CHAPTER I.

THROUGHOUT life, there cannot happen an event to arreſt the reflection of a thoughtful mind more powerfully, or to leave ſo laſting an impreſſion, as that of returning to a place after a few years abſence, and obſerving an entire alteration in reſpect to all the perſons who once formed the neighbourhood— To find ſome, who but a few years before were left in the bloom of youth and [2] health, dead — to find children left at ſchool, married, with children of their own — ſome perſons who were in riches, reduced to poverty—others who were in poverty, become rich — thoſe, once re⯑nowned for virtue, now deteſted for their vice — roving huſbands, grown conſtant — conſtant ones, become rovers — the firmeſt friends, changed to the moſt im⯑placable enemies—beauty faded. — In a word, every change to demonſtrate "All is tranſitory on this ſide the grave."

Actuated by a wiſh, that the reflective reader may experience the ſenſation, which an attention to circumſtances ſuch as theſe, muſt cauſe; he is deſired to imagine ſeventeen years elapſed, ſince he has ſeen or heard of any of thoſe perſons, who in the foregoing volumes have been introduced to his acquaintance — and [3] now, ſuppoſing himſelf at the period of thoſe ſeventeen years, follow the ſequel of their hiſtory.

To begin with the firſt female object of this ſtory.—The beautiful, the beloved Miſs Milner—ſhe is no longer beautiful —no longer beloved—no longer—trem⯑ble while you read it! — no longer— virtuous.

Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth, is become a hard-hearted tyrant. The compaſſionate, the feeling, the juſt Lord Elmwood, an ex⯑ample of implacable rigour and injuſtice.

Miſs Woodley is grown old, but leſs with years than grief.

[4]The child Ruſhbrook is become a man, and the apparent heir of Lord Elmwood's fortune; while his own daughter, his only child by his once adored Miſs Milner, he refuſes ever to ſee again, in vengeance to her mother's crimes.

The leaſt wonderful change, is the death of Mrs. Horton. Except

Sandford, who remains much the ſame as heretofore.

We left Lady Elmwood in the laſt volume at the ſummit of human hap⯑pineſs; a loving and beloved bride.— We begin this volume, and find her upon her death bed.

[5]At thirty-five, her "Courſe was run" —a courſe full of perils, of hopes, of fears, of joys, and at the end of ſorrows; all exquiſite of their kind, for exquiſite were the feelings of her ſuſceptible heart.

At the commencement of this ſtory, her father is deſcribed in the laſt mo⯑ments of his life, with all his cares fixed upon her, his only child—how vain theſe cares! how vain every precaution that was taken for her welfare! She knows, ſhe reflects upon this; and yet, torn by that inſtinctive power which a parent feels, Lady Elmwood on her dying day has no worldly thought, but that of the future happineſs of her only child.—To every other proſpect before her, ‘Thy will be done’ is her continual excla⯑mation; but where the miſery of her daughter preſents itſelf, the dying peni⯑tent [6] would there, combat the will of heaven.

To ſtate the progreſſion by which vice gains a predominance in the heart, may be a uſeful leſſon; but it is one ſo little to the ſatisfaction of moſt readers, that it is not meant to be related here, all the degrees of frailty by which Lady Elmwood fell; but inſtead of picturing every occaſion of her fall, come briefly to the events that followed.

There are, nevertheleſs, ſome articles under the former claſs, which ought not to be entirely omitted.

Lord Elmwood, after four years paſſed in the moſt perfect enjoyment of happi⯑neſs, the marriage ſtate could give; after ſeeing himſelf the father of a beautiful daughter, whom he loved with a tender⯑neſs [7] nearly equal to his love for her mo⯑ther, Lord Elmwood was then under the indiſpenſable neceſſity of leaving them both for a time, in order to ſave from the depredation of his ſteward, a very large eſtate in the Weſt Indies. His voyage was tedious; his reſidence there, from various accidents, prolonged from time to time, till near three years had at length paſſed away. — Lady Elmwood, at firſt only unhappy, became at laſt provoked; and giving way to that impatient, irri⯑table diſpoſition ſhe had ſo ſeldom go⯑verned, reſolved, in ſpite of his injunc⯑tions, to divert the melancholy hours his abſence cauſed, by mixing in the gaieſt circles of London. His Lordſhip at this time, and for many months before, had been detained abroad by a ſevere and dangerous illneſs, which a too cau⯑tious fear of her uneaſineſs had prompted [8] him to conceal; and ſhe received his frequent aplogies for not returning, with a ſuſpicion and reſentment they were calculated, but not intended, to inſpire.

