CHAPTER I.

DOrriforth, bred at St. Omer's in all the ſcholaſtic rigour of that col⯑lege, was by education, and the ſolemn vows of his order, a Roman Catholic prieſt—but nicely diſcriminating be⯑tween the philoſophical and the ſuper⯑ſtitious part of that character, and adopting the former only, he poſſeſſed qualities not unworthy the firſt profeſ⯑ſors of Chriſtianity—every virtue which [2] 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 re⯑forming mankind. He refuſed to ſhel⯑ter 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, a young lady of eigh⯑teen.

[3]The deceaſed Mr. Milner, on his approaching diſſolution, perfectly ſen⯑ſible of his ſtate, thus reaſoned to him⯑ſelf before he made the nomination: "I have formed no intimate friend⯑ſhip 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 he had inſpired. In this moment of trembling apprehenſion from every thought that darts acroſs my mind, much more for every action which ſoon I muſt be called to anſwer for; all worldly views here thrown aſide, I act as if that tribunal before which I every moment expect to ap⯑pear, were now ſitting in judgment upon my purpoſe.—The care of an [4] only child is the great charge that in this tremendous criſis I have to exe⯑cute—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 happi⯑neſs, and leave her to the care of ſome of thoſe ſhe ſtyles 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 houſe which they themſelves may have built."

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

"In the moment of deſertion," con⯑tinued he, "which I now picture to [5] myſelf, where will my child find com⯑fort? — That heavenly aid religion gives, which now amidſt theſe agoniz⯑ing tortures, chears with the bright ray of conſolation my frightened 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 thoughts of her expiring father — from him the care of her education had been withheld, as he kept invio⯑late the promiſe made to her departed [6] mother on the article of religion, and therefore conſigned his daughter to a Proteſtant boarding-ſchool, from whence ſhe was ſent with merely ſuch ſenti⯑ments of religion, as young ladies of faſhion moſtly imbibe. Her little heart employed in all the endleſs purſuits of perſonal accompliſhments, had left her mind without one ornament, except thoſe which 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 the extreme of delight, his accompliſhed daughter without one fault with which taſte or elegance could have reproached her, nor ever enquired what might be her other failings — Caſt on a bed of ſickneſs, and upon the point of leaving her to her future fate, [7] thoſe failings at once ruſhed on his me⯑mory—and all the pride, the fond en⯑joyment he had taken in beholding her open the ball, or delight her hearers with her ſprightly wit, eſcaped his re⯑membrance; or not eſcaping, were thought of with a ſigh of contrition, or at beſt a contemptuous frown, at the frivolous qualification.

"Something more eſſential," ſaid he to himſelf, "muſt be conſidered — ſomething to prepare her for an hour like this I now experience—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 every moral virtue to thoſe of religion, and native honour to pious faith; will pro⯑tect without controuling, inſtruct with⯑out [8] tyrannizing, comfort without flat⯑tering, 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 ill⯑neſs, received a few moments before his death all his injunctions, and promiſed to fulfil them—but in this laſt token of Mr. Milner's perfect eſteem of his friend, he ſtill reſtrained him 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 re⯑form" — were his lateſt words, and [9] Dorriforth's reply gave him entire ſatiſ⯑faction.

Miſs Milner was not with her father at this affecting period—ſome deli⯑cately 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 indiſpoſi⯑tion, leſt it might alarm a mind ſhe thought too ſuſceptible. This refined tenderneſs gave poor Miſs Milner the almoſt inſupportable agony, of hearing 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 per⯑formed it with the trueſt filial love, while Dorriforth, upon important buſi⯑neſs, was obliged to return to town.

CHAPTER II.

DOrriforth returned to London hea⯑vily afflicted for the loſs of his friend, and yet perhaps with his thoughts more engaged upon the truſt that friend had repoſed in him. He knew the life Miſs Milner had been accuſ⯑tomed to lead; he dreaded the repulſes his admonitions might poſſibly meet from her; and feared he had under⯑taken 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 his at⯑tention [11] to thoſe in poverty, and the moderation of his own deſires were ſuch, that he lived in all the careful plainneſs of oeconomy—his habitation was in the houſe of a Mrs. Horton, an elderly lady, who had a maiden niece reſiding with her not many years younger than herſelf — But although Miſs Woodley was thirty, and in per⯑ſon exceedingly plain, yet ſhe poſſeſſed ſuch an extreme chearfulneſs of tem⯑per, 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 did he think it ne⯑ceſſary, notwithſtanding his religious vow of celibacy, to ſly the roof of [12] two ſuch unſeductive innocent females as Mrs. Horton and her niece—on their part, they regarded him with all that reſpect and reverence the moſt religious ſlock regards its paſtor; and his friendly ſociety they not only eſteemed a ſpiritual, but a temporal advantage, as the liberal ſtipend he al⯑lowed for his apartments and board enabled them to continue in the large and commodious houſe, where they had reſided during the life of Mr. Horton.

Here, upon Mr. Dorriforth's re⯑turn from his journey, preparations were made for the reception of his ward, her father having made it one of his requeſts that ſhe might, for a time at leaſt, dwell in the ſame houſe with her guardian, receive the ſame [13] viſits, and cultivate the acquaintance of his acquaintances and friends.

When the will of her father was made known to Miſs Milner, ſhe ſub⯑mitted without the ſmalleſt 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 take up her abode at Mrs. Horton's, 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 in⯑come, and to the ſtyle of her living. — The goodnatured Miſs Woodley was [14] overjoyed at the expectation of their new gueſt, yet ſhe herſelf could not tell why—but the reaſon was, her kind heart wanted more ample field for its benevolence; and now her thoughts were all pleaſingly employed how ſhe ſhould render, not only the lady her⯑ſelf, but even all her attendants, happy in their new ſituation.

The thoughts of Dorriforth were leſs agreeably engaged — Cares, doubts, fears, poſſeſſed his mind—ſo forcibly poſſeſſed it, that upon every occaſion which offered, he would inquiſitively try 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 [15] her father's, the very few times he had been at his houſe, ſince her return from boarding-ſchool. The firſt per⯑ſon whoſe opinion he, with all proper reſerve, aſked concerning Miſs Milner was lady Evans, the widow of a ba⯑ronet who frequently viſited at Mrs, Horton's.

But that the reader may be inte⯑reſted 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, ex⯑cept a pair of dark bright eyes, a ſet of white teeth, and a graceful fall in his clerical curls of dark brown hair, had not one feature to excite ad⯑miration—he poſſeſſed notwithſtand⯑ing ſuch a gleam of ſenſibility diffuſed over each, that many people miſtook [16] his face for handſome, and all were more or leſs attracted by it—in a word, the charm that is here meant to be de⯑ſcribed is a countenance—on his coun⯑tenance you beheld the feelings of his heart—ſaw all its inmoſt workings—the quick pulſes that beat with hope and fear, or the placid ones that were ſta⯑tionary with patient reſignation. On this countenance his thoughts were pic⯑tured, and as his mind was enriched with every virtue that could make it valuable, ſo was his honeſt face adorned with every emblem of thoſe virtues —and they not only gave a luſtre to his aſpect, but added a harmonious ſound to all he uttered; it was perſua⯑ſive, it was perfect eloquence, whilſt in his looks you behold his thoughts moving with his lips, and ever coincid⯑ing with what he ſaid.

[17]With one of thoſe intereſting looks which revealed the anxiety of his heart, and with that graceful reſtraint of all geſticulation, for which he was remark⯑able even in his moſt anxious concerns, he addreſſed lady Evans who had called on Mrs. Horton to hear and to tell 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 her ladyſhip.

"Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not aſk me any thing about the lady—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 Dor⯑riforth, colouring with regret at the [18] doubts her ladyſhip had increaſed, but not inſpired.

"And ſhe is very beautiful, that I can aſſure you." Replied her ladyſhip.

"Which I call no qualification." Said Dorriforth, riſing from his ſeat in evident uneaſineſs.

"But where there is nothing elſe," returned lady Evans, "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 your⯑ſelf, and imagine the young lady worſe than ſhe really is—all I know of her, is merely, that ſhe's a young, idle, indiſcreet, giddy girl, with half a dozen lovers in her ſuite; ſome coxcombs, ſome men of gallantry, ſome ſingle, and ſome married."

[19]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 ex⯑pected 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 underſtand⯑ing.) "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 obſerva⯑tions of my own; all I do is to mention them again."

[20]The good natured Miſs Woodley, who ſat working at the window, an humble liſtener to this diſcourſe, ven⯑tured on this to ſay exactly ſix words: "Then do'nt mention them any more."

"Let us change the ſubject," ſaid Dorriforth.

"With all my heart," cried her ladyſhip, "and I am ſure it will be to the young lady's advantage."

"Is ſhe tall, or ſhort?" aſked Mrs. Horton, ſtill wiſhing for farther infor⯑mation.

"Oh, tall enough of all conſcience," returned lady Evans; "I tell you again there is no fault can be found with her perſon."

"But if her mind is defective"—ex⯑claimed Dorriforth with a ſigh—

"—That may be improved as well as the perſon." Cried Miſs Woodley.

[21]"No my dear," returned her lady⯑ſhip, "I never heard of a pad to make ſtrait an ill-ſhapen diſpoſition."

"O yes, lady Evans," aſwered Miſs Woodley, "good company, good books, experience, and the misfor⯑tunes of others, may have more power to form the mind to virtue, than"—

"Her ladyſhip would not ſuffer her to go on, but riſing haſtily from her ſeat, cried, "I muſt be gone—I have fifty people waiting for me at home— beſides, were I inclined to hear a ſer⯑mon, I ſhould deſire Mr. Dorriforth to preach, and not you."

Juſt then Mrs. Hillgrave was an⯑nounced.—"And here is Mrs. Hill⯑grave."—Continued lady Evans—"I believe Mrs. Hillgrave you know Miſs Milner, don't you? The young lady who has lately loſt her father."

[22]Mrs. Hillgrave was the wife of a merchant who had met with ſome ſe⯑vere loſſes, and as ſoon as the name of Miſs Milner was uttered, ſhe lifted tip her hands, and the tears ſtarted in her eyes.

"There!" cried lady Evans, "I de⯑ſire you will give your opinion of her, and I am ſorry I cannot ſtay to hear it." Saying this, ſhe courteſied and took her leave.

When Mrs. Hillgrave had been ſeated a few minutes, Mrs. Horton, who loved information equal to the moſt inquiſitive of her ſex, begged that lady,—"if ſhe might be permitted to know, why, at the mention of Miſs Milner, ſhe had ſeemed ſo much af⯑fected?"

[23]This queſtion intereſting 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 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, procured us time in order to diſcharge the debt; and when ſhe found that time was inſufficient, and her father no lon⯑ger [24] to be diſſuaded from his intention, ſhe ſecretly ſold ſome of her moſt valuable ornaments to ſatisfy his de⯑mand and ſcreen us from its conſe⯑quences."

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!"

[25]"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 confi⯑dence in the principles and charac⯑ter of his ward.—The day arrived on which ſhe was to leave her late father's ſeat, to take up her abode at Mrs. Horton's; and he, 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 me⯑mory 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 [27] Woodley were expecting her.—Beſides attendants, ſhe had with her a gentle⯑man and a lady, diſtant relations of her mother's, who thought it but a proper teſtimony of their civility to at⯑tend 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 Dor⯑riforth, he turned pale—ſomething like a foreboding of diſaſter trembled at his heart, and conſequently darted over all his face. — Miſs Woodley was even obliged to rouze him from the dejec⯑tion into which he was caſt, or he [28] would have ſunk beneath it—ſhe was obliged alſo to be the firſt to welcome his lovely charge.—Lovely beyond de⯑ſcription.

But the ſprightly vivacity, the na⯑tural gaietv, which report had given to Miſs Milner, were ſoftened by her recent ſorrow to a meek ſadneſs—and that haughty diſplay of charms, im⯑puted to her manners, was changed to a penſive demeanor.—The inſtant Dor⯑riforth was introduced to her by Miſs Woodley as her "Guardian, and her deceaſed father's moſt beloved friend," ſhe burſt into a flood of tears, knelt down to him for a moment, and pro⯑miſed ever to obey him as her father. —He had his handkerchief to his face at the time, or ſhe would have beheld [29] the agitation of his heart—the remo⯑teſt ſenſations of his ſoul.

This affecting introduction being over, and ſome minutes paſſed in general converſation, the carriages were again ordered, and, bidding farewell to the friends 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, it might conſtitute one of her firſt wiſhes—ſhe behaved to her but as ſhe conſtantly behaved to every other crea⯑ture—that was ſufficient to gain the [30] eſteem of one, poſſeſſed of an un⯑derſtanding equal to this young lady'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 ſtrongly impreſſed with the loſs of her father, reconciled, if not already attached to her new acquaintance, her thoughts pleaſingly occupied with the reflection ſhe was in that gay metro⯑polis—a wild rapturous picture of which her active fancy had often formed— Miſs Milner aroſe from a peaceful and refreſhing ſleep, with much of that vivacity, and all thoſe airy charms, which for a while had yielded their tranſcendent power, to leſs potent ſad⯑neſs.

Beautiful as ſhe had appeared to Miſs Woodley and to Dorriforth the [32] preceding day, when ſhe joined them the next morning at breakfaſt, re⯑poſſeſſed of her lively elegance and dig⯑nified ſimplicity, they gazed at her, and at each other alternately, with wonder!—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 with virtue.—In Miſs Milner it was ſo united. —Yet let not our over-ſcrupulous rea⯑ders 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 Miſs Milner had more faults than generally belong to others, ſhe had likewiſe more tempta⯑tions.

[33]From her infancy ſhe had been in⯑dulged in all her wiſhes to the extreme of folly, and habitually ſtarted at the unpleaſant voice of controul—ſhe was beautiful, ſhe had been too frequently told the high value of that beauty, and thought thoſe moments paſſed in waſte⯑ful idleneſs during which ſhe was not gaining ſome new conqueſt—ſhe had beſides a quick ſenſibility, which too frequently diſcovered itſelf in the imme⯑diate reſentment of injury or neglect— ſhe had acquired alſo the dangerous character of a wit; but to which ſhe had no real pretenſions, although the moſt diſcerning critic, hearing her con⯑verſe, might fall into this miſtake.— Her replies had all the effect of re⯑repartee, not becauſe ſhe poſſeſſed thoſe qualities which can properly be called wit, but that what ſhe ſaid was ſpoken [34] with an energy, an inſtantaneous and powerful perception of what ſhe ſaid, joined with a real or well-counterfeited ſimplicity, a quick turn of the eye, and an arch ſmile of the countenance.—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 propor⯑tioned 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 re⯑lated.

