose from his seat,
and brought a chair for her to sit down.

Sandford looked at her inquisitively, sipped his tea, and said, “He
never made tea to his own liking.”

Miss Milner took a cup, but had scarce strength to hold it.

It seemed but a very short time they were at breakfast, when the
carriage, that was to take Lord Elmwood away, drove to the door. Miss
Milner started at the sound—so did he—but she had nearly dropped her
cup and saucer; on which Sandford took them out of her hand, saying,

“Perhaps you had rather have coffee?”

Her lips moved, but he could not hear what she said.

A servant came in, and told Lord Elmwood, “The carriage was at the
door.”

He replied, “Very well.” But though he had breakfasted, he did not
attempt to move.

At last, rising briskly, as if it was necessary to go in haste when he
did go; he took up his hat, which he had brought with him into the
room, and was turning to Miss Woodley to take his leave, when Sandford
cried, “My Lord, you are in a great hurry.” And then, as if he wished
to give poor Miss Milner every moment he could, added, (looking about)
“I don’t know where I have laid my gloves.”

Lord Elmwood, after repeating to Miss Woodley his last night’s
farewell, now went up to Miss Milner, and taking one of her hands,
again held it between his, but still without speaking—while she, unable
to suppress her tears as heretofore, suffered them to fall in torrents.

“What is all this?” cried Sandford, going up to them in anger.

They neither of them replied, or changed their situation.

“Separate this moment,” cried Sandford, “or resolve to be separated
only by—death.”

The commanding and awful manner in which he spoke this sentence, made
them both turn to him in amazement, and as it were, petrified with the
sensation his words had caused.

He left them for a moment, and going to a small bookcase in one corner
of the room, took out of it a book, and returning with it in his hand,
said,

“Lord Elmwood, do you love this woman?”

“More than my life.” He replied, with the most heartfelt accents.

He then turned to Miss Milner—“Can you say the same by him?”

She spread her hands over her eyes, and exclaimed, “Oh, Heavens!”

“I believe you _can_ say so,” returned Sandford; “and in the name of
God, and your own happiness, since this is the state of you both, let
me put it out of your power to part.”

Lord Elmwood gazed at him with wonder! and yet, as if enraptured by the
sudden change this conduct gave to his prospects.

She, sighed with a kind of trembling ecstasy; while Sandford, with all
the dignity of his official character, delivered these words——

“My Lord, while I thought my counsel might save you from the worst of
misfortunes, conjugal strife, I importuned you hourly, and set forth
your danger in the light it appeared to me. But though old, and a
priest, I can submit to think I have been in an error; and I now firmly
believe, it is for the welfare of you both, to become man and wife. My
Lord, take this woman’s marriage vows—you can ask no fairer promises of
her reform—she can give you none half so sacred, half so binding; and I
see by her looks that she will mean to keep them. And my dear,”
continued he, addressing himself to her, “act but under the dominion of
those vows, to a husband of sense and virtue, like him, and you will be
all that I, himself, or even Heaven can desire. Now, then, Lord
Elmwood, this moment give her up for ever, or this moment constrain her
by such ties from offending you, as she shall not _dare_ to violate.”

Lord Elmwood struck his forehead in doubt and agitation; but, still
holding her hand, he cried, “I cannot part from her.” Then feeling this
reply as equivocal, he fell upon his knees, and cried, “Will you pardon
my hesitation? and will you, in marriage, show me that tender love you
have not shown me yet? Will you, in possessing all my affections, bear
with all my infirmities?”

She raised him from her feet, and by the expression of her countenance,
by the tears that bathed his hands, gave him confidence.

He turned to Sandford—then placing her by his own side, as the form of
matrimony requires, gave this for a sign to Sandford that he should
begin the ceremony. On which, he opened his book, and—married them.

With voice and manners so serious, so solemn and so fervent, he
performed these rites, that every idea of jest, or even of lightness,
was absent from the mind of all who were present.

Miss Milner, covered with shame, sunk on the bosom of Miss Woodley.

When the ring was wanting, Lord Elmwood supplied it with one from his
own hand, but throughout all the rest of the ceremony, appeared lost in
zealous devotion to Heaven. Yet, no sooner was it finished, than his
thoughts descended to this world. He embraced his bride with all the
transport of the fondest, happiest bridegroom, and in raptures called
her by the endearing name of “wife.”

“But still, my Lord,” cried Sandford, “you are only married by your own
church and conscience, not by your wife’s, or by the law of the land;
and let me advise you not to defer that marriage long, lest in the time
you disagree, and she should refuse to become your legal spouse.”

“I think there is danger,” returned Lord Elmwood, “and therefore our
second marriage must take place to-morrow.”

To this the ladies objected, and Sandford was to fix their second
wedding-day, as he had done their first. He, after consideration, gave
them four days.

Miss Woodley then recollected (for every one else had forgot it) that
the carriage was still at the door to convey Lord Elmwood far away. It
was of course dismissed—and one of those great incidents of delight
which Miss Milner that morning tasted, was to look out of the window,
and see this very carriage drive from the door unoccupied.

Never was there a more rapid change from despair to happiness—to
happiness perfect and supreme—than was that, which Miss Milner and Lord
Elmwood experienced in one single hour.

The few days that intervened between this and their lawful marriage,
were passed in the delightful care of preparing for that happy day—yet,
with all its delights inferior to the first, when every unexpected joy
was doubled by the once expected sorrow.

Nevertheless, on that first wedding-day, that joyful day, which
restored her lost lover to her hopes again; even on that _very_ day,
after the sacred ceremony was over, Miss Milner—(with all the fears,
the tremors, the superstition of her sex)—felt an excruciating shock;
when, looking on the ring Lord Elmwood had put upon her finger, in
haste, when he married her, she perceived it was a—mourning ring.



A
SIMPLE STORY,

IN FOUR VOLUMES,

BY

MRS. INCHBALD.



VOL. III.

_THE FOURTH EDITION._

LONDON:
Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,
Paternoster Row.
1799.



A SIMPLE STORY.



CHAPTER I.


Not any event, throughout life, can arrest the reflection of a
thoughtful mind more powerfully, or leave so lasting an impression, as
that of returning to a place after a few years absence, and observing
an entire alteration, in respect to all the persons who once formed the
neighbourhood. To find that many, who but a few years before were left
in their bloom of youth and health, are dead—to find that children left
at school, are married and have children of their own—that some, who
were left in riches, are reduced to poverty—that others, who were in
poverty are become rich—to find, those once renowned for virtue, now
detested for vice—roving husbands, grown constant—constant husbands,
become rovers—the firmest friends, changed to the most implacable
enemies—beauty faded. In a word, every change to demonstrate, that,

“All is transitory on this side the grave.”

Guided by a wish, that the reflecting reader may experience the
sensation, which an attention to circumstances like these, must excite;
he is desired to imagine seventeen years elapsed, since he has seen or
heard of any of those persons who in the foregoing volumes have been
introduced to his acquaintance—and then, supposing himself at the
period of those seventeen years, follow the sequel of their history.

To begin with the first female object of this story. The beautiful, the
beloved Miss Milner—she is no longer beautiful—no longer beloved—no
longer—tremble while you read it!—no longer—virtuous.

Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth, is become a
hard-hearted tyrant. The compassionate, the feeling, the just Lord
Elmwood, an example of implacable rigour and injustice.

Miss Woodley is grown old, but less with years than grief.

The boy, Rushbrook, is become a man, and the apparent heir of Lord
Elmwood’s fortune; while his own daughter, his only child by his once
adored Miss Milner, he refuses ever to see again, in vengeance to her
mother’s crimes.

The least wonderful change, is, the death of Mrs. Horton. Except
Sandford, who remains much the same as heretofore.

We left Lady Elmwood in the last volume at the summit of human
happiness; a loving and beloved bride. We begin this volume, and find
her upon her death-bed.

At thirty-five, her “Course was run”—a course full of perils, of hopes,
of fears, of joys, and at the end, of sorrows; all exquisite of their
kind, for exquisite were the feelings of her susceptible heart.

At the commencement of this story, her father is described in the last
moments of his life, with all his cares fixed upon her, his only
child—how vain these cares! how vain every precaution that was taken
for her welfare! She knows, she reflects upon this; and yet, impelled
by that instinctive power which actuates a parent, Lady Elmwood on
_her_ dying day has no worldly thoughts, but that of the future
happiness of an only child. To every other prospect in her view, “Thy
will be done” is her continual exclamation; but where the misery of her
daughter presents itself, the expiring penitent would there combat the
will of Heaven.

To detail the progression by which vice gains a predominancy in the
heart, may be a useful lesson; but it is one so little to the
satisfaction of most readers, that the degrees of misconduct by which
Lady Elmwood fell, are not meant to be related here; but instead of
picturing every occasion of her fall, to come briefly to the events
that followed.

There are, nevertheless, some articles under the former class, which
ought not to be entirely omitted.

Lord Elmwood, after four years enjoyment of the most perfect happiness
that marriage could give, after becoming the father of a beautiful
daughter, whom he loved with a tenderness almost equal to his love of
her mother, was under the indispensable necessity of leaving them both
for a time, in order to rescue from the depredation of his own steward,
his very large estates in the West Indies. His voyage was tedious; his
residence there, from various accidents, prolonged from time to time,
till near three years had at length passed away. Lady Elmwood, at first
only unhappy, became at last provoked; and giving way to that irritable
disposition which she had so seldom governed, resolved, in spite of his
injunctions, to divert the melancholy hours caused by his absence, by
mixing in the gay circles of London.

Lord Elmwood at this time, and for many months before, had been
detained abroad by a severe and dangerous illness, which a too cautious
fear of her uneasiness, had prompted him to conceal; and she received
his frequent apologies for not returning, with a suspicion and
resentment they were calculated, but not intended, to inspire.

To violent anger, succeeded a degree of indifference still more
fatal—Lady Elmwood’s heart was not formed for such a state—there, where
all the tumultuous passions harboured by turns, one among them soon
found the means to occupy all vacancies: a passion, commencing
innocently, but terminating in guilt. The dear object of her fondest,
her truest affections, was away; and those affections, painted the time
so irksome that was past; so wearisome, that, which was still to come;
that she flew from the present tedious solitude, to the dangerous
society of one, whose whole mind depraved by fashionable vices, could
not repay her for a moment’s loss of him, whose absence he supplied.
Or, if the delirium gave her a moment’s recompence, what were her
sufferings, her remorse, when she was awakened from the fleeting joy,
by the arrival of her husband? How happy, how transporting would have
been that arrival a few months before! As it would then have been
felicity unbounded, it was now—language affords no word that can
describe Lady Elmwood’s sensations, on being told her Lord was arrived,
and that necessity alone had so long delayed his return.

Guilty, but not hardened in her guilt, her pangs, her shame were the
more excessive. She fled from the place at his approach; fled from his
house, never again to return to a habitation where he was the master.
She did not, however, elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter
herself in the most dreary retreat; where she partook of no one comfort
from society, or from life, but the still unremitting friendship of
Miss Woodley. Even her infant daughter she left behind, nor would allow
herself the consolation of her innocent, though reproachful smiles—she
left her in her father’s house, that she might be under his protection;
parted with her, as she thought, for ever, with all the agonies with
which mothers part from their infant children: and yet, even a mother
can scarce conceive how much more sharp those agonies were, on
beholding—the child sent after her, as the perpetual outcast of its
father.

Lord Elmwood’s love to his wife had been extravagant—the effect of his
hate was the same. Beholding himself separated from her by a barrier
never to be removed, he vowed in the deep torments of his revenge,
never to be reminded of her by one individual object; much less, by one
so near to her as her child. To bestow upon that child his affections,
would be, he imagined, still, in some sort, to divide them with the
mother. Firm in his resolution, the beautiful Matilda, was, at the age
of six years, sent out of her father’s house, and received by her
mother with all the tenderness, but with all the anguish, of those
parents, who behold their offspring visited by the punishment due only
to their own offences.

While this rigid act was executing by Lord Elmwood’s agents at his
command, himself was engaged in an affair of still weightier
importance—that of life or death:—he determined upon his own death, or
the death of the man who had wounded his honour and destroyed his
happiness. A duel with his old antagonist was the result of this
determination; nor was the Duke of Avon (who before the decease of his
father and eldest brother, was Lord Frederick Lawnly) averse from
giving him all the satisfaction he required. For it was no other than
he, whose passion for Lady Elmwood had still subsisted, and whose
address in gallantry left no means unattempted for the success of his
designs;—no other than he, (who, next to Lord Elmwood, had been of all
her lovers, the most favoured,) to whom Lady Elmwood sacrificed her own
and her husband’s future peace, and thus gave to his vanity a prouder
triumph, than if she had never bestowed her hand in marriage on
another. This triumph however was but short—a month only, after the
return of Lord Elmwood, the Duke was called upon to answer for his
conduct, and was left where they met, so defaced with scars, as never
again to endanger the honour of a husband. As Lord Elmwood was
inexorable to all accommodation, their engagement continued for a long
space of time; nor could any thing but the assurance that his opponent
was slain, have at last torn him from the field, though he himself was
dangerously wounded.

Yet even during the period of his danger, while for days he lay in the
continual expectation of his own death, not all the entreaties of his
dearest, most intimate, and most respected friends, could prevail upon
him to pronounce forgiveness of his wife, or to suffer them to bring
his daughter to him, for his last blessing.

Lady Elmwood, who was made acquainted with the minutest circumstance as
it passed, appeared to wait the news of her husband’s decease with
patience; but upon her brow, and in every lineament of her face was
marked, that his death was an event she would not for a day survive:
and she would have left her child an orphan, to have followed Lord
Elmwood to the tomb. She was prevented the trial; he recovered; and
from the ample vengeance he had obtained upon the irresistible person
of the Duke, in a short time seemed to regain his usual tranquillity.

He recovered, but Lady Elmwood fell sick and languished—possessed of
youth to struggle with her woes, she lingered on, till ten years
decline brought her to that period, with which the reader is now going
to be presented.



CHAPTER II.


In a lonely country on the borders of Scotland, a single house by the
side of a dreary heath, was the residence of the once gay, volatile
Miss Milner. In a large gloomy apartment of this solitary habitation
(the windows of which scarce rendered the light accessible) was laid
upon her death-bed, the once lovely Lady Elmwood—pale, half suffocated
with the loss of breath; yet her senses perfectly clear and collected,
which served but to sharpen the anguish of dying.

In one corner of the room, by the side of an old fashioned stool,
kneels Miss Woodley, praying most devoutly for her still beloved
friend, but in vain endeavouring to pray composedly—floods of tears
pour down her furrowed cheeks, and frequent sobs of sorrow, break
through each pious ejaculation.

Close by her mother’s side, one hand supporting her head, the other
wiping from her face the cold dew of death, behold Lady Elmwood’s
daughter—Lord Elmwood’s daughter too—yet he far away, negligent of what
either suffers. Lady Elmwood turns to her often and attempts an
embrace, but her feeble arms forbid, and they fall motionless. The
daughter perceiving these ineffectual efforts, has her whole face
convulsed with grief: kisses her mother; holds her to her bosom; and
hangs upon her neck, as if she wished to cling there, not to be parted
even by the grave.

On the other side of the bed sits Sandford—his hair grown white—his
face wrinkled with age—his heart the same as ever.—The reprover, the
enemy of the vain, the idle, and the wicked; but the friend and
comforter of the forlorn and miserable.

Upon those features where sarcasm, reproach, and anger dwelt, to
threaten and alarm the sinner; mildness, tenderness, and pity beamed,
to support and console the penitent. Compassion changed his language,
and softened all those harsh tones that used to denounce perdition.

“In the name of God,” said he to Lady Elmwood, “of that God, who
suffered for you, and, suffering, knew and pitied all our weaknesses—By
him, who has given his word to _take compassion on the sinner’s tears_,
I bid you hope for mercy. By that innocence in which you once lived, be
comforted—By the sorrows you have known since your degradation, hope,
that in some measure, you have atoned—By the sincerity that shone upon
your youthful face when I joined your hands, and those thousand virtues
you have since given proofs of, trust, that you were not born to die
_the death of the wicked_.”

As he spoke these words of consolation, her trembling hand clasped
his—her dying eyes darted a ray of brightness—but her failing voice
endeavoured in vain, to articulate. At length, fixing her looks upon
her daughter as their last dear object, she was just understood to
utter the word “Father.”

“I understand you,” replied Sandford, “and by all that influence I ever
had over him, by my prayers, my tears,” (and they flowed as he spoke)
“I will implore him to own his child.”

She could now only smile in thanks.

“And if I should fail,” continued he, “yet while I live, she shall not
want a friend or protector—all an old man, like me can answer
for”——here his tears interrupted him.

Lady Elmwood was sufficiently sensible of his words and their import,
to make a sign as if she wished to embrace him: but finding her life
leaving her fast, she reserved this last token of love for her
daughter—with a struggle she lifted herself from her pillow, clung to
her child—and died in her arms.



CHAPTER III.


Lord Elmwood was by nature, and more from education, of a serious,
thinking, and philosophic turn of mind. His religious studies had
completely taught him to consider this world but as a passage to
another; to enjoy with gratitude what Heaven in its bounty should
bestow, and to bear with submission, whatever in its vengeance it might
inflict. In a greater degree than most people he practised this
doctrine; and as soon as the shock he received from Lady Elmwood’s
conduct was abated, an entire calmness and resignation ensued; but
still of that sensible and feeling kind, that could never suffer him to
forget the happiness he had lost; and it was this sensibility, which
urged him to fly from its more keen recollection as much as
possible—this, he alleged as the reason why he would never permit Lady
Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing. But this
injunction (which all his friends, and even the servants in the house
who attended his person, had received) was, by many people, suspected
rather to proceed from his resentment, than his tenderness; nor did he
deny, that resentment co-operated with his prudence: for prudence he
called it, not to remind himself of happiness he could never taste
again, and of ingratitude that might impel him to hatred: and prudence
he called it, not to form another attachment near to his heart, more
especially so near as a parent’s which might again expose him to all
the torments of ingratitude, from an object whom he affectionately
loved.

Upon these principles he formed the unshaken resolution, never to
acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child—or acknowledging her as
such—never to see, to hear of, or take one concern whatever in her fate
and fortune. The death of her mother appeared a favourable time, had he
been so inclined, to have recalled this declaration which he had
solemnly and repeatedly made—she was now destitute of the protection of
her other parent, and it became his duty, at least, to provide her a
guardian, if he did not chuse to take that tender title upon
himself—but to mention either the mother or child to Lord Elmwood, was
an equal offence, and prohibited in the strongest terms to all his
friends and household; and as he was an excellent good master, a
sincere friend, and a most generous patron, not one of his acquaintance
or dependants, were hardy enough to draw upon themselves his certain
displeasure, which was always violent in the extreme, by even the
official intelligence of Lady Elmwood’s death.

Sandford himself, intimidated through age, or by the austere, and
morose manners which Lord Elmwood had of late years adopted; Sandford
wished, if possible, that some other would undertake the dangerous task
of recalling to his memory there ever was such a person as his wife. He
advised Miss Woodley to write a proper letter to him on the subject;
but she reminded him that such a step would be more perilous to her,
than to any other person, as she was the most destitute being on earth,
without the benevolence of Lord Elmwood. The death of her aunt, Mrs.
Horton, had left her solely relying on the bounty of Lady Elmwood, and
now her death, had left her totally dependant upon the Earl—for Lady
Elmwood though she had separate effects, had long before her death
declared it was not her intention to leave a sentence behind her in the
form of a will. She had no will, she said, but what she would wholly
submit to Lord Elmwood’s; and, if it were even his will, that her child
should live in poverty, as well as banishment, it should be so. But,
perhaps, in this implicit submission to him, there was a distant hope,
that the necessitous situation of his daughter, might plead more
forcibly than his parental love; and that knowing her bereft of every
support but through himself, that idea might form some little tie
between them, and be at least a token of the relationship.

But as Lady Elmwood anxiously wished this principle upon which she
acted, should be concealed from his suspicion, she included her friend,
Miss Woodley, in the same fate; and thus, the only persons dear to her,
she left, but at Lord Elmwood’s pleasure, to be preserved from
perishing in want. Her child was too young to advise her on this
subject, her friend too disinterested; and at this moment they were
both without the smallest means of subsistence, except through the
justice or compassion of Lord Elmwood. Sandford had indeed promised his
protection to the daughter; but his liberality had no other source than
from his patron, with whom he still lived as usual, except during part
of the winter, when the Earl resided in town; he then mostly stole a
visit to Lady Elmwood.—On this last visit he staid to see her buried.

After some mature deliberations, Sandford was now preparing to go to
Lord Elmwood at his house in town, and there, to deliver himself the
news that must sooner or later be told; and he meant also to venture,
at the same time, to keep the promise he had made to his dying Lady—but
the news reached his Lordship before Sandford arrived; it was announced
in the public papers, and by that means first came to his knowledge.

He was breakfasting by himself, when the newspaper that first gave the
intelligence of Lady Elmwood’s death, was laid before him—the paragraph
contained these words:

“On Wednesday last died, at Dring Park, a village in Northumberland,
the right honourable Countess Elmwood.—This lady, who has not been
heard of for many years in the fashionable world, was a rich heiress,
and of extreme beauty; but although she received overtures from many
men of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the present Lord
Elmwood (then Mr. Dorriforth) to them all—and it is said, their
marriage was followed by an uncommon share of felicity, till his
Lordship going abroad, and remaining there some time, the consequences
(to a most captivating young woman left without a protector) were such
as to cause a separation on his return. Her Ladyship has left one child
by the Earl, a daughter, about fifteen.”

Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this, as to lay down the
paper, and not take it up again for several minutes—nor did he taste
his chocolate during this interval, but leaned his elbow on the table
and rested his head upon his hand. He then rose up—walked two or three
times across the room—sat down again—took up the paper—and read as
usual.—Nor let the vociferous mourner, or the perpetual weeper, here
complain of his want of sensibility—but let them remember that Lord
Elmwood was a man—a man of understanding—of courage—of fortitude—above
all, a man of the nicest feelings—and who shall say, but that at the
time he leaned his head upon his hand, and rose to walk away the sense
of what he felt, he might not feel as much as Lady Elmwood did in her
last moments.

Be this as it may, his susceptibility on the occasion was not suspected
by any one—yet he passed that day the same as usual; the next day too,
and the day after. On the morning of the fourth, he sent for his
steward to his study, and after talking of other business, said to him;

“Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead?”

“It is, my Lord.”

His Lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply, fetched an
involuntary sigh.

“Mr. Sandford, my lord,” continued the steward, “sent me word of the
news, but left it to my own discretion, whether I would make your
Lordship acquainted with it or not: I let him know I declined.”

“Where is Sandford?” asked Lord Elmwood.

“He was with my Lady,” replied the steward.

“When she died?” asked he.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I am glad of it—he will see that every thing she desired is
done—Sandford is a good man, and would be a friend to every body.”

“He is a very good man indeed, my Lord.”

There was now a silence.——Mr. Giffard then bowing, said, “Has your
Lordship any further commands?”

“Write to Sandford,” said Lord Elmwood, hesitating as he spoke, “and
tell him to have every thing performed as she desired. And whoever she
may have selected for the guardian of her child, has my consent to act
as such.—Nor in one instance, where I myself am not concerned, shall I
oppose her will.” The tears rushed into his eyes as he said this, and
caused them to start in the steward’s—observing which, he sternly
resumed,

“Do not suppose from this conversation, that any of those resolutions I
have long since taken, are, or will be changed—they are the same; and
shall continue inflexible.”

“I understand you, my Lord,” replied Mr. Giffard, “your express orders,
to me, as well as to every other person, remain just the same as
formerly, never to mention this subject to you again.”

“They do, Sir.”

“My Lord, I always obeyed you, and hope I always shall.”

“I hope so too,” he replied in a threatening accent—“Write to
Sandford,” continued he, “to let him know my pleasure, and that is all
you have to do.”

The steward bowed and withdrew.

But before his letter arrived to Sandford, Sandford arrived in town;
and Mr. Giffard related, word for word, what had passed between him and
his Lord. Upon every occasion, and upon every topic, except that of
Lady Elmwood and her child, Sandford was just as free with Lord Elmwood
as he had ever been; and as usual (after his interview with the
steward) went into his apartment without any previous notice. Lord
Elmwood shook him by the hand, as upon all other meetings; and yet,
whether his fear suggested it or not, Sandford thought he appeared more
cool and reserved with him than formerly.

During the whole day, the slightest mention of Lady Elmwood, or of her
child, was cautiously avoided—and not till the evening, (after Sandford
had risen to retire, and had wished Lord Elmwood good night) did he
dare to mention the subject. He then, after taking leave, and going to
the door—turned back and said, “My Lord,”—

It was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak—his voice
failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, he took out his
handkerchief, and could proceed no farther.

“I thought,” said Lord Elmwood, angrily, “I thought I had given my
orders upon the subject—did not my steward write them to you?”

“He did, my Lord,” said Sandford, humbly, “but I was set out before
they arrived.”

“Has he not _told_ you my mind then?” cried he, more angrily still.

“He has;” replied Sandford,—“But”——

“But what, Sir?” cried Lord Elmwood.

“Your Lordship,” continued Sandford, “was mistaken in supposing that
Lady Elmwood left a will, she left none.”

“No will? no will at all?” returned he, surprised.

“No, my Lord,” answered Sandford, “she wished every thing to be as you
willed.”

“She left me all the trouble, then, you mean?”

“No great trouble, Sir; for there are but two persons whom she has left
behind her, to hope for your protection.”

“And who are those two?” cried he hastily.

“One, my Lord, I need not name—the other is Miss Woodley.”

There was a delicacy and humility in the manner in which Sandford
delivered this reply, that Lord Elmwood could _not_ resent, and he only
returned,

“Miss Woodley—is she yet living?”

“She is—I left her at the house I came from.”

“Well then,” answered he, “you must see that my steward provides for
those two persons. That care I leave to you—and should there be any
complaints, on you they fall.”

Sandford bowed and was going.

“And now,” resumed Lord Elmwood, in a more stern voice, “let me never
hear again on this subject. You have power to act in regard to the
persons you have mentioned; and upon you their situation, the care, the
whole management of them depends—but be sure you never let them be
named before me, from this moment.”

“Then,” said Sandford, “as this must be the last time they are
mentioned, I must now take the opportunity to disburden my mind of a
charge”—

“What charge?” cried Lord Elmwood, morosely interrupting him.

“Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind her, she left a
request.”

“A request!” said he, starting, “If it is for me to see her daughter, I
tell you now before you ask, that I will not grant it—for by heaven
(and he spoke and looked most solemnly) though I have no resentment
against the innocent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see
her. Never, for her mother’s sake, suffer my heart again to be softened
by an object I might dote upon. Therefore, Sir, if that is the request,
it is already answered; my will is fixed.”