To violent anger, ſucceeded a degree of indifference ſtill more fatal — Lady Elmwood's heart was never formed for ſuch a ſtate—there, where all the paſ⯑ſions tumultuous ſtrove by turns, one among them ſoon found the means to occupy all vacancies — that one was love. — The dear object of her fondeſt, trueſt, affections was away; and thoſe affections painted the time ſo irkſome that was paſt; ſo weariſome that, which was ſtill to come; ſhe flew from the preſent tedious ſolitude, to the dangerous ſociety of one, whoſe every care to charm her, could not repay her for a moment's loſs of him, whoſe abſence he ſupplied.— [9] Or if the delirium gave her a moment's recompenſe, what were her ſufferings and remorſe, when ſhe was awakened from the ſleeting joy by the unexpec⯑ted arrival of her huſband? — How happy, how tranſporting, had been that arrival a few months before!—As it had then been felicitous, it was now bitter— this word, however, weakly expreſſes— Language affords none, to deſcribe Lady Elmwood's ſenſations on being told her Lord was arrived, and that neceſſity only had ſo long delayed his return.

Guilty, but not hardened in her guilt, her pangs, her ſhame were the more exceſ⯑ſive. She fled the place at his approach; fled his houſe, never again to return to a habitation where he was the maſter.— She did not, however, eſcape with her paramour, but eloped to ſhelter herſelf [10] in the moſt dreary retreat; where ſhe partook of no one comfort from ſociety, or from life, but the ſtill unremitting friendſhip of Miſs Woodley.—Even her infant daughter ſhe left behind, nor would allow herſelf the conſolation of her innocent, but reproachful, ſmiles— ſhe left her in her father's houſe that ſhe might be under his protection; parted with her, as ſhe thought for ever, with all the agonies that mothers part from their infant children: and yet even a mother ſcarcely can conceive how much more ſharp thoſe agonies were, on be⯑holding the child ſent after her, as the perpetual outcaſt of its father.

Lord Elmwood's love to his lady had been extravagant—the effect of his hate was extravagant likewiſe. Beholding himſelf ſeparated from her by a barrier [11] never to be removed, he vowed in the deep torments of his revenge, not to be reminded of her by one individual object; much leſs by one ſo nearly al⯑lied to her as her child. To beſtow upon that his affections, would be, he imagined, ſtill in ſome ſort, to divide them with the mother.—Firm in his re⯑ſolution, the beautiful Matilda was, at the age of ſix years, ſent out of her fa⯑ther's houſe, and received by her mother with the tenderneſs, but with the anguiſh, of thoſe parents, who behold their off⯑ſpring viſited with the puniſhment due only to their own offences.

During this tranſaction, which was performed by his Lordſhip's agents at his command, he himſelf was engaged in an affair of ſtill weightier importance —that of life or death:—he determined [12] upon his own death, or the death of the man who had wounded his honour and his happineſs. A duel with his old an⯑tagoniſt was the reſult of this determina⯑tion; nor was the Duke of Avon (before the deceaſe of his father and eldeſt bro⯑ther, Lord Frederick Lawnly) backward to render all the ſatisfaction that was re⯑quired. — For it was no other than he, whoſe love for Lady Elmwood had ſtill ſubſiſted, and whoſe art and induſtry left no means uneſſayed to perfect his de⯑ſigns;—No other than he, (who, next to Lord Elmwood, was ever of all her lovers moſt prevalent in her heart,) to whom Lady Elmwood yielded her own and her huſband's future peace, and gave to his vanity a prouder triumph, than if ſhe had never given her hand in preference to another. This triumph however was but ſhort — a month only, [13] after the return of Lord Elmwood, his Grace was called upon to anſwer for his conduct, and was left upon the ſpot where they met, ſo maimed, and defaced with ſcars, as never again to endanger the honour of a huſband. As Lord Elm⯑wood was inexorable to all accommoda⯑tion; their engagement laſted for ſome ſpace of time; nor any thing but the ſteadfaſt aſſurance his opponent was ſlain, could at laſt have torn his Lordſhip from the field, though he himſelf was mor⯑tally wounded.