At breakfaſt, which was juſt begun at the beginning of this chapter, the converſation was lively on the part of [35] Miſs Milner, wiſe on the part of Dor⯑riforth, good on the part of Miſs Wood⯑ley, 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 ima⯑gined 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, madam, 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 man⯑ner, but in a tone which obviouſly de⯑clared ſhe thought her guardian both young and handſome.—He replied, but [36] not without ſome little embarraſſment, "A plain man you ſhall find me in all my actions."

She returned, "Then your actions are to contradict your looks."

For in what ſhe ſaid, Miſs Milner had the quality peculiar to wits, to ſpeak the thought that firſt occurs, which thought has generally truth on its ſide.—On this he ventured to pay her a compliment in return.

"You, Miſs Milner, I ſhould ſup⯑poſe, muſt be a very bad judge of what is plain, and what is not."

"How ſo, Sir?"

"Becauſe I am ſure you will readily own you do not think yourſelf hand⯑ſome; and allowing that, you inſtantly want judgment."

[37]"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 moſt ſerious queſtion, Dorriforth con⯑tinued, "And you really believe you are not handſome?"

"I ſhould from my own opinion be⯑lieve ſo, but in ſome reſpects I am like you Roman Catholics; I don't believe from my own underſtanding, but from what other people tell me."

"And let this be the criterion," re⯑plied Dorriforth, "that what we teach is truth; for you find you would be de⯑ceived 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 [38] ſubject only, and this difference I hope will never extend itſelf to any other.— Therefore, let not religion be named be⯑tween 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 ig⯑norance—while Mrs. Horton, unper⯑ceived as ſhe imagined, made the ſign of the croſs upon her forehead to pre⯑vent 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 ſit of laughter, that the [39] good lady of the houſe could no longer contain her reſentment, but exclaimed, "God forgive you." With a ſeverity ſo far different from the idea the words conveyed, that the object of her anger was, on this, obliged freely to indulge that riſibility which ſhe had been ſtrug⯑gling to ſmother; and without longer ſuffering under the agony of reſtraint, ſhe gave way to her humour, and laughed with a liberty ſo uncontrouled, that in a ſhort time 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.

[40]But how unimportant, how weak, how ineffectual are words in converſa⯑tion—looks and manners alone expreſs —for Miſs Woodley, with her charit⯑able face and mild accents, ſaying ſhe would not forgive, implied only for⯑giveneſs—while Mrs. Horton, with her enraged voice and aſpect, begging hea⯑ven 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, par⯑taking with delight in all its plea⯑ſures, whilſt Dorriforth has been ſighing with apprehenſion, attending with pre⯑caution, and praying with the moſt zealous fervour for her ſafety.—Her own and her guardian's acquaintance, and the new friendſhips (to ſpeak in the unmeaning language of the world) which ſhe was continually forming, crowded ſo perpetually to the houſe, that ſeldom had Dorriforth even a mo⯑ment left from her viſits or viſitors, to warn her of her danger—yet when a moment offered, he ſnatched it eagerly —preſſed the neceſſity of "time not al⯑ways [42] 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 innate feeling, which directs the tongue to eloquence, had its effect while ſhe liſtened to him, and ſhe ſome⯑times put on the looks and geſture of aſſent, and ſometimes even ſpoke the language of conviction; but this, the firſt call of diſſipation would change to ill-timed raillery, or peeviſh remon⯑ſtrance at being limited in delights her birth and fortune entitled her to enjoy.

Among the many viſitors who at⯑tended at her levees, and followed wherever ſhe went, was one that ſeemed, even when abſent, to ſhare her thoughts. —This was Lord Frederick Lawnly, the ſon of a duke, and the avowed favou⯑rite [43] of all the moſt diſcerning women of taſte.

Lord Frederick was not more than twenty-three; ſprightly, elegant, ex⯑tremely handſome, and poſſeſſed of every accompliſhment to captivate a heart leſs ſuſceptible of love than Miſs Milner's was ſuppoſed to be.— With theſe allurements, no wonder if ſhe took a pleaſure in his company—no wonder if ſhe took a pride to have it known he was among the number of her moſt devoted admirers.—Dorriforth beheld the growing intimacy with al⯑ternate pain and pleaſure—he wiſhed to ſee Miſs Milner married, to ſee his charge in the protection of another, ra⯑ther than of himſelf; yet under the care of a young nobleman, immerſed in all the vices of the town, without one mo⯑ral [44] 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, with⯑out even the authority of matrimonial views.

With theſe ſentiments Dorriforth could never diſguiſe his uneaſineſs at the ſight of Lord Frederick, nor could his lordſhip but diſcern the ſuſpicion of the guardian, and conſequently each was embarraſſed in the preſence of the other.—Miſs Milner obſerved, but ob⯑ſerved with indifference, the ſenſations of both — there was but one paſſion which at preſent held a place in her heart, and that was vanity; vanity de⯑fined into all the ſpecies of pride, vain⯑glory, ſelf-approbation—an inordinate [45] deſire of admiration, and an immo⯑derate enjoyment of the art of pleaſ⯑ing, for her own individual happineſs, and not for the happineſs of others.— Still had ſhe a heart inclined, and often⯑times affected by tendencies leſs unwor⯑thy; but thoſe approaches to what was eſtimable, were generally arreſted in their firſt impulſe by ſome darling folly.

Miſs Woodley (who could diſcover virtue, although of the moſt dimini⯑tive kind, and ſcarcely through the magnifying glaſs of calumny could ever perceive a fault) was Miſs Mil⯑ner's conſtant companion, and her ad⯑vocate with Dorriforth, whenever, dur⯑ing 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.— [46] Sometimes he ſtruggled to contain 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 the part of his lordſhip, Dorriforth's uneaſineſs was en⯑creaſed, and he ſeriouſly told his Ward he thought it prudent to entreat lord Frederick to deſiſt viſiting her.—She ſmiled with ridicule at the caution, but finding it a ſecond time repeated, and in a manner that ſavoured of autho⯑rity, ſhe promiſed to make, and to en⯑force the requeſt.—The next time his lordſhip came ſhe did ſo, aſſuring him it was by her guardian's deſire; "who [47] from motives of delicacy had permitted her rather to ſolicit as a favour, what he himſelf would make as 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. Dorri⯑forth loves you himſelf, and it is jea⯑louſy makes him treat me thus."

"For ſhame, my lord!" cried Miſs Woodley, who was preſent, and trem⯑bling with horror at the ſacrilegious idea.

[48]"Nay, ſhame for him if he be not in love"— anſwered his lordſhip, "for what but a ſavage could behold beauty like her's, and not own its power?"

"Habit," replied Miſs Milner, "is every thing—and Mr. Dorriforth ſees and converſes with beauty, and from habit does not fall in love, as you, my lord, merely from habit do."

"Then you believe," cried he, "love is not in my nature?"

"No more of it, my lord, than habit could very ſoon extinguiſh."

"But I would not have it extin⯑guiſhed—I would rather it ſhould mount to a flame, for I think it a crime to be inſenſible of the bleſſings love can be⯑ſtow."

"Then your lordſhip indulges the paſſion to avoid a ſin?—the very mo⯑tive which deters Mr. Dorriforth."

[49]"Which ought to deter him, ma⯑dam, for the ſake of his oaths—but monaſtick vows, like thoſe of marriage, were made to be broken—and ſurely when your guardian looks on you, his wiſhes"—

"Are never leſs pure," returned Miſs Milner 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 opi⯑nion, and his entering at the very mo⯑ment this compliment had been paid in his abſence, heightened the bluſh to a deep glow on every feature, and a con⯑fuſion that trembled on her lips and ſhook through all her frame.

[50]"What's the matter?" cried Dorri⯑forth, looking with concern on her diſ⯑compoſure.

"A compliment paid by herſelf to you, Sir," replied his lordſhip, "has thus affected the lady."

"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 I can want vindica⯑tion?" returned Dorriforth, "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."

[51]"No ill conſequence, I hope, my lord?" replied Dorriforth with a firm⯑neſs in his voice, and an eye fixed ſo ſtedfaſtly, that his lordſhip 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 incompliment to her, he wiſhed to change the ſubject, with a ſmile 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 Dorri⯑forth, "do not confeſs before the ladies, leſt in order to excite their compaſſion, you ſhould be tempted to accuſe your⯑ſelf of ſins, you have never yet com⯑mitted."

[52]At this Miſs Milner laughed, ſeem⯑ingly ſo well pleaſed, that lord Fre⯑derick with a ſarcaſtic ſneer, repeated,

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 plea⯑ſantry was immediately depreſſed, and ſhe threw open the ſaſh and held her head out at the window to conceal the embarraſſment theſe lines had occa⯑ſioned.

The earl of Elmwood was at this juncture announced—a Catholic noble⯑man, juſt come of age, and on the eve of [53] marriage—his Lordſhip's 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 apart⯑ment, lord Elmwood was uſhered into this, and for the preſent directed the converſation to a different ſubject.

CHAPTER VI.

IN anxious deſire that the affection, or acquaintance, between lord Frede⯑rick Lawnly and Miſs Milner might be finally broken, her guardian received with the higheſt ſatisfaction, overtures from Sir Edward Aſhton, in behalf of his paſſion for that young lady.—Sir Edward was not young or handſome; old or ugly; but immenſely rich, and poſſeſſed of qualities that made him, in every ſenſe, worthy the happineſs to which he aſpired.—He was the man Dorriforth would have choſen before any other for the huſband of his Ward, and his wiſhes made him ſometimes hope, againſt his reaſon, that Sir Ed⯑ward [55] would not be rejected—and he reſolved to try the force of his own power in the ſtrongeſt recommendation of him.

Notwithſtanding that diſſimilarity of opinion, which in almoſt every reſpect, ſubſiſted between Miſs Milner and her guardian, there was generally the moſt punctilious obſervance of good man⯑ners from each towards the other—on the part of Dorriforth more eſpecially; for his politeneſs would ſometimes ap⯑pear even like the reſult of a ſyſtem he had marked out for himſelf, as the only means to keep his Ward reſtrained with⯑in the ſame limitations.—Whenever he addreſſed her there was an unuſual re⯑ſerve upon his countenance, and more than uſual gentleneſs in his tone of voice; which ſeemed the effect of ſen⯑timents her birth and ſituation inſpired, [56] joined to a ſtudied mode of reſpect beſt ſuited to enforce the ſame from her. —The wiſhed-for conſequence was pro⯑duced—for though there was an in⯑ſtinctive 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, ſhe had not been accuſtomed to ſubdue, ſhe was perpetually on the verge of treat⯑ing him with levity; but he would im⯑mediately recall her recollection by a reſerve too awful, and a gentleneſs too ſacred for her to violate. The diſtinc⯑tion which both required, was thus, by his ſkilful management alone, pre⯑ſerved.

One morning he took an opportu⯑nity, before her and Miſs Woodley, to [57] introduce and preſs the ſubject of Sir Edward Aſhton's hopes. He firſt ſpoke warmly in his praiſe, then plainly told Miſs Milner he believed ſhe poſſeſſed the power to make ſo deſerving a man happy to the ſummit of his wiſhes. A laugh of ridicule was the only anſwer,— but a ſudden and expreſſive frown from Dorriforth having quickly put an end to it, he reſumed his wonted polite⯑neſs and ſaid,

"I wiſh, Miſs Milner, you would ſhew more good taſte than thus point⯑edly to diſapprove of Sir Edward."

"How, Mr. Dorriforth," replied ſhe, "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 of me?"

Dorriforth wiſhed not to flatter her [58] frailty by a compliment ſhe ſeemed to have ſought for, and for a moment heſitated what to ſay.

"Anſwer, Sir, that queſtion." She cried,

"Why then, madam," replied he, "it is my opinion, that ſuppoſing what your humility has advanced to 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, good taſte, or rather reaſon, has not proper power to act."

"You are right, Mr. Dorriforth; this is a thorough juſtification of Sir Edward—and when I fall in love, I muſt beg you will make the ſame ex⯑cuſe for me."

"Then," returned he earneſtly, "be⯑fore your heart is in that ſtate I have deſcribed, exert your reaſon."

[59]"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 while he ſaid this, and he fixed his eyes upon her as if he wiſhed to penetrate her ſentiments, and yet trembled for what he might find there.—ſhe bluſhed, and her looks would have confirmed her guilty, had not a free and unembar⯑raſſed tone of voice, more than her words, preſerved her from that ſen⯑tence.

"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."

[60]"I am ſorry, for both your ſakes, 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 dan⯑gers, the ſorrows you hazard in be⯑ſtowing 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 to break off as if he could have ſaid much more, had not the extreme delicacy of the ſubject prevented him.

When he left the room, and Miſs Milner heard the door ſhut after him, ſhe ſaid with a thoughful and inquiſi⯑tive earneſtneſs, "what can make good [61] 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 monaſtry or his own ſtudy.—Then he ſpeaks with ſuch ex⯑quiſite ſenſibility on the ſubject of love, he commends the very thing he would decry.—I do not think my lord Frede⯑rick could make the paſſion appear in more pleaſing colours by painting its delights, than Mr. Dorriforth can in deſcribing its ſorrows—and if he talks to me frequently in this manner, I ſhall certainly take pity on his lordſhip, for the ſake of his enemies eloquence."

[62]Miſs Woodley, who heard the con⯑cluſion 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 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 ex⯑perience," replied Miſs Milner, "but I think I can gueſs what it is."

"But do not fall in love, my dear Miſs Milner," (cried Miſs Woodley, with an earneſtneſs as if ſhe had been aſking a favour that depended upon the will of the perſon entreated,) "do [63] not fall in love without the approbation of your guardian."

Her young friend laughed at the in⯑efficacious 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 kinder reception, and was ſo frequently in the houſe of Mrs. Horton, that lord Frederick's jealouſy was excited, and the tortures he ſuf⯑fered in conſequence, convinced him beyond a doubt of the ſincerity of his affection. He now, every time he be⯑held the object of his paſſion, (for he ſtill continued his viſits, tho' leſs fre⯑quently than before) pleaded his cauſe ſo ardently, that Miſs Woodley, who was occaſionally preſent, and ever com⯑paſſionate, could ſcarce reſiſt wiſhing him ſucceſs. He now unequivocally [65] offered marriage, and entreated to be ſuffered to lay his propoſals before Mr. Dorriforth, but this Miſs Milner poſi⯑tively forbid.