“The request, my Lord,” replied Sandford, (and he took out a
pocket-book from whence he drew several papers) “is contained in this
letter; nor do I rightly know what its contents are.” And he held it
out to him.

“Is it Lady Elmwood’s writing?” asked Lord Elmwood, extremely
discomposed.

“It is, my Lord.—She wrote it a few days before she died, and enjoined
me to deliver it to you, with my own hands.”

“I refuse to read it:” cried he, putting it from him—and trembling
while he did so.

“She desired me,” said Sandford, (still presenting the letter) “to
conjure you to read it, _for her father’s sake_.”

Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was in his hand, he
seemed distressed to know what he should do with it—in what place to go
and read it—or how to fortify himself against its contents. He appeared
ashamed too, that he had been so far prevailed upon, and said, by way
of excuse,

“For Mr. Milner’s sake I would do much—nay, any thing, but that to
which I have just now sworn never to consent. For his sake I have borne
a great deal—for his sake alone, his daughter died my wife. You know,
no other motive than respect for him, prevented my divorcing her. Pray
(and he hesitated) was she buried with him?”

“No, my Lord—she expressed no such desire; and as that was the case, I
did not think it necessary to carry the corpse so far.”

At the word corpse, Lord Elmwood shrunk, and looked shocked beyond
measure—but recovering himself, said, “I am sorry for it; for he loved
_her_ sincerely, if she did not love him—and I wish they had been
buried together.”

“It is not then too late,” said Sandford, and was going on—but the
other interrupted him.

“No, no—we will have no disturbing the dead.”

“Read her letter then,” said Sandford, “and bid her rest in peace.”

“If it is in my power,” returned he, “to grant what she asks, I
will—but if her demand is what I apprehend, I cannot, I will not, bid
her rest by complying. You know my resolution, my disposition, and take
care how you provoke me. You may do an injury to the very person you
are seeking to befriend—the very maintenance I mean to allow her
daughter I can withdraw.”

Poor Sandford, all alarmed at this menace, replied with energy, “My
Lord, unless you begin the subject, I never shall presume to mention it
again.”

“I take you at your word, and in consequence of that, but of that
alone, we are friends. Good night, Sir.”

Sandford bowed with humility, and they went to their separate
bedchambers.



CHAPTER IV.


After Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it was some time
before he read the letter Sandford had given him. He first walked
backwards and forwards in the room—he then began to take off some part
of his dress, but he did it slowly. At length, he dismissed his valet,
and sitting down, took the letter from his pocket. He looked at the
seal, but not at the direction; for he seemed to dread seeing Lady
Elmwood’s handwriting. He then laid it on the table, and began again to
undress. He did not proceed, but taking up the letter quickly, (with a
kind of effort in making the resolution) broke it open. These were its
contents:

“My Lord,

“Who writes this letter I well know—I well know also to whom it is
addressed—I feel with the most powerful force both our situations; nor
should I dare to offer you even this humble petition, but that at the
time you receive it, there will be no such person as I am, in
existence.

“For myself, then, all concern will be over—but there is a care that
pursues me to the grave, and threatens my want of repose even there.

“I leave a child—I will not call her mine: that has undone her—I will
not call her yours; that will be of no avail—I present her before you
as the granddaughter of Mr. Milner. Oh! do not refuse an asylum even in
your own house, to the destitute offspring of your friend; the last,
and only remaining branch of his family.

“Receive her into your household, be her condition there ever so
abject. I cannot write distinctly what I would—my senses are not
impaired, but the powers of expression are. The complaint of the
unfortunate child in the scriptures (a lesson I have studied) has made
this wish cling so fast to my heart, that without the distant hope of
its being fulfilled, death would have more terrors than my weak mind
could support.

“‘_I will go to my father; how many servants live in my father’s house,
and are fed with plenty, while I starve in a foreign land?_’

“I do not ask a parent’s festive rejoicing at her approach—I do not
even ask her father to behold her; but let her live under his
protection. For her grandfather’s sake do not refuse this—to the child
of his child, whom he entrusted to your care, do not refuse it.

“Be her host; I remit the tie of being her parent. Never see her—but
let her sometimes live under the same roof with you.

“It is Miss Milner, your ward, to whom you never refused a request, who
supplicates you—not now for your nephew, Rushbrook, but for one so much
more dear, that a denial——she dares not suffer her thoughts to glance
that way.—She will hope—and in that hope, bids you farewell, with all
the love she ever bore you.

“Farewell Dorriforth—farewell Lord Elmwood—and before you throw this
letter from you with contempt or anger, cast your imagination into the
grave where I am lying. Reflect upon all the days of my past life—the
anxious moments I have known, and what has been their end. Behold _me_,
also—in my altered face there is no anxiety—no joy or sorrow—all is
over.——My whole frame is motionless—my heart beats no more. Look at my
horrid habitation, too,—and ask yourself—whether I am an object of
resentment?”

While Lord Elmwood read this letter, it trembled in his hand: he once
or twice wiped the tears from his eyes as he read, and once laid the
letter down for a few minutes. At its conclusion, the tears flowed fast
down his face; but he seemed both ashamed and angry they did, and was
going to throw the paper upon the fire—he however suddenly checked his
hand, and putting it hastily into his pocket, went to bed.



CHAPTER V.


The next morning, when Lord Elmwood and Sandford met at breakfast, the
latter was pale with fear for the success of Lady Elmwood’s letter—the
Earl was pale too, but there was besides upon his face, something which
evidently marked he was displeased. Sandford observed it, and was all
humbleness, both in his words and looks, in order to soften him.

As soon as the breakfast was removed, Lord Elmwood drew the letter from
his pocket, and holding it towards Sandford, said,

“That, may be of more value to you, than it is to me, therefore I give
it you.”

Sandford called up a look of surprise, as if he did not know the letter
again.

“’Tis Lady Elmwood’s letter,” said Lord Elmwood, “and I return it to
you for two reasons.”

Sandford took it, and putting it up, asked fearfully, “What those two
reasons were?”

“First,” said he, “because I think it is a relick you may like to
preserve—my second reason is, that you may shew it to her daughter, and
let her know why, and on what conditions, I grant her mother’s
request.”

“You _do_ then grant it?” cried Sandford joyfully; “I thank you—you are
kind—you are considerate.”

“Be not hasty in your gratitude; you may have cause to recall it.”

“I know what you have said;” replied Sandford, “you have said you grant
Lady Elmwood’s request—you cannot recall these words, nor I my
gratitude.”

“Do you know what her request is?” returned he.

“Not exactly, my Lord—I told you before, I did not; but it is no doubt
something in favour of her child.”

“I think not,” he replied: “such as it is, however, I grant it: but in
the strictest sense of the word—no farther—and one neglect of my
commands, releases me from this promise totally.”

“We will take care, Sir, not to disobey them.”

“Then listen to what they are, for to you I give the charge of
delivering them again. Lady Elmwood has petitioned me in the name of
her father, (a name I reverence) to give his grandchild the sanction of
my protection. In the literal sense, to suffer that she may reside at
one of my seats; dispensing at the same time with my ever seeing her.”

“And you will comply?”

“I will, till she encroaches on this concession, and dares to hope for
a greater. I will, while she avoids my sight, or the giving me any
remembrance of her. But if, whether by design or by accident, I ever
see or hear from her, that moment, my compliance to her mother’s
supplication ceases, and I abandon her once more.”

Sandford sighed. Lord Elmwood continued:

“I am glad her request stopped where it did. I would rather comply with
her desires than not; and I rejoice they are such as I can grant with
ease and honour to myself. I am seldom now at Elmwood castle; let her
daughter go there; the few weeks or months I am down in the summer, she
may easily in that extensive house avoid me—while she does, she lives
in security—when she does not—you know my resolution.”

Sandford bowed—the Earl resumed:

“Nor can it be a hardship to obey this command—she cannot lament the
separation from a parent whom she never knew—” Sandford was going
eagerly to prove the error of that assertion, but he prevented him,
saying, “In a word—without farther argument—if she obeys me in this, I
will provide for her as my daughter during my life, and leave her a
fortune at my death—but if she dares—”

Sandford interrupted the menace prepared for utterance, saying, “and
you still mean, I suppose, to make Mr. Rushbrook your heir?”

“Have you not heard me say so? And do you imagine I have changed my
determination? I am not given to alter my resolutions, Mr. Sandford;
and I thought you knew I was not; besides, will not my title be
extinct, whoever I make my heir? Could any thing but a son have
preserved my title?”

“Then it is yet possible——”

“By marrying again, you mean? No—no—I have had enough of marriage—and
Henry Rushbrook I shall leave my heir. Therefore, Sir——”

“My Lord, I do not presume—”

“Do not, Sandford, and we may still be good friends. But I am not to be
controlled as formerly; my temper is changed of late; changed to what
it was originally; till your religious precepts reformed it. You may
remember, how troublesome it was, to conquer my stubborn disposition in
my youth; _then_, indeed, you _did_; but in my more advanced age, you
will find the task too difficult.”

Sandford again repeated, “He should not presume—”

To which Lord Elmwood again made answer, “Do not, Sandford;” and added,
“for I have a sincere regard for you, and should be loath, at these
years, to quarrel with you seriously.”

Sandford turned away his head to conceal his feelings.

“Nay, if we do quarrel,” resumed Lord Elmwood, “You know it must be
your own fault; and as this is a theme the most likely of any, nay, the
only one on which we can have a difference (such as we cannot forgive)
take care never from this day to resume it; indeed that of itself,
would be an offence I could not pardon. I have been clear and explicit
in all I have said; there can be no fear of mistaking my meaning;
therefore, all future explanation is unnecessary—nor will I permit a
word, or a hint on the subject from any one, without shewing my
resentment even to the hour of my death.” He was going out of the room.

“But before we bid adieu to the subject for ever, my Lord—there was
another person whom I named to you—”

“Do you mean Miss Woodley? Oh, by all means let her live at Elmwood
House too. On consideration, I have no objection to see Miss Woodley at
any time—I shall be glad to see her—do not let _her_ be frightened at
me—to her I shall be the same, that I have always been.”

“She is a good woman, my Lord,” cried Sandford, pleased.

“You need not tell me that, Mr. Sandford; I know her worth.” And he
left the room.

Sandford, to relieve Miss Woodley and her lovely charge from the
suspence in which he had left them, prepared to set off for their
habitation, in order himself to conduct them from thence to Elmwood
Castle, and appoint some retired part of it for Lady Matilda, against
the annual visit her father should pay there. But before he left
London, Giffard, the steward, took an opportunity to wait upon him, and
let him know, that his Lord had acquainted him with the consent he had
given for his daughter to be admitted at Elmwood Castle, and upon what
restrictions: that he had farther uttered the severest threats, should
these restrictions ever be infringed. Sandford thanked Giffard for his
friendly information. It served him as a second warning of the
circumspection that was necessary; and having taken leave of his friend
and patron, under the pretence that “He could not live in the smoke of
London,” he set out for the North.

It is unnecessary to say with what delight Sandford was received by
Miss Woodley, and the hapless daughter of Lady Elmwood, even before he
told his errand. They both loved him sincerely; more especially Lady
Matilda, whose forlorn state, and innocent sufferings, had ever excited
his compassion and caused him to treat her with affection, tenderness,
and respect. She knew, too, how much he had been her mother’s friend;
for that, she also loved him; and for being honoured with the
friendship of her father, she looked up to him with reverence. For
Matilda (with an excellent understanding, a sedateness above her years,
and early accustomed to the most private converse between Lady Elmwood
and Miss Woodley) was perfectly acquainted with the whole fatal history
of her mother; and was, by her, taught the respect and admiration of
her father’s virtues which they justly merited.

Notwithstanding the joy of Mr. Sandford’s presence, once more to cheer
their solitary dwelling; no sooner were the first kind greetings over,
than the dread of what he might have to inform them of, possessed poor
Matilda and Miss Woodley so powerfully, that all their gladness was
changed into affright. Their apprehensions were far more forcible than
their curiosity; they dared not ask a question, and even began to wish
he would continue silent upon the subject on which they feared to
listen. For near two hours he was so.——At length, after a short
interval from speaking, (during which they waited with anxiety for what
he might next say) he turned to Lady Matilda, and said,

“You don’t ask for your father, my dear.”

“I did not know it was proper:” she replied, timidly.

“It is always proper,” answered Sandford, “for _you_ to think of him,
though he should never think on you.”

She burst into tears, and said that she “_Did_ think of him, but she
felt an apprehension of mentioning his name”—and she wept bitterly
while she spoke.

“Do not think I reproved you,” said Sandford; “I only told you what was
right.”

“Nay,” said Miss Woodley, “she does not weep for that—she fears her
father has not complied with her mother’s request. Perhaps—not even
read her letter?”

“Yes, he _has_ read it,” returned Sandford.

“Oh Heavens!” exclaimed Matilda, clasping her hands together, and the
tears falling still faster.

“Do not be so much alarmed, my dear,” said Miss Woodley; “you know we
are prepared for the worst; and you know you promised your mother,
whatever your fate should be, to submit with patience.”

“Yes,” replied Matilda, “and I am prepared for every thing, but my
father’s refusal to my dear mother.”

“Your father has not refused your mother’s request,” replied Sandford.

She was leaping from her seat in ecstasy.

“But,” continued he, “do you know what her request was?”

“Not entirely,” replied Matilda, “and since it is granted, I am
careless. But she told me her letter concerned none but me.”

To explain perfectly to Matilda, Lady Elmwood’s letter, and that she
might perfectly understand upon what terms she was admitted into
Elmwood Castle, Sandford now read the letter to her; and repeated, as
nearly as he could remember, the whole of the conversation that passed
between Lord Elmwood and himself; not even sparing, through an
erroneous delicacy, any of those threats her father had denounced,
should she dare to transgress the limits he prescribed—nor did he try
to soften, in one instance, a word he uttered. She listened sometimes
with tears, sometimes with hope, but always with awe, and with terror,
to every sentence in which her father was concerned. Once she called
him cruel—then exclaimed “He was kind;” but at the end of Sandford’s
intelligence, concluded “that she was happy and grateful for the boon
bestowed.” Even her mother had not a more exalted idea of Lord
Elmwood’s worth than his daughter had formed; and this little bounty
just obtained, would not have been greater in her mother’s estimation,
than it was now in hers. Miss Woodley, too, smiled at the prospect
before her—she esteemed Lord Elmwood beyond any mortal living—she was
proud to hear what he had said in her praise, and overjoyed at the
prospect of being once again in his company; painting at the same time
a thousand bright hopes, from watching every emotion of his soul, and
catching every proper occasion to excite or increase his paternal
sentiments. Yet she had the prudence to conceal those vague hopes from
his child, lest a disappointment might prove fatal; and assuming a
behaviour neither too much elated or depressed, she advised that they
should hope for the best, but yet, as usual, expect and prepare for the
worst.——After taking measures for quitting their melancholy abode,
within the fortnight, they all departed for Elmwood Castle—Matilda,
Miss Woodley, and even Sandford, first visiting Lady Elmwood’s grave,
and bedewing it with their tears.



CHAPTER VI.


It was on a dark evening in the month of March, that Lady Matilda,
accompanied by Sandford and Miss Woodley, arrived at Elmwood Castle,
the magnificent seat of her father. Sandford chose the evening, rather
to steal into the house privately, than by any appearance of parade, to
suffer Lord Elmwood to be reminded of their arrival by the public
prints, or by any other accident. Nor would he give the neighbours or
servants reason to suppose, the daughter of their Lord was admitted
into his house, in any other situation than that, in which she really
was permitted to be there.

As the porter opened the gates of the avenue to the carriage that
brought them, Matilda felt an awful, and yet gladsome sensation, which
no terms can describe. As she entered the door of the house this
sensation increased—and as she passed along the spacious hall, the
splendid staircase, and many stately apartments, wonder, with a crowd
of the tenderest, yet most afflicting sentiments, rushed to her heart.
She gazed with astonishment!—she reflected with still more.

“And is _my father_ the master of this house?” she cried—“and was my
mother once the mistress of this castle?” Here tears relieved her from
a part of that burthen, which was before insupportable.

“Yes,” replied Sandford, “and you are the mistress of it now, till your
father arrives.”

“Good God!” exclaimed she, “and will he ever arrive? and shall I live
to sleep under the same roof with my father?”

“My dear,” replied Miss Woodley, “have not you been told so?”

“Yes,” said she, “but though I heard it with extreme pleasure, yet the
idea never so forcibly affected me as at this moment. I now feel, as
the reality approaches, that to be admitted here, is kindness enough—I
do not ask for more—I am now convinced, from what this trial makes me
feel, that to see my father, would occasion emotions I could not
survive.”

The next morning gave to Matilda, more objects of admiration and
wonder, as she walked over the extensive gardens, groves, and other
pleasure grounds belonging to the house. She, who had never been beyond
the dreary, ruinous places which her deceased mother had made her
residence, was naturally struck with amazement and delight at the
grandeur of a seat, which travellers came for miles to see, nor thought
their time mispent.

There was one object, however, among all she saw, which attracted her
attention above the rest, and she would stand for hours to look at it.
This was a whole length portrait of Lord Elmwood, esteemed a very
capital picture, and a perfect likeness—to this picture she would sigh
and weep; though when it was first pointed out to her, she shrunk back
with fear, and it was some time before she dared venture to cast her
eyes completely upon it. In the features of her father she was proud to
discern the exact mould in which her own appeared to have been
modelled; yet Matilda’s person, shape, and complexion were so extremely
like what her mother’s once were, that at the first glance she appeared
to have a still greater resemblance of her, than of her father—but her
mind and manners were all Lord Elmwood’s; softened by the delicacy of
her sex, the extreme tenderness of her heart, and the melancholy of her
situation.

She was now in her seventeenth year—of the same age, within a year and
a few months, of her mother, when she became the ward of Dorriforth.
She was just three years old when her father went abroad, and
remembered something of bidding him farewell; but more of taking
cherries from his hand, as he pulled them from the tree to give to her.

Educated in the school of adversity, and inured to retirement from her
infancy, she had acquired a taste for all those amusements which a
recluse life affords. She was fond of walking and riding—was
accomplished in the arts of music and drawing, by the most careful
instructions of her mother—and as a scholar, she excelled most of her
sex, from the pains which Sandford had taken with that part of her
education, and the superior abilities he possessed for the task.

In devoting certain hours of the day to study with him, others to
music, riding, and such amusements, Matilda’s time never appeared
tedious at Elmwood Castle, although she received and paid no one
visit—for it was soon divulged in the neighbourhood, upon what
stipulation she resided at her father’s, and studiously intimated, that
the most prudent and friendly behaviour of her true friends, would be,
to take no notice whatever that she lived among them: and as Lord
Elmwood’s will was a law all around, such was the consequence of that
will, known, or merely supposed.

Neither did Miss Woodley regret the want of visitors, but found herself
far more satisfied in her present situation, than her most sanguine
hopes could have formed. She had a companion whom she loved with an
equal fondness, with which she had loved her deceased mother; and
frequently, in this charming mansion, where she had so often beheld
Lady Elmwood, her imagination represented Matilda as her friend risen
from the grave, in her former youth, health, and exquisite beauty.

In peace, in content, though not in happiness, the days and weeks
passed away till about the middle of August, when preparations began to
be made for the arrival of Lord Elmwood. The week in which he was to
come was at length fixed, and some part of his retinue was arrived
before him. When this was told Matilda, she started, and looked just as
her mother at her age had often done, when in spite of her love, she
was conscious that she had offended him, and was terrified at his
approach. Sandford observing this, put out his hand, and taking hers,
shook it kindly; and bade her (but it was not in a cheering tone) “not
be afraid.” This gave her no confidence; and she began, before her
father’s arrival, to seclude herself in the apartments allotted for her
during the time of his stay; and in the timorous expectation of his
coming, her appetite declined, and she lost all her colour. Even Miss
Woodley, whose spirits had been for some time elated with the hopes she
had formed, on drawing near to the test, found those hopes vanished;
and though she endeavoured to conceal it, she was full of
apprehensions. Sandford, had certainly fewer fears than either; yet
upon the eve of the day on which his patron was to arrive, he was
evidently cast down.

Lady Matilda once asked him—“Are you certain, Mr. Sandford, you made no
mistake in respect to what Lord Elmwood said, when he granted my
mother’s request? Are you sure he _did_ grant it? Was there nothing
equivocal on which he may ground his displeasure should he be told that
I am here? Oh do not let me hazard being once again turned out of his
house! Oh! save me from provoking him perhaps to curse me.” And here
she clasped her hands together with the most fervent petition, in the
dread of what might happen.

“If you doubt my words or my senses,” said Sandford, “call Giffard, and
let him inform you; the same words were repeated to him as to me.”

Though from her reason, Matilda could not doubt of any mistake from Mr.
Sandford, yet her fears suggested a thousand scruples; and this
reference to the steward she received with the utmost satisfaction,
(though she did not think it necessary to apply to him) as it perfectly
convinced her of the folly of the suspicions she had entertained.

“And yet, Mr. Sandford,” said she, “if it is so, why are you less
cheerful than you were? I cannot help thinking but it must be your
expectation of Lord Elmwood, which has occasioned this change.”

“I don’t know,” replied Sandford, carelessly, “but I believe I am grown
afraid of your father. His temper is a great deal altered from what it
once was—he raises his voice, and uses harsh expressions upon the least
provocation—his eyes flash lightning, and his face is distorted with
anger upon the slightest motives—he turns away his old servants at a
moment’s warning, and no concession can make their peace. In a word, I
am more at my ease when I am away from him—and I really believe,” added
he with a smile, but with a tear at the same time, “I really believe, I
am more afraid of _him_ in my age, than he was of _me_ when he was a
boy.”

Miss Woodley was present; she and Matilda looked at one another; and
each of them saw the other turn pale at this description.

The day at length came, on which Lord Elmwood was expected to dinner.
It would have been a high gratification to his daughter to have gone to
the topmost window of the house, and have only beheld his carriage
enter the avenue; but it was a gratification which her fears, her
tremor, her extreme sensibility would not permit her to enjoy.

Miss Woodley and she, sat down that day to dinner in their retired
apartments, which were detached from the other part of the house by a
gallery; and of the door leading to the gallery, they had a key to
impede any one from passing that way, without first ringing a bell; to
answer which, was the sole employment of a servant, who was placed
there during the Earl’s residence, lest by any accident he might chance
to come near that unfrequented part of the house, on which occasion the
man was to give immediate notice to his Lady.

Matilda and Miss Woodley sat down to dinner, but did not dine. Sandford
dined as usual, with Lord Elmwood. When tea was brought, Miss Woodley
asked the servant, who attended, if he had seen his Lord. The man
answered, “Yes, Madam; and he looks vastly well.” Matilda wept with joy
to hear it.

About nine in the evening, Sandford rang at the bell, and was
admitted—never had he been so welcome—Matilda hung upon him, as if his
recent interview with her father, had endeared him to her more than
ever; and staring anxiously in his face, seemed to enquire of him
something about Lord Elmwood, and something that should not alarm her.

“Well—how do you find yourself?” said he to her.

“How are you, Mr. Sandford?” she returned, with a sigh.

“Oh! very well,” replied he.

“Is my Lord in a good temper?” asked Miss Woodley.

“Yes; very well,” replied Sandford, with indifference.

“Did he seem glad to see you?” asked Matilda.

“He shook me by the hand,” replied Sandford.

“That was a sign he was glad to see you, was it not?” said Matilda.

“Yes; but he could not do less.”

“Nor more:” replied she.

“He looks very well, our servant tells us,” said Miss Woodley.

“Extremely well indeed,” answered Sandford: “and to tell the truth, I
never saw him in better spirits.”

“That is well—” said Matilda, and sighed a weight of fears from her
heart.

“Where is he now, Mr. Sandford?”

“Gone to take a walk about his grounds, and I stole here in the mean
time.”

“What was your conversation during dinner?” asked Miss Woodley.

“Horses, hay, farming, and politics.”

“Won’t you sup with him?”

“I shall see him again before I go to bed.”

“And again to-morrow!” cried Matilda, “what happiness!”

“He has visitors to-morrow,” said Sandford, “coming for a week or two.”

“Thank Heaven,” said Miss Woodley, “he will then be diverted from
thinking on us.”

“Do you know,” returned Sandford, “it is my firm opinion, that his
thinking of ye at present, is the cause of his good spirits.”

“Oh, Heavens!” cried Matilda, lifting up her hands with rapture.

“Nay, do not mistake me,” said Sandford; “I would not have you build a
foundation for joy upon this surmise; for if he is in spirits that you
are in this house—so near him—positively under his protection—yet he
will not allow himself to think it is the cause of his content—and the
sentiments he has adopted, and which are now become natural to him,
will remain the same as ever; nay, perhaps with greater force, should
he suspect his weakness (as he calls it) acting in opposition to them.”

“If he does but think of me with tenderness,” cried Matilda, “I am
recompensed.”

“And what recompense would his kind thoughts be to you,” said Sandford,
“were he to turn you out to beggary?”

“A great deal—a great deal,” she replied.

“But how are you to know he has these kind thoughts, if he gives you no
proof of them?”

“No, Mr. Sandford; but _supposing_ we could know them without proof.”

“But as that is impossible,” answered he, “I shall suppose, till proof
appears, that I have been mistaken in my conjectures.”

Matilda looked deeply concerned that the argument should conclude in
her disappointment; for to have believed herself thought of with
tenderness by her father, would have alone constituted her happiness.

When the servant came up with something by way of supper, he told Mr.
Sandford that his Lord was returned from his walk and had enquired for
him; Sandford immediately bade his companions good night, and left
them.

“How strange is this!” cried Matilda, when Miss Woodley and she were
alone, “My father within a few rooms of me, and yet I am debarred from
seeing him! Only by walking a few paces I could be at his feet, and
perhaps receive his blessing!”

“You make me shudder,” cried Miss Woodley; “but some spirits less timid
than mine, might perhaps advise you to the experiment.”

“Not for worlds!” returned Matilda, “no counsel could tempt me to such
temerity—and yet to entertain the thought that it is possible I could
do this, is a source of infinite comfort.”

This conversation lasted till bed time, and later; for they sat up
beyond their usual hour to indulge it.

Miss Woodley slept little, but Matilda less—she awaked repeatedly
during the night, and every time sighed to herself, “I sleep in the
same house with my father! Blessed spirit of my mother, look down and
rejoice.”



CHAPTER VII.


The next day the whole Castle appeared to Lady Matilda (though she was
in some degree retired from it) all tumult and bustle, as was usually
the case while Lord Elmwood was there. She saw from her windows, the
servants running across the yards and park; horses and carriages
driving with fury; all the suite of a nobleman; and it sometimes
elated, at other times depressed her.