Yet even during that period of his danger, while for days he laid in the continual expectation of his own death, not all the entreaties of his deareſt, moſt intimate, and moſt reſpected friends could prevail upon him to pronounce forgiveneſs to his wife, or ſuffer them to [14] bring his daughter to him for his laſt bleſſing.

Lady Elmwood, who was made ac⯑quainted with the minuteſt circumſtance as it paſſed, appeared to wait the news of her lord's deceaſe with patience; but upon her brow, and in every lineament of her face it was marked, his death was an event ſhe would not for a day ſurvive — and ſhe had left her child an orphan, to have followed Lord Elmwood to the grave.—She was prevented the trial; he recovered; and from the ample and diſ⯑tinguiſhed vengeance he had obtained upon the irreſiſtible perſon of the Duke, in a ſhort time ſeemed to regain his uſual tranquillity.

He recovered, while Lady Elmwood fell ſick and lingered—poſſeſſed of youth and a good conſtitution, ſhe lingered till [15] ten years decline, brought her to that period, with which the reader is now going to be preſented.

CHAPTER II.

IN a lonely country on the borders of Scotland, a ſingle houſe by the ſide of a dreary heath, was the reſidence of the once gay, volatile Miſs Milner — In a large gloomy apartment of this ſolitary habitation (the windows of which ſcarce rendered the light acceſſible) was laid upon her death-bed, the once lovely Lady Elmwood — pale, half ſuffocated with the loſs of breath; yet her ſenſes perfectly clear and collected, which ſerved but to ſharpen the anguiſh of dying.

In one corner of the room, by the ſide of an old-faſhioned ſtool, kneels Miſs Woodley, praying moſt devoutly [17] for her ſtill beloved friend, but in vain endeavouring to pray compoſedly — floods of tears pour down her furrowed cheeks, and frequent ſobs of ſorrow break through each pious ejaculation.

Cloſe by her mother's ſide, one hand ſupporting her head, the other wiping from her face the damp dew of death, behold Lady Elmwood's daughter — Lord Elmwood's daughter too—yet he far away, negligent of what either ſuf⯑fers.—Lady Elmwood turns to her often and attempts an embrace, but her feeble arms forbid, and they fall motion⯑leſs.—The daughter perceiving thoſe in⯑effectual efforts, has her whole face con⯑vulſed with ſorrow; kiſſes her mother; holds her to her boſom; and hangs upon her neck, as if ſhe wiſhed to cling there, and the grave not to part them.

[18]On the other ſide the bed ſits Sand⯑ford—his hair grown white—his face wrinkled with age—his heart the ſame as ever—The reprover, the enemy of the vain, idle, and wicked; but the friend, the comforter of the forlorn and miſerable.

Upon thoſe features where ſarcaſm, re⯑proach, and anger dwelt to threaten and alarm the ſinner; mildneſs, tenderneſs, and pity beamed, to ſupport and conſole the penitent. Compaſſion changed his language, and ſoftened all thoſe harſh tones that uſed to denounce reſentment.

"In the name of God," ſaid he to Lady Elmwood, "that God who ſuf⯑fered for you, and, ſuffering, knew and pitied all our weakneſſes—By him, who has given his word to take compaſſion on the ſinner's tears, I bid you hope for [19] mercy.—By that innocence in which you once lived, be comforted—By the ſor⯑rows you have known ſince your degra⯑dation, hope, in ſome degree, to have atoned — By that ſincerity which ſhone upon your youthful face when I joined your hands; thoſe thouſand vir⯑tues you have at times given proof of, you were not born to die the death of the wicked."