Her reluctance he imputed, how⯑ever, more to the known partiality of her guardian to the addreſſes of Sir Edward, than to any motive which de⯑pended upon herſelf; and to Mr. Dorriforth his lordſhip 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 Mil⯑ner declared both to him and to her friend, Love had, at preſent, gained no one influence over her mind.—Yet did the watchful Miſs Woodley often⯑times hear a ſigh burſt forth, unknow⯑ing to herſelf, till ſhe was reminded of [66] it, and then a ſudden bluſh of ſhame would inſtantly ſpread over 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 ready compliance in every new purſuit that might amuſe the time, ſhe elſe ſaw paſſed by her friend in heavineſs of heart.

Balls, plays, inceſſant company, at length rouzed her guardian from that mildneſs with which he had been ac⯑cuſtomed to treat her — night after night, his ſleep had been diſturbed by fears for her ſafety while abroad; morn⯑ing after morning, it had been broken by the clamour of her return.—He therefore ſaid to her one forenoon as he met her accidentally upon the ſtair caſe,

[67]"I hope, Miſs Milner, you paſs this evening at home?"

Unprepared for the ſudden queſtion, ſhe bluſhed and replied, "Yes." While ſhe knew ſhe was engaged to a brilliant aſſembly, for which ſhe had been a whole week conſulting her milliner in preparation.

She, however, flattered herſelf what ſhe had ſaid to Mr. Dorriforth might be excuſed as a ſlight 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 re⯑moved, her footman delivered a meſ⯑ſage to her from her milliner concern⯑ing a new dreſs for the evening—the preſent evening particularly marked.— Dorriforth looked aſtoniſhed.

[68]"I thought, Miſs Milner, you gave me your word you would paſs this evening at home?"

"I miſtook then—for I had before given my word I ſhould paſs it abroad."

"Indeed?" cried he.

"Yes, indeed;" returned ſhe, "and I believe it is right 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 much more conſequence than it de⯑ſerves, by being offended."

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

She caught his piercing, ſtedfaſt eye— her's were immediately caſt down; and [69] ſhe trembled — either with ſhame or with reſentment.

Mrs. Horton roſe from her ſeat— moved the decanters and the fruit round the table—ſtirred the fire—and came back to her ſeat again, before an⯑other word was uttered.—Nor had this good woman's officious labours taken the leaſt from the aukwardneſs 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 ala⯑crity, 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 ſur⯑priſe, [70] 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 ſub⯑miſſive. — Before ſhe could reſolve, Dorriforth aroſe from his ſeat, and ſaid with a degree of force and warmth ſhe had never heard him ſpeak with before.

"I command you to ſtay at home this evening."

And he walked immediately out of the apartment by the oppoſite door. —Her hand fell motionleſs from that ſhe held — ſhe appeared motionleſs herſelf for ſome time; — till Mrs. Horton, "beſeeching her not to be uneaſy at the treatment ſhe had re⯑ceived," cauſed a flood of tears to flow, and her boſom to heave as if her heart was breaking.

[71]Miſs Woodley would have ſaid ſome⯑thing to comfort her, but ſhe had caught the infection and could not ut⯑ter a word—not from any real cauſe of grief did this lady weep; but there was a magnetic quality in tears, which al⯑ways drew forth her's.

Mrs. Horton ſecretly enjoyed this ſcene, although the real well meaning of her heart, and eaſe of her conſcience, did not tell her ſo—ſhe, however, de⯑clared ſhe had "long prognoſticated it would come to this;" and ſhe "now only thanked heaven it was no worſe."

"What would you have worſe, ma⯑dam?" 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 [72] than your guardian gives you credit for."

"Do you think I would go," an⯑ſwered Miſs Milner, with an earneſtneſs 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." Returned Mrs. Horton, and affected a tenderneſs of voice, to ſoften the harſhneſs of her words.

"If that is the caſe, madam," re⯑plied Miſs Milner, "I ſee nothing that ſhould prevent me now." And ſhe flung out of the room as if ſhe had re⯑ſolved to diſobey him.—This alarmed poor Miſs Woodley.

"Dear Aunt," ſhe cried to Mrs. Horton, "follow and prevail upon Miſs Milner to give up her deſign; ſhe means [73] to go to the ball in oppoſition to her guardian's will."

"Then," cried Mrs. Horton, "I'll not be an inſtrument in deterring her— if ſhe does, it may be for the beſt; it may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer knowledge what means are proper to uſe, to convert her from evil."

"But, dear madam, ſhe muſt be prevented 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 deſign, when Mrs. Horton, in humble imitation of the ex⯑ample 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 [74] were in the chamber with her friend, ſhe never ſhewed 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:— Dorriforth entered with a countenance which evinced the remains of anger; his eye gave teſtimony of his abſent thoughts; and although he took up a pamphlet and affected to read, it was plain to diſcern he ſcarcely knew he held it in his hand.

Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as wholly intent upon ſomething elſe, as Dorriforth's—ſhe was longing for the event of this miſunder⯑ſtanding, (for to age trivial matters are important,) and though ſhe wiſhed no [75] ill to Miſs Milner, yet with an inclina⯑tion bent upon ſeeing ſomething new— without the fatigue of going out of her own houſe — ſhe was not over ſcru⯑pulous what that novelty might be.— But for fear ſhe ſhould have the im⯑prudence to ſpeak a word upon the ſubject which employed her thoughts, or even 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 detect her.— 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 gentle gingle [76] of a tea-ſpoon, was like a deep-toned bell, all was ſo quiet.

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

The firſt cups of tea were ſcarcely poured out, when a ſervant came with Miſs Milner's compliments and ſhe ſhould drink none.—The book ſhaked 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 to prevent, or to reſent it.—He coughed [77] —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 dreſt for ball, but as ſhe had roſe from dinner. — Dorriforth read on, and ſeemed afraid to look up, leſt he ſhould behold what he could not have pardoned.— ſhe drew a chair and ſat down at the table by the ſide of Miſs Woodley.

After a few minutes pauſe, and ſome ſmall embarraſſment on the part of Mrs. Horton, at the diſappointment ſhe had to contend with from Miſs Mil⯑ner's unexpected obedience, ſhe aſked that young lady "if ſhe would now take tea?"—to which Miſs Milner replied, "no, I thank you, ma'am," in a voice ſo languid, compared to her uſual one, [78] that Dorriforth lifted his eyes from the book; and ſeeing her in the ſame negligent dreſs ſhe had worn all the day, caſt them away again—not with a look of triumph, but of confuſion.

And whatever he might have ſuf⯑fered had he beheld her decorated, and on the point of bidding defiance to his commands, yet even upon that trial, he had not endured half the painful ſenſations he now for a moment felt— he felt himſelf to blame.

He feared he had treated her with too much ſeverity—he admired her conde⯑ſcenſion, accuſed himſelf for exacting it —he longed to aſk her pardon, he did not know how.

A chearful reply from her, to a queſ⯑tion of Miſs Woodley's, embarraſſed him ſtill more—he wiſhed ſhe had been [79] fullen, he then would have had a temp⯑tation, or a pretence, to have been ſo too.

With all theſe thoughts crowding faſt on his mind he ſtill read, or ſeemed to read, and to take no notice of what was paſſing; till a ſervant entered and aſked Miſs Milner what time ſhe ſhould want the chariot? to which ſhe replied, "I don't go out to night."—He then laid the book out of his hand, and by the time the ſervent 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 unman⯑nerly.—Forgive the duty of my office, and believe no one is half ſo much [80] concerned if it robs you of any amuſe⯑ments, as I myſelf am."

What he ſaid, he looked with ſo much ſincerity, that had ſhe been burn⯑ing with rage at his behaviour, ſhe muſt have forgiven him, for the regret he ſo forcibly expreſt.—She was going to reply, but found ſhe could not with⯑out accompanying her words with tears, therefore as ſoon as ſhe attempted ſhe deſiſted.

On this he roſe from his ſeat, and going to her, ſaid, "Once more ſhew your ſubmiſſion by obeying me a ſe⯑cond time to day.—Keep your appoint⯑ment, and be aſſured I ſhall iſſue my commands with greater circumſpection for the future, as I find how ſtrictly they are complied with."

Miſs Milner, the gay, the proud, the haughty Miſs Milner, ſunk under⯑neath [81] this kindneſs, and wept with a gentleneſs and patience, which did not give more ſurpriſe than it gave ſatisfac⯑tion to Dorriforth.—He was charmed to find her diſpoſition ſo little untractable —forboded the future proſperity of his guardianſhip, and her eternal, as well as temporal happineſs from this ſpecimen.

CHAPTER VIII.

ALTHOUGH Dorriforth was that good man that has been deſcribed, there was in his nature ſhades of evil—there was an obſtinacy; ſuch as he himſelf, and his friends termed firmneſs of mind; but had not religion and ſome oppoſite virtues weighed heavy in the balance, it would frequently have de⯑generated into implacable ſtubbornneſs.

The child of a once beloved ſiſter, who married a young officer againſt her brother's conſent, was at the age of three years left an orphan, deſtitute of every ſupport but from his uncle's ge⯑neroſity: but though Dorriforth men⯑tioned, he would never ſee him. Miſs [83] Milner, whoſe heart was a receptacle for the unfortunate, no ſooner was told the melancholy hiſtory of Mr. and Mrs. Ruſ⯑brook, 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 en⯑gaging manners, needed 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 beheld him with admiration and pity, and having endeared herſelf to him by the moſt affectionate words and careſſes, on her bidding him fare⯑well, he cried moſt ſorrowfully to go along with her. Unuſed to reſiſt temp⯑tations, whether to reprehenſible, or to laudable actions, ſhe yielded to his [84] ſupplications, and having overcome a few ſcruples of Miſs Woodley's, deter⯑mined to take young Ruſbrook 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 con⯑ſent to part with him for a day or two, and the ſigns of joy the child denoted on being put into the carriage, ſeemed to repay her before-hand, for every re⯑proof ſhe might receive from her guar⯑dian, for the liberty ſhe had taken.

"Beſides," ſaid ſhe to Miſs Woodley, who had ſtill her apprehenſions, "do you not wiſh his uncle ſhould have ſome warmer intereſt in his care than duty? —it is that alone, which induces Mr. Dorriforth to provide for him, but it is proper, affection, ſhould have ſome ſhare in his benevolence—and how, hereafter, [85] will he be ſo fit an object for that love, which compaſſion muſt excite, as he is at preſent?"

Miſs Woodley acquieſced.—But be⯑fore they arrived at their own door it came into Miſs Milner's remembrance, there was a grave ſternneſs in the man⯑ners of her guardian when provoked; the recollection of which, made her ſomething apprehenſive for what ſhe had done—Miſs Woodley was more ſo. —They both became ſilent as they ap⯑proached the ſtreet where they lived— for Miſs Woodley having once repre⯑ſented her fears, and having ſuppreſſed them in reſignation to Miſs Milner's better judgment, would not repeat them—and Miſs Milner would not con⯑feſs they were now troubling her.

Juſt, however, as the coach ſtopt, ſhe had the forecaſt and the humility [86] to ſay, "we will not tell Mr. Dorri⯑forth the child is his nephew, Miſs Woodley, unleſs he ſhould appear fond, and pleaſed with him, and then we may venture without any danger."

This was agreed, and when Dorri⯑forth entered the room juſt before din⯑ner, poor Harry Ruſbrook was intro⯑duced to him as the ſon of a lady who frequently viſited there. The decep⯑tion paſſed — Dorriforth ſhook hands with him, and at length highly pleaſed with his engaging wiles, and applica⯑ble replies, took him on his knee, and kiſſed him with affection. Miſs Mil⯑ner could ſcarcely reſtrain the joy this gave her; but unluckily, Dorriforth ſaid ſoon after to the child, "and now tell me your name."

"Harry Ruſbrook." Replied he with great force and clearneſs in his voice.

[87]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 ſupported him, ſo ſuddenly, that the child to pre⯑vent falling on the floor, threw himſelf about his uncle's neck.—Miſs Milner and Miſs Woodley turned aſide to con⯑ceal their tears. "I had liked to have been down." Cried Harry, fearing no other danger.—But his uncle took hold of each hand that had twined around him, and placed him immediately on the ground; and 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 treat with leſs kindneſs the ob⯑ject [88] of this vexatious circumſtance: ſhe held him in her arms all the while ſhe ſat at table, and repeatedly ſaid to him, (though he had not the ſenſe to thank her) "ſhe would always be his friend."

The firſt emotions of reſentment againſt Dorriforth being over, ſhe was eaſily prevailed upon to re⯑turn with poor Ruſbrook 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 to acquaint him with it, offering at the ſame time an apology for what had happened. He returned in the evening ſeemingly re⯑conciled, nor was a word mentioned of the incident which had occurred during [89] the day; yet there remained in the auſtere looks of Dorriforth a perfect remem⯑brance of it, and not one trait of com⯑paſſion for his helpleſs nephew.

CHAPTER IX.

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

Miſs Fenton, a young lady of the moſt delicate beauty, elegant manners, gentle diſpoſition, and diſcreet con⯑duct, was introduced to Miſs Milner's acquaintance by her guardian; and fre⯑quently, ſometimes inadvertently, held up by him as a pattern for her to fol⯑low—for when he did not ſay this in [91] direct terms, it was inſinuated by the warmth of his panegyricks on thoſe virtues in which Miſs Fenton excelled, and his ward was obviouſly deficient. Conſcious of her inferiority in theſe ſub⯑jects of her guardian's praiſe, Miſs Mil⯑ner, inſtead of being inſpired to emula⯑tion, was provoked to envy.

Not to admire Miſs Fenton was im⯑poſſible—to find a fault in her perſon or ſentiments was equally impoſſible— and yet to love her, was very unlikely.

That ſerinity 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 a want of variety; and to have ſeen her diſtorted with rage, con⯑vulſed with mirth, or in deep dejection had been to her advantage.—But her [92] ſuperior ſoul appeared above thoſe na⯑tural commotions of the mind, 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, beheld her as the moſt per⯑fect model for her ſex, Lord Frede⯑rick on firſt ſeeing her was ſtruck with her beauty, and Miſs Milner appre⯑hended 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 features of Miſs Woodley.