These impressions however, and others of fear and anxiety, which her
father’s arrival had excited, by degrees wore off; and after some
little time, she was in the same tranquil state that she enjoyed before
he came.

He had visitors, who passed a week or two with him; he paid visits
himself for several days; and thus the time stole away, till it was
about four weeks from the time that he had arrived; in which long
period, Sandford, with all his penetration, could never clearly
discover whether he had once called to mind that his daughter was
living in the same house. He had not once named her (that was not
extraordinary) consequently no one dared name her to him; but he had
not even mentioned Miss Woodley, of whom he had so lately spoken in the
kindest terms, and had said, “He should take pleasure in seeing her
again.” From these contradictions in Lord Elmwood’s behaviour in
respect to her, it was Miss Woodley’s plan neither to throw herself in
his way, nor avoid him. She therefore frequently walked about the house
while he was in it, not indeed entirely without restraint, but at least
with the show of liberty. This freedom, indulged for some time without
peril, became at last less cautious; and as no ill consequences had
arisen from its practice, her scruples gradually ceased.

One morning, however, as she was crossing the large hall, thoughtless
of danger, a footstep at a distance alarmed her almost without knowing
why. She stopped for a moment, thinking to return; the steps approached
quicker, and before she could retreat, she beheld Lord Elmwood at the
other end of the hall, and perceived that he saw her. It was too late
to hesitate what was to be done; she could not go back, and had not
courage to go on; she therefore stood still. Disconcerted, and much
affected at his sight, (their former intimacy coming to her mind with
the many years, and many sad occurrences passed, since she last saw
him) all her intentions, all her meditated plans how to conduct herself
on such an occasion, gave way to a sudden shock—and to make the meeting
yet more distressing, her very fright, she knew, would serve to recall
more powerfully to his mind, the subject she most wished him to forget.
The steward was with him, and as they came up close by her side,
Giffard observing him look at her earnestly, said softly, but so as she
heard him, “My Lord, it is Miss Woodley.” Lord Elmwood took off his hat
instantly—and, with an apparent friendly warmth, laying hold of her
hand, he said, “Indeed, Miss Woodley, I did not know you—I am very glad
to see you:” and while he spoke, shook her hand with a cordiality which
her tender heart could not bear—and never did she feel so hard a
struggle as to restrain her tears. But the thought of Matilda’s
fate—the idea of awakening in his mind a sentiment that might irritate
him against his child, wrought more forcibly than every other effort;
and though she could not reply distinctly, she replied without weeping.
Whether he saw her embarrassment, and wished to release her from it, or
was in haste to conceal his own, he left her almost instantly: but not
till he had entreated she would dine that very day with him and Mr.
Sandford, who were to dine without other company. She curtsied assent,
and flew to tell Matilda what had occurred. After listening with
anxiety and with joy to all she told, Matilda laid hold of that hand
which she said Lord Elmwood had held, and pressed it to her lips with
love and reverence.

When Miss Woodley made her appearance at dinner, Sandford, (who had not
seen her since the invitation, and did not know of it) looked amazed;
on which Lord Elmwood said, “Do you know, Sandford, I met Miss Woodley
this morning, and had it not been for Giffard, I should have passed her
without knowing her—but Miss Woodley, if I am not so much altered but
that you knew me, I take it unkind you did not speak first.” She was
unable to speak even now—he saw it, and changed the conversation; when
Sandford eagerly joined in discourse, which relieved him from the pain
of the former.

As they advanced in their dinner, the embarrassment of Miss Woodley and
of Mr. Sandford diminished; Lord Elmwood in his turn became, not
embarrassed, but absent and melancholy. He now and then sighed
heavily—and called for wine much oftener than he was accustomed.

When Miss Woodley took her leave, he invited her to dine with him and
Sandford whenever it was convenient to her; he said, besides, many
things of the same kind, and all with the utmost civility, yet not with
that warmth with which he had spoken in the morning—into _that_ he had
been surprised—his coolness was the effect of reflection.

When she came to Lady Matilda, and Sandford had joined them, they
talked and deliberated on what had passed.

“You acknowledge Mr. Sandford,” said Miss Woodley, “that you think my
presence affected Lord Elmwood, so as to make him much more thoughtful
than usual; if you imagine these thoughts were upon Lady Elmwood, I
will never intrude again; but if you suppose that I made him think upon
his daughter, I cannot go too often.”

“I don’t see how he can divide those two objects in his mind,” replied
Sandford, “therefore you must e’en visit him on, and take your chance,
what reflections you may cause—but, be they what they will, time will
steal away from you that power of affecting him.”

She concurred in the opinion, and occasionally she walked into Lord
Elmwood’s apartments, dined, or took her coffee with him, as the
accident suited; and observed, according to Sandford’s prediction, that
time wore off the impression her visits first made. Lord Elmwood now
became just the same before her as before others. She easily discerned,
too, through all that politeness which he assumed—that he was no longer
the considerate, the forbearing character he formerly was; but haughty,
impatient, imperious, and more than ever, _implacable_.



CHAPTER VIII.


When Lord Elmwood had been at his country seat about six weeks, Mr.
Rushbrook, his nephew, and his adopted child—that friendless boy whom
poor Lady Elmwood first introduced into his uncle’s house, and by her
kindness preserved there—arrived from his travels, and was received by
his uncle with all the marks of affection due to the man he thought
worthy to be his heir. Rushbrook had been a beautiful boy, and was now
an extremely handsome young man; he had made unusual progress in his
studies, had completed the tour of Italy and Germany, and returned home
with the air and address of a perfect man of fashion—there was,
besides, an elegance and persuasion in his manner almost irresistible.
Yet with all those accomplishments, when he was introduced to Sandford,
and put forth his hand to take his, Sandford, with evident reluctance,
gave it to him; and when Lord Elmwood asked him, in the young man’s
presence, “If he did not think his nephew greatly improved?” He looked
at him from head to foot, and muttered “He could not say he observed
it.” The colour heightened in Mr. Rushbrook’s face upon the occasion,
but he was too well bred not to be in perfect good humour.

Sandford saw this young man treated, in the house of Lord Elmwood, with
the same respect and attention as if he had been his son; and it was
but probable the old priest would make a comparison between the
situation of him, and of Lady Matilda Elmwood. Before her, it was
Sandford’s meaning to have concealed his thoughts upon the subject, and
never to have mentioned it but with composure; that was, however,
impossible—unused to hide his feelings, at the name of Rushbrook, his
countenance would always change, and a sarcastic sneer, sometimes a
frown of resentment, would force its way in spite of his resolution.
Miss Woodley, too, with all her boundless charity and good will, was,
upon this occasion, induced to limit their excess; and they did not
extend so far as to reach poor Rushbrook. She even, and in _reality_,
did not think him handsome or engaging in his manners—she thought his
gaiety frivolousness, his complaisance affectation, and his good humour
impertinence. It was impossible to conceal those unfavourable
sentiments entirely from Matilda; for when the subject arose, as it
frequently did, Miss Woodley’s undisguised heart, and Sandford’s
undisguised countenance, told them instantly. Matilda had the
understanding to imagine, that she was, perhaps, the object who had
thus deformed Mr. Rushbrook, and frequently (though he was a stranger
to her, and one who had caused her many a jealous heart-ache)
frequently she would speak in his vindication.

“You are very good,” said Sandford, one day to her; “you like him,
because you know your father loves him.”

This was a hard sentence for the daughter of Lord Elmwood to hear, to
whom her father’s love would have been more precious than any other
blessing.—She, however, checked the assault of envy, and kindly
replied,

“My mother loved him too, Mr. Sandford.”

“Yes,” answered Sandford, “he has been a _grateful_ man to your poor
mother.—She did not suppose when she took him into the house; when she
intreated your father to take him; and through her caresses and
officious praises of him, first gave him that power which he now
possesses over his uncle; she little foresaw, at that time, his
ingratitude, and its effects.”

“Very true,” said Miss Woodley, with a heavy sigh.

“What ingratitude?” asked Matilda, “do you suppose Mr. Rushbrook is the
cause that my father will not see me? Oh do not pay Lord Elmwood’s
motive so ill a compliment.”

“I do not say that he is the absolute cause,” returned Sandford; “but
if a parent’s heart is void, I would have it remain so, till its lawful
owner is replaced—usurpers I detest.”

“No one can take Lord Elmwood’s heart by force,” replied his daughter,
“it must, I believe, be a free gift to the possessor; and as such,
whoever has it, has a right to it.”

In this manner she would plead the young man’s excuse—perhaps but to
hear what could be said in his disfavour, for secretly his name was
bitter to her—and once she exclaimed in vexation, on Sandford’s saying
Lord Elmwood and Mr. Rushbrook were gone out shooting together,

“All that pleasure is now eclipsed which I used to take in listening to
the report of my father’s gun, for I cannot now distinguish his, from
his parasite’s.”

Sandford, (much as he disliked Rushbrook) for this expression which
comprised her father in the reflection, turned to Matilda in extreme
anger—but as he saw the colour mount into her face, for what, in the
strong feelings of her heart had escaped her lips, he did not say a
word—and by her tears that followed, he rejoiced to see how much she
reproved _herself_.

Miss Woodley, vexed to the heart, and provoked every time she saw Lord
Elmwood and Rushbrook together, and saw the familiar terms on which
this young man lived with his benefactor, now made her visits to him
very seldom. If Lord Elmwood observed this, he did not appear to
observe it; and though he received her politely when she did pay him a
visit, it was always very coldly; nor did she suppose if she never
went, he would ever ask for her. For his daughter’s sake, however, she
thought it right sometimes to shew herself before him; for she knew it
must be impossible that, with all his apparent indifference, he could
ever see _her_ without thinking for a moment on his child; and what one
fortunate thought might some time bring about, was an object much too
serious for her to overlook. She therefore, after remaining confined to
her apartments near three weeks, (excepting those anxious walks she and
Matilda stole, while Lord Elmwood dined, or before he rose in a
morning) went one forenoon into his apartments, where, as usual, she
found him, with Mr. Sandford, and Mr. Rushbrook. After she had sat
about half an hour, conversing with them all, though but very little
with the latter, Lord Elmwood was called out of the room upon some
business; presently after, Sandford; and now, by no means pleased with
the companion with whom she was left, she rose, and was going likewise,
when Rushbrook fixed his speaking eyes upon her, and cried,

“Miss Woodley, will you pardon me what I am going to say?”

“Certainly, Sir. You can, I am sure, say nothing but what I must
forgive.” But she made this reply with a distance and a reserve, very
unlike the usual manners of Miss Woodley.

He looked at her earnestly and cried, “Ah! Miss Woodley, you don’t
behave so kindly to me as you used to do!”

“I do not understand you, Sir,” she replied very gravely; “Times are
changed, Mr. Rushbrook, since you were last here—you were then but a
child.”

“Yet I love all those persons now, that I loved then,” replied he; “and
so I shall for ever.”

“But you mistake, Mr. Rushbrook; I was not even then so very much the
object of your affections—there were other ladies you loved better.
Perhaps you don’t remember Lady Elmwood?”

“Don’t I,” cried he, “Oh!” (clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes
to heaven) “shall I ever forget her?”

That moment Lord Elmwood opened the door; the conversation of course
that moment ended; but confusion, at the sudden surprise, was on the
face of both parties—he saw it, and looked at each of them by turns,
with a sternness that made poor Miss Woodley ready to faint; while
Rushbrook, with the most natural and happy laugh that ever was
affected, cried, “No, don’t tell my Lord, pray Miss Woodley.” She was
more confused than before, and Lord Elmwood turning to him, asked what
the subject was. By this time he had invented one, and, continuing his
laugh, said, “Miss Woodley, my Lord, will to this day protest that she
saw my apparition when I was a boy; and she says it is a sign I shall
die young, and is really much affected at it.”

Lord Elmwood turned away before this ridiculous speech was concluded;
yet so well had it been acted, that he did not for an instant doubt its
truth.

Miss Woodley felt herself greatly relieved; and yet so little is it in
the power of those we dislike to do any thing to please us, that from
this very circumstance, she formed a more unfavourable opinion of Mr.
Rushbrook than she had done before. She saw in this little incident the
art of dissimulation, cunning, and duplicity in its most glaring shape;
and detested the method by which they had each escaped Lord Elmwood’s
suspicion, and perhaps anger, the more, because it was so dexterously
managed.

Lady Matilda and Sandford were both in their turns informed of this
trait in Mr. Rushbrook’s character; and although Miss Woodley had the
best of dispositions, and upon every occasion spoke the strictest
truth, yet in relating this occurrence, she did not speak _all_ the
truth; for every circumstance that would have told to the young man’s
advantage, _literally_ had slipped her memory.

The twenty-ninth of October arrived; on which a dinner, a ball, and
supper, was given by Lord Elmwood to all the neighbouring gentry—the
peasants also dined in the park off a roasted bullock, several casks of
ale were distributed, and the bells of the village rung. Matilda, who
heard and saw some part of this festivity from her windows, inquired
the cause; but even the servant who waited upon her had too much
sensibility to tell her, and answered, “He did not know.” Miss Woodley
however, soon learned the reason, and groaning with the painful secret,
informed her, “Mr. Rushbrook on that day was come of age.”

“_My_ birth-day was last week,” replied Matilda; but not a word beside.

In their retired apartments, this day passed away not only soberly, but
almost silently; for to speak upon any subject that did not engage
their thoughts had been difficult, and to speak upon the only one that
did, had been afflicting.

Just as they were sitting down to dinner their bell gently rung, and in
walked Sandford.

“Why are you not among the revellers, Mr. Sandford?” cried Miss
Woodley, with an ironical sneer—(the first her features ever
wore)—“Pray, were not you invited to dine with the company?”

“Yes,” replied Sandford; “but my head ached; and so I had rather come
and take a bit with you.”

Matilda, as if she had seen his heart as he spoke, clung round his neck
and sobbed on his bosom: he put her peevishly away, crying “Nonsense,
nonsense—eat your dinner.” But he did not eat himself.



CHAPTER IX.


About a week after this, Lord Elmwood went out two days for a visit;
consequently Rushbrook was for that time master of the house. The first
morning he went a shooting, and returning about noon, enquired of
Sandford, who was sitting in the room, if he had taken up a volume of
plays left upon the table. “I read no such things,” replied Sandford,
and quitted the room abruptly. Rushbrook then rang for his servant, and
desired him to look for the book, asking him angrily, “Who had been in
the apartment? for he was sure he had left it there when he went out.”
The servant withdrew to enquire, and presently returned with the volume
in his hand, and “Miss Woodley’s compliments, she begs your pardon,
Sir, she did not know the book was yours, and hopes you will excuse the
liberty she took.”

“Miss Woodley!” cried Rushbrook with surprise, “she comes so seldom
into these apartments, I did not suppose it was her who had it—take it
back to her instantly, with my respects, and I beg she will keep it.”

The man went; but returned with the book again, and laying it on the
table without speaking, was going away; when Rushbrook, hurt at
receiving no second message, said, “I am afraid, Sir, you did very
wrong when you first took this book from Miss Woodley.”

“It was not from her I took it, Sir,” replied the man, “it was from
Lady Matilda.”

Since he had entered the house, Rushbrook had never before heard the
name of Lady Matilda, he was shocked—confounded more than ever—and to
conceal what he felt, instantly ordered the man out of the room.

In the mean time, Miss Woodley and Matilda were talking over this
trifling occurrence; and frivolous as it was, drew from it strong
conclusions of Rushbrook’s insolence and power. In spite of her pride,
the daughter of Lord Elmwood even wept at the insult she had received
on this insignificant occasion; for the volume being merely taken from
her at Mr. Rushbrook’s command, she felt an insult; and the manner in
which it was done by the servant, might contribute to the offence.

While Miss Woodley and she were upon this conversation, a note came
from Rushbrook to Miss Woodley, wherein he entreated he might be
permitted to see her. She sent a verbal answer, “She was engaged.” He
sent again, begging she would name her own time. But sure of a second
denial, he followed the servant who took the last message, and as Miss
Woodley came out of her apartment into the gallery to speak to him,
Rushbrook presented himself, and told the man to retire.

“Mr. Rushbrook,” said Miss Woodley, “this intrusion is insupportable;
and destitute as you may think me of the friendship of Lord Elmwood”——

In the ardour with which Rushbrook was waiting to express himself, he
interrupted her, and caught hold of her hand.

She immediately snatched it from him, and withdrew into her chamber.

He followed, saying, in a low voice, “Dear Miss Woodley, hear me.”

At that juncture Lady Matilda, who was in an inner apartment, came out
of it into Miss Woodley’s. Perceiving a gentleman, she stopped short at
the door.

Rushbrook cast his eyes upon her, and stood motionless—his lips only
moved. “Do not depart, Madam,” said he, “without hearing my apology for
being here.”

Though Matilda had never seen him since her infancy, there was no
occasion to tell her who it was that addressed her—his elegant and
youthful person, joined to the incident which had just occurred,
convinced her it was Rushbrook: she looked at him with an air of
surprise, but with still more, of dignity.

“Miss Woodley is severe upon me, Madam,” continued he, “she judges me
unkindly; and I am afraid she will prepossess you with the same
unfavourable sentiments.”

Still Matilda did not speak, but looked at him with the same air of
dignity.

“If, Lady Matilda,” resumed he, “I have offended you, and must quit you
without pardon, I am more unhappy than I should be with the loss of
your father’s protection—more forlorn, than when an orphan boy, your
mother first took pity on me.”

At this last sentence, Matilda turned her eyes on Miss Woodley, and
seemed in doubt what reply she was to give.

Rushbrook immediately fell upon his knees—“Oh! Lady Matilda,” cried he,
“if you knew the sensations of my heart, you would not treat me with
this disdain.”

“We can only judge of those sensations, Mr. Rushbrook,” said Miss
Woodley, “by the effect they have upon your conduct; and while you
insult Lord and Lady Elmwood’s daughter by an intrusion like this, and
then ridicule her abject state by mockeries like these——”

He rose from his knees instantly, and interrupted her, crying, “What
can I do? What am I to say, to make you change your opinion of me?
While Lord Elmwood has been at home, I have kept an awful distance; and
though every moment I breathed was a wish to cast myself at his
daughter’s feet, yet as I feared, Miss Woodley, that you were incensed
against me, by what means was I to procure an interview but by
stratagem or force? This accident has given a third method, and I had
not strength, I had not courage, to let it pass. Lord Elmwood will soon
return, and we may both of us be hurried to town immediately—then how
for a tedious winter could I endure the reflexion that I was despised,
nay, perhaps considered as an object of ingratitude, by the only child
of my deceased benefactress?”

Matilda replied with all her father’s haughtiness, “Depend upon it,
Sir, if you should ever enter my thoughts, it will only be as an object
of envy.”

“Suffer me then, Madam,” said he, “as an earnest that you do not think
worse of me than I merit, suffer me to be sometimes admitted into your
presence—.”

She would scarce permit him to finish the period, before she replied,
“This is the last time, Sir, we shall ever meet, depend upon it—unless,
indeed, Lord Elmwood should delegate to you the controul of me—_his_
commands I never dispute.” And here she burst into tears.

Rushbrook walked towards the window, and did not speak for some
time—then turning himself to make a reply, both Matilda and Miss
Woodley were somewhat surprised to see, that he had been shedding tears
himself.—Having conquered them, he said, “I will not offend you, Madam,
by remaining one moment longer; and I give you my honour, that, upon no
pretence whatever, will I presume to intrude here again. Professions, I
find, have no weight, and only by this obedience to your orders, can I
give a proof of that respect which you inspire;—and let the agitation I
now feel, convince you, Lady Matilda, that, with all my seeming good
fortune, I am not happier than yourself.” And so much was he agitated
while he delivered this, that it was with difficulty he came to the
conclusion. When he did, he bowed with reverence, as if leaving the
presence of a deity, and retired.

Matilda immediately entered the chamber she had left, and without
casting a single look at Miss Woodley by which she might guess of the
opinion she had formed of Mr. Rushbrook’s conduct. The next time they
met they did not even mention his name; for they were ashamed to own a
partiality in his favour, and were too just to bring any accusation
against him.

But Miss Woodley, the day following, communicated the intelligence of
this visit to Mr. Sandford, who not being present, and a witness of
those marks of humility and respect which were conspicuous in the
deportment of Mr. Rushbrook, was highly offended at his presumption,
and threatened if he ever dared to force his company there again, he
would acquaint Lord Elmwood with his arrogance, whatever might be the
event. Miss Woodley, however, assured him, she believed he would have
no cause for such a complaint, as the young man had made the most
solemn promise never to commit the like offence; and she thought it her
duty to enjoin Sandford, till he did repeat it, not to mention the
circumstance, even to Rushbrook himself.

Matilda could not but feel a regard for her father’s heir, in return
for that which he had so fervently declared for her; yet the more
favourable her opinion of his mind and manners, the more he became an
object of her jealousy for the affections of Lord Elmwood, and he was
now consequently, an object of greater sorrow to her, than when she
believed him less worthy. These sentiments were reversed on his part
towards her—no jealousy intervened to bar his admiration and esteem—the
beauty of her person, and grandeur of her mien, not only confirmed, but
improved, the exalted idea he had formed of her previous to their
meeting, and which his affection to both her parents had inspired. The
next time he saw his benefactor, he began to feel a new esteem and
regard for him, for his daughter’s sake; as he had at first an esteem
for her, on the foundation of his love for Lord and Lady Elmwood. He
gazed with wonder at his uncle’s insensibility to his own happiness,
and would gladly have led him to the jewel he cast away, though even
his own expulsion should be the fatal consequence. Such was the
youthful, warm, generous, grateful, but unreflecting mind of Rushbrook.



CHAPTER X.


After this incident, Miss Woodley left her apartments less frequently
than before—she was afraid, though till now mistrust had been a
stranger to her heart, she was afraid that duplicity might be concealed
under the apparent friendship of Rushbrook; it did not indeed appear so
from any part of his behaviour, but she was apprehensive for the fate
of Matilda; she disliked him too, and therefore she suspected him. Near
three weeks she had not now paid a visit to Lord Elmwood, and though to
herself every visit was a pain, yet as Matilda took a delight in
hearing of her father, what he said, what he did, what his attention
seemed most employed on, and a thousand other circumstantial
informations, in which Sandford would scorn to be half so particular,
it was a deprivation to her, that Miss Woodley did not go oftener. Now
too, the middle of November was come, and it was expected her father
would soon quit the country.

Partly therefore to indulge her hapless companion, and partly because
it was a duty, Miss Woodley once again paid Lord Elmwood a morning
visit, and staid dinner. Rushbrook was officiously polite, (for that
was the epithet she gave his attention in relating it to Lady Matilda)
yet she owned he had not that forward impertinence she had formerly
discovered in him, but appeared much more grave and sedate.

“But tell me of my father,” said Matilda.

“I was going, my dear—but don’t be concerned—don’t let it vex you.”

“What? what?” cried Matilda, frightened by the preface.

“Why, on my observing that I thought Mr. Rushbrook looked paler than
usual, and appeared not to be in perfect health, (which was really the
case) your father expressed the greatest anxiety imaginable; he said he
could not bear to see him look so ill, begged him, with all the
tenderness of a parent, to take the advice of a physician, and added a
thousand other affectionate things.”

“I detest Mr. Rushbrook,” said Matilda, with her eyes flashing
indignation.

“Nay, for shame,” returned Miss Woodley; “do you suppose I told you
this, to make you hate him?”

“No, there was no occasion for that,” replied Matilda; “my sentiments
(though I have never before avowed them) were long ago formed; he was
always an object which added to my unhappiness; but since his daring
intrusion into my apartments, he has been an object of my hatred.”

“But now, perhaps, I may tell you something to please you,” cried Miss
Woodley.

“And what is that?” said Matilda, with indifference; for the first
intelligence had hurt her spirits too much to suffer her to listen with
pleasure to anything.

“Mr. Rushbrook,” continued Miss Woodley, “replied to your father, that
his indisposition was but a slight nervous fever, and he would defer a
physician’s advice till he went to London”—on which Lord Elmwood said,
“And when do you expect to be there?”—he replied, “Within a week or
two, I suppose, my Lord.” But your father answered, “I do not mean to
go myself till after Christmas.” “No indeed, my Lord!” said Mr.
Sandford, with surprise: “you have not passed your Christmas here these
many years.” “No,” returned your father; “but I think I feel myself
more attached to this house at present, than ever I did in my life.”

“You imagine, then, my father thought of me, when he said this?” cried
Matilda eagerly.

“But I may be mistaken,” replied Miss Woodley. “I leave you to judge.
Though I am sure Mr. Sandford imagined he thought of you, for I saw a
smile over his whole face immediately.”

“Did you, Miss Woodley?”

“Yes; it appeared on every feature except his lips; those he kept fast
closed, for fear Lord Elmwood should perceive it.”

Miss Woodley, with all her minute intelligence, did not however
acquaint Matilda, that Rushbrook followed her to the window when the
Earl was out of the room, and Sandford half asleep at the other end of
it, and inquired respectfully but anxiously for _her_; adding, “It is
my concern for Lady Matilda which makes me thus indisposed: I suffer
more than she does; but I am not permitted to tell her so, nor can I
hope, Miss Woodley, you will.” She replied, “You are right, Sir.” Nor
did she reveal this conversation, while not a sentence that passed
except that, was omitted.

When Christmas arrived, Lord Elmwood had many convivial days at Elmwood
House, but Matilda was never mentioned by one of his guests, and most
probably was never thought of. During all those holidays, she was
unusually melancholy, but sunk into the deepest dejection when she was
told the day was fixed, on which her father was to return to town. On
the morning of that day she wept incessantly; and all her consolation
was, “She would go to the chamber window that was fronting the door
through which he was to pass to his carriage, and for the first time,
and most probably for the last time in her life, behold him.”

This design was soon forgot in another:—“She would rush boldly into the
apartment where he was, and at his feet take leave of him for ever—she
would lay hold of his hands, clasp his knees, provoke him to spurn her,
which would be joy in comparison to this cruel indifference.” In the
bitterness of her grief, she once called upon her mother, and
reproached her memory—but the moment she recollected this offence,
(which was almost instantaneously) she became all mildness and
resignation. “What have I said?” cried she; “Dear, dear saint, forgive
me; and for your sake I will bear all with patience—I will not groan, I
will not even sigh again—this task I set myself to atone for what I
have dared to utter.”

While Lady Matilda laboured under this variety of sensations, Miss
Woodley was occupied in bewailing and endeavouring to calm her
sorrows—and Lord Elmwood, with Rushbrook, was ready to set off. The
Earl, however, loitered, and did not once seem in haste to be gone.
When at last he got up to depart, Sandford thought he pressed his hand,
and shook it with more warmth than ever he had done in his life.
Encouraged by this supposition, Sandford said, “My Lord, won’t you
condescend to take your leave of Miss Woodley?”