As he ſpoke theſe words of conſola⯑tion, her trembling hand claſped his— her dying eyes darted a ray of bright⯑neſs—but her failing voice endeavoured, in vain, to articulate.—At length, her eyes fixing upon her daughter as their laſt dear object, ſhe was juſt underſtood to utter the word "Father."

"I underſtand you," replied Sand⯑ford, "and by all that influence I ever [20] had over him, by my prayers, my tears," (and they flowed at the word) "I will implore him to own his child."

She could now only ſmile, in thanks.

"And if I ſhould fail," continued he, "yet while I live, ſhe ſhall not want a friend or protector—all an old man like me can anſwer for"—here his tears interrupted him.

Lady Elmwood was ſufficiently ſenſi⯑ble of his words and their import, to make a ſign as if ſhe wiſhed to embrace him; but finding her life leaving her faſt, ſhe reſerved this laſt token of love for her daughter—With a ſtruggle ſhe lifted herſelf from her pillow, clung to her child—and died in her arms.

CHAPTER III.

LORD Elmwood was by nature, and more from education, of a ſerious, think⯑ing, and philoſophic turn of mind. His religious ſtudies had completely taught him to conſider this world but as a paſ⯑ſage to another; to enjoy with gratitude what Heaven in its bounty ſhould be⯑ſtow, and to bear with ſubmiſſion, all which in its vengeance it might inflict— In a greater degree than moſt people he practiſed this doctrine; and as ſoon as the firſt ſhock he received from Lady Elmwood's conduct was abated, an en⯑tire calmneſs and reſignation enſued; but ſtill of that ſenſible and feeling kind, which could never force him to forget the [22] happineſs he had loſt; and it was this ſenſibility, which urged him to fly from its more keen recollection as much as poſſible — this he alledged as the reaſon he would never ſuffer Lady Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing. But this injunction (which all his friends, and even the ſervants in the houſe who attended his perſon, had re⯑ceived) was, by many people, ſuſpected rather to proceed from his reſentment, than his tenderneſs; nor did he himſelf deny, that reſentment mingled with his prudence; for prudence he called it not to remind himſelf of happineſs he could never taſte again, and of ingratitude that might impel him to hatred; and prudence he called it, not to form ano⯑ther attachment near to his heart; more eſpecially ſo near as a parent's, which might a ſecond time expoſe him [23] to all the torments of ingratitude, from one whom he affectionately loved.

Upon theſe principles he formed the un⯑ſhaken reſolution, never to acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child—or acknow⯑ledging her as ſuch—never to ſee, hear of, or take one concern whatever in her fate and fortune. The death of her mo⯑ther appeared a favourable time, had he been ſo inclined, to have recalled this declaration which he had ſolemnly and repeatedly made—ſhe was now deſtitute of the protection of her other parent, and it became his duty, at leaſt to pro⯑vide her a guardian, if he did not chooſe to take that tender title upon himſelf.— But to mention either the mother or child to Lord Elmwood was an equal offence, and prohibited in the ſtrongeſt terms to all his friends and houſehold: and as he [24] was an excellent good maſter, a ſincere friend, and a moſt generous patron; not one of his acquaintance or dependants, were hardy enough to draw upon them⯑ſelves his certain, diſpleaſure, which was violent in the extreme, by even the of⯑ficial intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death.