Miſs Milner had a heart affectionate to her ſex, even where ſhe ſaw them in the poſſeſſion of charms ſuperior to her [93] own; but whether from the ſpirit of contradiction, whether from feeling her⯑ſelf more than ordinarily offended by her guardian's praiſe of this lady, or whether there was ſomething in the re⯑ſerve of Miſs Fenton that did not ac⯑cord with her own frank and ingenuous diſpoſition ſo as to engage her eſteem, it is certain ſhe took infinite ſatisfaction in hearing her beauty and her virtues depreciated, or turned to ridicule, par⯑ticularly if Mr. Dorriforth was preſent. This was very painful to him upon many accounts; perhaps regard to Miſs Milner's conduct was not among the leaſt; and whenever the circumſtance occurred, he could with difficulty re⯑ſtrain his anger. Miſs Fenton was not only a young lady whoſe amiable qua⯑lities Dorriforth admired, but ſhe was ſoon to be allied to him by her marriage [94] 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 her fortune had been pointed out to him by his Tutor; and the utility of their marriage in perfect ſubmiſſion to his precepts, his lordſhip never permitted himſelf to queſtion.

This Preceptor, held with a magiſ⯑terial power the government of his pupil's paſſions; nay, governed them ſo entirely, no one could perceive (nor did the young lord himſelf know) that he had any.

[95]This rigid monitor and friend, was a Mr. Sandford, bred a jeſuit in the ſame college where Dorriforth was educated, but before his time the or⯑der 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 wiſdom to direct the conduct of men more power⯑ful, but leſs ingenious than himſelf. The young earl accuſtomed in his in⯑fancy to fear him as his maſter, in his youth and manhood received every new indulgence with which his precep⯑tor favoured him with gratitude, and became at length to love him as his [96] father—nor had Dorriforth as yet ſhook off ſimilar ſenſations.

Mr. Sandford perfectly knew how to work upon the paſſions of all human nature, but yet had the conſcience not to "draw all hearts towards him."— There were of mankind, thoſe, whoſe hate he thought not unworthy his holy labour; and in that, he was more rapid in his ſucceſs than even in procuring eſteem. In this enterprize 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 a foreign ſeminary—beſides, as a woman, ſhe was privileged to ſay any thing ſhe pleaſed; and as a beautiful woman, ſhe [97] had a right to expect whatever ſhe pleaſed to ſay, ſhould be admired.

Sandford knew the hearts of women, as well as thoſe of men, notwithſtanding he had paſſed but 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 circum⯑ference a weight of folly he wiſhed to ſee eradicated, he began to toil in the vineyard, eager to draw upon him her deteſtation, in the hope he could alſo make her abominate herſelf. The mortifications of ſlight he was expert in, and being a man of talents, ſuch as all companies, eſpecially thoſe Miſs Milner often frequented, looked on with reſpect, he did not begin by waſting that reverence ſo highly valued upon ineffectual remonſtrances, of which [98] he could foreſee the reception, but awakened the attention of the lady ſolely by his neglect of her. He ſpoke of her in her preſence as of an indiffer⯑ent perſon; ſometimes forgot to name her when the ſubject required it; and then would aſk her pardon and ſay he "did not recollect her," with ſuch ſeeming ſorrow for his fault, ſhe could not think the offence intended, and of courſe felt the affront much more ſe⯑verely.

While, with every other perſon ſhe was the principle, the firſt cauſe upon which a whole company depended for converſation, muſick, cards, or danc⯑ing, with Mr. Sandford ſhe found ſhe was of no importance.—Sometimes ſhe tried to conſider this diſregard of her as merely the effect of ill-breeding, but he [99] was not an ill-bred man; he was a gen⯑tleman by birth, and one who had kept the beſt company; a man of ſenſe and learning.—"And does ſuch a man ſlight me without knowing it?" She cried— for ſhe had not dived ſo deep into the powers of ſimulation, as to ſuſpect ſuch careleſs manners were the reſult of art.

This behaviour of Mr. Sandford's had its deſired effect; it humbled Miſs Milner in her own opinion, more than a thouſand ſermons would have done preached on the vanity of youth and beauty. She felt an inward no⯑thingneſs ſhe never knew before, and had been cured of all her pride, had ſhe not poſſeſſed a degree of ſpirit beyond the generality of her ſex, and ſuch as even Mr. Sandford with all his penetration did not expect.—She deter⯑mined [100] to reſent his treatment, and en⯑tering the liſt as his declared enemy, give reaſons to the beholders why he did not, with them, acknowledge her ſovereignty.

She now commenced hoſtilities on all his arguments, his learning, and his favourite axioms; and by a happy turn for ridicule, in want of other weapons, threw in the way of the holy Father as great trials for his patience, as any his order could have ſubſtituted in penance. Some things he bore like a martyr—at others, his fortitude would forſake him, and he would call on her guardian, his late pupil, to interpoſe with his autho⯑rity; on which ſhe would declare ſhe only acted "to try the good man's temper," and had he combated with his fretfulneſs but a few minutes longer, ſhe [101] would have acknowledged his right to cannonization; but having yielded to the ſallies of his anger, he muſt now go through numerous other probations."

If Miſs Fenton was admired by Dor⯑riforth, by Sandford ſhe was adored— and inſtead of giving her as an exam⯑ple 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 ſomething too much—and poor Miſs Woodley, who was generally a witneſs of theſe controverſies, ſuffered a degree of ſorrow at every ſentence [102] that diſtreſt Miſs Milner.—Yet as ſhe ſuffered for Mr. Sandford too, 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 re⯑verend prieſt; and often did ſhe feel ſo violently intereſted in his cauſe, ſhe could not refrain giving an anſwer her⯑ſelf in his behalf—thus, doing the duty of an adverſary.

CHAPTER X.

MR. Sandford finding his friend Dor⯑riforth frequently perplexed in the man⯑agement of his ward, and he himſelf thinking her incorrigible, gave his ad⯑vice, that a proper match ſhould be im⯑mediately ſought out for her, and the care of ſo dangerous a perſon given into other hands. Dorriforth acknow⯑ledged the propriety of this council, but lamented the difficulty there was in 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 Mr. Sandford, "her af⯑fections are already engaged, and it is proper you ſhould know to whom."— [104] Dorriforth thought he did know, and mentioned lord Frederick Lawnly; but ſaid he had no farther authority for the ſuppoſition, than what his obſerva⯑tion had given him, for that every ex⯑planation both on his lordſhip's ſide, and on that of the lady's, were evaded. —"Take her then," cried Sandford, "into the country, and if his Lord⯑ſhip does not follow, there is an end to your ſuſpicions."—"I ſhall not eaſily prevail upon Miſs Milner to leave the town," replied Dorriforth, "while it is in its higheſt faſhion; while all the gay world are reſorted hither."—"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 keep to your determina⯑tion."—"But in the Autumn," replied Dorriforth, "lord Frederick will of [105] courſe be in the country, and as his uncle's eſtate is near to our reſidence, he will not then ſo evidently follow Miſs Milner, as he would, could I in⯑duce her to go now."

It was agreed the attempt ſhould be made — and inſtead of receiving the propoſal with uneaſineſs, Miſs Milner, to the ſurpriſe of every one preſent, im⯑mediately conſented; and gave her guar⯑dian 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 al⯑ways conſidered with the higheſt eſti⯑mation—but your commendations are now become infinitely ſuperior in value, by their ſcarcity; for I do not believe that ſince Miſs Fenton and Mr. Sand⯑ford [106] came to town, I have received one teſtimony of your friendſhip."

Had theſe words been uttered with pleaſantry, they might have paſſed with⯑out obſervation; but at the concluſion of the period, reſentment flew to Miſs Milner's face, and ſhe darted a pier⯑cing look at Mr. Sandford, which more pointedly expreſſed ſhe was angry with him, than had ſhe ſpoken volumes in her uſual ſtrain of raillery.—Dorriforth looked confuſed—but the concern which ſhe had ſo plainly evinced for his good opinion throughout what ſhe had ſaid, ſilenced any rebuke he might elſe have been tempted to give her, for this un⯑warrantable charge againſt his friend.— Mrs. Horton was ſhocked at the irre⯑verent manner in which Mr. Sandford was treated — while Miſs Woodley [107] turned to him with a ſmile upon her face, hoping to ſet him an example of the manner in which he ſhould receive this reproach.—Her good wiſhes did not ſucceed—yet he was perfectly un⯑ruffled, and replied with coolneſs,

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

"Deceit," cried Miſs Milner, "in what am I deceitful? did I ever pretend Sir, I had an eſteem for you?"

"That had not 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."

[108]"And I was ſatisfied, till I recollected you might probably be of the party— then every grove was changed to a wil⯑derneſs, every rivulet into a ſtagnated pool, and every ſinging bird into a croaking raven."

"A very poetical deſcription." Re⯑turned he calmly.—"But, Miſs Mil⯑ner, you need not have had any appre⯑henſions of my company in the country, for I underſtand the ſeat to which your guardian means to go, belongs to you; and depend upon it, madam, I ſhall never enter a houſe where you are the miſtreſs."

"Nor any houſe I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but where you yourſelf are the maſter."

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

[109]"Your ſervants," replied ſhe look⯑ing 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 woman; but I know you do it for her good."

"Well, Miſs Milner," cried Dorri⯑forth, (and the moſt cutting thing he could ſay,) "ſince I find my propoſal of the country has put you out of hu⯑mour, I ſhall mention it no more."

With all that vaſt quantity of reſent⯑ment, 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 uttering one angry ſentence, immediately directed to him; and a ſevere word on his ſide, inſtead of exaſ⯑perating, [110] was ſure to ſoften her. Such was the caſe at preſent — his words ſeemed to cut 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 to ſuffer him⯑ſelf to be moved by it, he conſidered would be a tacit condemnation of his friend's conduct. — She underſtood his thoughts, and getting the better of her tears, apologized for the weakneſs of which ſhe had been guilty; adding,

"She could never bear with indiffer⯑ence an unjuſt accuſation."

"To prove mine was ſuch, madam," replied Dorriforth, "be prepared to [111] quit London, without any marks of re⯑gret, within a few days."

She bowed aſſent; the neceſſary pre⯑parations were agreed upon; and while Miſs Milner with apparent ſatisfaction adjuſted the plan of her journey, (like thoſe perſons who behave well, not ſo much to pleaſe themſelves as to vex their enemies,) ſhe ſecretly triumphed in the mortification ſhe ſuppoſed Mr. Sandford would receive, from her obe⯑dient behaviour.

The news of this intended journey was ſoon made public. There is a ſe⯑cret charm in being pitied, when the misfortune is but ideal, and Miſs Mil⯑ner found immenſe gratification in be⯑ing told, "her's was a cruel caſe," and that it was "unjuſt and barbarous to force ſo much beauty to be concealed [112] in the country, while London was filled with admirers; who, like her, would languiſh in conſequence of the ſepara⯑tion." Theſe things, and a thouſand ſuch, a thouſand times repeated, ſhe ſtill liſtened to with pleaſure; yet pre⯑ſerved the conſtancy not to ſhrink from her reſolution of ſubmitting.

Thoſe ſighs, which Miſs Woodley had long ago obſerved, became, how⯑ever, more frequent ſtill; and a tear half ſtarting to her eye was an additi⯑onal matter of her friends obſervation. Yet though Miſs Milner at thoſe times was ſoftened to melancholy, ſhe by no means appeared unhappy. Miſs Wood⯑ley was acquainted with the name of love only, yet ſhe concluded from theſe encreaſed ſymptoms, what ſhe before only ſuſpected, that love muſt be then [113] baſis. "Her ſenſes have been capti⯑vated by the perſon and accompliſh⯑ments of Lord Frederick," ſaid Miſs Woodley to herſelf, "while her un⯑derſtanding beholds his faults, and re⯑proaches her paſſion—and, oh!" cried ſhe, "could her guardian and Mr. Sandford know of this conflict, how much more would they have to admire than to condemn!"

With theſe friendly thoughts, joined to the moſt perfect good intent, Miſs Woodley did not fail to give both gentlemen cauſe to believe, a conten⯑tion of this nature was the preſent ſtate of Miſs Milner's mind.—Dorri⯑forth was affected at the deſcription, and Sandford urged more than ever the neceſſity of the country expedition. —In a few days time they under⯑took [114] it; Mrs. Horton, Miſs Woodley, Miſs Milner, and Mr. Dorriforth, ac⯑companied by Miſs Fenton, whom Miſs Milner, as ſhe knew it to be the wiſh of her guardian, invited to paſs the three months previous to her mar⯑riage, at her country ſeat. Elmwood Houſe, or rather Caſtle, the ſeat of lord Elmwood, was only a few miles from this reſidence, and his lordſhip was expected to paſs great part of the ſum⯑mer there with his tutor, Mr. Sandford.

In the neighbourhood was alſo an eſtate belonging to an uncle of lord Frederick's, and many of the company ſuſpected they ſhould ſoon ſee his lord⯑ſhip on a viſit there, and to that ex⯑pectation did they in great meaſure at⯑tribute Miſs Milner's viſible content.

CHAPTER XI.

WITH this party Miſs Milner ar⯑rived at her country houſe, and for near ſix weeks all around was the per⯑fect picture of tranquillity;—her ſatiſ⯑faction was as evident as every other per⯑ſon's; and every ſevere reflection being at this time unneceſſary, either to teize her to her duty, or to warn her againſt her follies, ſhe was even in perfect good humour with Miſs Fenton, and added to the hoſpitality of a hoſt, the kindneſs of a friend.

Mr. Sandford, who came with lord Elmwood to the neighbouring ſeat about a week after the arrival of Miſs [116] Milner at her's, was ſo ſcrupulous ex⯑act in the obſervance of his word, "ne⯑ver 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 was upon any occaſion, ever exchanged be⯑tween them.

Miſs Milner did not like Mr. Sand⯑ford; yet, as there was no real cauſe for inveterate rancour, admiring him too as a man who meant well, and be⯑ing 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 [117] as they were all, after a long ramble, drawing towards her houſe, where lord Elmwood was invited to dine, ſhe even burſt into tears at ſeeing Sandford turn back and wiſh them a "good day."