“Certainly, Sandford,” replied he, and seemed glad of an excuse to sit
down again.

Impressed with the idea of the state in which she had left his only
child, Miss Woodley, when she came before Lord Elmwood to bid him
farewell, was pale, trembling, and in tears. Sandford, notwithstanding
his patron’s apparently kind humour, was shocked at the construction he
must put upon her appearance, and cried, “What, Miss Woodley, are you
not recovered of your illness yet?” Lord Elmwood, however, took no
notice of her looks, but after wishing her her health, walked slowly
out of the house; turning back frequently and speaking to Sandford, or
to some other person who was behind him, as if part of his thoughts
were left behind, and he went with reluctance.

When he had quitted the room where Miss Woodley was, Rushbrook, timid
before her, as she had been before her benefactor, went up to her, all
humility, and said, “Miss Woodley, we ought to be friends: our concern,
our devotion is paid to the same objects, and one common interest
should teach us to be friendly.”

She made no reply.—“Will you permit me to write to you when I am away?”
said he; “You may wish to hear of Lord Elmwood’s health, and of what
changes may take place in his resolutions.—Will you permit me?” At that
moment a servant came and said, “Sir, my Lord is in the carriage, and
waiting for you.” He hastened away, and Miss Woodley was relieved from
the pain of giving him a denial.

No sooner was the chaise, with all its attendants, out of sight, than
Lady Matilda was conducted by Miss Woodley from her lonely retreat,
into that part of the house from whence her father had just
departed—and she visited every spot where he had so long resided, with
a pleasing curiosity that for a while diverted her grief. In the
breakfast and dining rooms, she leaned over those seats with a kind of
filial piety, on which she was told he had been accustomed to sit. And,
in the library, she took up with filial delight, the pen with which he
had been writing; and looked with the most curious attention into those
books that were laid upon his reading desk. But a hat, lying on one of
the tables, gave her a sensation beyond any other she experienced on
this occasion—in that trifling article of his dress, she thought she
saw himself, and held it in her hand with pious reverence.

In the mean time, Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook were proceeding on the
road, with hearts not less heavy than those which they had left at
Elmwood House; though neither of them could so well define the cause of
this oppression, as Matilda could account for the weight which
oppressed her’s.



CHAPTER XI.


Young as Lady Matilda was during the life of her mother, neither her
youth, nor the recluse state in which she lived, had precluded her from
the notice and solicitations of a nobleman who had professed himself
her lover. Viscount Margrave had an estate not far distant from the
retreat Lady Elmwood had chosen; and being devoted to the sports of the
country, he seldom quitted it for any of those joys which the town
offered. He was a young man, of a handsome person, and was, what his
neighbours called, “A man of spirit.” He was an excellent fox-hunter,
and as excellent a companion over his bottle at the end of the chace—he
was prodigal of his fortune, where his pleasures were concerned, and as
those pleasures were chiefly social, his sporting companions and his
mistresses (for these were also of the plural number) partook largely
of his wealth.

Two months previous to Lady Elmwood’s death, Miss Woodley and Lady
Matilda were taking their usual walk in some fields and lanes near to
their house, when chance threw Lord Margrave in their way during a
thunder storm in which they were suddenly caught; and he had the
satisfaction to convey his new acquaintances to their home in his
coach, safe from the fury of the elements. Grateful for the service he
had rendered them, Miss Woodley and her charge, permitted him to
enquire occasionally after their health, and would sometimes see him.
The story of Lady Elmwood was known to Lord Margrave, and as he beheld
her daughter with a passion such as he had been unused to overcome, he
indulged it with the probable hope, that on the death of the mother
Lord Elmwood would receive his child, and perhaps accept him as his
son-in-law. Wedlock was not the plan which Lord Margrave had ever
proposed to himself for happiness; but the excess of his love on this
new occasion, subdued all the resolutions he had formed against the
married state; and not daring to hope for the consummation of his
wishes by any other means, he suffered himself to look forward to that,
as his only resource. No sooner was the long expected death of Lady
Elmwood arrived, than he waited with impatience to hear that Lady
Matilda was sent for and acknowledged by her father; for he meant to be
the first to lay before Lord Elmwood his pretensions as a suitor. But
those pretensions were founded on the vague hopes of a lover only; and
Miss Woodley, to whom he first declared them, said every thing possible
to convince him of their fallacy. As to the object of his passion, she
was not only insensible, but wholly inattentive to all that was said to
her on the subject. Lady Elmwood died without ever being disturbed with
it; for her daughter did not even remember his proposals so as to
repeat them again, and Miss Woodley thought it prudent to conceal from
her friend, every new incident which might give her cause for new
anxieties.

When Sandford and the ladies left the north and came to Elmwood House,
so much were their thoughts employed with other ideas, that Lord
Margrave did not occupy a place; and during the whole time they had
been at their new abode, they had never once heard of him. He had,
nevertheless, his whole mind fixed upon Lady Matilda, and had placed
spies in the neighbourhood to inform him of every circumstance relating
to her situation. Having imbibed an aversion to matrimony, he heard
with but little regret, that there was no prospect of her ever becoming
her father’s heir, while such an information gave him the hope of
obtaining her, upon the terms of a mistress.

Lord Elmwood’s departure to town forwarded this hope, and flattering
himself that the humiliating state in which Matilda must feel herself
in the house of her father might gladly induce her to take shelter
under any other protection, he boldly advanced as soon as the Earl was
gone, to make such overture as his wishes and his vanity told him,
could not be rejected.

Inquiring for Miss Woodley, he easily gained admittance; but at the
sight of so much modesty and dignity in the person of Matilda, the
appearance of so much good will, and yet such circumspection in her
companion; and charmed at the good sense and proper spirit which were
always apparent in the manners of Sandford, he fell once more into the
despondency of never becoming to Lady Matilda any thing of more
importance to his reputation, than a husband.

Even that humble hope was sometimes denied him, while Sandford set
forth the impropriety of troubling Lord Elmwood on such a subject at
present; and while the Viscount’s penetration, small as it was,
discovered in his fair one, more to discourage, than to favour his
wishes. Plunged, however, too deep in his passion to emerge from it in
haste, he meant still to visit, and wait for a change to happier
circumstances, when he was peremptorily desired by Mr. Sandford to
desist from ever coming again.

“And why, Mr. Sandford?” cried he.

“For two reasons, my Lord;—in the first place, your visits might be
displeasing to Lord Elmwood; in the next place, I know they are so to
his daughter.”

Unaccustomed to be addressed so plainly, particularly in a case where
his heart was interested, he nevertheless submitted with patience; but
in his own mind determined how long this patience should continue—no
longer than it served as the means to prove his obedience, and by that
artifice, to secure his better reception at some future period.

On his return home, cheered with the huzzas of his jovial companions,
he began to consult those friends, what scheme was best to be adopted
for the accomplishment of his desires. Some, boldly advised application
to the father in defiance to the old priest; but that was the very last
method his Lordship himself approved, as marriage must inevitably have
followed Lord Elmwood’s consent: besides, though a Peer, Lord Margrave
was unused to rank with Peers; and even the formality of an interview
with one of his equals, carried along with it a terror, or at least a
fatigue, to a rustic Baron. Others of his companions advised seduction;
but happily the Viscount possessed no arts of this kind, to affect a
heart joined with such an understanding as Matilda’s. There were not
wanting among his most favourite counsellors some, who painted the
superior triumph and gratification of force; those assured him there
was nothing to apprehend under this head, as from the behaviour of Lord
Elmwood to his child, it was more than probable, he would be utterly
indifferent as to any violence that might be offered her. This last
advice seemed inspired by the aid of wine; and no sooner had the wine
freely circulated, than this was always the expedient, which appeared
by far the best.

While Lord Margrave alternately cherished his hopes and his fears in
the country, Rushbrook in town gave way to his fears only. Every day of
his life made him more acquainted with the firm, unshaken temper of
Lord Elmwood, and every day whispered more forcibly to him, that pity,
gratitude, and friendship, strong and affectionate as these passions
are, were weak and cold to that, which had gained the possession of his
heart—he doubted, but he did not long doubt, that, which he felt was
love. “And yet,” said he to himself, “it is love of such a kind, as
arising from causes independent of the object itself can scarce deserve
that sacred name. Did I not love Lady Matilda before I beheld her?—for
her mother’s sake I loved her—and even for her father’s. Should I have
felt the same affection for her, had she been the child of other
parents? No. Or should I have felt that sympathetic tenderness which
now preys upon my health, had not her misfortunes excited it? No.” Yet
the love which is the result of gratitude and pity only, he thought had
little claim to rank with his; and after the most deliberate and deep
reflection, he concluded with this decisive opinion—He had loved Lady
Matilda, in _whatever state_, in _whatever circumstances_; and that the
tenderness he felt towards her, and the anxiety for her happiness
before he knew her, extreme as they were, were yet cool and
dispassionate sensations, compared to those which her person and
demeanour had incited—and though he acknowledged, that by the preceding
sentiments, his heart was softened, prepared, and moulded, as it were,
to receive this last impression, yet the violence of his passion told
him that genuine love, if not the basis on which it was founded, had
been the certain consequence. With a strict scrutiny into his heart he
sought this knowledge, but arrived at it with a regret that amounted to
despair.

To shield him from despondency, he formed in his mind a thousand
visions, displaying the joys of his union with Lady Matilda; but her
father’s implacability confounded them all. Lord Elmwood was a man who
made few resolutions—but those were the effect of deliberation; and as
he was not the least capricious or inconstant in his temper, they were
resolutions which no probable event could shake. Love, that produces
wonders, that seduces and subdues the most determined and rigid
spirits, had in two instances overcome the inflexibility of Lord
Elmwood; he married Lady Elmwood contrary to his determination, because
he loved; and for the sake of this beloved object, he had, contrary to
his resolution, taken under his immediate care young Rushbrook; but the
magic which once enchanted away this spirit of immutability was no
more—Lady Elmwood was no more, and the charm was broken.

As Miss Woodley was deprived of the opportunity of desiring Rushbrook
not to write, when he asked her the permission, he passed one whole
morning, in the gratification of forming and writing a letter to her,
which he thought might possibly be shewn to Matilda. As he dared not
touch upon any of those circumstances in which he was the most
interested, this, joined to the respect he wished to pay the lady to
whom he wrote, limited his letter to about twenty lines; yet the
studious manner with which these lines were dictated, the hope that
they might, and the fear that they might not, be seen and regarded by
Lady Matilda, rendered the task an anxiety so pleasing, that he could
have wished it might have lasted for a year; and in this tendency to
magnify trifles, was discoverable, the never-failing symptom of ardent
love.

A reply to this formal address, was a reward he wished for with
impatience, but he wished in vain; and in the midst of his chagrin at
the disappointment, a sorrow, little thought of, occurred, and gave him
a perturbation of mind he had never before experienced. Lord Elmwood
proposed a wife to him; and in a way so assured of his acquiescence,
that if Rushbrook’s life had depended upon his daring to dispute his
benefactor’s will, he would not have had the courage to have done so.
There was, however, in his reply, and his embarrassment, something
which his uncle distinguished from a free concurrence; and looking
stedfastly at him, he said, in that stern manner which he now almost
invariably adopted,

“You have no engagements, I suppose! Have made no previous promises!”

“None on earth, my Lord,” replied Rushbrook candidly.

“Nor have you disposed of your heart?”

“No, my Lord,” replied he; but not candidly—nor with any appearance of
candour: for though he spoke hastily, it was rather like a man
frightened than assured. He hurried to tell the falsehood he thought
himself obliged to tell, that the pain and shame might be over; but
there he was deceived—the lie once told was as troublesome as in the
conception, and added another confusion to the first.

Lord Elmwood now fixed his eyes upon him with a sullen contempt, and
rising from his chair, said, “Rushbrook, if you have been so
inconsiderate as to give away your heart, tell me so at once, and tell
me the object.”

Rushbrook shuddered at the thought.

“I here,” continued the Earl, “tolerate the first untruth you ever told
me, as the false assertion of a lover; and give you an opportunity of
recalling it—but after this moment, it is a lie between man and man—a
lie to your friend and father, and I will not forgive it.”

Rushbrook stood silent, confused, alarmed, and bewildered in his
thoughts. Lord Elmwood proceeded:

“Name the person, if there is any, on whom you have bestowed your
heart; and though I do not give you the hope that I shall not censure
your folly, I will at least not reproach you for having at first denied
it.”

To repeat these words in writing, the reader must condemn the young man
that he could hesitate to own he loved, if he was even afraid to name
the object of his passion; but his interrogator had made the two
answers inseparable, so that all evasions of the second, Rushbrook knew
would be fruitless, after having avowed the first—and how could he
confess the latter? The absolute orders he received from the steward on
his first return from his travels, were, “Never to mention his
daughter, any more than his late wife, before Lord Elmwood.” The fault
of having rudely intruded into Lady Matilda’s presence, rushed also
upon his mind; for he did not even dare to say, by what means he had
beheld her. But more than all, the threatening manner in which this
rational and apparently conciliating speech was uttered, the menaces,
the severity which sat upon the Earl’s countenance while he delivered
those moderate words, might have intimidated a man wholly independent,
and less used to fear than his nephew had been.

“You make no answer, Sir,” said Lord Elmwood, after waiting a few
moments for his reply.

“I have only to say, my Lord,” returned Rushbrook, “that although my
heart may be totally disengaged, I may yet be disinclined to marriage.”

“May! May! Your heart _may_ be disengaged,” repeated he. “Do you dare
to reply to me equivocally, when I have asked a positive answer?”

“Perhaps I am not positive myself, my Lord; but I will enquire into the
state of my mind, and make you acquainted with it very soon.”

As the angry demeanour of his uncle affected Rushbrook with fear, so
that fear, powerfully (but with proper manliness) expressed, again
softened the displeasure of Lord Elmwood; and seeing and pitying his
nephew’s sensibility, he now changed his austere voice, and said
mildly, but firmly,

“I give you a week to consult with yourself; at the expiration of that
time I shall talk with you again, and I command you to be then prepared
to speak, not only without deceit, but without hesitation.” He left the
room at these words, and left Rushbrook released from a fate, which his
apprehensions had beheld impending that moment.

He had now a week to call his thoughts together, to weigh every
circumstance, and to determine whether implicitly to submit to Lord
Elmwood’s recommendation of a wife, or to revolt from it, and see
another, with more subserviency to his will, appointed his heir.

Undetermined how to act upon this trial which was to decide his future
destiny, Rushbrook suffered so poignant an uncertainty, that he became
at length ill, and before the end of the week that was allotted him for
his reply, he was confined to his bed in a high fever. Lord Elmwood was
extremely affected at his indisposition; he gave him every care he
could bestow, and even much of his personal attendance. This last
favour had a claim upon the young man’s gratitude, superior to every
other obligation which since his infancy his benefactor had conferred;
and he was at times so moved by those marks of kindness he received,
that he would form the intention of tearing from his heart every trace
that Lady Matilda had left there, and as soon as his health would
permit him, obey, to the utmost of his views, every wish his uncle had
conceived. Yet again, her pitiable situation presented itself to his
compassion, and her beauteous person to his love. Divided between the
claims of obligation to the father, and tender attachment to the
daughter, his illness was increased by the tortures of his mind, and he
once sincerely wished for that death, of which he was in danger, to
free him from the dilemma in which his affections had involved him.

At the time his disorder was at the height, and he lay complaining of
the violence of his fever, Lord Elmwood, taking his hand, asked him,
“If there was any thing he could do for him?”

“Yes, yes, my Lord, a great deal:” he replied eagerly.

“What is it, Harry?”

“Oh! my Lord,” replied he, “that is what I must not tell you.”

“Defer it then till you are well:” said Lord Elmwood; afraid of being
surprised, or affected by the state of his health, into any promises
which he might hereafter find the impropriety of granting.

“And when I recover, my Lord, you give me leave to reveal to you my
wishes, let them be what they will?”

His uncle hesitated——but seeing an anxiety for the answer, by his
raising himself upon his elbow in the bed and staring wildly, Lord
Elmwood at last said, “Certainly—Yes, yes,” as a child is answered for
its quiet.

That Lord Elmwood could have no idea what the real petition was, which
Rushbrook meant to present him is certain; but it is certain he
expected he had some request to make, with which it might be wrong for
him to comply, and therefore he avoided hearing what it was; for great
as his compassion for him was in his present state, it was not of
sufficient force to urge him to give a promise he did not mean to
perform. Rushbrook, on his part was pleased with the assurance he might
speak when he was restored to health; but no sooner was his fever
abated, and his senses perfectly recovered from the slight derangement
his malady had occasioned, than the lively remembrance of what he had
hinted, alarmed him, and he was even afraid to look his kind, but awful
relation in the face. Lord Elmwood’s cheerfulness, however, on his
returning health, and his undiminished attention, soon convinced him
that he had nothing to fear. But, alas! he found too, that he had
nothing to hope. As his health re-established, his wishes
re-established also, and with his wishes, his despair.

Convinced now, that his nephew had something on his mind which he
feared to reveal, the Earl no longer doubted but that some youthful
attachment had armed him against any marriage he should propose; but he
had so much pity for his present weak state, to delay that further
inquiry which he had threatened before his illness, to a time when he
should be entirely restored.

It was the end of May before Rushbrook was able to partake in the usual
routine of the day—the country was now prescribed him as the means of
complete restoration; and as Lord Elmwood designed to leave London some
time in June, he advised him to go to Elmwood House a week or two
before him; this advice was received with delight, and a letter was
sent to Mr. Sandford to prepare for Mr. Rushbrook’s arrival.



CHAPTER XII.


During the illness of Rushbrook, news had been sent of his danger, from
the servants in town to those at Elmwood House, and Lady Matilda
expressed compassion when she was told of it—she began to conceive, the
instant she thought he would soon die, that his visit to her had merit
rather than impertinence in its design, and that he might possibly be a
more deserving man, than she had supposed him to be. Even Sandford and
Miss Woodley, began to recollect qualifications he possessed, which
they never had reflected on before, and Miss Woodley in particular,
reproached herself that she had been so severe and inattentive to him.
Notwithstanding the prospects his death pointed out to her, it was with
infinite joy she heard he was recovered; nor was Sandford less
satisfied; for he had treated the young man too unkindly not to dread,
lest any ill should befall him; but although he was glad to hear of his
restored health, when he was informed he was coming down to Elmwood
House for a few weeks in the style of its master, Sandford, with all
his religious and humane principles, could not help thinking, “That if
the lad had been properly prepared to die, he had been as well out of
the world as in it.”

He was still less his friend when he saw him arrive with his usual
florid complexion: had he come pale and sickly, Sandford had been kind
to him; but in apparently good health and spirits, he could not form
his lips to tell him he was “Glad to see him.”

On his arrival, Matilda, who for five months had been at large,
secluded herself as she would have done upon the arrival of Lord
Elmwood; but with far different sensations. Notwithstanding her
restriction on the latter occasion, the residence of her father in that
house had been a source of pleasure, rather than of sorrow to her; but
from the abode of Rushbrook she derived punishment alone.

When, from inquiries, Rushbrook found that on his approach, Matilda had
retired to her own confined apartments, the thought was torture to him;
it was the hope of seeing and conversing with her, of being admitted at
all times to her society as the mistress of the house, that had raised
his spirits, and effected his perfect cure beyond any other cause; and
he was hurt to the greatest degree at this respect, or rather contempt,
shown to him by her retreat.

It was, nevertheless, a subject too delicate for him to touch upon in
any one sense—an invitation for her company on his part, might carry
the appearance of superior authority, and an affected condescension,
which he justly considered as the worst of all insults. And yet, how
could he support the idea that his visit had placed the daughter of his
benefactor, as a dependent stranger in that house, where in reality
_he_ was the dependent, and she the lawful heir? For two or three days
he suffered the torment of these reflections, hoping that he should
come to an explanation of all he felt, by a fortunate meeting with Miss
Woodley; but when that meeting occurred, though he observed she talked
to him with less reserve than she had formerly done, and even gave some
proofs of the native goodness of her disposition, yet she scrupulously
avoided naming Lady Matilda; and when he diffidently inquired of her
health, a cold restraint overspread Miss Woodley’s face, and she left
him instantly. To Sandford it was still more difficult for him to
apply; for though frequently together, they were never sociable; and as
Sandford seldom disguised his feelings, to Rushbrook he was always
extremely severe, and sometimes unmannerly.

In this perplexed situation, the country air was rather of detriment
than service to the invalid; and had he not, like a true lover, clung
fast to hope, while he could perceive nothing but despair, he would
have returned to town, rather than by his stay have placed in a
subordinate state, the object of his adoration. Persisting in his
hopes, he one morning met Miss Woodley in the garden, and engaging her
a longer time than usual in conversation, at last obtained her promise
“She would that day dine with him and Mr. Sandford.” But no sooner had
she parted from him, than she repented of her consent; and upon
communicating it, Matilda, for the first time in her life, darted upon
her kind companion, a look of the most cutting reproach and haughty
resentment. Miss Woodley’s own sentiments had upbraided her before; but
she was not prepared to receive so pointed a mark of disapprobation
from her young friend, till now duteous and humble to her as to a
mother, and not less affectionate. Her heart was too susceptible to
bear this disrespectful and contumelious frown, from the object of her
long-devoted care and concern; the tears instantly covered her face,
and she laid her hands upon her heart, as if she thought it would
break. Matilda was moved, but she possessed too much of the manly
resentment of her father, to discover what she felt for the first few
minutes. Miss Woodley, who had given so many tears to her sorrows, but
never till now, one to her anger, had a deeper sense of this
indifference, than of the anger itself, and to conceal what she
suffered, left the room. Matilda, who had been till this time working
at her needle, seemingly composed, now let her work drop from her hand,
and sat for a while in a deep reverie. At length she rose up, and
followed Miss Woodley to the other apartment. She entered grave,
majestic and apparently serene, while her poor heart fluttered with a
thousand distressing sensations. She approached Miss Woodley (who was
still in tears) with silence; and awed by her manners, the faithful
friend of her deceased mother exclaimed, “Dear Lady Matilda, think no
more on what I have done—do not resent it any longer, and on my knees
I’ll beg your pardon.” Miss Woodley rose as she uttered these last
words; but Matilda laid fast hold of her to prevent the posture she
offered to take, and instantly assumed it herself. “Oh, let this be my
atonement!” she cried with the most earnest supplication.

They interchanged forgiveness; and as this reconciliation was sincere,
they each, without reserve, gave their opinion upon the subject that
had caused the misunderstanding; and it was agreed an apology should be
sent to Mr. Rushbrook, “That Miss Woodley had been suddenly
indisposed:” nor could this be said to differ from the truth, for since
what had passed she was unfit to pay a visit.

Rushbrook, who had been all the morning elated with the advance he
supposed he had made in that lady’s favour, was highly disappointed,
vexed, and angry, when this apology was delivered; nor did he, nor
perhaps could he, conceal what he felt, although his severe observer,
Mr. Sandford, was present.

“I am a very unfortunate man!” said he, as soon as the servant was gone
who brought the message.

Sandford cast his eyes upon him with a look of surprise and contempt.

“A very unfortunate man indeed, Mr. Sandford,” repeated he, “although
you treat my complaint contemptuously.”

Sandford made no reply, and seemed above making one.

They sat down to dinner;—Rushbrook eat scarce any thing, but drank
frequently; Sandford took no notice of either, but had a book (which
was his custom when he dined with persons whose conversation was not
interesting to him) laid by the side of his plate, which he
occasionally looked into, as the dishes were removing, or other
opportunities served.

Rushbrook, just now more hopeless than ever of forming an acquaintance
with Lady Matilda, began to give way to symptoms of despondency; and
they made their first attack, by urging him, to treat on the same level
of familiarity that he himself was treated, Mr. Sandford, to whom he
had, till now, ever behaved with the most profound tokens of respect.

“Come,” said he to him as soon as the dinner was removed, “lay aside
your book and be good company.”

Sandford lifted up his eyes upon him—stared in his face—and cast them
on the book again.

“Pshaw,” continued Rushbrook, “I want a companion; and as Miss Woodley
has disappointed me, I must have your company.”

Sandford now laid his book down upon the table; but still holding his
fingers in the pages he was reading, said, “And why are you
disappointed of Miss Woodley’s company? When people expect what they
have no right to hope, ’tis impertinent assurance to complain they are
disappointed.”

“I had a right to hope she would come,” answered Rushbrook, “for she
promised she would.”

“But what right had you to ask her?”

“The right every one has, to make his time pass as agreeably as he
can.”

“But not at the expence of another.”

“I believe, Mr. Sandford, it would be a heavy expence to you, to see me
happy; I believe it would cost you even your own happiness.”

“That is a price I have not now to give:” replied Sandford, and began
reading again.

“What, you have already paid it away? No wonder that at your time of
life it should be gone. But what do you think of my having already
squandered mine?”

“I don’t think about you;” returned Sandford, without taking his eyes
from the book.

“Can you look me in the face and say that, Mr. Sandford? No, you
cannot—for you know you _do_ think of me, and you know you hate
me.”—Here he drank two glasses of wine one after another; “And I can
tell you why you hate me,” continued he: “It is from a cause for which
I often hate myself.”

Sandford read on.

“It is on Lady Matilda’s account you hate me, and use me thus.”

Sandford put down the book hastily, and put both his hands by his side.

“Yes,” resumed Rushbrook, “you think I am wronging her.”

“I think you insult her,” exclaimed Sandford, “by this rude mention of
her name; and I command you at your peril to desist.”

“At my peril! Mr. Sandford? Do you assume the authority of my Lord
Elmwood?”

“I do on this occasion; and if you dare to give your tongue a
freedom”——

Rushbrook interrupted him—“Why then I boldly say, (and as her friend
you ought rather to applaud than resent it) I boldly say, that my heart
suffers so much for her situation, that I am regardless of my own. I
love her father—I loved her mother more—but I love _her_ beyond
either.”

“Hold your licentious tongue,” cried Sandford, “or quit the room.”

“Licentious! Oh! the pure thoughts that dwell in her innocent mind, are
not less sensual than mine towards her. Do you upbraid me with my
respect, my pity for her? They are the sensations which impel me to
speak thus undisguised, even to you, my open—no, even worse—my secret
enemy!”

“Insult _me_ as you please, Mr. Rushbrook,—but beware how you mention
Lord Elmwood’s daughter.”

“Can it be to her dishonour that I pity her? that I would quit the
house this moment never to return, so that she supplied the place I
with-hold from her.”

“Go, then;” cried Sandford.

“It would be of no use to her, or I would. But come, Mr. Sandford, I
will dare do as much as you. Only second me, and I will entreat Lord
Elmwood to be reconciled—to see and own her.”

“Your vanity would be equal to your temerity—_you_ entreat? She must
greatly esteem those paternal favours which _your_ entreaties gained
her! Do you forget, young man, how short a time it is, since you were
_entreated for_?”