Sandford himſelf, intimidated through age, or by the auſtere, and even moroſe, manners Lord Elmwood had of late years adopted; Sandford wiſhed, if poſſible, ſome other would undertake the dange⯑rous taſk of recalling to his Lordſhip's memory, there ever was ſuch a perſon as his wife. He adviſed Miſs Woodley to indite a proper letter to him on the ſubject; but ſhe reminded him, ſuch a ſtep was ſtill more perilous in her, than any other perſon, as ſhe was the moſt deſtitute [25] being on earth, without the benevolence of Lord Elmwood. The death of her aunt, Mrs. Horton, had left her ſole reliance on Lady Elmwood; and now her death, had left her totally dependant upon the earl—for her Ladyſhip, long before her deceaſe, had declared it was not her intention, to leave a ſingle ſentence be⯑hind her in the form of a will—She had no will, ſhe ſaid, but what ſhe would wholly ſubmit to Lord Elmwood's; and, if it were even his will, her child ſhould live in poverty, as well as baniſhment, it ſhould be ſo.— But, perhaps, in this implicit ſubmiſſion to his Lordſhip, there was a diſ⯑tant hope that the neceſſitous ſituation of his daughter might plead more forcibly than his parental love; and that knowing her abandoned of every ſupport but through himſelf, that idea might form ſome little [26] tie between them; and be at leaſt a token of the relationſhip.

But as Lady Elmwood anxiouſly wiſhed this principle upon which ſhe acted, ſhould be concealed from his Lord⯑ſhip's ſuſpicion, ſhe included her friend, Miſs Woodley, in the ſame fate; and thus, the only perſons dear to her, ſhe left, but at Lord Elmwood's pleaſure, to be preſerved from periſhing in want.—Her child was too young to adviſe her on this ſubject, her friend too diſintereſted; and at this moment they were both with⯑out the ſmalleſt means of ſupport, except through the juſtice or compaſ⯑ſion of his Lordſhip. — Sandford had, indeed, promiſed his protection to the daughter; but his liberality had no other ſource than from his patron, with whom he ſtill lived as uſual, except during the [27] winter when his Lordſhip reſided in town, he then moſtly ſtole a viſit to Lady Elmwood—On this laſt viſit, he ſtaid to ſee her buried.

After ſome mature deliberations, Sand⯑ford was now preparing to go to Lord Elmwood at his houſe in town, and there to deliver himſelf the news that muſt ſooner or later be told; and he meant alſo to venture, at the ſame time, to keep the promiſe he had made to his dying Lady — but the news reached Lord Elmwood before Sandford arrived; it was announced in the public papers, and by that means came firſt to his knowledge.

He was breakfaſting by himſelf, when the newſpaper that firſt gave the intelli⯑gence of Lady Elmwood's death, was [28] laid before him—the paragraph con⯑tained theſe words:

[29]Lord Elmwood had ſo much feeling upon reading this, as to lay down the paper, and not take it up again for ſeveral minutes — nor did he taſte his chocolate during this interval, but leaned his el⯑bow on the table and reſted his head upon his hand. — He then roſe up — walked two or three times acroſs the room — ſat down again — took up the paper—and read as uſual.—Nor let the vociferous mourner, or the perpetual weeper, here complain of his want of ſenſibility—but let them remember Lord Elmwood was a man — a man of under⯑ſtanding — of courage — of fortitude — with all, a man of the niceſt feelings— and who ſhall ſay, but that at the time he leaned his head upon his hand, and roſe to walk away the ſenſe of what he felt, he might not feel as much as Lady Elmwood did in her laſt moments.

[30]Be this as it may, his Lordſhip's ſuſ⯑ceptibility on the occaſion was not ſuſ⯑pected by any one — he paſſed that day the ſame as uſual; the next day too, and the day after.—On the morning of the fourth day, he ſent for his ſteward to his ſtudy, and after talking of other buſi⯑neſs, ſaid to him,

"Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead?"

"It is, my Lord." replied the man.

His Lordſhip looked unuſually grave, and at this reply, fetched an involuntary ſigh.

"Mr. Sandford," my lord, continued the ſteward, "ſent me word of the news, but left it to my own diſcretion, whether I made your Lordſhip acquainted with it or not."

"Where is Sandford?" aſked Lord Elmwood.

[31]"He was with my Lady." replied the ſteward.

"When ſhe died?" aſked his Lord⯑ſhip.

"Yes, my Lord."

"I am glad of it — he will ſee every thing ſhe deſired done. — Sandford is a good man, and would be a friend to every body."