But though ſhe had generoſity to forgive an affront, ſhe had not the hu⯑mility 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 trifling occaſion with a ſecret pleaſure, and an admiration ſhe had never before excited. She inſinuated to him to be a mediator between them; but before any accommodation could take place, the peace and compoſure of their abode was diſturbed by the arrival [118] of Sir Edward Aſhton at lord Elm⯑wood's, where it appeared as if he had been invited in order to purſue his ma⯑trimonial plan.

At a dinner at lord Elmwood's Sir Edward was announced as an unex⯑pected viſiter; Miſs Milner did not ſuppoſe him ſuch, and 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 "Wel⯑comes" to the baronet, gave evident proofs how much he was rejoiced to ſee him. All the declining enmity of Miſs Milner was renewed at this behaviour, and ſuſpecting Sandford to be the inſti⯑gator of his viſit, ſhe could not over⯑come her diſpleaſure, but gave way to it in a manner ſhe thought the moſt [119] mortifying.—Sir Edward in the courſe of converſation, enquired "what neigh⯑bours were in the country;" and ſhe with the higheſt appearance of ſatisfac⯑tion, named lord Frederick Lawnly, as one who was hourly expected at his uncle's. The colour ſpread over Sir Edward's face—Dorriforth looked con⯑founded—and Mr. Sandford as if he could have ſtruck her.

"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?" cried Miſs Milner.—For as ſhe now meant to tor⯑ment him by what ſhe ſaid, ſhe no longer conſtrained herſelf to ſilence— and as he harboured the ſame kind in⯑tent towards her, he had no longer any [120] objection to make a reply, and there⯑fore 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 igno⯑rance."

"I would."

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

Some of the perſons preſent laughed —Mrs. Horton coughed—Miſs Wood⯑ley 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 even⯑ing the company returned home.

[121]Miſs Milner had ſcarce left her dreſ⯑ſing room, where ſhe had been taking off ſome part of her dreſs, when Dor⯑riforth's ſervant came to acquaint her his maſter was alone in his ſtudy, and begged to ſpeak with her.—She felt herſelf tremble—ſhe immediately expe⯑rienced a conſciouſneſs ſhe had not acted properly at lord Elmwood's; for ſhe had a preſcience her guardian was go⯑ing to upbraid her, and her heart told her, he had never yet reproached her without a cauſe.

Miſs Woodley juſt then entered the apartment, and ſhe even found herſelf ſo much a coward, as to propoſe her go⯑ing to Dorriforth along with her, and aiding her with a word or two occa⯑ſionally in her excuſe.

[122]"What you, my dear," returned Miſs Woodley, "who not two 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 guar⯑dian only? and he, who has ever treated you with tenderneſs."

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

She again entreated Miſs Woodley to go with her, but on a poſitive refu⯑ſal, from the impropriety of ſuch an intruſion, ſhe was at length obliged to go by herſelf.

[123]How much do different circumſtances influence not only the manners, but even the perſons of ſome people!—Miſs Mil⯑ner in the drawing room at lord Elm⯑wood's ſurrounded by liſteners, by ad⯑mirers, (for even her enemies beheld her with admiration,) and warm with their approbation and applauſe — and Miſs Milner, with no giddy obſerver to give a falſe eclat to her actions, left deſtitute of all but her own underſtand⯑ing, (which ſecretly condemns her,) and upon the point of receiving the cenſure of her guardian and friend, are two different beings.—Though ſtill beauti⯑ful 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 [124] different contour preſided over her whole air, and all her features.

When ſhe arrived at the ſtudy door, 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 aſſumed the moſt ſevere aſ⯑pect of reproach; when her appearance gave an inſtantaneous change to his whole mind, and countenance.

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

[125]"My dear Miſs Milner"—

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

"For in reſpect 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 cenſure him, his character makes the freedom appear in a more ſerious light than when he complains of you—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 re⯑quire a ſerious and unequivocal anſwer. [126] —Do you expect lord Frederick in the country?"

Without heſitation ſhe replied, "ſhe did."

"I have one more queſtion to aſk, madam, and to which I expect a reply equally unreſerved.—Is lord Frederick the man you approve for a huſband?"

Upon this cloſe interrogation ſhe diſ⯑covered an embarraſſment, and a confu⯑ſion beyond any ſhe had ever before given proofs of; and in this ſituation ſhe faintly replied,

"No, he is not."

"Your words tell me one thing," anſwered Dorriforth, "while your looks declare another—which am I to truſt?"

"Which you pleaſe." She returned with an inſulted dignity, that aſtoniſhed, awed, yet did not convince him.

[127]"But then why encourage him to fol⯑low 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 in⯑tention of completing them? This is a conduct which it is my duty to guard you againſt, and you ſhall no longer deceive either him or yourſelf. The moment he arrives it is my fixed reſolu⯑tion you refuſe to ſee him, or agree to become his wife."

In anſwer to this, ſhe appeared averſe both to the one propoſition and the other, yet came to no explanation why; but left her guardian at the concluſion of the converſation as much at a loſs to decide upon her real ſentiments, as he was before he had thus ſeriouſly re⯑queſted [128] to be informed of them; but having ſteadfaſtly taken the reſolution which he had declared to her, he found that determination a certain relief to his mind.

CHAPTER XII.

SIR Edward Aſhton, though not in⯑vited by Miſs Milner, yet frequently did himſelf the favour to come to her houſe; ſometimes he accompanied lord Elmwood on a viſit to her, at other times he came to ſee Dorriforth only, 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 much intimidated by her frowns, that he ſeldom addreſſed a ſin⯑gle word to her, except the common compliments at entering, and retiring. —This apprehenſion of offending, with⯑out one hope of pleaſing, had the moſt awkward effect upon the manners of [130] the worthy baronet, and his endeavours to inſinuate himſelf into the affections of the woman he loved, merely by the means of not giving her offence either by ſpeaking or looking at her, was a circumſtance ſo whimſical, that it fre⯑quently forced a ſmile from Miſs Mil⯑ner, though the very name of Sir Ed⯑ward was of power to throw a gloom over her face; for ſhe looked upon him as the cauſe why ſhe ſhould be hurried to make an election of a lover, before her own mind could well direct her where to fix.—Beſides, his purſuit was a trou⯑ble, while it was not the ſmalleſt tri⯑umph to her vanity, which by the ad⯑dreſſes of lord Frederick, was in the higheſt manner gratified.

His lordſhip now arrives in the country, and calls at Miſs Milner's; [131] her guardian ſees his chariot coming along the lawn 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 ſaw his carriage and ſervants at the door; Miſs Milner flew to the glaſs to adjuſt her dreſs, and in her looks expreſſed ſigns of palpitation —but in vain ſhe keeps her eyes fixed upon the door of the apartment; he does not enter.

After ſome minutes expectation, the door opens and her guardian comes in; ſhe was diſappointed, he perceived ſhe was, and he looked at her with a very ſerious face; ſhe immediately called to mind the aſſurance he had given her, [132] "that her acquaintance with lord Fre⯑derick in its preſent ſtate ſhould not continue," and between chagrin and confuſion, ſhe was at a loſs how to be⯑have.

Notwithſtanding the ladies were all preſent, Dorriforth ſaid to her, 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."

[133]"Yet believe me, madam, I ſhould do it much more chearfully, could I hope it was ſcantioned by your inclina⯑tions."

"I am not miſtreſs of my inclina⯑tions, Sir, or they ſhould conform to yours."

"Place them under my direction, madam, and I'll anſwer they will."

A ſervant entered.—"Lord Frede⯑rick is returned, Sir, and ſays he ſhould be glad to ſee you."—"Shew him into the ſtudy." Cried Dorriforth haſtily, and riſing from his ſeat, left the room.

"I hope they won't quarrel." Said Mrs. Horton, meaning, ſhe thought they would.

"I am ſorry to ſee you ſo uneaſy, Miſs Milner." Said Miſs Fenton, with the moſt perfect unconcern.

[134]As the badneſs of the weather had prevented their uſual morning's exerciſe, the ladies ſat 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," returned Miſs Woodley. — "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 haſtily 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, [135] but ſtill he appeared thoughtful and diſ⯑ſatisfied. At the time of their evening walks he excuſed himſelf, and was ſeen in a diſtant field with Mr. Sandford in earneſt converſation; for they frequently ſtopt on one ſpot for a quarter of an hour, as if the intereſt of the ſubject had ſo totally engaged them, they ſtood ſtill without knowing it. Lord Elm⯑wood, who had joined the ladies, walked home with them; Dorriforth entered ſoon after, in a much leſs gloomy hu⯑mour than when he went out, and told his lordſhip he and the ladies would dine with him to-morrow if he was diſ⯑engaged, and it was fixed they ſhould.

Still Dorriforth was in ſome pertur⯑bation, but the immediate cauſe was concealed till the next day, when, about an hour before the company's depar⯑ture [136] from the Caſtle, Miſs Milner and Miſs Woodley were deſired, by a ſer⯑vant, to walk into a ſeparate apart⯑ment, where they found Dorriforth with Mr. Sandford waiting their coming. Her guardian made an apology to Miſs Milner for the form, the cere⯑mony, of which he was going to make uſe; but he truſted, the extreme weight with which his mind was oppreſſed, leſt he ſhould miſtake the real ſentiments of a lady whoſe happineſs depended upon his being correct in the knowledge of them, he truſted, that would plead his excuſe.

"I know, Miſs Milner," continued he, "the world in general, allows to unmarried women great latitude in diſ⯑guiſing their mind with reſpect to the man they love.—I too, am willing to pardon any little diſſimulation that is [137] but conſiſtent with that modeſty, be⯑coming every woman on the ſubject of marriage. But to what point I may limit, or you may think proper to ex⯑tend this kind of venial deceit, may ſo widely differ, that it is not impoſſible I remain wholly 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 be enabled to form my opinion by her conſtructions."

To all this ſerious oration, Miſs Mil⯑ner made no other reply than by turn⯑ing to Mr. Sandford, and aſking, "If he was the perſon of her own ſex, to whoſe judgment her guardian meant to ſubmit his own?"

[138]"Madam," cried Sandford very an⯑grily, "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 rather brought you to this houſe, merely that he might be preſent on this occa⯑ſion, and with his diſcernment relieve me from a ſuſpicion, that my own judgment can neither ſuppreſs or con⯑firm."

[139]"Is there any more company you may wiſh to call in, Sir, to clear up your doubts of my veracity? if ſo, 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 judge welcome, if they pleaſe, to judge me differently."

"Dear Miſs Milner—," cried Miſs Woodley, with a tone of reproach for the vehemence with which ſhe ſpoke.

"Perhaps, Miſs Milner," ſaid Dor⯑riforth, "you will not now, reply to thoſe queſtions I was going to put to you?"

"Did I ever refuſe, Sir," returned ſhe with a ſelf-approving air, "to com⯑ply with any requeſt you have ſeriouſly made me? Have I ever refuſed to obey [140] your commands whenever you thought proper to lay them upon me? if not, you have no right to ſuppoſe I will 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," cried Dorriforth. "And Miſs Milner," continued he, "I not only entreat, but command you to tell me.—Have you given your promiſes, your word, or your affections to lord Frederick Lawnley?"

The colour ſpread over her face, and ſhe replied — "I thought confeſſions were only permitted in ſecrecy; how⯑ever, as I am not a member of your church, I ſubmit to the perſecution of a heretick, and anſwer — Lord Fre⯑derick [141] has neither my word, my pro⯑miſe, nor any ſhare in my affections."

Sandford, Dorriforth, and Miſs Woodley all looked at each other with a ſurpriſe that was for ſome time dumb. — At length Dorriforth ſaid, "And it is your firm intention never to become his wife?"

To which ſhe anſwered—"At pre⯑ſent it is."

"At preſent! do you ſuſpect you ſhall change your ſentiments?"

"Women, ſometimes do."

"But before that change can take place, madam, your acquaintance will be broken off: for it is that, I ſhall next inſiſt upon; and to which you can have no objection."

She replied, "I had rather it would continue."

[142]"On what account?" cried Dorri⯑forth.

"Becauſe it entertains me."

"For ſhame, for ſhame!" returned he, "it endangers both your character and your happineſs.—Yet again, do not ſuffer me to break with his lordſhip if ſhould like to become his wife; if in that reſpect it militates 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 I do?"

"Certainly I do, Sir." Anſwered Miſs Woodley.

"And pray, Miſs Woodley," ſaid [143] he, "were thoſe the ſentiments which you have always entertained?"

Miſs Woodley heſitated—he conti⯑nued. "Or has the preſent converſation altered them?"

She heſitated again, then anſwered— "The preſent converſation has altered them."

"And yet you confide in it!" Cried Sandford, looking at her with con⯑tempt.

"Certainly I do." Replied Miſs Woodley.

"Do not you then, Mr. Sandford?" aſked Dorriforth.

"I would adviſe you to act the ſame as if I did." Replied Sandford.

"Then, Miſs Milner," ſaid Dorri⯑forth, "you ſee lord Frederick no more—and I hope I have your permiſ⯑ſion to tell him ſo?"

[144]"You have, Sir." She replied with a completely unembarraſſed counte⯑nance and voice.

Miſs Woodley looked hard at her, to diſcover ſome lurking wiſh adverſe to all theſe proteſtations, but ſhe could not diſcern one. — Sandford too fixed his penetrating eyes as if he would look through her ſoul, but finding it per⯑fectly compoſed, he cried out,

"Why then not write his lordſhip's diſmiſſion herſelf, and ſave you, Mr. Dorriforth, the trouble of any farther conteſt with him?"

"Indeed, Miſs Milner," ſaid Dorri⯑forth, "that would oblige me; for it is with the greateſt reluctance I meet his lordſhip upon this ſubject—he was extremely impatient and importunate the laſt time he was with me—he took advantage of my eccleſiaſtic ſituation [145] to treat me with a levity, and ill-breed⯑ing, I could ill have ſuffered upon any other conſideration, than the complying with my duty to you."

"Dictate what you pleaſe, Mr. Dor⯑riforth, 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, "be aſſured I have no material objection to my lord Frederick, except from that dilemma, into which your acquaintance with him has involved us all; and the ſame I ſhould conceive againſt any other man, where the ſame circumſtance occurred.— [146] As you have now, however, freely and politely conſented to the manner in which it has been propoſed, 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, 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 no anſwer except by his looks, which were full of ſuſpicion. She, notwith⯑ſtanding, 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 readi⯑neſs with which Miſs Milner had re⯑ſigned 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 moſt heavily. Dor⯑riforth began to fear ſhe had not only made a ſacrifice of her affections, but of her varacity; yet, why ſhe had done ſo, he could not comprehend.