“I prove that I do not, while this anxiety for Lady Matilda, arises,
from what I feel on that account.”

“Remove your anxiety, then, from her to yourself; for were I to let
Lord Elmwood know what has now passed”—

“It is for your own sake, not for mine, if you do not.”

“You shall not dare me to it, Mr. Rushbrook.” And he rose from his
seat: “You shall not dare me to do you an injury. But to avoid the
temptation, I will never again come into your company, unless my
friend, Lord Elmwood, be present, to protect me and his child from your
insults.”

Rushbrook rose in yet more warmth than Sandford

“Have you the injustice to say that I have insulted Lady Matilda?”

“To speak of her at all, is in you an insult. But you have done
more—you have dared to visit her—to force into her presence and shock
her with your offers of services which she scorns; and with your
compassion, which she is above.”

“Did she complain to you?”

“She or her friend did.”

“I rather suppose, Mr. Sandford, that you have bribed some of the
servants to reveal this.”

“The suspicion becomes Lord Elmwood’s heir.”

“It becomes the man, who lives in a house with you.”

“I thank you, Mr. Rushbrook, for what has passed this day—it has taken
a weight off my mind. I thought my disinclination to you, might perhaps
arise from prejudice—this conversation has relieved me from those
fears, and—I thank you.” Saying this he calmly walked out of the room,
and left Rushbrook to reflect on what he had been doing.

Heated with the wine he had drank (and which Sandford, engaged on his
book, had not observed) no sooner was he alone, than he became by
degrees cool and repentant. “What had he done?” was the first question
to himself—“He had offended Sandford.”—The man, whom reason as well as
prudence had ever taught him to respect, and even to revere. He had
grossly offended the firm friend of Lady Matilda, by the unreserved and
wanton use of her name. All the retorts he had uttered came now to his
memory; with a total forgetfulness of all that Sandford had said to
provoke them.

He once thought to follow him and beg his pardon; but the contempt with
which he had been treated, more than all the anger, with-held him.

As he sat forming plans how to retrieve the opinion, ill as it was,
which Sandford formerly entertained of him, he received a letter from
Lord Elmwood, kindly enquiring after his health, and saying that he
should be down early in the following week. Never were the friendly
expressions of his uncle half so welcome to him; for they served to
sooth his imagination, racked with Sandford’s wrath, and his own
displeasure.



CHAPTER XIII.


When Sandford acted deliberately, he always acted up to his duty; it
was his duty to forgive Rushbrook, and he did so—but he had declared he
would never “Be again in his company unless Lord Elmwood was present;”
and with all his forgiveness, he found an unforgiving gratification, in
the duty, of being obliged to keep his word.

The next day Rushbrook dined alone, while Sandford gave his company to
the ladies. Rushbrook was too proud to seek to conciliate Sandford by
abject concessions, but he endeavoured to meet him as by accident, and
meant to try what, in such a case, a submissive apology might effect.
For two days all the schemes he formed on that head proved fruitless;
he could never procure even a sight of him. But on the evening of the
third day, taking a lonely walk, he turned the corner of a grove, and
saw in the very path he was going, Sandford accompanied by Miss
Woodley; and, what agitated him infinitely more, Lady Matilda was with
them. He knew not whether to proceed, or to quit the path and palpably
shun them—to one, who seemed to put an unkind construction upon all he
said and did, he knew that to do either, would be to do wrong. In spite
of the propensity he felt to pass so near to Matilda, could he have
known what conduct would have been deemed the most respectful, whatever
painful denial it had cost him, _that_, he would have adopted. But
undetermined whether to go forward, or to cross to another path, he
still walked on till he came too nigh to recede: he then, with a
diffidence not affected, but most powerfully felt, pulled off his hat;
and without bowing, stood respectfully silent while the company passed.
Sandford walked on some paces before, and took no further notice as he
went by him, than just touching the fore part of his hat with his
finger. Miss Woodley curtsied as she followed. But Lady Matilda made a
full stop, and said, in the gentlest accents, “I hope, Mr. Rushbrook,
you are perfectly recovered.”

It was the sweetest music he had ever listened to; and he replied with
the most reverential bow, “I am better a great deal, Ma’am.” Then
instantly pursued his way as if he did not dare to utter another
syllable.

Sandford seldom found fault with Lady Matilda; not because he loved
her, but because she seldom did wrong—upon this occasion, however, he
was half inclined to reprimand her; but yet he did not know what to
say—the subsequent humility of Rushbrook, had taken from the
indiscretion of her speaking to him, and the event could by no means
justify his censure. On hearing her begin to speak, Sandford had
stopped; and as Rushbrook after replying, walked away, Sandford called
to her crossly, “Come, come along.” But at the same time he put out his
elbow for her to take hold of his arm.

She hastened her steps, and did so—then turning to Miss Woodley, she
said, “I expected you would have spoken to Mr. Rushbrook; it might have
prevented me.”

Miss Woodley replied, “I was at a loss what to do;—when we met
formerly, he always spoke first.”

“And he ought now,” cried Sandford angrily—and then added, with a
sarcastic smile, “It is certainly proper that the _superior_, should be
the first who speaks.”

“He did not look as if he thought himself our superior,” replied
Matilda.

“No,” returned Sandford, “some people can put on what looks they
please.”

“Then while he looks so pale,” replied Matilda, “and so dejected, I can
never forbear speaking to him when we meet, whatever he may think of
it.”

“And were he and I to meet a hundred, nay a thousand times,” returned
Sandford, “I don’t think I should ever speak to him again.”

“Bless me! what for, Mr. Sandford?” cried Matilda—for Sandford, who was
not a man that repeated little incidents, had never mentioned the
circumstance of their quarrel.

“I have taken such a resolution,” answered he, “yet I bear him no
enmity.”

As this short reply indicated that he meant to say no more, no more was
asked; and the subject was dropped.

In the mean time, Rushbrook, happier than he had been for months,
intoxicated with joy at that voluntary mark of civility he had received
from Lady Matilda, felt his heart so joyous, and so free from every
particle of malice, that he resolved, in the humblest manner, to make
atonement for the violation of decorum he had lately committed against
Mr. Sandford.

Too happy, at this time, to suffer a mortification from any indignities
he might receive, he sent his servant to him into his study, as soon as
he was returned home, to beg to know “If he might be permitted to wait
upon him, with a message he had to deliver from Lord Elmwood.”

The servant returned—“Mr. Sandford desired he would send the message by
him, or the house-steward.” This was highly affronting; but Rushbrook
was not in a humour to be offended, and he sent again, begging he would
admit him; but the answer was, “He was busy.”

Thus wholly defeated in his hopes of reconciliation, his new transports
felt an allay, and the few days that remained before Lord Elmwood came,
he passed in solitary musing, and ineffectual walks and looks towards
that path in which he had met Matilda—she came that way no more—indeed
scarce quitted her apartment, in the practice of that confinement she
was to experience on the arrival of her father.

All her former agitations now returned. On the day he arrived she
wept—all the night she did not sleep—and the name of Rushbrook again
became hateful to her. The Earl came in extremely good health and
spirits, but appeared concerned to find Rushbrook less well than when
he went from town. Sandford was now under the necessity of being in
Rushbrook’s company, yet he would never speak to him but when he was
obliged; or look at him, but when he could not help it. Lord Elmwood
observed this conduct, yet he neither wondered, or was offended at
it—he had perceived what little esteem Sandford showed his nephew from
his first return; but he forgave, in Sandford’s humour, a thousand
faults he would not forgive in any other; nor did he deem this one of
his greatest faults, knowing the demand upon his partiality from
another object.

Miss Woodley waited on Lord Elmwood as formerly; dined with him, and
related, as heretofore, to the attentive Matilda, all that passed.

About this time Lord Margrave, deprived by the season of all the sports
of the field, felt his love for Matilda (which had been violent, even
though divided with the love of hunting) now too strong to be subdued;
and he resolved, though reluctantly, to apply to her father for his
consent to their union; but writing to Sandford this resolution, he was
once more repulsed, and charged as a man of honour, to forbear to
disturb the tranquillity of the family by any application of the kind.
To this, Sandford received no answer; for the peer, highly incensed at
his mistress’s repugnance to him, determined more firmly than ever to
consult his own happiness alone; and as that depended merely upon his
obtaining her, he cared not by what method it was effected.

About a fortnight after Lord Elmwood came into the country, as he was
riding one morning, his horse fell with him, and crushed his leg in so
unfortunate a manner, as to be at first pronounced of dangerous
consequence. He was brought home in a post chaise, and Matilda heard of
the accident with more grief than would, perhaps, on such an occasion,
appertain to the most fondled child.

In consequence of the pain he suffered, his fever was one night very
high; and Sandford, who seldom quitted his apartment, went frequently
to his bedside, every time with the secret hope he should hear him ask
to see his daughter—he was every time disappointed—yet he saw him
shake, with a cordial friendship, the hand of Rushbrook, as if he
delighted in seeing those he loved.

The danger in which Lord Elmwood was supposed to be, was but of short
duration, and his sudden recovery succeeded. Matilda, who had wept,
moaned, and watched during the crisis of his illness, when she heard he
was amending, exclaimed, (with a kind of surprise at the novelty of the
sensation) “And this is joy that I feel! Oh! I never till now knew,
what those persons felt who experienced joy.”

Nor did she repine, like Mr. Sandford and Miss Woodley, at her father’s
inattention to her during his malady, for she did not hope like
them—she did not hope he would behold her, even in dying.

But notwithstanding his seeming indifference, while his indisposition
continued, no sooner was he recovered so as to receive the
congratulations of his friends, than there was no one person he
evidently showed so much satisfaction at seeing, as Miss Woodley. She
waited upon him timorously, and with more than ordinary distaste at his
late conduct, when he put out his hand with the utmost warmth to
receive her; drew her to him; saluted her, (an honour he had never in
his life conferred before) with signs of the sincerest friendship and
affection. Sandford was present; and ever associating the idea of
Matilda with Miss Woodley, felt his heart bound with a triumph it had
not enjoyed for many a day.

Matilda listened with delight to the recital Miss Woodley gave on her
return, and many times while it lasted exclaimed, “She was happy.” But
poor Matilda’s sudden transports of joy, which she termed happiness,
were not made for long continuance; and if she ever found cause for
gladness, she far oftener had motives for grief.

As Mr. Sandford was sitting with her and Miss Woodley, one evening
about a week after, a person rang at the bell and inquired for him: on
being told of it by the servant, he went to the door of the apartment,
and cried, “Oh! is it you? Come in.” An elderly man entered, who had
been for many years the head gardener at Elmwood House; a man of
honesty and sobriety, and with an indigent family of aged parents,
children, and other relations, who subsisted wholly on the income
arising from his place. The ladies, as well as Sandford, knew him well,
and they all, almost at once, asked, “What was the matter?” for his
looks told them something distressful had befallen him.

“Oh, Sir!” said he to Sandford, “I come to intreat your interest.”

“In what, Edwards?” said Sandford with a mild voice; for when his
assistance was supplicated in distress, his rough tones always took a
plaintive key.

“My Lord has discharged me from his service!” (returned Edwards
trembling, and the tears starting in his eyes) “I am undone, Mr.
Sandford, unless you plead for me.”

“I will,” said Sandford, “I will.”

“And yet I am almost afraid of your success,” replied the man, “for my
Lord has ordered me out of his house this moment; and though I knelt
down to him to be heard, he had no pity.”

Matilda sighed from the bottom of her heart, and yet she envied this
poor man, who had been kneeling to her father.

“What was your offence?” cried Sandford.

The man hesitated; then looking at Matilda, said, “I’ll tell you, Sir,
some other time.”

“Did you name me, before Lord Elmwood?” cried she eagerly, and
terrified.

“No, Madam,” replied he, “but I unthinkingly spoke of my poor Lady who
is dead and gone.”

Matilda burst into tears.

“How came you to do so mad a thing?” cried Sandford; and the
encouragement which his looks had once given him, now fled from his
face.

“It was unthinkingly,” repeated Edwards; “I was showing my Lord some
plans for the new walks, and told him, among other things, that her
Ladyship had many years ago approved of them. ‘Who?’ cried he. Still I
did not call to mind, but said, ‘Lady Elmwood, Sir, while you were
abroad.’—As soon as these words were delivered, I saw my doom in his
looks, and he commanded me to quit his house and service that instant.”

“I am afraid,” said Sandford, shaking his head, “I can do nothing for
you.”

“Yes, Sir, you know you have more power over my Lord than any body—and
perhaps you may be able to save me and all mine from misery.”

“I would, if I could,” replied Sandford quickly.

“You can but try, Sir.”

Matilda was all this while bathed in tears; nor was Miss Woodley much
less affected—Lady Elmwood was before their eyes—Matilda beheld her in
her dying moments; Miss Woodley saw her as the gay ward of Dorriforth.

“Ask Mr. Rushbrook,” said Sandford, “prevail on him to speak for you;
he has more power than I have.”

“He has not enough, then,” replied Edwards, “for he was in the room
with my Lord when what I have told you happened.”

“And did he say nothing?” asked Sandford.

“Yes, Sir; he offered to speak in my behalf, but my Lord interrupted
him, and ordered him out of the room—he instantly went.”

Sandford, now observing the effect which this narration had on the two
ladies, led the man to his own apartments, and there assured him he
dared not undertake his cause; but that if time or chance should
happily make an alteration in his Lord’s disposition, he would be the
first who would endeavour to replace him.—Edwards was obliged to
submit; and before the next day at noon, his pleasant house by the side
of the park, his garden, and his orchard, which he had occupied above
twenty years, were cleared of their old inhabitant, and all his
wretched family.



CHAPTER XIV.


This melancholy incident, perhaps affected Matilda and all the friends
of the deceased Lady Elmwood, beyond any other that had occurred since
her death. A few days after this circumstance, Miss Woodley, in order
to divert the disconsolate mind of Lady Matilda, (and in the hope of
bringing her some little anecdotes, to console her for that which had
given her so much pain) waited upon Lord Elmwood in his library, and
borrowed some books out of it. He was now perfectly well from his fall,
and received her with his usual politeness, but, of course, not with
that peculiar warmth which he had discovered when he received her just
after his illness. Rushbrook was in the library at the same time; he
shewed her several beautiful prints which Lord Elmwood had just
received from London, and appeared anxious to entertain and give tokens
of his esteem and respect for her. But what gave her pleasure beyond
any other attention, was, that after she had taken (by the aid of
Rushbrook) about a dozen volumes from different shelves, and had laid
them together, saying she would send her servant to fetch them; Lord
Elmwood went eagerly to the place where they were, and taking up each
book, examined minutely what it was. One author he complained was too
light, another too depressing, and put them on the shelves again:
another was erroneous, and he changed it for a better: thus, he warned
her against some, and selected other authors, as the most cautious
preceptor culls for his pupil, or a fond father for his darling Child.
She thanked him for his attention to her, but her heart thanked him for
his attention to his daughter. For as she had herself never received
such a proof of his care since all their long acquaintance, she
reasonably supposed, Matilda’s reading, and not hers, was the object of
his solicitude.

Having in these books store of comfort for poor Matilda, she eagerly
returned with them; and in reciting every particular circumstance, made
her consider the volumes, almost like presents from her father.

The month of September was now arrived; and Lord Elmwood, accompanied
by Rushbrook, went to a small shooting seat, near twenty miles distant
from Elmwood Castle, for a week’s particular sport. Matilda was once
more at large; and one beautiful morning, about eleven o’clock, seeing
Miss Woodley walking on the lawn before the house, she hastily took her
hat to join her; and not waiting to put it on, went nimbly down the
great staircase, with it hanging on her arm. When she had descended a
few stairs, she heard a footstep walking slowly up; and, (from what
emotion she could not tell,) she stopped short, half resolved to turn
back. She hesitated a single instant whether she should or not—then
went a few steps further till she came to the second landing place;
when, by the sudden winding of the staircase,—Lord Elmwood was
immediately before her!

She had felt something like affright before she saw him; but her reason
told her she had nothing to fear, as he was away. But now, the
appearance of a stranger whom she had never before seen; the authority
in his looks, as well as in the sound of his steps; a resemblance to
the portrait she had been shown of him; a start of astonishment which
he gave on beholding her; but above all—her _fears_ confirmed her that
it was him. She gave a scream of terror—put out her trembling hands to
catch the balustrades for support—missed them—and fell motionless into
her father’s arms.

He caught her, as by the same impulse, he would have caught any other
person falling for want of aid. Yet when he found her in his arms, he
still held her there—gazed on her attentively—and once pressed her to
his bosom.

At length trying to escape the snare into which he had been led, he was
going to leave her on the spot where she fell, when her eyes opened and
she uttered, “Save me.” Her voice unmanned him. His long-restrained
tears now burst forth—and seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he cried
out eagerly to recall her. Her name did not, however, come to his
recollection—nor any name but this—“Miss Milner—Dear Miss Milner.”

That sound did not awaken her; and now again he wished to leave her in
this senseless state, that not remembering what had passed, she might
escape the punishment.

But at this instant, Giffard, with another servant, passed by the foot
of the stairs: on which, Lord Elmwood called to them—and into Giffard’s
hands delivered his apparently dead child; without one command
respecting her, or one word of any kind; while his face was agitated
with shame, with pity, with anger, with paternal tenderness.

As Giffard stood trembling, while he relieved his Lord from this
hapless burthen, her father had to unloose her hand from the side of
his coat, which she had caught fast hold of as she fell, and grasped so
closely, it was with difficulty released.—On attempting to take the
hand away he trembled—faltered—then bade Giffard do it.

“Who, I, my Lord! I separate you!” cried he. But recollecting himself,
“My Lord, I will obey your commands whatever they are.” And seizing her
hand, pulled it with violence—it fell—and her father went away.

Matilda was carried to her own apartments, laid upon the bed, and Miss
Woodley hasted to attend her, after listening to the recital of what
had passed.

When Lady Elmwood’s old and affectionate friend entered the room, and
saw her youthful charge lying pale and speechless, yet no father by to
comfort or sooth her, she lifted up her hands to Heaven exclaiming,
with a burst of tears, “And is this the end of thee, my poor child? Is
this the end of all our hopes?—of thy own fearful hopes—and of thy
mother’s supplications! Oh! Lord Elmwood! Lord Elmwood!”

At that name Matilda started, and cried, “Where is he? Is it a dream,
or have I seen him?”

“It is all a dream, my dear,” said Miss Woodley.

“And yet I thought he held me in his arms,” she replied—“I thought I
felt his hands press mine.—Let me sleep and dream again.”

Now thinking it best to undeceive her, “It is no dream, my dear,”
returned Miss Woodley.

“Is it not?” cried she, starting up and leaning on her elbow—“Then I
suppose I must go away—go for ever away.”

Sandford now entered. Having been told the news, he came to condole—but
at the sight of him Matilda was terrified, and cried, “Do not reproach
me, do not upbraid me—I know I have done wrong—I know I had but one
command from my father, and that I have disobeyed.”

Sandford could not reproach her, for he could not speak; he therefore
only walked to the window and concealed his tears.

That whole day and night was passed in sympathetic grief, in alarm at
every sound, lest it should be a messenger to pronounce Matilda’s
destiny.

Lord Elmwood did not stay upon this visit above three hours at Elmwood
House; he then set off again for the seat he had left; where Rushbrook
still remained, and from whence his Lordship had merely come by
accident, to look over some writings which he wanted dispatched to
town.

During his short continuance here, Sandford cautiously avoided his
presence; for he thought, in a case like this, what nature would not of
herself effect, no art, no arguments of his, could accomplish: to
Nature and Providence he left the whole. What these two powerful
principles brought about, the reader will judge, when he peruses the
following letter, received early the next morning by Miss Woodley.



A
SIMPLE STORY,

IN FOUR VOLUMES,

BY

MRS. INCHBALD.



VOL. IV.

_THE FOURTH EDITION._

LONDON:
Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1799.



A SIMPLE STORY.



CHAPTER I.


_A letter from Giffard, Lord Elmwood’s House Steward, to Miss Woodley._


“Madam,

“My Lord, above a twelvemonth ago, acquainted me he had permitted his
daughter to reside in his house; but at the same time he informed me,
the grant was under a certain restriction, which, if ever broken, I was
to see his then determination (of which he also acquainted me) put in
execution. In consequence of Lady Matilda’s indisposition, Madam, I
have ventured to delay this notice till morning.—I need not say with
what concern I now give it, or mention to you, I believe, what is
forfeited. My Lord staid but a few hours yesterday, after the unhappy
circumstance on which I write, took place; nor did I see him after,
till he was in his carriage; he then sent for me to the carriage door,
and told me he should be back in two days time, and added, ‘Remember
your duty.’ That duty, I hope, Madam, you will not require me to
explain in more direct terms.—As soon as my Lord returns, I have no
doubt but he will ask me if it is fulfilled, and I shall be under the
greatest apprehension, should his commands not be obeyed.

“If there is any thing wanting for the convenience of your and Lady
Matilda’s departure, you have but to order it, and it is at your
service—I mean likewise any cash you may have occasion for. I should
presume to add my opinion where you might best take up your abode; but
with such advice as you will have from Mr. Sandford, mine would be but
assuming.

“I would also have waited upon you, Madam, and have delivered myself
the substance of this letter; but I am an old man, and the changes I
have been witness to in my Lord’s house since I first lived in it, has
encreased my age many years; and I have not the strength to see you
upon this occasion. I loved my deceased Lady—I love my Lord—and I love
their child—nay, so I am sure does my Lord himself; but there is no
accounting for his resolutions, or for the alteration his disposition
has lately undergone.

“I beg pardon, Madam, for this long intrusion, and am, and ever will
be, (while you and my Lord’s daughter are so) your afflicted humble
servant,

“Robert Giffard.
“Elmwood House,
“Sept. 12.”

When this letter was brought to Miss Woodley, she knew what it
contained before she opened it, and therefore took it with an air of
resignation—yet though she guessed the momentous part of its contents,
she dreaded in what words it might be related; and having now no
essential good to expect, hope, that will never totally expire, clung
at this crisis to little circumstances, and she hoped most fervently,
the terms of the letter might not be harsh, but that Lord Elmwood had
delivered his commands in gentle language. The event proved he had; and
lost to every important comfort, she felt grateful to him for this
small one.

Matilda, too, was cheered by this letter, for she expected something
worse; and the last line, in which Giffard said he knew “His Lordship
loved her,” she thought repaid her for the purport of the other part.

Sandford was not so easily resigned or comforted—he walked about the
room when the letter was shewn to him—called it cruel—stifled his
tears, and wished to show his resentment only—but the former burst
through all his endeavours, and he sunk into grief.

Nor was the fortitude of Matilda, which came to her assistance on the
first onset of this trial, sufficient to arm her, when the moment came
she was to quit the house—her father’s house—never to see that, or him
again.

When word was brought that the carriage was at the door, which was to
convey her from all she held so dear, and she saw before her the
prospect of a long youthful and healthful life, in which misery and
despair were all she could discern; that despair seized her at once,
and gaining courage from it, she cried,

“What have I to fear if I disobey my father’s commands once more?—he
cannot use me worse. I’ll stay here till he returns—again throw myself
in his way, and then I will not faint, but plead for mercy. Perhaps
were I to kneel to him—kneel, like other children to their parents, and
beg his blessing, he would not refuse it me.”

“You must not try:” said Sandford, mildly.

“Who,” cried she, “shall prevent me flying to my father? Have I another
friend on earth? Have I one relation in the world but him? This is the
second time I have been turned out of his house. In my infant state my
cruel father turned me out; but then, he sent me to a mother—now I have
none; and I will stay with him.”

Again the steward sent to let them know the coach was waiting.

Sandford, now, with a determined countenance, went coolly up to Lady
Matilda, and taking her hand, seemed resolved to lead her to the
carriage.

Accustomed to be awed by every serious look of his, she yet resisted
this; and cried, “Would _you_ be the minister of my father’s cruelty?”

“Then,” said Sandford solemnly to her, “farewell—from this moment you
and I part. I will take my leave, and do you remain where you are—at
least till you are forced away. But I’ll not stay to be driven
hence—for it is impossible your father will suffer any friend of yours
to continue here, after this disobedience. Adieu.”

“I’ll go this moment,” said she, and rose hastily.

Miss Woodley took her at her word, and hurried her immediately out of
the room.

Sandford followed slow behind, as if he had followed at her funeral.

When she came to that spot on the stairs where she had met her father,
she started back, and scarce knew how to pass it. When she had—“There
he held me in his arms,” said she, “and I thought I felt him press me
to his heart, but I now find I was mistaken.”

As Sandford came forward, to hand her into the coach, “Now you behave
well;” said he, “by this behaviour, you do not entirely close all
prospect of reconciliation with your father.”

“Do you think it is not yet impossible?” cried she, clasping his hand.
“Giffard says he loves me,” continued she, “and do you think he might
yet be brought to forgive me?”

“Forgive you!” cried Sandford.

“Suppose I was to write to him, and entreat his forgiveness?”

“Do not write yet,” said Sandford, with no cheering accent.

The carriage drove off—and as it went, Matilda leaned her head from the
window, to survey Elmwood House from the roof to the bottom. She cast
her eyes upon the gardens too—upon the fish ponds—even the coach
houses, and all the offices adjoining—which, as objects that she should
never see again—she contemplated, as objects of importance.



CHAPTER II.


Rushbrook, who, at twenty miles distance, could have no conjecture what
had passed at Elmwood House, during the short visit Lord Elmwood made
there, went that way with his dogs and gun in order to meet him on his
return, and accompany him in the chaise back—he did so—and getting into
the carriage, told him eagerly the sport he had had during the day;
laughed at an accident that had befallen one of his dogs; and for some
time did not perceive but that his uncle was perfectly attentive. At
length, observing he answered more negligently than usual to what he
said, Rushbrook turned his eyes quickly upon him, and cried,

“My Lord, are you not well?”

“Yes; perfectly well, I thank you, Rushbrook,” and he leaned back
against the carriage.

“I thought, Sir,” returned Rushbrook, “you spoke languidly—I beg your
pardon.”

“I have the head-ache a little,” answered he:—then taking off his hat,
brushed the powder from it, and as he put it on again, fetched a most
heavy sigh; which no sooner had escaped him, than, to drown its sound,
he said briskly,

“And so you tell me you have had good sport to-day?”

“No, my Lord, I said but indifferent.”

“True, so you did. Bid the man drive faster—it will be dark before we
get home.”

“You will shoot to-morrow, my Lord?”

“Certainly.”

“How does Mr. Sandford do, Sir?”

“I did not see him.”

“Not see Mr. Sandford, My Lord? but he was out I suppose—for they did
not expect you at Elmwood House.”

“No, they did not.”

