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diff --git a/22002-0.txt b/22002-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a8291c --- /dev/null +++ b/22002-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13170 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Simple Story, by Mrs. Inchbald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: A Simple Story + +Author: Mrs. Inchbald + +Editor: G. L. Strachey + +Release Date: July 5, 2007 [eBook #22002] +[Most recently updated: October 1, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Edwards, Marcia Brooks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SIMPLE STORY *** + + + + +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SIMPLE STORY *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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