As the carriage moved ſlowly thro' a lane between Elmwood Caſtle and her houſe, on caſting her eyes out of the window, Miſs Milner's countenance was brightened in an in⯑ſtant, and that inſtant lord Frederick [148] on horſe-back was at the coach door, and the coachman ſtopt.

"Oh, Miſs Milner," cried he, (with a voice and manner that could give little ſuſpicion of the truth of what he ſaid) "I am over-joyed at the happi⯑neſs 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 ſuſ⯑picion 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, [149] he turned from him again abruptly and rudely. Miſs Milner was confuſed, and Miſs Woodley in torture at the palbable 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 [150] dictated by you, to you I ſhall ſend the anſwer."

Dorriforth, without making his lord⯑ſhip a 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, it acted like a ſtroke of electricity on the man, and he drove on at the in⯑ſtant ſo ſwiftly, that lord Frederick was in a moment left many yards be⯑hind. As ſoon, however, as he re⯑covered from the ſurpriſe into which this ſudden command had thrown him, he rode with ſpeed after the carriage, and followed it till they all arrived at the door of Miſs Milner's houſe; there [151] his lordſhip, giving himſelf up to the rage of love, or to rage againſt Dor⯑riforth for the contempt with which he had treated him, leapt from his horſe as Miſs Milner ſtept from her carriage, and ſeizing her hand, entreated her "Not to deſert him, in compliance to the monaſtick precepts of hypocriſy."

Dorriforth heard this, ſtanding ſilent⯑ly by, with a manly ſcorn painted on his countenance.

Miſs Milner ſtruggled to looſe her hand, ſaying, "Excuſe me from reply⯑ing to you now, my lord."

In return to which his lordſhip brought her hand to his lips, and be⯑gan to devour it with kiſſes, when Dorriforth with an inſtantaneous im⯑pulſe, ruſhed forward, and ſtruck him a blow in the face.—Under the force with which this aſſault was given, and the [152] aſtoniſhment it excited, his lordſhip 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 it was with difficulty Mr. Dorri⯑forth could get her to her own cham⯑ber, without taking her in his arms.— When, with the aſſiſtance of her woman, he had placed her upon a ſopha—all ſhame and confuſion for what he had done, he dropped upon his knees be⯑fore her, and earneſtly "entreated her forgiveneſs for the indelicacy he had been guilty of in her preſence."—And that he had alarmed her, and loſt ſight of the reſpect which he thought ſacredly her due, ſeemed to be the only circumſtance that dwelt upon his thoughts.

[153]She felt the indecorum of the poſ⯑ture he had condeſcended to take, and was ſhocked — to ſee her guardian at her feet, ſtruck her with the ſame im⯑propriety as if ſhe had beheld a parent there; and all agitation and emotion, ſhe implored him to riſe, and with a thouſand proteſtations declared, "ſhe thought the raſhneſs of the act, was the higheſt proof of his regard for her."

Miſs Woodley now entered; for her care being ever employed upon the unfortunate, lord Frederick on this occaſion, had been the object of it; and ſhe had waited by his ſide, and with every good purpoſe, preached patience to him, while he was ſmarting under the pain and ſhame of his chaſ⯑tiſement.—At firſt, his fury threatened [154] to retort upon the ſervants around him, and who refuſed his entrance into the houſe, the puniſhment he had re⯑ceived — But in the certainty of an honourable amends which muſt here⯑after be made, he overcame the many temptations which the moment offered, and remounting his horſe, rode from the place.

No ſooner had Miſs Woodley en⯑tered the room, and Dorriforth had reſigned to her the care of his ward, than he flew to the ſpot where he had left his lordſhip, negligent what might have been the event had he ſtill re⯑mained there.—After enquiring, and being told he was gone, Dorriforth returned to his own apartment; and with a boſom torn by more excruciat⯑ing [155] ſenſations far, than thoſe he had given to his adverſary.

The remorſe that firſt ſtruck him as he ſhut the door upon himſelf was — I have departed from my character — from the ſacred character, and dig⯑nity of my profeſſion and ſentiments — I have departed from myſelf.— I am no longer the philoſopher, but the ruffian—I have treated with an un⯑pardonable inſult a young nobleman, whoſe only crime 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 juſtice and equity (though in this one inſtance, contrary to the law of religion) enjoins, that if he demands my life, in ſatisfaction for his wound⯑ed [154] [...] [155] [...] [156] honour, it is his due. "Alas," cried he, "that I could have laid it down this morning, unſullied with the cauſe, for which it will make but poor atone⯑ment."

He next reflected — I have offended, and filled with horror a beautiful young lady, whom it was my duty to have protected from the brutal manners, to which I myſelf have expoſed her.

Again—I have drawn upon me the juſt reproaches of my faithful precep⯑tor and friend; the man in whoſe judg⯑ment it was my delight to be ap⯑proved — above all, I have drawn upon myſelf, the ſtings of my own conſcience.

"Where ſhall I paſs this ſleepleſs night?" cried he, walking repeatedly acroſs his chamber; "Can I go to the [157] ladies? I am a brute, unworthy ſuch ſo⯑ciety.—Shall I go and repoſe my diſ⯑turbed 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 all omnipotent being, whom I have above any other offended, to thee alone I apply in this hour of tri⯑bulation, and from thee alone I expect comfort. — And the confidence with which I now addreſs myſelf to thee, en⯑couraged by that long intercourſe re⯑ligion has effected, in this one moment pays me amply, for the many years of my paſt life wholly devoted to thy ſer⯑vice."

CHAPTER XIV.

ALTHOUGH Miſs Milner had foreſeen no fatal event from the indig⯑nity offered 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 at times whiſper to her as ſhe was half aſleep, "lord Fre⯑derick is baniſhed from you for ever." —She ſhakes off the uneaſineſs this idea brings along with it—ſhe then ſtarts, and beholds the blow ſtill aimed at him by Dorriforth.—And no ſooner has ſhe driven away this painful image, than ſhe is again awakened by ſeeing her [159] guardian at her feet ſuing for pardon.— She ſighs, ſhe trembles, ſhe is chilled with terror.

Relieved by a flood of tears; to⯑wards the morning ſhe ſinks into a re⯑freſhing ſlumber, but waking, finds the ſelf-ſame images crowding all together upon her mind — ſhe is doubtful to which to give the preference — one, however, ruſhes the foremoſt, and will continue ſo—ſhe knows not the conſe⯑quence of ruminating, nor why ſhe dwells upon that, more than upon all the reſt, and yet it will give place to none.

She riſes in a languid and diſordered ſtate, and at breakfaſt adds freſh pain to Dorriforth by her altered appear⯑ance.

[160]He had ſcarce left the breakfaſt room when an officer waited upon him charged with a challenge from lord Frederick. To the meſſage delivered to him by this gentleman, Dorriforth replied,

"As a clergyman, more eſpecially in the church of Rome, I know not whether I am not exempt from an⯑ſwering a claim of this kind; but not having had forbearance to avoid an of⯑fence, I have no right to a privilege that would only indemnify me from making reparation."

"You will then meet his lordſhip, Sir, at the appointed time?" Said the officer.

"I will," anſwered Dorriforth, "and my immediate care ſhall be to procure a gentleman to accompany me."

[161]The officer withdrew, and as ſoon as Dorriforth was once more alone, he was going once more to reflect, but he durſt not — ſince yeſterday, re⯑flection, for the firſt time of his life, was become painful to him; and even as he rode the ſhort way to lord Elmwood's immediately after, he found his own thoughts ſo inſufferable, he was obliged to enter into converſation with his ſervant. Solitude, that he was formerly ſo charmed withal, at thoſe moments had been worſe than death.

At lord Elmwood's, he met Sand⯑ford in the hall, and the ſight of him was no longer welcome, but diſpleaſ⯑ing — he knew how different the prin⯑ciples he had juſt adopted were to thoſe of that reverend friend's, and without [162] his complaining, or even ſuſpecting what had happened, his preſence was a ſufficient reproach. — Dorriforth paſſed him as haſtily as he could, and en⯑quiring for lord Elmwood, diſcloſed to him his errand, which was to aſk him to be his ſecond; his lordſhip ſtarted, and wiſhed to conſult his tu⯑tor, but that his kinſman ſtrictly for⯑bid; and having urged his reaſons with arguments, ſuch as his lordſhip could not refute; he at length pre⯑vailed upon him to promiſe he would accompany him to the field, which was at a few miles diſtance only, and the parties were to be there at ſeven on the ſame evening.

As ſoon as his buſineſs with lord Elmwood was ſettled, Dorriforth re⯑turned home, to make ſome neceſſary preparations for the event which might [163] enſue from this meeting — he wrote letters to ſeveral of his friends; and one to his ward, over which he ſhed tears.

Sandford going into lord Elmwood's library ſoon after Dorriforth had left it, expreſſed his ſurpriſe at finding him gone; upon which that young nobleman, after anſwering a few queſ⯑tions, and giving a few ſignificant tokens, 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 this challenge, but was ſtill more enraged at him for his wickedneſs in accepting it — he ap⯑plauded his pupil's virtue in making [164] the diſcovery, and congratulated him⯑ſelf that he ſhould be the inſtrument, of ſaving not only the blood of his friend, 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 — en⯑tered the houſe he had ſo long refuſed to enter, and at a time when he was on 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, [165] perſuaſions, and menaces of Sandford, he gave a freſh proof of that inflex⯑ibility for which he has been deſcribed — and after two hours diſpute they parted, neither of them the better for what either had advanced, but Dorri⯑forth ſomething the worſe; his con⯑ſcience 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, how⯑ever, that lord Elmwood ſhould not be acceſſary in his guilt, and this he de⯑clared, on which Dorriforth took the reſolution of ſeeking another ſecond.

In paſſing through the houſe on his return home, Sandford met, by acci⯑dent, [166] Mrs. Horton, Miſs Milner, and the other two ladies returning from a ſaun⯑ter 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 friend⯑ly benevolence which generally played about her heart, ſhe took hold of one of his hands, and preſſed it with a kind⯑neſs which told him he was welcome more forcibly, 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 la⯑dies.

[167]"Yes," anſwered he, addreſſing him⯑ſelf 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 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 the garden. She ſoon recovered; for the tumult of her mind would not ſuffer her to re⯑main inactive, and ſhe was rouzed, in ſpite of her weakneſs, to endeavour to [168] ward off the preſent diſaſter.—In vain, however, ſhe tried to walk to Dorri⯑forth's apartment—in the trial ſhe ſunk as before, and was taken to a ſettee, while Miſs Woodley was diſpatched to bring her guardian to her.

Informed of the cauſe of her ſwoon⯑ings, he followed Miſs Woodley with a tender anxiety for her health, and with grief and confuſion that he had ſo care⯑leſsly endangered it.—On his entering the room Sandford beheld the inquie⯑tude of his mind, and cried, "here is your guardian," with a cruel emphaſis on the word.

He was too much engaged by the indiſpoſition of his ward to reply to Sandford.—He placed himſelf on the ſettee by her, and with the utmoſt ten⯑derneſs, reverence, and pity, entreated [169] her not to be concerned at an accident in which he, and he only, had been to blame; but which he had ſtill 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 ſacred, that you will not fight with my lord Frederick."

He heſitated.

"Oh, madam," cried Sandford, "he is grown a libertine now, and I would not believe his word were he to give it you."

"Then, Sir," returned Dorriforth angrily, "you may believe my word, for I will keep that, I have paſſed to you. —I will give lord Frederick all the reſti⯑tution in my power.—But my dear Miſs Milner, let not this alarm you; we [170] may not find it convenient to meet this many a day; and moſt probably ſome fortunate explanation may yet take place and prevent our meeting at all. If not, reckon but among the many duels that are fought, how few are fa⯑tal; and even in that caſe, how ſmall would be the loſs to ſociety"—He was proceeding.

"I ſhould ever deplore the loſs," cried Miſs Milner, "I could not ſur⯑vive the death of either, in ſuch a caſe."

"For my part," returned Dorriforth, "I look upon my life as much forfeited to his lordſhip, 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 know⯑ingly, we juſtly incur our puniſhment. [171] —However, Miſs Milner, this buſineſs is not to be ſettled immediately, and I have no doubt but 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 demonſtrated he knew better."

"You will ſtay within then, all this day?" Said Miſs Milner.

"I am engaged out 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 all lifted up their hands, and Miſs Milner roſe from her ſeat and threw herſelf at her guardian's feet.

[172]"You knelt to me laſt night, I now kneel to you," (ſhe cried) "kneel, never deſiring to riſe more, if you perſiſt in your intention.—I am weak, I am vo⯑latile, I am indiſcreet, but I have a heart from whence ſome impreſſions can never be eraſed."

He endeavoured to raiſe her, ſhe perſiſted to kneel—and here the trouble, the affright, the terror ſhe endured, diſcovered to her for the firſt time her own ſentiments—which, till that mo⯑ment, ſhe had doubted—and ſhe con⯑tinued,

"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, be⯑cauſe [173] I ſuppoſed it would be diſpleaſing to you—but apprehenſion for his ſafety takes away every power of reſtraint, and I beſeech you to ſpare his life."

"This is exactly what I thought." Cried Sandford, triumphantly.

"Good heaven!" cried Miſs Wood⯑ley.

"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 ſhe could not reſiſt) "I own, Miſs Milner, I am greatly affected at this contradiction in your character"—

"But did not I ſay ſo?" cried Sand⯑ford, interrupting him.

"However," continued he, "you may take my word, though you have deceived me in your's, that [174] lord Frederick's life is ſecure. — For your ſake, I would not endanger it for the univerſe.—But let this be a warn⯑ing to you"—

He was proceeding with the moſt poignant language, and auſtere looks, when obſerving the ſhame, the terror, and the ſelf-reproach which agitated her mind, he diveſted himſelf in great meaſure of his auſterity, 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 your friendſhip, Mr. Dorriforth," ſaid ſhe, ſobbing with [175] 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 that nature in which the reſt of the company could have no ſhare whatever; they all, except Mr. Sand⯑ford, were 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 for the preſent you can much eaſier diſpenſe with mine?" ſaid Dorriforth. She made no anſwer: he therefore having once more aſſured her lord Frederick's life was ſafe, was quit⯑ting the room; when he recollected in what a ſtate of humiliation he had left [176] her, and turning towards her as he opened the door, added,

"And be aſſured, madam, my eſteem for you, ſhall be the ſame as ever."