In such conversation Rushbrook and his uncle continued to the end of
their journey. Dinner was then immediately served, and Lord Elmwood
appeared much in his usual spirits; at least, not suspecting any cause
for their abatement, Rushbrook did not observe any alteration.

Lord Elmwood went, however, earlier to bed than ordinary, or rather to
his bed-chamber; for though he retired some time before his nephew,
when Rushbrook passed his chamber door it was open, and he not in bed,
but sitting in a musing posture, as if he had forgot to shut it.

When Rushbrook’s valet came to attend his master, he said to him,

“I suppose, Sir, you do not know what has happened at the Castle?”

“For heaven’s sake what?” cried Rushbrook.

“My Lord has met Lady Matilda:” replied the man.

“How? Where? What’s the consequence?”

“We don’t know yet, Sir; but all the servants suppose her Ladyship will
not be suffered to remain there any longer.”

“They all suppose wrong,” returned Rushbrook hastily—“My Lord loves her
I am certain, and this event may be the happy means of his treating her
as his child from this day.”

The servant smiled and shook his head.

“Why, what more do you know?”

“Nothing more than I have told you, Sir; except that his Lordship took
no kind of notice of her Ladyship that appeared like love.”

Rushbrook was all uneasiness and anxiety to know the particulars of
what had passed; and now Lord Elmwood’s inquietude, which he had but
slightly noticed before, came full to his observation. He was going to
ask more questions; but he recollected Lady Matilda’s misfortunes were
too sacred, to be talked of thus familiarly by the servants of the
family;—besides, it was evident this man thought, and but naturally, it
might not be for his master’s interest the father and the daughter
should be united; and therefore would certainly give to all he said the
opposite colouring.

In spite of his prudence, however, and his delicacy towards Matilda,
Rushbrook could not let his valet leave him till he had inquired, and
learned all the circumstantial account of what had happened; except,
indeed, the order received by Giffard, which being given after Lord
Elmwood was in his carriage and in concise terms, the domestics who
attended him (and from whom this man had gained his intelligence) were
unacquainted with it.

When the servant had left Rushbrook alone, the perturbation of his mind
was so great, that he was, at length, undetermined whether to go to
bed, or to rush into his uncle’s apartment, and at his feet beg for
that compassion upon his daughter, which he feared he had denied her.
But then, to what peril would he not expose himself by such a step?
Nay, he might perhaps even injure her whom he wished to serve; for if
his uncle was at present unresolved, whether to forgive or to resent
this disobedience to his commands, another’s interference might enrage,
and precipitate him on the latter.

This consideration was so weighty, it resigned Rushbrook to the
suspense he was compelled to endure till the morning; when he flattered
himself, that by watching every look and motion of Lord Elmwood, his
penetration would be able to discover the state of his heart, and how
he meant to act.

But the morning came, and he found all his prying curiosity was of no
avail; Lord Elmwood did not drop one word, give one look, or use one
action that was not customary.

On first seeing him, Rushbrook blushed at the secret with which he was
entrusted; then, as he gazed on the Earl, contemplated the joy he ought
to have known in clasping in his arms a child like Matilda, whose
tenderness, reverence, and duty, had deprived her of all sensation at
his sight; which was in Rushbrook’s mind an honour, that rendered him
superior to what he was before.

They were in the fields all the day as usual; Lord Elmwood now
cheerful, and complaining no more of the head-ache. Yet once being
separated from his nephew, Rushbrook crossed over a stile into another
field, and found him sitting by the side of a bank, his gun lying by
him, and himself lost in thought. He rose on seeing him, and proceeded
to the sport as before.

At dinner, he said he should not go to Elmwood House the next day, as
he had appointed, but stay where he was, three or four days longer.
From these two small occurrences, Rushbrook would fain have extracted
something by which to judge the state of his mind; but upon the test,
that was impossible—he had caught him so musing many a time before; and
as to his prolonging his stay, that might arise from the sport—or,
indeed, had any thing more material swayed him, who could penetrate
whether it was the effect of the lenity, or the severity, he had dealt
towards his child? whether his continuance there was to shun her, or to
shun the house from whence he had banished her?

The three or four days for their temporary abode being passed, they
both returned together to Elmwood House. Rushbrook thought he saw his
uncle’s countenance change as they entered the avenue, yet he did not
appear less in spirits; and when Sandford joined them at dinner, the
Earl went with his usual alacrity to him, and (as was his custom after
any separation) put out his hand cheerfully to take his. Sandford said,
“How do you do, my Lord?” cheerfully in return; but put both his hands
into his bosom, and walked to the other side of the room. Lord Elmwood
did not seem to observe this affront—nor was it done as an affront—it
was merely what poor Sandford felt; and he felt he could _not_ shake
hands with him.

Rushbrook soon learned the news that Matilda was gone, and Elmwood
House was to him a desert—he saw there no real friend of her’s, except
poor Sandford, and to him, Rushbrook knew himself now, more displeasing
than ever; and all his overtures of atonement, he, at this time, found
more and more ineffectual. Matilda was exiled; and her supposed
triumphant rival was, to Sandford, more odious than he had ever been.

In alleviation of their banishment, Miss Woodley, with her charge, had
not returned to their old retreat; but were gone to a farm house, not
farther than thirty miles from Lord Elmwood’s: here Sandford, with
little inconvenience, visited them; nor did his patron ever take notice
of his occasional absence; for as he had before given his daughter, in
some measure, to his charge; so honour, delicacy, and the common ties
of duty, made him approve, rather than condemn his attention to her.

Though Sandford’s frequent visits soothed Matilda, they could not
comfort her; for he had no consolation to bestow that was suited to her
mind—her father had given no one token of regret for what he had done.
He had even inquired sternly of Giffard on his returning home,

“If Miss Woodley had left the house?”

The steward guessing the whole of his meaning, answered, “Yes, my Lord;
and _all_ your commands in that respect have been obeyed.”

He replied, “I am satisfied.” And, to the grief of the old man,
appeared really so.

To the farm-house, the place of Matilda’s residence, there came,
besides Sandford, another visitor far less welcome—Viscount Margrave.
He had heard with surprise, and still greater joy, that Lord Elmwood
had once more shut his doors against his daughter. In this her
discarded state, he no longer burthened his lively imagination with the
dull thoughts of marriage, but once more formed the idea of making her
his mistress.

Ignorant of a certain decorum which attended all Lord Elmwood’s
actions, he suspected that his child might be in want; and an
acquaintance with the worst part of her sex informed him, that relief
from poverty was the sure bargain for his success. With these hopes, he
again paid Miss Woodley and her a visit; but the coldness of the
former, and the haughtiness of the latter, still kept him at a
distance, and again made him fear to give one allusion to his purpose:
but he returned home resolved to write what he durst not speak—he did
so—he offered his services, his purse, his house—they were rejected
with contempt, and a stronger prohibition than ever given to his
visits.



CHAPTER III.


Lord Elmwood had now allowed Rushbrook a long vacation, in respect to
his answer upon the subject of marriage; and the young man vainly
imagined, his intentions upon that subject were entirely given up. One
morning, however, as he was attending him in the library,

“Henry,”——said his uncle, with a pause at the beginning of his speech,
which indicated that he was going to say something of importance,
“Henry——you have not forgot the discourse I had with you a little time
previous to your illness?”

Henry hesitated—for he wished to have forgotten it—but it was too
strongly impressed upon his memory. Lord Elmwood resumed,

“What! equivocating again, Sir? Do you remember it, or do you not?”

“Yes, my Lord, I do.”

“And are you prepared to give me an answer?”

Rushbrook paused again.

“In our former conversation,” continued the Earl, “I gave you but a
week to determine—there has, I think, elapsed since that time, half a
year.”

“About as much, Sir.”

“Then surely you have now made up your mind?”

“I had done that at first, my Lord—if it had met with your
concurrence.”

“You wished to lead a bachelor’s life, I think you said?”

Rushbrook bowed.

“Contrary to my will?”

“No, my Lord, I wished to have your approbation.”

“And you wished for my approbation of the very opposite thing to that I
proposed? But I am not surprised—such is the gratitude of the world—and
such is yours.”

“My Lord, if you doubt my gratitude——”

“Give me a proof of it, Harry, and I will doubt no longer.”

“Upon every other subject but this, my Lord, Heaven is my witness your
happiness——”

Lord Elmwood interrupted him. “I understand you—upon every other
subject, but the only one, my content requires, you are ready to obey
me. I thank you.”

“My Lord, do not torture me with this suspicion; it is so contrary to
my deserts, that I cannot bear it.”

“Suspicion of your ingratitude!—you judge too favourably of my
opinion—it amounts to certainty.”

“Then to convince you, Sir, I am not ungrateful, tell me who the Lady
is you have chosen for me, and here I give you my word, I will
sacrifice all my future prospects of happiness—all, for which I would
wish to live—and become her husband as soon as you shall appoint.”

This was spoken with a tone so expressive of despair, that Lord Elmwood
replied,

“And while you obey me, you take care to let me know, it will cost you
your future peace. This is, I suppose, to enhance the merit of the
obligation—but I shall not accept your acquiescence on these terms.”

“Then in dispensing with it, I hope for your pardon.”

“Do you suppose, Rushbrook, I can pardon an offence, the sole
foundation of which, arises from a spirit of disobedience?—for you have
declared to me your affections are disengaged. In our last conversation
did you not say so?”

“At first I did, my Lord—but you permitted me to consult my heart more
closely; and I have since found that I was mistaken.”

“You then own you at first told me a falsehood, and yet have all this
time, kept me in suspense without confessing it.”

“I waited, my Lord, till you should enquire——”

“You have then, Sir, waited too long;” and the fire flashed from his
eyes.

Rushbrook now found himself in that perilous state, that admitted of no
medium of resentment, but by such dastardly conduct on his part, as
would wound both his truth and courage; and thus, animated by his
danger, he was resolved to plunge boldly at once into the depth of his
patron’s anger.

“My Lord,” said he, (but he did not undertake this task without
sustaining the trembling and convulsion of his whole frame) “My
Lord—waving for a moment the subject of my marriage—permit me to remind
you, that when I was upon my sick bed, you promised, that on my
recovery, you would listen to a petition I should offer to you.”

“Let me recollect,” replied he. “Yes—I do remember something of it. But
I said nothing to warrant any improper petition.”

“Its impropriety was not named, my Lord.”

“No matter—that, you must judge of, and answer for the consequences.”

“I would answer with my life, willingly—but I own that I shrink from
your anger.”

“Then do not provoke it.”

“I have already gone too far to recede—and you would of course demand
an explanation, if I attempted to stop here.”

“I should.”

“Then, my Lord, I am bound to speak—but do not interrupt me—hear me
out, before you banish me from your presence for ever.”

“I will, Sir,” replied he, prepared to hear something that would
displease him, and yet determined to hear with patience to the
conclusion.

“Then, my Lord,”—(cried Rushbrook, in the greatest agitation of mind
and body) “Your daughter”——

The resolution Lord Elmwood had taken (and on which he had given his
word to his nephew not to interrupt him) immediately gave way. The
colour rose in his face—his eye darted lightning—and his hand was
lifted up with the emotion, that word had created.

“You promised to hear me, my Lord!” cried Rushbrook, “and I claim your
promise.”

He now suddenly overcame his violence of passion, and stood silent and
resigned to hear him; but with a determined look, expressive of the
vengeance that should ensue.

“Lady Matilda,” resumed Rushbrook, “is an object that wrests from me
the enjoyment of every blessing your kindness bestows. I cannot but
feel myself as her adversary—as one, who has supplanted her in your
affections—who supplies her place, while she is exiled, a wanderer, and
an orphan.”

The Earl took his eyes from Rushbrook, during this last sentence, and
cast them on the floor.

“If I feel gratitude towards you, my Lord,” continued he, “gratitude is
innate in my heart, and I must also feel it towards her, who first
introduced me to your protection.”

Again the colour flew to Lord Elmwood’s face; and again he could hardly
restrain himself from uttering his indignation.

“It was the mother of Lady Matilda,” continued Rushbrook, “who was this
friend to me; nor will I ever think of marriage, or any other joyful
prospect, while you abandon the only child of my beloved patroness, and
load me with rights, which belong to her.”

Here Rushbrook stopped—Lord Elmwood was silent too, for near half a
minute; but still his countenance continued fixed, with his unvaried
resolves.

After this long pause, the Earl said with composure, but with firmness,
“Have you finished, Mr. Rushbrook?”

“All that I dare to utter, my Lord; and I fear, I have already said too
much.”

Rushbrook now trembled more than ever, and looked pale as death; for
the ardour of speaking being over, he waited his sentence, with less
constancy of mind than he expected he should.

“You disapprove my conduct, it seems;” said Lord Elmwood, “and in that,
you are but like the rest of the world—and yet, among all my
acquaintance, you are the only one who has dared to insult me with your
opinion. And this you have not done inadvertently; but willingly, and
deliberately. But as it has been my fate to be used ill, and severed
from all those persons to whom my soul has been most attached; with
less regret I can part from you, than if this were my first trial.”

There was a truth and a pathetic sound in the utterance of these words,
that struck Rushbrook to the heart—and he beheld himself as a
barbarian, who had treated his benevolent and only friend, with
insufferable liberty; void of respect for those corroding sorrows which
had imbittered so many years of his life, and in open violation of his
most peremptory commands. He felt that he deserved all he was going to
suffer, and he fell upon his knees; not so much to deprecate the doom
he saw impending, as thus humbly to acknowledge, it was his due.

Lord Elmwood, irritated by this posture, as a sign of the presumptuous
hope that he might be forgiven, suffered now his anger to burst all
bounds; and raising his voice, he exclaimed in a rage,

“Leave my house, Sir. Leave my house instantly, and seek some other
home.”

Just as these words were begun, Sandford opened the library door, was
witness to them, and to the imploring situation of Rushbrook. He stood
silent with amazement!

Rushbrook arose, and feeling in his mind a presage, that he might never
from that hour, behold his benefactor more; as he bowed in token of
obedience to his commands, a shower of tears covered his face; but Lord
Elmwood, unmoved, fixed his eyes upon him, which pursued him with
enraged looks to the end of the room. Here he had to pass Sandford;
who, for the first time in his life, took hold of him by the hand, and
said to Lord Elmwood, “My Lord, what’s the matter?”

“That ungrateful villain,” cried he, “has dared to insult me.—Leave my
house this moment, Sir.”

Rushbrook made an effort to go, but Sandford still held his hand; and
meekly said to Lord Elmwood,

“He is but a boy, my Lord, and do not give him the punishment of a
man.”

Rushbrook now snatched his hand from Sandford’s, and threw it with
himself upon his neck; where he indeed sobbed like a boy.

“You are both in league,” exclaimed Lord Elmwood.

“Do you suspect me of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook?” said Sandford,
advancing nearer to the Earl.

Rushbrook had now gained the point of remaining in the room; but the
hope that privilege inspired (while he still harboured all the just
apprehensions for his fate) gave birth, perhaps, to a more exquisite
sensation of pain, than despair would have done. He stood
silent—confounded—hoping that he was forgiven—fearing that he was not.

As Sandford approached still nearer to Lord Elmwood, he continued, “No,
my Lord, I know you do not suspect me, of partiality to Mr.
Rushbrook—has any part of my behaviour ever discovered it?”

“You now then only interfere to provoke me.”

“If that were the case,” returned Sandford, “there have been occasions,
when I might have done it more effectually—when my own heart-strings
were breaking, because I would not provoke, or add to what you
suffered.”

“I am obliged to you, Mr. Sandford:” he returned, mildly.

“And if, my Lord, I have proved any merit in a late forbearance, reward
me for it now; and take this young man from the depth of despair in
which I see he is sunk, and say you pardon him.”

Lord Elmwood made no answer—and Rushbrook, drawing strong inferences of
hope from his silence, lifted up his eyes from the ground, and ventured
to look in his face: he found it composed to what it had been, but
still strongly marked with agitation. He cast his eyes away again, in
confusion.

On which his uncle said to him—“I shall postpone executing your
obedience to my late orders, till you think fit once more to provoke
them—and then, not even Sandford, shall dare to plead your excuse.”

Rushbrook bowed.

“Go, leave the room, Sir.”

He instantly obeyed.

Then Sandford, turning to Lord Elmwood, shook him by the hand, and
cried, “My Lord, I thank you—I thank you very kindly, my Lord—I shall
now begin to think I have some weight with you.”

“You might indeed think so, did you know how much I have pardoned.”

“What was his offence, my Lord?”

“Such as I would not have forgiven you, or any earthly being besides
himself—but while you were speaking in his behalf, I recollected there
was a gratitude so extraordinary in the hazards he ran, that almost
made him pardonable.”

“I guess the subject then,” cried Sandford; and yet I could not have
supposed”——

“It is a subject we cannot speak on, Sandford, therefore let us drop
it.”

At these words the discourse concluded.



CHAPTER IV.


To the relief of Rushbrook, Lord Elmwood that day dined from home, and
he had not the confusion to see him again till the evening. Previous to
this, Sandford and he met at dinner; but as the attendants were
present, nothing passed on either side respecting the incident in the
morning. Rushbrook, from the peril which had so lately threatened him,
was now in his perfectly cool, and dispassionate senses; and
notwithstanding the real tenderness which he bore to the daughter of
his benefactor, he was not insensible to the comfort of finding
himself, once more in the possession of all those enjoyments he had
forfeited, and for a moment lost.

As he reflected on this, to Sandford he felt the first tie of
acknowledgement—but for his compassion, he knew he should have been at
that very time of their meeting at dinner, away from Elmwood House for
ever; and bearing on his mind a still more painful recollection, the
burthen of his kind patron’s continual displeasure. Filled with these
thoughts, all the time of dinner, he could scarce look at his
companion, without tears of gratitude; and whenever he attempted to
speak to him, gratitude choaked his utterance.

Sandford, on his part, behaved just the same as ever; and to show he
did not wish to remind Rushbrook of what he had done, he was just as
uncivil as ever.

Among other things, he said, “He did not know Lord Elmwood dined from
home, for if he had, he should have dined in his own apartment.”

Rushbrook was still more obliged to him for all this; and the weight of
obligations with which he was oppressed, made him long for an
opportunity to relieve himself by expressions. As soon, therefore, as
the servants were all withdrawn, he began:

“Mr. Sandford, whatever has been your opinion of _me_, I take pride to
myself, that in my sentiments towards _you_, I have always
distinguished you for that humane, disinterested character, you have
this day proved.”

“Humane, and disinterested,” replied Sandford, “are flattering epithets
indeed, for an old man going out of the world, and who can have no
temptation to be otherwise.”

“Then suffer me to call your actions generous and compassionate, for
they have saved me——”

“I know, young man,” cried Sandford, interrupting him, “you are glad at
what I have done, and that you find a gratification in telling me you
are; but it is a gratification I will not indulge you with—therefore,
say another sentence on the subject, and” (rising from his seat) “I’ll
leave the room, and never come into your company again, whatever your
uncle may say to it.”

Rushbrook saw by the solemnity of his countenance, he was serious, and
positively assured him he would never thank him more: on which Sandford
took his seat again, but he still frowned, and it was many minutes
before he conquered his ill humour. As his countenance became less
sour, Rushbrook fell from some general topics he had eagerly started in
order to appease him, and said,

“How hard is it to restrain conversation from the subject of our
thoughts; and yet amidst our dearest friends, and among persons who
have the same dispositions and sentiments as our own, their minds, too,
fixed upon the self-same objects, is this constraint practised—and
thus, society, which was meant for one of our greatest blessings,
becomes insipid, nay, often more wearisome than solitude.”

“I think, young man,” replied Sandford, “you have made pretty free with
your speech to-day, and ought not to complain of the want of toleration
on that score.”

“I do complain;” replied Rushbrook, “for if toleration was more
frequent, the favour of obtaining it would be less.”

“And your pride, I suppose, is above receiving a favour.”

“Never from those I esteem; and to convince you of it, I wish this
moment to request a favour of you.”

“I dare say I shall refuse it. However what is it?”

“Permit me to speak to you upon the subject of Lady Matilda?”

Sandford made no answer, consequently did not forbid him—and he
proceeded.

“For her sake—as I suppose Lord Elmwood may have told you—I this
morning rashly threw myself into the predicament from whence you
released me—for her sake, I have suffered much—for her sake I have
hazarded a great deal, and am still ready to hazard more.”

“But for your own sake, do not,” returned Sandford, drily.

“You may laugh at these sentiments as romantic, Mr. Sandford, but if
they are, to me they are nevertheless natural.”

“But of what service are they to be either to her, or to yourself?”

“To me they are painful, and to her would be but impertinent, were she
to know them.”

“I shan’t inform her of them, so do not trouble yourself to caution me
against it.”

“I was not going—you know I was not—but I was going to say, that from
no one so well as from you, could she be told my sentiments, without
the danger of receiving offence.”

“And what impression do you wish to give her, from her becoming
acquainted with them?”

“The impression, that she has one sincere friend: that upon every
occurrence in life, there is a heart so devoted to all she feels, that
she never can suffer without the sympathy of another: or can ever
command him, and all his fortunes to unite for her welfare, without his
ready, his immediate compliance.”

“And do you imagine, that any of your professions, or any of her
necessities, would ever prevail upon her to put you to the trial?”

“Perhaps not.”

“What, then, are the motives which induce you to wish her to be told of
this?”

Rushbrook paused.

“Do you think,” continued Sandford, “the intelligence will give her any
satisfaction?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Will it be of any to yourself?”

“The highest in the world.”

“And so all you have been urging upon this occasion, is, at last, only
to please yourself.”

“You wrong my meaning—it is her merit which inspires me with the desire
of being known to her—it is her sufferings, her innocence, her
beauty——”

Sandford stared—Rushbrook proceeded: “It is her——”

“Nay, stop where you are,” cried Sandford; “you are arrived at the
zenith of perfection in a woman, and to add one qualification more,
would be an anti-climax.”

“Oh!” cried Rushbrook with warmth, “I loved her, before I ever beheld
her.”

“Loved her!” cried Sandford, with astonishment, “You are talking of
what you did not intend.”

“I am, indeed:” returned he in confusion, “I fell by accident on the
word love.”

“And by the same accident stumbled on the word beauty; and thus by
accident, am I come to the truth of all your professions.”

Rushbrook knew that he loved; and though his affection had sprung from
the most laudable motives, yet was he ashamed of it, as of a vice—he
rose, he walked about the room, and he did not look Sandford in the
face for a quarter of an hour: Sandford, satisfied that he had judged
rightly, and yet unwilling to be too hard upon a passion, which he
readily believed must have had many noble virtues for its foundation,
now got up and went away, without saying a word in censure, though not
a word in approbation.

It was in the month of October, and just dark, at the time Rushbrook
was left alone, yet in the agitation of his mind, arising from the
subject on which he had been talking, he found it impossible to remain
in the house, and therefore walked into the fields; but there was
another instigation, more powerful than the necessity of walking—it was
the allurement of passing along that path where he had last seen Lady
Matilda, and where, for the only time, she had condescended to speak to
him divested of haughtiness; and with a gentleness that dwelt upon his
memory beyond all her other endowments.

Here, he retraced his own steps repeatedly, his whole imagination
engrossed with her idea, till the sound of her father’s carriage
returning from his visit, roused him from the delusion of his trance,
to the dread of the confusion and embarrassment he should endure, on
next meeting him. He hoped Sandford might be present, and yet he was
now, almost as much ashamed of seeing him, as his uncle, whom he had so
lately offended.

Loath to leave the spot where he was, as to enter the house, he
remained there, till he considered it would be ill manners, in his
present humiliated situation, not to show himself at the usual supper
hour, which was immediately.

As he laid his hand upon the door of the apartment to open it, he was
sorry to hear by Lord Elmwood’s voice, he was in the room before him;
for there was something much more conspicuously distressing, in
entering where he already was, than had his uncle come in after him. He
found himself, however, re-assured, by overhearing the Earl laugh and
speak in a tone expressive of the utmost good humour to Sandford, who
was with him.

Yet again, he felt all the awkwardness of his own situation; but making
one courageous effort, opened the door and entered. Lord Elmwood had
been away half the day, had dined abroad, and it was necessary to take
some notice of his return; Rushbrook, therefore, bowed humbly, and what
was more to his advantage, he looked humbly. His uncle made a slight
return to the salutation, but continued the recital he had begun to
Sandford; then sat down to the supper table—supped—and passed the whole
evening without saying a syllable, or even casting a look, in
remembrance of what had passed in the morning. Or if there was any
token, that shewed he remembered the circumstance at all, it was the
putting his glass to his nephew’s, when Rushbrook called for wine, and
drinking at the time he did.



CHAPTER V.


The repulse Lord Margrave received, did not diminish the ardour of his
pursuit; for as he was no longer afraid of resentment from the Earl,
whatever treatment his daughter might receive, he was determined the
anger of Lady Matilda, or of her female friend, should not impede his
pretensions.

Having taken this resolution, he laid the plan of an open violation of
all right; and determined to bear away that prize by force, which no
art was likely to procure. He concerted with two of his favourite
companions, but their advice was, “One struggle more of fair means.”
This was totally against his inclination; for, he had much rather have
encountered the piercing cries of a female in the last agonies of
distress, than the fatigue of her sentimental harangues, or elegant
reproofs, such as he had the sense to understand, but not the capacity
to answer.

Stimulated, however, by his friends to one more trial, in spite of the
formal dismission he had twice received, he intruded another visit on
Lady Matilda at the Farm. Provoked beyond bearing at such unfeeling
assurance, Matilda refused to come into the room where he was, and Miss
Woodley alone received him, and expressed her surprise at the little
attention he had paid to her explicit desire.

“Madam,” replied the nobleman, “to be plain with you, I am in love.”

“I do not the least doubt it, my Lord,” replied Miss Woodley: “nor
ought you to doubt the truth of what I advance, when I assure you, that
you have not the smallest reason to hope your love will be returned;
for Lady Matilda is resolved _never_ to listen to your passion.”

“That man,” he replied, “is to blame, who can relinquish his hopes,
upon the mere resolution of a lady.”

“And that lady would be wrong,” replied Miss Woodley, “who should
entrust her happiness in the care of a man, who can think thus meanly
of her and of her sex.”

“I think highly of them all,” he replied; “and to convince you in how
high an estimation I hold _her_ in particular, my whole fortune is at
her command.”

“Your entire absence from this house, my Lord, she would consider as a
much greater mark of your respect.”

A long conversation, as uninteresting as this, ensued: the unexpected
arrival of Mr. Sandford, put an end to it. He started at the sight of
Lord Margrave; but the Viscount was much more affected at the sight of
him.

“My Lord,” said Sandford boldly to him, “have you received any
encouragement from Lady Matilda to authorize this visit?”

“None, upon my honour, Mr. Sandford; but I hope you know how to pardon
a lover!”