"He is a very good man indeed, my Lord."

There was now a ſilence.—Mr. Gif⯑fard then bowing, ſaid, "Has your Lordſhip any farther commands?"

"Write to Sandford," ſaid Lord Elmwood, heſitating as he ſpoke, "and tell him to have every thing performed as ſhe deſired.—And whoever ſhe may have ſelected for the guardian of her child, has my conſent to act as ſuch.— Nor in one inſtance, where I myſelf am [32] not concerned, will I contradict her will." —The tears ruſhed to his eyes as he ſaid this, and cauſed them to ſtart in the ſteward's — obſerving which, he ſternly reſumed,

"Do not ſuppoſe from this converſa⯑tion, that any of thoſe reſolutions I have long ſince taken are, or will be, changed —they are the ſame; and ſhall continue the ſame: — and your interdiction, Sir, (as well as every other perſon's) remains juſt the ſame as formerly; never to men⯑tion this ſubject to me in future."

"My Lord, I always obeyed you," replied Mr. Giffard, "and hope I al⯑ways ſhall."

"I hope ſo too." replied his Lord⯑ſhip, in a threatening accent —"Write to Sandford," continued he, "to let him know my pleaſure, and that is all you have to do."

[33]The ſteward bowed and withdrew.

But before his letter arrived to Sand⯑ford, Sandford arrived in town; and Mr. Giffard related to him word for word what had paſſed between him and his Lord. — Upon every occaſion, and upon every topic, except that of Lady Elmwood and her child, Sandford was juſt as free with Lord Elmwood as he had ever been; and as uſual (after his interview with the ſteward) went into his Lordſhip's apartment without any pre⯑vious notice. His Lordſhip ſhaked him by the hand as upon all other meetings; and yet, whether his fears ſuggeſted it or not, Sandford thought he appeared more cool and reſerved with him than common.

[34]During the whole day, the ſlighteſt mention of Lady Elmwood, or of her child, was cautiouſly avoided—and not till the evening, (after Sandford had rung for his candle to retire to reſt, it was brought, and he had wiſhed his Lordſhip good night) did he dare to mention the ſub⯑ject.—He then, after taking leave, and going to the door—turned back and ſaid, "My Lord,"—

It was eaſy to gueſs on what he was preparing to ſpeak—his voice failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, he took out his handkerchief, and could proceed no farther.

"I thought," ſaid Lord Elmwood, angrily, "I thought I had given my orders upon this ſubject — did not my ſteward write them to you?"

"He did, my Lord," ſaid Sandford, [35] humbly, "but I was ſet out before they arrived."

"Has he not told you my mind then?" cried his Lordſhip, more angrily ſtill.

"He has;" replied Sandford, — "But"—

"But what, Sir?"—cried Lord Elm⯑wood.

"Your Lordſhip," continued Sand⯑ford, "was miſtaken in ſuppoſing Lady Elmwood left a will; ſhe left none."

"No will? no will at all?"—ſaid his Lordſhip, ſurpriſed.

"No, my Lord," anſwered Sandford, "ſhe wiſhed every thing to be as you willed."

"She left me all the trouble, then, you mean?"

"No great trouble, Sir; for except two perſons, her Ladyſhip has not left any one elſe to hope for your protection."

[36]"And who are thoſe two?" cried he haſtily.

"One, my Lord, I need not name— the other is Miſs Woodley."

There was a delicacy and an humility, in the manner in which Sandford deli⯑vered this reply, that Lord Elmwood could not reſent, and he only returned,

"Miſs Woodley, is ſhe yet living?"

"She is — I left her at the houſe I came from."

"Well, then," anſwered his Lord⯑ſhip, "you muſt ſee that my ſteward provides for thoſe two perſons.—That care I leave to you—and ſhould there be any complaints, on you they fall."

Sandford bowed and was going.

"And now," reſumed his Lordſhip, in a ſtern and exalted voice, "let me never hear again on this ſubject. — You have full power to act in regard to the [37] perſons you have mentioned; and upon you their ſituation, their care, their whole management depend — but be ſure, you never let them be named before me, from this moment."