Sandford, as he followed Dorriforth, bowed to Miſs Milner too, and repeated the ſelf-ſame words.—"And, madam, be aſſured my eſteem for you, ſhall be the ſame as ever."

CHAPTER XV.

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

[178]"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, my dear Miſs Woodley," re⯑turned ſhe, ſobbing upon her boſom, "pity the agonies of my heart, by na⯑ture ſincere, when ſuch are the fatal propenſities it cheriſhes, I muſt ſubmit to the groſſeſt falſehoods rather than re⯑veal the truth."

"What do you mean?" Cried Miſs Woodley, with the ſtrongeſt amazement painted on her face.

"Do you ſuppoſe I love lord Fre⯑derick?" Returned the other. "Do you ſuppoſe I can love him?—Oh fly, Miſs Woodley, and prevent my guar⯑dian from telling him ſuch an un⯑truth."

[179]"What do you mean?" repeated Miſs Woodley; "I proteſt you frighten me:"—and this inconſiſtency in the be⯑haviour of Miſs Milner, really appeared as if her ſenſes had been deranged.

"Only fly," reſumed ſhe, "and pre⯑vent the inevitable ill conſequence which muſt enſue from lord Frederick's being told this falſehood.—It will in⯑volve us all in greater diſquietude than we ſuffer at preſent."

"Then what has influenced you, my dear Miſs Milner?"—

"That which impels my every ac⯑tion." Returned ſhe; "An unſurmount⯑able inſtinct—a fatality, that will 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 cloſe in her arms, and vowed, "That while ſhe [180] 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 to prevent the duel." Replied Miſs Woodley. "The moment I have told him you have no regard for his lordſhip, he will no longer refuſe to fight with him."

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

"How ſo?" returned Miſs Wood⯑ley, "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, "to believe I do not care [181] for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh, Miſs Wood⯑ley! 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.

[182]"And even now," reſumed Miſs Milner, "have I not concealed it from all but you, by plunging myſelf into a new difficulty, from whence 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 friendly 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) educa⯑tion of Miſs Woodley, it was more powerful than the firſt—and the viola⯑tion of oaths, perſons, or things conſe⯑crated to Heaven, was, in her opinion, [183] if not the moſt enormous, the moſt horrid among the catalogue of crimes.

Miſs Milner had lived too long in a family who had imbibed thoſe opinions not to be convinced of their exiſtence; nay, her own reaſon told her that ſo⯑lemn vows of whatever kind, ought to be binding; and the more ſhe reſpected her guardian's underſtanding, the leſs ſhe called in queſtion his religious te⯑nets—in eſteeming him, ſhe eſteemed all his notions; and among the reſt, even 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 func⯑tions of a Roman eccleſiaſtick, though [184] all her eſteem, all her admiration, had been attracted by the qualities and ac⯑compliſhments of her guardian; yet education would have given ſuch a pro⯑hibition to her love, that ſhe had 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 with⯑out one conſcious check to tell her ſhe was wrong, except that which con⯑vinced her, her love would be avoided by him, with deteſtation, with horror.

Miſs Woodley, ſomething recover⯑ed from her firſt ſurpriſe, and ſuf⯑fering—for never did her ſuſceptible mind ſuffer ſo exquiſitely—amidſt all the grief and abhorrence ſhe felt, pity [185] 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 paſt life ſince I firſt ſaw you—that moment was teeming with a weight of cares I muſt labour under till my death."

"And even in death," replied Miſs Woodley, "do not be ſo preſumptuous as to hope to ſhake them off—if unre⯑pented in this world"—

She was proceeding—but the anxiety her friend endured, would not ſuffer her to be wholly free from the appre⯑henſion, that notwithſtanding the poſi⯑tive aſſurance of her guardian, (ſhould he and lord Frederick me [...]) the duel might ſtill take place; ſhe therefore [186] rung the bell and enquired if Mr. Dor⯑riforth was ſtill at home?—the anſwer was—"He is rode out."—"You re⯑member," ſaid Miſs Woodley, "he told you he ſhould dine out."—This did not, however, diſmiſs her fears, and ſhe diſpatched two ſervants different ways in purſuit of him, acquainting them with her ſuſpicions, and charg⯑ing them to prevent his and lord Fre⯑derick's meeting. 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 en⯑quire.

The exceſſive alarm which Miſs Mil⯑ner diſcovered upon this occaſion, was imputed by the ſervants, and others who were witneſs of it, to her affection [187] for lord Edward, while none but Miſs Woodley knew, or had the moſt diſ⯑tant 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 im⯑patient to ſee this poor frail being whom they were loading with their in⯑nocent—as it was among friends—ca⯑lumny. They longed to ſee if ſhe would have the confidence to look them in the face: they, to whom ſhe had ſo often proteſted, ſhe had not the ſmalleſt attachment to lord Frederick but from motives of vanity.

[188]Theſe ladies heard with much ſatiſ⯑faction dinner was ſerved, but met Miſs Milner at table with a leſs degree of pleaſure than they expected; for her mind was ſo totally abſtracted from them, they could not diſcern a ſingle bluſh, or confuſed glance, which their preſence occaſioned. No, Miſs Milner had before them divulged nothing of which ſhe was aſhamed, ſhe only was aſhamed what ſhe had ſaid was not truth. 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—be⯑fore the gentle friend, to whom ſhe had till this time communicated all her faults without embarraſſment, ſhe now caſt down her eyes in ſhame, and ſcarce durſt lift them up to meet her's.

[189]At table there was little talking, and leſs eating; Miſs Milner did not at⯑tempt to eat; Miſs Woodley endea⯑voured, but could not.

Soon after the dinner was removed, lord Elmwood entered; and that gallant no⯑bleman declared—"Mr. Sandford had uſed him ill in not permitting him to accompany his relation; for he feared Dorriforth would now throw himſelf upon the ſword of lord Frederick with⯑out a friend by to defend him."—A re⯑buke from the eye of Miſs Woodley, which from this day forward had a command over Miſs Milner, reſtrained her from expreſſing the affright ſhe ſuf⯑fered from this ſuppoſition of his lord⯑ſhip's. Miſs Fenton replied, "As to that, my [...]ord, I ſee no reaſon why Mr. Dorriforth and lord Frederick ſhould [190] 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 his lordſhip.

Miſs Milner, to avoid hearing a re⯑petition of that which gave her pain but to think of, aroſe in order to retire into her own apartment, but was obliged to ſit down again—and received the aſſiſtance of her friend and lord Elm⯑wood to lead her into her dreſſing⯑room. Reclined upon a ſopha there, a ſilence enſued between her and Miſs Woodley for near half an hour; and when the converſation began, the name of Dorriforth was never uttered—they were both grown cool and conſiderate ſince the diſcovery, and both were [191] equally aſhamed and fearful of naming him.

The vanity of the world, the folly of riches, the pleaſures 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, a ſervant with alacrity opened the dreſſing room door, without previouſly rapping, and cried, "Mr. Dorriforth, madam."

Dorriforth immediately came in, and went eagerly to Miſs Milner.—Miſs Woodley beheld the glow of joy, and guilt upon her face, and did not riſe to give him her ſeat, as was her cuſtom if he came with intelligence to his ward, and ſhe was ſitting next her —he therefore ſtood while he repeated [192] all that had happened in his interview with lord Frederick.

But with her gladneſs to ſee her guardian ſafe, Miſs Milner had forgot to enquire for the ſafety of his lordſhip; the man whom ſhe had pretended to love ſo paſ⯑ſionately—even a ſmile of rapture was upen her face, though Dorriforth might be returned from putting him to death. This incongruity of behaviour Miſs Woodley ſaw, and was confounded— but Dorriforth, in whoſe thoughts a ſuſpicion either of her love to him, or want of love for lord Frederick, had not the ſmalleſt place, eaſily reconciled this inconſiſtency, and ſaid,

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

[193]This brought her to the recollection of her conduct, and now with a coun⯑tenance conſtrained to ſome ſhow of gravity, ſhe tried to expreſs alarm ſhe did not feel.

"Nay, I have the pleaſure to aſſure you Lord Frederick is ſafe," reſumed Dorriforth, "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 ſling.

She caſt her eyes there, and ſeeing where the ball had entered the coat ſleeve, ſhe gave an involuntary ſcream, and ſunk on the ſide of the ſopha. In⯑ſtead of that tender ſympathy with which Miſs Woodley uſed to attend her upon the ſlighteſt illneſs or affliction, ſhe now addreſſed her in a ſharp tone, and cried, "Miſs Milner, you have [194] heard lord Frederick is ſafe, you have then nothing to alarm you."—Nor did ſhe run to offer a ſmelling bottle, or to raiſe her head. Her guardian ſeeing her near fainting, and without this aſ⯑ſiſtance 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 trifling weakneſs to which Miſs Milner was accuſtomed, and that ſhe would ring for her woman, who knew how to relieve her inſtantly with a few drops."—Satisfied with this, Dorriforth left the room; and a ſurgeon being ar⯑rived to dreſs his wound, he retired into his own chamber.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE power delegated to the keeper of our ſecrets, Miſs Woodley was the laſt perſon on earth to abuſe — but ſhe was alſo the laſt, who, by her 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, provided it was ever perpetrated. — Adultery, her reaſon would perhaps have informed her, was a more perni⯑cious evil to ſociety; but to a religious mind, what ſounds ſo horrible as ſacri⯑lege? Of vows made to God or to man, the former muſt weigh the heavier.— Moreover, the dreadful ſin of infidelity in the marriage ſtate, is much ſoftened [194] [...] [195] [...] [196] to a common underſtanding, by the frequency of the crime; whereas, of vows broken by a devotee ſhe had ſcarce heard of any; or if any, they were generally followed by ſuch exam⯑ples of divine vengeance, ſuch mira⯑culous puniſhments in this world, (as well as eternal puniſhment in the other) that ſerved to exaggerate their wicked⯑neſs.

She, who could, and did pardon Miſs Milner, was the perſon who ſaw her paſſion in the ſevereſt light, and re⯑ſolved to take every method, however harſh, to root it from her heart—nor did ſhe fear ſucceſs, reſting on the cer⯑tain aſſurance, that however deep her love was fixed, it would never be re⯑turned. Yet this confidence did not prevent her taking every precaution, leſt [197] Dorriforth ſhould come to the know⯑ledge of it—ſhe would not have his compoſed mind diſturbed with ſuch a thought — his ſteadfaſt principles ſo much as ſhook by the imagination— nor overwhelm him with thoſe ſelf-re⯑proaches which his fatal attraction, un⯑premeditated as it was, would ſtill have drawn upon him.

With this plan of concealment, in which the natural modeſty of Miſs Mil⯑ner acquieſced, there was but one ef⯑fort to make which that young lady was not prepared for; and that was an en⯑tire ſeparation from her guardian.—She had, from the firſt, cheriſhed her paſ⯑ſion without the moſt diſtant proſpect of a return—ſhe was prepared to ſee Dorriforth without ever ſeeing him nearer to her than her guardian and [198] friend, but not to ſee him at all—for that, ſhe was not prepared.

But Miſs Woodley reflected upon the inevitable neceſſity of this ſtep 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 love for lord Frederick, and this propoſal, the moſt intricate incoherence appeared to the whole family, in the character of Miſs Milner—and in order to evade a mar⯑riage with his lordſhip, and to conceal, at the ſame time, the ſhameful propen⯑ſity which lurked in her breaſt, ſhe was once, even on the point of declaring a paſſion for Sir Edward Aſhton.

[199]In the duel which had taken place between lord Frederick and Dorriforth, the latter had received his antagoniſt's fire, but poſitively refuſed to return it; by which he had kept his promiſe not to endanger his lordſhip's life, and had re⯑conciled Sandford, in great meaſure, to his behaviour—and Sandford now (his reſolution once broken) no longer refuſed entering Miſs Milner's houſe, but came every time it was convenient, though he yet avoided its miſtreſs 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 after his engagement with lord Frederick, and again the next morning breakfaſt⯑ed with him in his own chamber; nor did Miſs Milner ſee her guardian ſince his firſt return from that engagement [200] till the following noon. She enquired, however, of the ſervant how his maſ⯑ter did, and was rejoiced to hear his wound was but very ſlight — yet this enquiry ſhe durſt not make before Miſs Woodley, but waited till ſhe was abſent.

When Dorriforth made his appear⯑ance the next day, it was evident he had thrown from his heart a load of cares; and though they had left a languor upon his face, there was content in his voice, his manners, in his every word and ac⯑tion.—Far from ſeeming to retain any reſentment towards his ward, for the trouble and danger into which her im⯑prudence had led him, he appeared ra⯑ther to pity her weakneſs, and to wiſh to ſooth the perturbation which the re⯑collection of her own conduct had ob⯑viouſly [201] raiſed in her mind—His endea⯑vours were moſt ſucceſsful—ſhe was ſoothed every time he ſpoke to her; and had not the watchful eye of Miſs Woodley ſtood guard over her inclina⯑tions, ſhe had plainly evinced, 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 ſometime in the even⯑ing; I have to ſpeak to you upon buſi⯑neſs."

[202]She anſwered, "I will, Sir." And her eyes ſwam with delight in expecta⯑tion of the interview.

Let not the reader, nevertheleſs ima⯑gine, there was in that ardent expecta⯑tion, one idea which the moſt ſpotleſs mind, in love, might not have indul⯑ged without reproach.—Sincere love, (at leaſt among the delicate of the fe⯑male ſex) is often gratified by that de⯑gree of enjoyment, or rather forbear⯑ance, which would be torture in the purſuit of any other paſſion—real, de⯑licate, and reſtrained love, like that of 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 con⯑verſation in which no other but them⯑ſelves partook a part.

[203]Miſs Woodley was one 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 ſud⯑denly, ſaw Miſs Woodley's face im⯑printed with ſuſpicion and diſpleaſure— this at firſt was painful to her—but re⯑collecting that in a couple of hours time ſhe was to meet her guardian alone— ſpeak to him, and hear him ſpeak to herſelf only—every other thought was abſorbed in that one, and ſhe conſider⯑ed with indifference, the uneaſineſs, or the anger of her friend.