“A rational one I do—but you, my Lord, are not of that class while you
persecute the pretended object of your affection.”

“Do you call it persecution that I once offered her a share of my title
and fortune—and even now, declare my fortune is at her disposal?”

Sandford was uncertain whether he understood his meaning—but Lord
Margrave, provoked at his ill reception, felt a triumph in removing his
doubts, and proceeded thus:

“For the discarded daughter of Lord Elmwood, cannot expect the same
proposals, which I made, while she was acknowledged, and under the
protection of her father.”

“What proposals then, my Lord?” asked Sandford hastily.

“Such,” replied he, “as the Duke of Avon made to her mother.”

Miss Woodley quitted the room that instant. But Sandford, who never
felt resentment but against those in whom he saw some virtue, calmly
replied,

“My Lord, the Duke of Avon was a gentleman, a man of elegance and
breeding; and what have you to offer in recompense for your defects in
qualities like these?”

“My wealth,” replied he, “opposed to her indigence.” Sandford smiled,
and answered,

“Do you suppose _that_ wealth can be esteemed, which has not been able
to make you respectable? What is it makes wealth valuable? Is it the
pleasures of the table? the pleasure of living in a fine house? or of
wearing fine cloaths? These are pleasures, a Lord enjoys, but in common
with his valet. It is the pleasure of being conspicuous, which makes
riches desirable; but if we are conspicuous only for our vice and
folly, had we not better remain in poverty?”

“You are beneath my notice.”

“I trust I shall continue so—and that your Lordship will never again
condescend to come where I am.”

“A man of rank condescends to mix with any society, when a pretty woman
is the object.”

“My Lord, I have a book here in my pocket, which I am eager to read; it
is an author who speaks sense and reason—will you pardon the impatience
I feel for such company; and permit me to call your carriage?”

Saying this, he went hastily and beckoned to the coachman; the carriage
drove up, the door was opened, and Lord Margrave, ashamed to be exposed
before his attendants, and convinced of the inutility of remaining any
longer where he was, departed.

Sandford was soon joined by the ladies; and the conversation falling,
of course, upon the nobleman who had just taken his leave, Sandford
unwarily exclaimed, “I wish Rushbrook had been here.”

“Who?” cried Lady Matilda.

“I do believe,” said Miss Woodley, “that young man has some good
qualities.”

“A great many,” returned Sandford, mutteringly.

“Happy young man!” cried Matilda: “he is beloved by all those, whose
affection it would be my choice to possess, beyond any other blessing
this world could bestow.”

“And yet I question, if Rushbrook is happy,” said Sandford.

“He cannot be otherwise,” returned Matilda, “if he is a man of
understanding.”

“He does not want understanding neither,” replied Sandford; “although
he has certainly many indiscretions.”

“But which Lord Elmwood, I suppose,” said Matilda, “looks upon with
tenderness.”

“Not upon all his faults,” answered Sandford; “for I have seen him in
very dangerous circumstances with your father.”

“Have you indeed?” cried Matilda: “then I pity him.”

“And I believe,” said Miss Woodley, “that from his heart, he
compassionates you. Now, Mr. Sandford,” continued she, “though this is
the first time I ever heard you speak in his favour, (and I once
thought as indifferently of Mr. Rushbrook as you can do) yet now I will
venture to ask you, whether you do not think he wishes Lady Matilda
much happier than she is?”

“I have heard him say so,” answered Sandford.

“It is a subject,” returned Lady Matilda, “which I did not imagine you,
Mr. Sandford, would have permitted him to have mentioned lightly, in
your presence.”

“Lightly! Do you suppose, my dear, we turned your situation into
ridicule?”

“No, Sir,—but there is a sort of humiliation in the grief to which I am
doomed, that ought surely to be treated with the highest degree of
delicacy by my friends.”

“I don’t know on what point you fix real delicacy; but if it consists
in sorrow, the young man gives a proof he possesses it, for he shed
tears when I last heard him mention your name.”

“I have more cause to weep at the mention of his.”

“Perhaps so.—But let me tell you, Lady Matilda, that your father might
have preferred a more unworthy object.”

“Still had he been to me,” she cried, “an object of envy. And as I
frankly confess my envy of Mr. Rushbrook, I hope you will pardon my
malice, which is, you know, but a consequent crime.”

The subject now turned again upon Lord Margrave; and all of them being
firmly persuaded, this last reception would put an end to every further
intrusion from him, they treated his pretensions, and himself, with the
contempt they inspired—but not with the caution that was requisite.



CHAPTER VI.


The next morning early, Mr. Sandford returned to Elmwood House, but
with his spirits depressed, and his heart overcharged with sorrow. He
had seen Lady Matilda, the object of his visit, but he had beheld her
considerably altered in her looks and in her health; she was become
very thin, and instead of the vivid bloom that used to adorn her
cheeks, her whole complexion was of a deadly pale—her countenance no
longer expressed hope or fear, but a fixed melancholy—she shed no
tears, but was all sadness. He had beheld this, and he had heard her
insulted by the licentious proposals of a nobleman, from whom there was
no satisfaction to be demanded, because she had no friend to vindicate
her honour.

Rushbrook, who suspected where Sandford was gone, and imagined he would
return that day, took his morning’s ride, so as to meet him on the
road, at the distance of a few miles from the Castle; for, since his
perilous situation with Lord Elmwood, he was so fully convinced of the
general philanthropy of Sandford’s character, that in spite of his
churlish manners, he now addressed him, free from that reserve to which
his rough behaviour had formerly given birth. And Sandford, on his
part, believing he had formed an illiberal opinion of Lord Elmwood’s
heir, though he took no pains to let him know that his opinion was
changed, yet resolved to make him restitution upon every occasion that
offered.

Their mutual greetings when they met, were unceremonious, but cordial;
and Rushbrook turned his horse and rode back with Sandford; yet,
intimidated by his respect and tenderness for Lady Matilda, rather than
by fear of the rebuffs of his companion, he had not the courage to name
her, till the ride was just finished, and they came within a few yards
of the house—incited then by the apprehension, he might not soon again
enjoy so fit an opportunity, he said,

“Pardon me, Mr. Sandford, if I guess where you have been, and if my
curiosity forces me to inquire for Miss Woodley’s and Lady Matilda’s
health?”

He named Miss Woodley first, to prolong the time before he mentioned
Matilda; for though to name her gave him extreme pleasure, yet it was a
pleasure accompanied by confusion and pain.

“They are both very well,” replied Sandford, “at least they did not
complain they were sick.”

“They are not in spirits, I suppose?” said Rushbrook.

“No, indeed:” replied Sandford, shaking his head.

“No new misfortune has happened, I hope?” cried Rushbrook; for it was
plain to see Sandford’s spirits were unusually cast down.

“Nothing new,” returned he, “except the insolence of a young nobleman.”

“What nobleman?” cried Rushbrook.

“A lover of Lady Matilda’s,” replied Sandford.

Rushbrook was petrified. “Who? What lover, Mr. Sandford?—explain?”

They were now arrived at the house; and Sandford, without making any
reply to this question, said to the servant who took his horse, “She
has come a long way this morning; take care of her.”

This interruption was torture to Rushbrook, who kept close to his side,
in order to obtain a further explanation; but Sandford, without
attending to him, walked negligently into the hall, and before they
advanced many steps, they were met by Lord Elmwood.

All further information was put an end to for the present.

“How do you do, Sandford?” said Lord Elmwood with extreme kindness; as
if he thanked him for the journey which, it was likely, he suspected he
had been taking.

“I am indifferently well, my Lord:” replied he, with a face of deep
concern, and a tear in his eye, partly in gratitude for his patron’s
civility, and partly in reproach for his cruelty.

It was not now till the evening, that Rushbrook had an opportunity of
renewing the conversation, which had been so barbarously interrupted.

In the evening, no longer able to support the suspense into which he
was thrown; without fear or shame, he followed Sandford into his
chamber at the time of his retiring, and entreated of him, with all the
anxiety he suffered, to explain his allusion when he talked of a lover,
and of insolence to Lady Matilda.

Sandford, seeing his emotion, was angry with himself that he had
inadvertently mentioned the subject; and putting on an air of surly
importance, desired,—if he had any business with him, that he would
call in the morning.

Exasperated at so unexpected a reception, and at the pain of his
disappointment, Rushbrook replied, “He treated him cruelly, nor would
he stir out of his room, till he had received a satisfactory answer to
his question.”

“Then bring your bed,” replied Sandford, “for you must pass your whole
night here.”

He found it vain to think of obtaining any intelligence by threats, he
therefore said in a timid and persuasive manner,

“Did you, Mr. Sandford, hear Lady Matilda mention my name?”

“Yes,” replied Sandford, a little better reconciled to him.

“Did you tell her what I lately declared to you?” he asked with still
more diffidence.

“No,” replied Sandford.

“It is very well, Sir,” returned he, vexed to the heart—yet again
wishing to sooth him—

“You certainly, Mr. Sandford, know what is for the best—yet I entreat
you will give me some further account of the nobleman you named?”

“I know what is for the best,” replied Sandford, “and I won’t.”

Rushbrook bowed, and immediately left the room. He went apparently
submissive, but the moment he showed this submission, he took the
resolution of paying a visit himself to the farm at which Lady Matilda
resided; and of learning, either from Miss Woodley, the people of the
house, the neighbours, or perhaps from Lady Matilda’s own lips, the
secret which the obstinacy of Sandford had with-held.

He saw all the dangers of this undertaking, but none appeared so great
as the danger of losing her he loved, by the influence of a rival—and
though Sandford had named “insolence,” he was in doubt whether what had
appeared so to him, was so in reality, or would be so considered by
her.

To prevent the cause of his absence being suspected by Lord Elmwood, he
immediately called his groom, ordered his horse, and giving those
servants concerned, a strict charge of secrecy, with some frivolous
pretence to apologize for his not being present at breakfast (resolving
to be back by dinner) he set off that night, and arrived at an inn
about a mile from the farm at break of day.

The joy he felt when he found himself so near to the beloved object of
his journey, made him thank Sandford in his heart, for the unkindness
which had sent him thither. But new difficulties arose, how to
accomplish the end for which he came; he learned from the people of the
inn, that a Lord, with a fine equipage, had visited at the farm, but
who he was, or for what purpose he went, no one could inform him.

Dreading to return with his doubts unsatisfied, and yet afraid of
proceeding to extremities that might be construed into presumption, he
walked disconsolately (almost distractedly) about the fields, looking
repeatedly at his watch, and wishing the time would stand still, till
he was ready to go back with his errand compleated.

Every field he passed, brought him nearer to the house on which his
imagination was fixed; but how, without forfeiting every appearance of
that respect which he so powerfully felt, could he attempt to enter
it?—he saw the indecorum, resolved not to be guilty of it, and yet
walked on till he was within but a small orchard of the door. Could he
then retreat?—he wished he could; but he found that he had proceeded
too far to be any longer master of himself. The time was urgent; he
must either behold her, and venture her displeasure, or by diffidence
during one moment, give up all his hopes perhaps for ever.

With that same disregard to consequences, which actuated him when he
dared to supplicate Lord Elmwood in his daughter’s behalf, he at length
went eagerly to the door and rapped.

A servant came—he asked to “Speak with Miss Woodley, if she was quite
alone.”

He was shown into an apartment, and Miss Woodley entered to him.

She started when she beheld who it was; but as he did not see a frown
upon her face, he caught hold of her hand, and said persuasively,

“Do not be offended with me. If I mean to offend you, may I forfeit my
life in atonement.”

Poor Miss Woodley, glad in her solitude to see any one from Elmwood
House, forgot his visit was an offence, till he put her in mind of it;
she then said, with some reserve,

“Tell me the purport of your coming, Sir, and perhaps I may have no
reason to complain?”

“It was to see Lady Matilda,” he replied, “or to hear of her health. It
was to offer her my services—it was, Miss Woodley, to convince her, if
possible, of my esteem.”

“Had you no other method, Sir?” said Miss Woodley, with the same
reserve.

“None;” replied he, “or with joy I should have embraced it; and if you
can inform me of any other, tell me I beseech you instantly, and I will
immediately be gone, and pursue your directions.”

Miss Woodley hesitated.

“You know of no other means, Miss Woodley,” he cried.

“And yet I cannot commend this,” said she.

“Nor do I. Do not imagine because you see me here, that I approve my
conduct; but reduced to this necessity, pity the motives that have
urged it.”

Miss Woodley did pity them; but as she would not own that she did, she
could think of nothing else to say.

At this instant a bell rung from the chamber above.

“That is Lady Matilda’s bell,” said Miss Woodley; “she is coming to
take a short walk. Do you wish to see her?”

Though it was the first wish of his heart, he paused, and said, “Will
you plead my excuse?”

As the flight of stairs was but short, which Matilda had to come down,
she was in the room with Miss Woodley and Mr. Rushbrook, just as that
sentence ended.

She had stepped beyond the door of the apartment, when perceiving a
visitor, she hastily withdrew.

Rushbrook, animated, though trembling at her presence, cried, “Lady
Matilda, do not avoid me, till you know that I deserve such a
punishment.”

She immediately saw who it was, and returned back with a proper pride,
and yet a proper politeness in her manner.

“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said she, “I did not know you; I was afraid I
intruded upon Miss Woodley and a stranger.”

“You do not then consider me as a stranger, Lady Matilda? and that you
do not, requires my warmest acknowledgements.”

She sat down, as if overcome by ill spirits and ill health.

Miss Woodley now asked Rushbrook to sit—for till now she had not.

“No, Madam,” replied he, with confusion, “not unless Lady Matilda gives
me permission.”

She smiled, and pointed to a chair—and all the kindness which Rushbrook
during his whole life had received from Lord Elmwood, never inspired
half the gratitude, which this one instance of civility from his
daughter excited.

He sat down, with the confession of the obligation upon every feature
of his face.

“I am not well, Mr. Rushbrook,” said Matilda, languidly; “and you must
excuse any want of etiquette at this house.”

“While you excuse me, Madam, what can I have to complain of?”

She appeared absent while he was speaking, and turning to Miss Woodley,
said, “Do you think I had better walk to-day?”

“No, my dear,” answered Miss Woodley; “the ground is damp, and the air
cold.”

“You are not well, indeed, Lady Matilda,” said Rushbrook, gazing upon
her with the most tender respect.

She shook her head; and the tears, without any effort either to impel
or to restrain them, ran down her face.

Rushbrook rose from his seat, and with an accent and manner the most
expressive, said, “We are cousins, Lady Matilda—in our infancy we were
brought up together—we were beloved by the same mother—fostered by the
same father”——

“Oh!” cried she, interrupting him, with a tone which indicated the
bitterest anguish.

“Nay, do not let me add to your uneasiness,” he resumed, “while I am
attempting to alleviate it. Instruct me what I can do to show my esteem
and respect, rather than permit me thus unguided, to rush upon what you
may construe into insult and arrogance.”

Miss Woodley went to Matilda, took her hand, then wiped the tears from
her eyes, while Matilda reclined against her, entirely regardless of
Rushbrook’s presence.

“If I have been in the least instrumental to this sorrow,”—said
Rushbrook, with a face as much agitated as his mind.

“No,” said Miss Woodley, in a low voice, “you have not—she is often
thus.”

“Yes,” said Matilda, raising her head, “I am frequently so weak that I
cannot resist the smallest incitement to grief. But do not make your
visit long, Mr. Rushbrook,” she continued, “for I was just then
thinking, that should Lord Elmwood hear of this attention you have paid
me, it might be fatal to you.” Here she wept again, as bitterly as
before.

“There is no probability of his hearing of it, Madam,” Rushbrook
replied; “or if there was, I am persuaded that he would not resent it;
for yesterday, when I am confident he knew that Mr. Sandford had been
to see you, he received him on his return, with unusual marks of
kindness.”

“Did he?” said she—and again she lifted up her head; her eyes for a
moment beaming with hope and joy.

“There is something which we cannot yet define,” said Rushbrook, “that
Lord Elmwood struggles with; but when time shall have eradicated”——

Before he could proceed further, Matilda was once more sunk into
despondency, and scarce attended to what he was saying.

Miss Woodley observing this, said, “Mr. Rushbrook, let it be a token we
shall be glad to see you hereafter, that I now use the freedom to beg
you will put an end to your visit.”

“You send me away, Madam,” returned he, “with the warmest thanks for
the reception you have give me; and this last assurance of your
kindness, is beyond any other favour you could have bestowed. Lady
Matilda,” added he, “suffer me to take your hand at parting, and let it
be a testimony that you acknowledge me for a relation.”

She put out her hand—which he knelt to receive, but did not raise it to
his lips—he held the boon too sacred—and looking earnestly upon it, as
it lay pale and wan in his, he breathed one sigh over it, and withdrew.



CHAPTER VII.


Sorrowful and affecting as this interview had been, Rushbrook, as he
rode home, reflected upon it with the most inordinate delight; and had
he not seen decline of health, in the looks and behaviour of Lady
Matilda, his felicity had been unbounded. Entranced in the happiness of
her society, the thought of his rival never came once to his mind while
he was with her; a want of recollection, however, he by no means
regretted, as her whole appearance contradicted every suspicion he
could possibly entertain, that she favoured the addresses of any man
living—and had he remembered, he would not have dared to name the
subject.

The time ran so swiftly while he was away, that it was beyond the
dinner hour at Elmwood House, when he returned. Heated, his dress and
his hair disordered, he entered the dining room just as the dessert was
put upon the table. He was confounded at his own appearance, and at the
falsehoods he should be obliged to fabricate in his excuse: there was
yet, that which engaged his attention, beyond any circumstance relating
to himself—the features of Lord Elmwood—of which his daughter’s, whom
he had just beheld, had the most striking resemblance; though her’s
were softened by sorrow, while his were made austere by the self-same
cause.

“Where have you been?” said his uncle, with a frown.

“A hers chase, my Lord—I beg your pardon—but a pack of dogs I
unexpectedly met.” For in the hacknied art of lying without injury to
any one, Rushbrook, to his shame, was proficient.

His excuses were received, and the subject ceased.

During his absence that day, Lord Elmwood had called Sandford apart,
and said to him,—that as the malevolence which he once observed between
him and Rushbrook, had, he perceived, subsided, he advised him, if he
was a well-wisher to the young man, to sound his heart, and counsel him
not to act against the will of his nearest relation and friend. “I
myself am too hasty,” continued Lord Elmwood, “and, unhappily, too much
determined upon what I have once (though, perhaps, rashly) said, to
speak upon a topic where it is probable I shall meet with opposition.
You, Sandford, can reason with moderation. For after all that I have
done for my nephew, it would be a pity to forsake him at last; and yet,
that is but too likely, if he provokes me.”

“Sir,” replied Sandford, “I will speak to him.”

“Yet,” added Lord Elmwood, sternly, “do not urge what you say for my
sake, but for his—I can part from him with ease—but he may then repent,
and, you know, repentance always comes too late with me.”

“My Lord, I will exert all the efforts in my power for his welfare. But
what is the subject on which he has refused to comply with your
desires?”

“Matrimony—have not I told you?”

“Not a word.”

“I wish him to marry, that I may then conclude the deeds in respect to
my estate,—and the only child of Sir William Winterton (a rich heiress)
was the wife I meant to propose; but from his indifference to all I
have said on the occasion, I have not yet mentioned her name to him;
you may.”

“I will, my Lord, and use all my persuasion to engage his obedience;
and you shall have, at least, a faithful account of what he says.”

Sandford the next morning sought an opportunity of being alone with
Rushbrook—he then plainly repeated to him what Lord Elmwood had said,
and saw him listen to it all, and heard him answer with the most
tranquil resolution, “That he would do any thing to preserve the
friendship and patronage of his uncle—but marry.”

“What can be your reason?” asked Sandford—though he guessed.

“A reason, I cannot give to Lord Elmwood.”

“Then do not give it to me, for I have promised to tell him every thing
you say to me.”

“And every thing I _have_ said?” asked Rushbrook hastily.

“As to what you have said, I don’t know whether it has made impression
enough on my memory, to enable me to repeat it.”

“I am glad it has not.”

“And my answer to your uncle, is to be simply, that you will not obey
him?”

“I should hope, Mr. Sandford, that you would express it in better
terms.”

“Tell me the terms, and I will be exact.”

Rushbrook struck his forehead, and walked about the room.

“Am I to give him any reason for your disobeying him?”

“I tell you again, that I dare not name the cause.”

“Then why do you submit to a power you are ashamed to own?”

“I am not ashamed—I glory in it.—Are you ashamed of your esteem for
Lady Matilda?”

“Oh! if she is the cause of your disobedience, be assured I shall not
mention it, for I am forbid to name her.”

“And surely, as that is the case, I need not fear to speak plainly to
you. I love Lady Matilda—or, perhaps, unacquainted with love, what I
feel may be only pity—and if so, pity is the most pleasing passion that
ever possessed a human heart, and I would not change it for all her
father’s estates.”

“Pity, then, gives rise to very different sensations—for I pity you,
and that sensation I would gladly exchange for approbation.”

“If you really feel compassion for me, and I believe you do, contrive
some means by your answers to Lord Elmwood to pacify him, without
involving me in ruin. Hint at my affections being engaged, but not to
whom; and add, that I have given my word, if he will allow me a short
time, a year or two only, I will, during that period, try to disengage
them, and use all my power to render myself worthy of the union for
which he designs me.”

“And this is not only your solemn promise—but your fixed
determination?”

“Nay, why will you search my heart to the bottom, when the surface
ought to content you?”

“If you cannot resolve on what you have proposed, why do you ask this
time of your uncle? For should he allow it you, at the expiration, your
disobedience to his commands will be less pardonable than it is now.”

“Within a year, Mr. Sandford, who can tell what strange events may not
occur, to change all our prospects? Even my passion may decline.”

“In that expectation, then—the failure of which yourself must answer
for—I will repeat as much of this discourse as shall be proper.”

Here Rushbrook communicated his having been to see Lady Matilda, for
which Sandford reproved him, but in less rigorous terms than he
generally used in his reproofs; and Rushbrook, by his entreaties, now
gained the intelligence who the nobleman was who addressed Matilda, and
on what views; but was restrained to patience, by Sandford’s arguments
and threats.

Upon the subject of this marriage, Sandford met his patron, without
having determined exactly what to say, but rested on the temper in
which he should find him.

At the commencement of the conversation he said, “Rushbrook begged for
time.”

“I have given him time, have I not?” cried Lord Elmwood: “What can be
the meaning of his thus trifling with me?”

Sandford replied, “My Lord, young men are frequently romantic in their
notions of love, and think it impossible to have a sincere affection,
where their own inclinations do not first point out the choice.”

“If he is in love,” answered Lord Elmwood, “let him take the object,
and leave my house and me for ever. Nor under this destiny can he have
any claim to pity; for genuine love will make him happy in banishment,
in poverty, or in sickness: it makes the poor man happy as the rich,
the fool blest as the wise.” The sincerity with which Lord Elmwood had
loved, was expressed more than in words, as he said this.

“Your Lordship is talking,” replied Sandford, “of the passion in its
most refined and predominant sense; while I may possibly be speaking of
a mere phantom, that has led this young man astray.”

“Whatever it be,” returned Lord Elmwood, “let him and his friends weigh
the case well, and act for the best—so shall I.”

“His friends, my Lord?—What friends, or what friend has he upon earth
but you?”

“Then why will he not submit to my advice; or himself give me a proper
reason why he cannot?”

“Because there may be friendship without familiarity—and so it is
between him and you.”

“That cannot be; for I have condescended to talk to him in the most
familiar terms.”

“To condescend, my Lord, is _not_ to be familiar.”

“Then come, Sir, let us be on an equal footing through you. And now
speak out _his_ thoughts freely, and hear mine in return.”

“Why, then, he begs a respite for a year or two.”

“On what pretence?”

“To me, it was preference of a single life—but I suspect it is—what he
imagines to be love—and for some object whom he thinks your Lordship
would disapprove.”

“He has not, then, actually confessed this to you?”

“If he has, it was drawn from him by such means, that I am not
warranted to say it in direct words.”

“I have entered into no contract, no agreement on his account with the
friends of the lady I have pointed out,” said Lord Elmwood; “nothing
beyond implications have passed betwixt her family and myself at
present; and if the person on whom he has fixed his affections, should
not be in a situation absolutely contrary to my wishes, I may, perhaps,
confirm his choice.”

That moment Sandford’s courage prompted him to name Lady Matilda, but
his discretion opposed—however, in the various changes of his
countenance from the conflict, it was plain to discern that he wished
to say more than he dared.

On which Lord Elmwood cried,

“Speak on, Sandford—what are you afraid of?”

“Of you, my Lord.”

He started.

Sandford went on——“I know no tie—no bond—no innocence, that is a
protection when you feel resentment.”

“You are right,” he replied, significantly.

“Then how, my Lord, can you encourage me to _speak on_, when that which
I perhaps would say, might offend you to hear?”

“To what, and whither are you changing our subject?” cried Lord
Elmwood. “But, Sir, if you know my resentful and relentless temper, you
surely know how to shun it.”

“Not, and speak plainly.”

“Then dissemble.”

“No, I’ll not do that—but I’ll be silent.”

“A new parade of submission. You are more tormenting to me than any one
I have about me. Constantly on the verge of disobeying my commands,
that you may recede, and gain my good will by your forbearance. But
know, Mr. Sandford, that I will not suffer this much longer. If you
chuse in every conversation we have together (though the most remote
from such a subject) to think of my daughter, you must either banish
your thoughts, or conceal them—nor by one sign, one item, remind me of
her.”

“Your daughter did you call her? Can you call yourself her father?”

“I do, Sir—but I was likewise the husband of her mother. And, as that
husband, I solemnly swear.”——He was proceeding with violence.

“Oh! my Lord,” cried Sandford, interrupting him, with his hands clasped
in the most fervent supplication—“Oh! do not let me draw upon her one
oath more of your eternal displeasure—I’ll kneel to beg that you will
drop the subject.”

The inclination he made with his knees bent towards the ground, stopped
Lord Elmwood instantly. But though it broke in upon his words, it did
not alter one angry look—his eyes darted, and his lips trembled with,
indignation.

Sandford, in order to appease him, bowed and offered to withdraw,
hoping to be recalled. He wished in vain—Lord Elmwood’s eyes followed
him to the door, expressive of rejoicing at his absence.



CHAPTER VIII.


The companions and counsellors of Lord Margrave, who had so prudently
advised gentle methods in the pursuit of his passion, while there was
left any hope of their success; now, convinced there was none, as
strenuously commended open violence;—and sheltered under the
consideration, that their depredations were to be practised upon a
defenceless woman, who had not one protector, except an old priest, the
subject of their ridicule;—assured likewise from the influence of Lord
Margrave’s wealth, that all inferior consequences could be overborne,
they saw no room for fears on any side, and what they wished to
execute, with care and skill premeditated.