[204]Miſs Milner, to do juſtice to her heart, did not wiſh to beguile Dorri⯑forth into the ſnares of love.—Could any ſupernatural power have endowed her with the means, and at the ſame time ſhewn to her the ills that muſt ariſe from ſuch an effect of her charms, ſhe had aſſuredly enough of virtue to have declined the conqueſt; but without en⯑quiring of herſelf what ſhe propoſed? She never ſaw him without previouſly endeavouring to look more attractive than ſhe would have deſired, in any other company.—And now, without liſtening to the thouſand exhortations that were ſpeaking in every feature of Miſs Woodley's face, ſhe flew to a looking-glaſs, to adjuſt her dreſs in a manner than ſhe thought moſt enchant⯑ing.

[205]Time ſtole away, and the time to go to her guardian arrived. In his pre⯑ſence, unſupported by the preſence of a third perſon, every grace ſhe had practiſed, every look 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 be⯑witching 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, ex⯑preſſed the higheſt ſatisfaction that ſhe [206] had at length, revealed to him the ſtate of her mind.

"And taking every thing into con⯑ſideration, Miſs Milner," added he, "I rejoice that your ſentiments happen to be ſuch as you have owned—for al⯑though 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 happi⯑neſs, you might have fixed your affec⯑tions with much leſs propriety; and yet, where my unwillingneſs to thwart your inclinations, might not have per⯑mitted 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 from yourſelf, the means you think moſt [207] proper to purſue, in order to acquaint his lordſhip, that notwithſtanding this late repulſe, there are hopes of your par⯑tiality in his favour."

"Defer the explanation." Returned ſhe, eagerly.

"I beg your pardon, Miſs Milner, that cannot be—beſides, how can you indulge a diſpoſition thus unpitying?— even ſo ardently did I deſire to render his lordſhip happy, though he came armed againſt my life, that had I not reflected, 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 of his ſafety, to think then on gratifying him.—And indeed, the delicacy of the declaration, after the many denials you have no [208] doubt given him, ſhould be conſidered— I therefore entreat your approbation of the manner in which it ſhall be made."

"Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments of ſurprize? 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 expreſ⯑ſions, 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 retractions, can make me change my opinion."

"I am very ſorry." She replied, con⯑fuſed, and trembling.

[209]"Why ſorry? Come, give me com⯑miſſion to reveal theſe ſentiments.—I'll not be too hard upon you—a hint from me to his lordſhip 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 did you ever plunge him into deſpair?"

"His purſuit ſays 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, I expected, that when a caſe of this importance came ſeriouſly before you, you would have diſcovered a proper ſtability in your behaviour."

[210]"I do, Sir; and it was only while I was affected with a weakneſs, which aroſe from accident, that I have ever ſhewed an inconſiſtence."

"You then ſtill aſſert you have no affection for my lord Frederick?"

"Not ſufficient to become his wife."

"You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder you ſhould be ſo; it ſhews a prudent foreſight that 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 accom⯑pliſhments, than were you under the pro⯑tection of a huſband."

"My father, Mr. Dorriforth, thought your protection ſufficient."

"But that protection was rather to di⯑rect your choice, than to be the cauſe of your not chooſing at all.—Give me leave [211] to point out an obſervation which, per⯑haps, I have too frequently done be⯑fore, but upon this occaſion I muſt in⯑trude it once again.—Miſs Fenton is its object—her fortune is inferior to your's, her perſonal attractions leſs."—

Here the ſtrong glow of joy, and of gratitude, for an opinion ſo negligent⯑ly, 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 ſecure her ſafety in an [212] unmarried life; and yet ſhe very pro⯑perly 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 obe⯑dience, I never will."

"You mean to ſay, Love ſhall alone induce you?"

"I do."

"If, madam, you would point out a ſubject upon which I am the leaſt able to ſpeak, and on which my ſentiments, ſuch as they are, are formed alone from theory (and even there inſtructed but with caution) it is the ſubject of love. —And yet, Miſs Milner, even that little I know, tells me, without a doubt, that what you ſaid to me yeſterday, pleading [213] for lord Frederick's life, was the reſult of the moſt violent and tender love."

"The little you know then, Mr. Dor⯑riforth, has deceived you; had you known more, you would have judged otherwiſe."

"I ſubmit to the merit of your re⯑ply; but without allowing me a judge at all, I will appeal to thoſe who were preſent with me."

"Are Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sand⯑ford 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, ma⯑dam, on this occaſion, I am to conclude you ſtill refuſe to marry lord Frede⯑rick?"

[214]"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 again; but Dorriforth called to him to ſtay, and ſaid with warmth,

"Tell me, Mr. Sandford, by what power, by what perſuaſion, I can pre⯑vail upon this lady to confide in me as her friend; to lay her heart open, and credit mine when I declare to her, I [215] have no view in all the advice I give, but her immediate welfare?"

"Mr. Dorriforth, you know my opinion of the lady," replied, Sandford, "it has been formed ever ſince my firſt acquaintance with her, and it ſtill remains the ſame."

"But inſtruct me how I am to inſpire her with confidence;" returned Dorri⯑forth, "how I am to impreſs her with that which is for her advantage?"

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

"And yet Miſs Milner," anſwered Dorriforth, "appears to be acquainted with that myſtery; for what but the force of a miracle, can induce her to contra⯑dict to-day, what before you, and ſeve⯑ral other witneſſes, ſhe poſitively ac⯑knowledged yeſterday?"

[216]"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 acknow⯑ledged the day before?—and will ſhe not to-morrow, diſavow what ſhe ſays to-day?"

"I wiſh ſhe may." Replied Dorri⯑forth mildly, for he beheld the tears flowing down her face at the rough and ſevere manner in which Sandford had ſpoken, and began to feel for her un⯑eaſineſs.

"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. Dorri⯑forth, unleſs I am turned out, I ſhall ever think it my duty to come."

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

[217]"I was to blame, that on a nice punctilio, I left you ſo long without my viſits, and without my counſel; in the 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 miſ⯑ſionary among ſavages—but if I can only ſave you from the ſcalping knives of ſome of them; from the miſeries which that lady is preparing for you, I am rewarded."

Sandford ſpoke this with great fer⯑vour, and the crime of her love never [218] appeared to Miſs Milner in ſo tremen⯑dous a point of view as thus, unknow⯑ingly alluded to by him.

"The miſeries that lady is preparing for you," hung upon her ears like the notes of a raven, and equally ominous.—The words "murder" and "excommunication" he had likewiſe uttered; all the fatal effects of ſacrilegious love.—Frightful ſuperſtitions ſtruck to her heart, and ſhe could ſcarcely prevent falling down under their oppreſſion.

Dorriforth beheld the difficulty ſhe had in ſuſtaining herſelf, and went with the utmoſt tenderneſs and ſupported her; ſaying, "I beg your pardon—I invited you hither with a far different view than your uneaſineſs."—

Sandford was begining to ſpeak. "Hold, Mr. Sandford," reſumed he, "the lady is under my protection, and [219] I know not whether it is not neceſſary 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, Mr. Sandford." Cried Dorriforth — and leading her kindly to the door, as if to defend her from his malice, told her "He would take another opportunity to renew the ſub⯑ject."

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 a woman was far above, or rather beneath, his comprehenſion." —It was ſo, indeed—for with all his pe⯑netration, and he had a great deal, 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 mo⯑ment, during the alarm and agitation of her ſpirits, to alarm them ſtill more by her prophetic inſinuations; and at [221] length repreſented to her here, for the firſt time, the neceſſity, "That Mr. Dorriforth and ſhe ſhould remain no longer 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, however, to be prevailed upon.

"But in what manner can I bring about the ſeparation?" cried ſhe, "for till I marry we are obliged, by my fa⯑ther'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 re⯑ſolution you ſhall part—if you will not contrive the means, that duty falls on [222] me, and without any invention, I ſee the meaſure at once."

"What is it?" Cried Miſs Milner eagerly.

"To go and reveal to Mr. Dorri⯑forth, without heſitation, the real ſtate of your heart; which your preſent incon⯑ſiſtent conduct will but too readily con⯑firm."

"You would not plunge me into ſo much ſhame, into ſo much anguiſh!" Cried ſhe, diſtractedly.

"No," replied Miſs Woodley, "not for the world, provided you will ſepa⯑rate from him, by any method of your own—but that you ſhall ſeparate is my determination; and in ſpite of all your ſufferings, this ſhall be the means, un⯑leſs you inſtantly agree to ſome other."

"Good Heaven, Miſs Woodley! is this your friendſhip?"

[223]"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 his friendſhip for me but 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."

[224]Miſs Woodley immediately began to plan ſchemes for their ſeparation; and with all her invention alive on the ſub⯑ject, this was the only probable one ſhe could form.

Miſs Milner was to write to her diſ⯑tant relation at Bath, complaining of the melancholy of a country life, which ſhe was to ſay her guardian impoſed upon her, and entreat the lady to ſend a preſſing invitation for her to paſs a month or two with her; this invitation was to be ſhewn to Dorriforth for his approbation, and both Miſs Woodley and Miſs Milner were to enforce it, by expreſſing their earneſt wiſhes for his conſent. This plan properly regulated, the neceſſary letter was ſent by Miſs Milner to Bath, and Miſs Woodley [225] waited with patience, but with a watch⯑ful guard upon the conduct of her friend till the anſwer arrived.

During this interim a moſt tender and complaining epiſtle from lord Frederick was delivered Miſs Milner; to which as he received no anſwer, his lordſhip prevailed upon his uncle, with whom he reſided, to wait upon her, and obtain her verbal reply; for he ſtill flattered himſelf, fear of her guardian's anger, or perhaps his interception of the letter he had ſent, was the cauſe of her ſeem⯑ing contempt.

The old gentleman was introduced to Miſs Milner, and after to Mr. Dorriforth, but received from each an anſwer ſo explicit, that left his ne⯑phew [226] no longer in doubt but all farther purſuit was vain.

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

Upon this ſerious and certain conclu⯑ſion to the hopes of lord Frederick, Dorriforth was more aſtoniſhed than he had ever yet been at the conduct of his ward—he had once thought her beha⯑viour, in reſpect to his lordſhip, was ambiguous, but ſince her confeſſion of a paſſion for him, he had no doubt but that in the end, ſhe would become his wife. — He lamented to find himſelf [227] miſtaken, and now thought it proper to give ſome important marks of his condemnation of her pernicious caprice; and not merely in words, but by the general tenour of his be⯑haviour. He conſequently became much more reſerved, and more auſtere than he had been, ſince his firſt ac⯑quaintance with her; for his manners, not from deſign, but unknowingly, were ſoftened ſince his guardianſhip, by that render reſpect he had never ceaſed to pay to the object of his protection.

Notwithſtanding this ſeverity he aſ⯑ſumed, his ward in the proſpect of part⯑ing from him grew melancholy; Miſs Woodley's love to her friend rendered her little otherwiſe; and Dorriforth's pe⯑culiar gravity, oftentimes rigour, could not but make the whole party much [228] leſs cheerful than they had been. Lord Elmwood too was lying dangerouſly ill of a fever; Miſs Fenton of courſe was as much in ſorrow as her nature would ſuffer her to be, and both Sandford and Dorriforth in extreme concern on his lordſhip's account.

In this ſtate of affairs, the letter of in⯑vitation arrives from lady Luneham at Bath: it was ſhown to Dorriforth; and to prove to his ward he is ſo much of⯑fended, as no longer to feel that exceſ⯑ſive intereſt in her concerns he once did, he gives his opinion on the ſubject with indifference — he deſires "Miſs Milner will do as ſhe herſelf thinks pro⯑per."—Miſs Woodley inſtantly accepts this permiſſion, writes back, and ap⯑points the day, her friend means to ſet off for the viſit.

[229]She is wounded to the heart by the cold and unkind manners of her guar⯑dian, but dares not take one method to retrieve his opinion.—Alone, and to Miſs Woodley ſhe ſighs and weeps; he diſ⯑covers her ſorrow, and is doubtful whe⯑ther the departure of lord Frederick from that part of the country, is not the cauſe.

When the day on which ſhe was to ſet off for Bath, was within two days diſtance only; the behaviour of Dorri⯑forth took, by degrees, its uſual form; if not a greater ſhare of polite and ten⯑der attention than ever.—It was the firſt time he had parted from Miſs Mil⯑ner ſince he became her guardian, and he felt upon the occaſion, a reluctance. —He had been angry with her, he had ſhewn her he was ſo, and he now began [230] to wiſh he had not.—She is not happy, (he conſidered within himſelf) every word and action declares ſhe is not, and I may have been too ſevere, and added to her uneaſineſs.—"At leaſt we will part on good terms."—Said he—"In⯑deed my regard for her is ſuch, I cannot part otherwiſe."

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

"What will a few months abſence effect?" cried ſhe, pleading her cauſe, "At the end of a few months at far⯑theſt, he will expect me back, and where will be the merit in this ſhort⯑ſeparation?"

"In that time," replied Miſs Wood⯑ley, "we may find ſome method to [231] make it ſtill longer."—To this ſhe liſ⯑tened with a kind of deſpair, but ut⯑tered ſhe "was reſigned;" and accord⯑ingly 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 he entirely forgave her.—He would have gone part of the way with her, but for the extreme illneſs of lord Elm⯑wood, in whoſe chamber he paſſed chief of the day, and ſlept in Elmwood Houſe every night.

On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his hand and conduct⯑ed Miſs Milner to the carriage, all the way he led her ſhe could not reſtrain a flood of tears; which encreaſed, as he [232] parted from her, to convulſive ſobs.— He was affected; and notwithſtanding he had previouſly bid her farewell, he drew her gently on one ſide and ſaid, with his eyes moiſtened from regard of the moſt laudable nature,

"My dear Miſs Milner, we part friends?—I hope we do?—on my ſide, depend upon it, I regret nothing ſo much at this ſhort ſeparation, as hav⯑ing ever given you a moment's pain."

"I believe ſo." Was all ſhe could ſay, for ſhe haſtened to break 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.

[233]Miſs Fenton and Miſs Woodley ac⯑companied Miſs Milner part of the journey, about thirty miles, where they were met by Sir Harry and lady Lune⯑ham.—Here was a parting nearly as af⯑fecting as that between her and her guardian. Miſs Woodley, who for ſe⯑veral weeks had treated her friend with a rigidneſs ſhe herſelf hardly ſup⯑poſed was in her nature, now bewailed her own ſeverity, begged her forgive⯑neſs, promiſed to correſpond with her punctually, and to omit no opportu⯑nity 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.