When their scheme was mature for performance, three of his chosen
companions, and three servants, trained in all the villainous exploits
of their masters, set off for the habitation of poor Matilda, and
arrived there about the twilight of the evening.

Near four hours after that time (just as the family were going to bed)
they came up to the doors of the house, and rapping violently, gave the
alarm of fire, conjuring all the inhabitants to make their way out
immediately, as they would save their lives.

The family consisted of few persons, all of whom ran instantly to the
doors and opened them; on which two men rushed in, and with the plea of
saving Lady Matilda from the pretended flames, caught her in their
arms, and carried her off; while all the deceived people of the house,
running eagerly to save themselves, paid no regard to her, till looking
for the cause for which they had been terrified, they perceived the
stratagem, and the fatal consequences.

Amidst the complaints, the sorrow, and the affright of the people of
the farm, Miss Woodley’s sensations wanted a name—terror and anguish
give but a faint description of what she suffered—something like the
approach of death stole over her senses, and she sat like one petrified
with horror. She had no doubt who was the perpetrator of this
wickedness; but how was she to follow? how effect a rescue?

The circumstances of this event, as soon as the people had time to call
up their recollection, were sent to a neighbouring magistrate; but
little could be hoped from that. Who was to swear to the robber? Who,
undertake to find him out! Miss Woodley thought of Rushbrook, of
Sandford, of Lord Elmwood—but what could she hope from the want of
power in the two former?—what from the latter, for the want of will?
Now stupified, and now distracted, she walked about the house
incessantly, begging for instructions how to act, or how to forget her
misery.

A tenant of Lord Elmwood’s, who occupied a little farm near to that
where Lady Matilda lived, and who was well acquainted with the whole
history of her’s and her mother’s misfortunes, was returning from a
neighbouring fair, just as this inhuman plan was put in execution. He
heard the cries of a woman in distress, and followed the sound, till he
arrived at a chaise in waiting, and saw Matilda placed in it, by the
side of two men, who presented pistols to him, as he offered to
approach and expostulate.

The farmer, uncertain who this female was, yet went to the house she
had been taken from (as the nearest) with the tale of what he had seen;
and there, being informed it was Lady Matilda whom he had beheld, this
intelligence, joined to the powerful effect her screams had on him,
made him resolve to take horse immediately, and with some friends,
follow the carriage till they should trace the place to which she was
conveyed.

The anxiety, the firmness discovered in determining on this
understanding, somewhat alleviated the agony Miss Woodley endured, and
she began to hope, timely assistance might yet be given to her beloved
charge.

The man set out, meaning at all events to attempt her release; but
before he had proceeded far, the few friends that accompanied him,
began to reflect on the improbability of their success, against a
nobleman, surrounded by servants, with other attendants likewise, and,
perhaps, even countenanced by the father of the lady, whom they
presumed to take from him; or if not, while Lord Elmwood beheld the
offence with indifference, that indifference gave it a sanction, they
might in vain oppose. These cool reflections tending to their safety,
had their weight with the companions of the farmer; they all rode back,
rejoicing at their second thoughts, and left him to pursue his journey
and prove his valour by himself.



CHAPTER IX.


It was not with Sandford, as it had lately been with Rushbrook under
the displeasure of Lord Elmwood—to the latter he behaved, as soon as
their dissension was past, as if it had never happened—but to Sandford
it was otherwise—the resentment which he had repressed at the time of
the offence, lurked in his heart, and dwelt upon his mind for several
days; during which, he carefully avoided exchanging a word with him,
and gave every other demonstration of his anger.

Sandford, though experienced in the cruelty and ingratitude of the
world, yet could not without difficulty brook this severity, this
contumely, from a man, for whose welfare, ever since his infancy, he
had laboured; and whose happiness was more dear to him, in spite of all
his faults, than that of any other person. Even Lady Matilda was not so
dear to Sandford as her father—and he loved her more that she was Lord
Elmwood’s child, than for any other cause.

Sometimes the old Priest, incensed beyond bearing, was on the point of
saying to his patron, “How, in my age, dare you thus treat the man,
whom in his youth you respected and revered?”

Sometimes instead of anger, he felt the tear, he was ashamed to own,
steal to his eye, and even fall down his cheek. Sometimes he left the
room half determined to leave the house—but these were all half
determinations; for he knew him with whom he had to deal too well, not
to know that he might be provoked into yet greater anger; and that
should he once rashly quit his house, the doors most probably would be
shut against him for ever.

In this humiliating state (for even many of the domestics could not but
observe their Lord’s displeasure) Sandford passed three days, and was
beginning the fourth, when sitting with Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook just
after breakfast, a servant entered, saying, as he opened the door, to
somebody who followed, “You must wait till you have my Lord’s
permission.”

This attracted their eyes to the door, and a man meanly dressed, walked
in, following close to the servant.

The latter turned, and seemed again to desire the person to retire, but
in vain; he rushed forward regardless of his opposer, and in great
agitation, cried,

“My Lord, if you please, I have business with you, provided you will
chuse to be alone.”

Lord Elmwood, struck with the intruder’s earnestness, bade the servant
leave the room; and then said to the stranger,

“You may speak before these gentlemen.”

The man instantly turned pale, and trembled—then, to prolong the time
before he spoke, went to the door to see if it was shut—returned—yet
still trembling, seemed unwilling to say his errand.

“What have you done,” cried Lord Elmwood, “that you are in this terror?
What have you done, man?”

“Nothing, my Lord,” replied he, “but I am afraid I am going to offend
you.”

“Well, no matter;” (he answered carelessly) “only go on, and let me
know your business.”

The man’s distress increased—and he cried in a voice of grief and
affright—“Your child, my Lord!”——

Rushbrook and Sandford started; and looking at Lord Elmwood, saw him
turn white as death. In a tremulous voice he instantly cried,

“What of her?” and rose from his seat.

Encouraged by the question, and the agitation of him who asked it, the
poor man gave way to his feelings, and answered with every sign of
sorrow,

“I saw her, my Lord, taken away by force—two ruffians seized and
carried her away, while she screamed in vain to me for help, and tore
her hair in distraction.”

“Man, what do you mean?” cried the Earl.

“Lord Margrave,” replied the stranger, “we have no doubt, has formed
this plot—he has for some time past beset the house where she lived;
and when his visits were refused, he threatened this. Besides, one of
his servants attended the carriage; I saw, and knew him.”

Lord Elmwood listened to the last part of this account with seeming
composure—then turning hastily to Rushbrook, he said,

“Where are my pistols, Harry?”

Sandford rose from his seat, and forgetting all the anger between them,
caught hold of the Earl’s hand, and cried, “Will you then prove
yourself a father?”

Lord Elmwood only answered, “Yes,” and left the room.

Rushbrook followed, and begged with all the earnestness he felt, to be
permitted to accompany his uncle.

While Sandford shook hands with the farmer a thousand times; and he, in
his turn, rejoiced, as if he had already seen Lady Matilda restored to
liberty.

Rushbrook in vain entreated Lord Elmwood; he laid his commands upon him
not to go a step from the Castle; while the agitation of his own mind,
was too great, to observe the rigour of this sentence on his nephew.

During the hasty preparations for the Earl’s departure, Sandford
received from Miss Woodley the sad intelligence of what had happened;
but he returned an answer to recompence her for all she had suffered on
the occasion.

Within a few hours Lord Elmwood set off, accompanied by his guide, the
farmer, and other attendants furnished with every requisite to
ascertain the success of their enterprise—while poor Matilda little
thought of a deliverer nigh, much less, that her deliverer should prove
her father.



CHAPTER X.


Lord Margrave, black as this incident of his life must make him appear
to the reader, still nursed in his conscience a reserve of specious
virtue, to keep him in peace with himself. It was his design to plead,
to argue, to implore, nay even to threaten, long before he put his
threats in force; and with this and the following reflection, he
reconciled—as most bad men can—what he had done, not only to the laws
of humanity, but to the laws of honour.

“I have stolen a woman certainly;” said he to himself, “but I will make
her happier than she was in that humble state from which I have taken
her. I will even,” said he, “now that she is in my power, win her
affections—and when, in fondness, hereafter she hangs upon me, how will
she thank me for this little trial, through which I shall have
conducted her to happiness!”

Thus did he hush his remorse, while he waited impatiently at home, in
expectation of his prize.

Half expiring with her sufferings, of body as well as of mind, about
twelve o’clock the next night, after she was borne away, Matilda
arrived; and felt her spirits revive by the superior sufferings that
awaited her—for her increasing terrors roused her from the death-like
weakness, brought on by fatigue.

Lord Margrave’s house, to which he had gone previous to this occasion,
was situated in the lonely part of a well-known forest, not more than
twenty miles distant from London: this was an estate he rarely visited;
and as he had but few servants here, it was a place which he supposed
would be less the object of suspicion in the present case, than any
other of his seats. To this, then, Lady Matilda was conveyed—a superb
apartment allotted her—and one of his confidential females placed to
attend upon her, with all respect, and assurances of safety.

Matilda looked in this woman’s face, and seeing she bore the features
of her sex, while her own knowledge reached none of those worthless
characters of which this person was a specimen, she imagined that none
of those could look as she did, and therefore found consolation in her
seeming tenderness. She was even prevailed upon (by her promises to sit
by her side and watch) to throw herself on the bed, and suffer sleep
for a few minutes—for sleep to her was suffering; her fears giving
birth to dreams terrifying as her waking thoughts.

More wearied than refreshed with her sleep, she rose at break of day,
and refusing to admit of the change of an article in her dress, she
persisted to sit in the torn disordered habit in which she had been
dragged away; nor would she taste a morsel, of all the delicacies that
were prepared for her.

Her attendant, for some time observed the most reverential awe; but
finding this had not the effect of gaining compliance with her advice,
she varied her manners, and began by less submissive means to attempt
an influence. She said her orders were to be obedient, while she
herself was obeyed—at least in circumstances so material as the lady’s
health, of which she had the charge as a physician, and expected equal
compliance from her patient—food and fresh apparel she prescribed as
the only means to prevent death; and even threatened her invalid with
something worse, a visit from Lord Margrave, if she continued
obstinate.

Now loathing her for the deception she had practised, more, than had
she received her thus at first, Matilda hid her eyes from the sight of
her; and when she was obliged to look, she shuddered.

This female at length thought it her duty to wait upon her worthy
employer, and inform him the young lady in her trust would certainly
die, unless there were means employed to oblige her to take some
nourishment.

Lord Margrave, glad of an opportunity that might apologize for his
intrusion upon Lady Matilda, went with eagerness to her apartment, and
throwing himself at her feet, conjured her if she would save his life,
as well as her own, to submit to be consoled.

The extreme disgust and horror his presence inspired, caused Matilda
for a moment to forget all her want of power, her want of health, her
weakness; and rising from the place where she sat, she cried, with her
voice elevated,

“Leave me, my Lord, or I’ll die in spite of all your care; I’ll
instantly expire with grief, if you do not leave me.”

Accustomed to the tears and reproaches of the sex—though not of those
like her—he treated with contempt these menaces of anger, and seizing
her hand, carried it to his lips.

Enraged, and overwhelmed with sorrow at the affront, she cried,
(forgetting every other friend she had,) “Oh! my dear Miss Woodley, why
are you not here to protect me?”

“Nay,” returned Lord Margrave, stifling a fit of laughter, “I should
think the old Priest would be as good a champion as the lady.”

The remembrance of Sandford, with all his kindness, now rushed so
forcibly on Matilda’s mind, that she shed a shower of tears, on
thinking how much he felt, and would continue to feel, for her
situation. Once she thought on Rushbrook, and thought even _he_ would
be sorry for her. Of her father she did not think—she dared not—one
single moment that thought intruded, but she hurried it away—it was too
bitter.

It was now again quite night; and near to that hour when she came first
to the house. Lord Margrave, though at some distance from her, remained
still in her apartment, while her female companion had stolen away. His
insensibility to her lamentations—the agitated looks he sometimes cast
upon her—her weak and defenceless state, all conspired to fill her mind
with horror.

He saw her apprehensions in her distracted face, disheveled hair, and
the whole of her forlorn appearance—yet, notwithstanding his former
resolutions, he could not resist the desire of fulfilling all her
dreadful expectations.

He once again approached her, and again was going to seize her hand;
when the report of a pistol, and a confused noise of persons assembling
towards the apartment prevented him.

He started—but looked more surprised than alarmed—her alarm was
augmented; for she supposed this tumult was some experiment to
intimidate her into submission. She wrung her hands, and lifted up her
eyes to Heaven, in the last agony of despair, when one of Lord
Margrave’s servants entered hastily and announced,

“Lord Elmwood!”

That moment her father entered—and with all the unrestrained fondness
of a parent, folded her in his arms.

Her extreme, her excess of joy on such a meeting, and from such anguish
rescued, was, in part, repressed by his awful presence. The
apprehensions to which she had been accustomed, kept her timid and
doubtful—she feared to speak, or clasp him in return for his embrace,
but falling on her knees, clung round his legs, and bathed his feet
with her tears.——These were the happiest moments that she had ever
known—perhaps, the happiest _he_ had ever known.

Lord Margrave, on whom Lord Elmwood had not even cast a look, now left
the room; but as he quitted it, called out,

“My Lord Elmwood, if you have any demands on me,”—

The Earl interrupted him, “Would you make me an executioner? The law
shall be your only antagonist.”

Matilda, quite exhausted, yet upheld by the sudden transport she had
felt, was led by her father out of this wretched dwelling—more
despicable than the beggar’s hovel.



CHAPTER XI.


Overcome with the want of rest for two nights, from her distracting
fears, and all those fears now hushed; Matilda, soon after she was
placed in the carriage with Lord Elmwood, dropped fast asleep; and
thus, insensibly surprised, leaned her head against her father in the
sweetest slumber that imagination can conceive.

When she awoke, instead of the usual melancholy scene before her view,
she beheld her father, and heard the voice of the once dreaded Lord
Elmwood tenderly saying,

“We will go no further to-night, the fatigue is too much for her; order
beds here directly, and some proper person to sit up and attend her.”

She could only turn to him with a look of love and duty; her lips could
not utter a sentence.

In the morning she found her father by the side of her bed. He inquired
“If she was in health sufficient to pursue her journey, or if she would
remain where she was?”

“I _am_ able to go with you,” she answered instantly.

“Nay,” replied he, “perhaps you ought to stay here till you are
better?”

“I am better,” said she, “and ready to go with you.”——Half afraid that
he meant to send her from him.

He perceived her fears, and replied, “Nay, if you stay, so shall I—and
when I go, I shall take you along with me to my house.”

“To Elmwood House?” she asked eagerly.

“No, to my house in town, where I intend to be all the winter, and
where we shall live together.”

She turned her face on the pillow to conceal tears of joy, but her sobs
revealed them.

“Come,” said he, “this kiss is a token you have nothing to fear.” And
he kissed her affectionately. “I shall send for Miss Woodley too
immediately,” continued he.

“Oh! I shall be overjoyed to see her, my Lord—and to see Mr.
Sandford—and even Mr. Rushbrook.”

“Do you know _him_?” said Lord Elmwood.

“Yes,” she replied, “I have seen him two or three times.”

The Earl hoping the air might be a means of re-establishing her
strength and spirits, now left the room, and ordered his carriage to be
prepared: while she arose, attended by one of his female servants, for
whom he had sent to town, to bring such changes of apparel as were
requisite.

When Matilda was ready to join her father in the next room, she felt a
tremor seize her, that made it almost impossible to appear before him.
No other circumstance now impending to agitate her heart, she felt more
forcibly its embarrassment at meeting on terms of easy intercourse,
him, of whom she had never been used to think, but with that distant
reverence and fear, which his severity had excited; and she knew not
how she should dare to speak to, or look on him, with that freedom her
affection warranted.

After several efforts to conquer these nice and refined sensations, but
to no purpose, she at last went to his apartment. He was reading; but
as she entered, he put out his hand and drew her to him. Her tears
wholly overcame her. He could have intermingled his—but assuming a
grave countenance, he commanded her to desist from exhausting her
spirits; and, after a few powerful struggles, she obeyed.

Before the morning was over, she experienced the extreme joy of sitting
by her father’s side as they drove to town, and of receiving, during
his conversation, a thousand proofs of his love, and tokens of her
lasting happiness.

It was now the middle of November; and yet, as Matilda passed along,
never to her, did the sun shine so bright as upon this morning—never
did her imagination comprehend, that the human heart could feel
happiness true and genuine as hers!

On arriving at the house, there was no abatement of her felicity: all
was respect and duty on the part of the domestics—all paternal care on
the part of Lord Elmwood; and she would have been at that summit of her
wishes which annihilates hope, but that the prospect of seeing Miss
Woodley and Mr. Sandford, still kept this passion in existence.



CHAPTER XII.


Rushbrook was detained at Elmwood House during all this time, more from
the persuasions, nay prayers, of Sandford, than the commands of Lord
Elmwood. He had, but for Sandford, followed his uncle, and exposed
himself to his anger, sooner than have endured the most piercing
inquietude, which he was doomed to suffer, till the news arrived of
Lady Matilda’s safety. He indeed had little else to fear from the known
firm, courageous character of her father, and the expedition with which
he undertook his journey; but lovers’ fears are like those of women,
obstinate, and no argument could persuade either him or Miss Woodley
(who had now ventured to come to Elmwood House) but that Matilda’s
peace of mind might be for ever destroyed, before she was set at
liberty.

The summons from Lord Elmwood for their coming to town, was received by
each of this party with delight; but the impatience to obey it, was in
Rushbrook so violent, it was painful to himself, and extremely
troublesome to Sandford; who wished, from his regard to Lady Matilda,
rather to delay, than hurry their journey.

“You are to blame,” said he to him and Miss Woodley, “to wish by your
arrival, to divide with Lord Elmwood that tender bond, which ties the
good who confer obligations, to the object of their benevolence. At
present there is no one with him to share in the care and protection of
his daughter, and he is under the necessity of discharging that duty
himself; this habit may become so powerful, that he _cannot_ throw it
off, even if his former resolutions should urge him to it. While we
remain here, therefore, Lady Matilda is safe with her father; but it
would not surprise me, if on our arrival (especially if we are
precipitate) he should place her again with Miss Woodley at a
distance.”

To this forcible conjecture, they submitted for a few days, and then
most gladly set out for town.

On their arrival, they were met, even at the street-door, by Lady
Matilda; and with an expression of joy, they did not suppose her
features could have worn. She embraced Miss Woodley! hung upon
Sandford! and to Mr. Rushbrook, who from his conscious love only bowed
at an humble distance, she held out her hand with every look and
gesture of the tenderest esteem.

When Lord Elmwood joined them, he welcomed them all sincerely; but
Sandford the most, with whom he had not spoken for many days before he
left the country, for his allusion to the wretched situation of his
daughter.—And Sandford (with his fellow-travellers) now saw him treat
that daughter with an easy, a natural fondness, as if she had lived
with him from her infancy. He appeared, however, at times, under the
apprehension, that the propensity of man to jealousy, might give
Rushbrook a pang at this dangerous rival in his love and fortune—for
though Lord Elmwood remembered well the hazard he had once ventured to
befriend Matilda, yet the present unlimited reconciliation was
something so unlooked for, it might be a trial too much for his
generosity, to remain wholly disinterested on the event. Slight as was
this suspicion, it did Rushbrook injustice. He loved Lady Matilda too
sincerely, he loved her father’s happiness, and her mother’s memory too
faithfully, not to be rejoiced at all he witnessed; nor could the
secret hope that whispered him, “Their blessings might one day be
mutual,” increase the pleasure he found, in beholding Matilda happy.

Unexpected affairs, in which Lord Elmwood had been for some time
engaged, had diverted his attention for awhile from the marriage of his
nephew; nor did he at this time find his disposition sufficiently
severe, to exact from the young man a compliance with his wishes, at so
cruel an alternative as that of being for ever discarded. He felt his
mind, by the late incident, too much softened for such harshness; he
yet wished for the alliance he had proposed; for he was more consistent
in his character than to suffer the tenderness his daughter’s peril had
awakened, to derange those plans which he had long projected. Never
even now, for a moment did he indulge—for perhaps it would have been an
indulgence—the idea of replacing her exactly in the rights of her
birth, to the disappointment of all his nephew’s expectations.

Yet, milder at this crisis in his temper than he had been for years
before, and knowing he could be no longer irritated upon the subject of
his daughter, he once more resolved to trust himself in a conference
with Rushbrook on the subject of marriage; meaning at the same time to
mention Matilda as an opponent from whom he had nothing to fear. But
for some time before Rushbrook was called to this private audience, he
had, by his unwearied attention, endeavoured to impress upon Matilda’s
mind, the softest sentiments in his favour. He succeeded—but not as he
wished. She loved him as her friend, her cousin, her foster-brother,
but not as a lover. The idea of love never once came to her thoughts;
and she would sport with Rushbrook like the most harmless child, while
he, all impassioned, could with difficulty resist telling her, what she
made him suffer.

At the meeting between him and Lord Elmwood, to which he was called for
his final answer on that subject which had once nearly proved so fatal
to him; after a thousand fears, much confusion and embarrassment, he at
length frankly confessed his “Heart was engaged, and had been so, long
before his uncle offered to direct his choice.”

Lord Elmwood desired to know, “On whom he had placed his affections.”

“I dare not tell you, my Lord,” returned he, infinitely confused; “but
Mr. Sandford can witness their sincerity and how long they have been
fixed.”

“Fixed!” cried the Earl.

“Immoveably fixed, my Lord; and yet the object is as unconscious of my
love to this moment, as you yourself have been; and I swear ever shall
be so, without your permission.”

“Name the object,” said Lord Elmwood, anxiously.

“My Lord, I dare not.—The last time I named her to you, you threatened
to abandon me for my arrogance.”

Lord Elmwood started.——“My daughter! Would you marry her?”

“But with your approbation, my Lord; and that——”

Before he could proceed a word further, his uncle left the room
hastily—and left Rushbrook all terror for his approaching fate.

Lord Elmwood went immediately into the apartment where Sandford, Miss
Woodley, and Matilda, were sitting, and cried with an angry voice, and
with his countenance disordered,

“Rushbrook has offended me beyond forgiveness.—Go, Sandford, to the
library, where he is, and tell him this instant to quit my house, and
never dare to return.”

Miss Woodley lifted up her hands and sighed.

Sandford rose slowly from his seat to execute the office.

While Lady Matilda, who was arranging her music books upon the
instrument, stopped from her employment suddenly, with her face bathed
in tears.

A general silence ensued, till Lord Elmwood, resuming his angry tone,
cried, “Did you hear me, Mr. Sandford?”

Sandford now, without a word in reply, made for the door—but there
Matilda impeded him, and throwing her arms about his neck, cried,

“Dear Mr. Sandford, do not.”

“How!” exclaimed her father.

She saw the impending frown, and rushing towards him, took his hand
fearfully, and knelt at his feet. “Mr. Rushbrook is my relation,” she
cried in a pathetic voice, “my companion, my friend—before you loved me
he was anxious for my happiness, and often visited me to lament with,
and console me. I cannot see him turned out of your house without
feeling for _him_, what he once felt for _me_.”

Lord Elmwood turned aside to conceal his sensations—then raising her
from the floor, he said, “Do you know what he has asked of me?”

“No,” answered she in the utmost ignorance, and with the utmost
innocence painted on her face; “but whatever it is, my Lord, though you
do not grant it, yet pardon him for asking.”

“Perhaps _you_ would grant him what he has requested?” said her father.

“Most willingly—was it in my gift.”

“It is,” replied he. “Go to him in the library, and hear what he has to
say; for on your will his fate shall depend.”

Like lightning she flew out of the room; while even the grave Sandford
smiled at the idea of their meeting.

Rushbrook, with his fears all verified by the manner in which his uncle
had left him, sat with his head reclined against a bookcase, and every
limb extended with the despair that had seized him.

Matilda nimbly opened the door and cried, “Mr. Rushbrook, I am come to
comfort you.”

“That you have always done,” said he, rising in rapture to receive her,
even in the midst of all his sadness.

“What is it you want?” said she. “What have you asked of my father that
he has denied you?”

“I have asked for that,” replied he, “which is dearer to me than my
life.”

“Be satisfied then,” returned she, “for you shall have it.”

“Dear Matilda! it is not in your power to bestow.”

“But he has told me it _shall_ be in my power; and has desired me to
give, or to refuse it you, at my own pleasure.”

“O Heavens!” cried Rushbrook in transport, “Has he?”

“He has indeed—before Mr. Sandford and Miss Woodley. Now tell me what
you petitioned for?”

“I asked him,” cried Rushbrook, trembling, “for a wife.”

Her hand, which had just then taken hold of his, in the warmth of her
wish to serve him, now dropped down as with the stroke of death—her
face lost its colour—and she leaned against the desk by which they were
standing, without uttering a word.

“What means this change?” said he; “Do you not wish me happy?”

“Yes,” she exclaimed: “Heaven is my witness. But it gives me concern to
think we must part.”

“Then let us be joined,” cried he, falling at her feet, “till death
alone can part us.”

All the sensibility—the reserve—the pride, with which she was so amply
possessed, returned to her that moment. She started and cried, “Could
Lord Elmwood know for what he sent me?”

“He did,” replied Rushbrook—“I boldly told him of my presumptuous love,
and he has given to you alone, the power over my happiness or misery.
Oh! do not doom me to the latter.”

Whether the heart of Matilda, such as it has been described, _could_
sentence him to misery, the reader is left to surmise—and if he
supposes that it could _not_, he has every reason to suppose that their
wedded life, was—a life of happiness.

He has beheld the pernicious effects of an _improper education_ in the
destiny which attended the unthinking Miss Milner.—On the opposite
side, what may not be hoped from that school of prudence—though of
adversity—in which Matilda was bred?

And Mr. Milner, Matilda’s grandfather, had better have given his
_fortune_ to a distant branch of his family—as Matilda’s father once
meant to do—so that he had given to his daughter

A PROPER EDUCATION.


Plays written by Mrs. Inchbald, and published
by G. G. and J. Robinson, Paternoster Row.


LOVERS’ VOWS;

A Play in five Acts, from the German of
Kotzebue.

WIVES AS THEY WERE, AND MAIDS
AS THEY ARE.

EVERY ONE HAS HIS FAULT.

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT,
Comedies in five Acts.

SUCH THINGS ARE,
A Play in five Acts.

THE MARRIED MAN,
A Comedy, Price 1s. 6d. each.

THE CHILD OF NATURE.

APPEARANCE IS AGAINST THEM.

THE WIDOW’S VOW.

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR,
A Comedy.

THE WEDDING DAY,
Price One Shilling each.

NATURE AND ART,
The Second Edition, in Two Volumes, Price
7s. sewed.





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