"Then," ſaid Sandford, "as this muſt be the laſt time they are mentioned, I muſt now take the opportunity to diſ⯑burthen my mind of a charge"—

"What charge?" — cried his Lord⯑ſhip, moroſely interrupting him.

"Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind, ſhe left a requeſt."

"Requeſt"—ſaid his Lordſhip, ſtart⯑ing—"If it is for me to ſee her daughter, I tell you now before you aſk, I will not grant it — for by heaven (and he ſpoke and looked moſt ſolemnly) though I have no reſentment to the innocent child, and wiſh her happy, yet I will never ſee her.—Never, for her mother's ſake, ſuffer [38] my heart to be again ſoftened by an ob⯑ject I might doat on.—Therefore, Sir, if that is the requeſt, it is already anſwered; my will is fixed."

"The requeſt, my Lord," replied Sandford, (taking out a pocket book from whence he drew ſeveral papers) "is contained in this letter; nor do I rightly know what its contents are."— And he held it out to him.

"Is it Lady Elmwood's writing?" cried his Lordſhip, extremely diſcom⯑poſed."

"It is, my Lord—She called for ink and paper and wrote it a few days before ſhe died, and enjoined me to deliver it to you, with my own hands."

"I refuſe to read it."—cried he, put⯑ting it from him—and trembling while he did ſo.

[39]"She deſired me," ſaid Sandford, (ſtill preſenting the letter) "to conjure you to read it, for her father's ſake."

Lord Elmwood took it inſtantly.—But as ſoon as it was in his hand, he ſeemed diſtreſſed to know what he ſhould do with it—in what place, to go to read it—or how fortify himſelf againſt its contents. — He appeared aſhamed too, that he had been ſo far prevailed upon, and ſaid, by way of excuſe,

"For Mr. Milner's ſake I would do much — nay, any thing, but that to which, I have juſt now ſworn never to conſent.—For his ſake I have borne a great deal—for his ſake alone, his daugh⯑ter died my wife.—You know, no other motive than reſpect for him, prevented my divorcing her.—Pray (and he he⯑ſitated) was ſhe buried with him?"

[40]"No, my Lord — ſhe expreſſed no ſuch deſire; and as that was the caſe, I did not think it neceſſary to carry the corpſe ſo far."

At the word corpſe, Lord Elmwood ſhrunk, and looked ſhocked beyond meaſure — but recovering himſelf, ſaid, "I am ſorry for it;—for he loved her ſincerely, if ſhe did not love him—and I wiſh they had been buried together.

"It is not then too late," ſaid Sand⯑ford, and was going on — but his Lord⯑ſhip interrupted him.

"No, no—we will have no diſturbing of the dead."

"Read her letter then," ſaid Sand⯑ford, "and bid her reſt in peace."

"If it is in my power," returned his Lordſhip, "to grant what ſhe aſks I will — but if her demand is what I ap⯑prehend, I cannot, I will not, bid her [41] reſt by complying —You know my reſo⯑lution, and my diſpoſition, and take care how you provoke me.— You may do an injury to the very perſo [...] you are ſeek⯑ing to befriend — the very maintenance I mean to allow her daughter I can withdraw."

Poor Sandford, all alarm at this me⯑nace, replied with energy, "My Lord, unleſs you begin the ſubject, I never will preſume to mention it again."

"I take you at your word,"—returned his Lordſhip," and in conſequence of that, and that alone, we are friends.— Good night, Sir."

Sandford bowed with all humility, and they went to their ſeparate bedchambers.

CHAPTER IV.

AFTER Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it was ſome time before he read the letter Sandford had given him. He firſt walked back⯑wards and forwards in the room — he then began to take off ſome part of his dreſs, but did it ſlowly. At length he diſmiſſed his valet, and ſitting down, took the letter from his pocket. — He looked at the ſeal, but not at the direc⯑tion; for he ſeemed to dread to ſee Lady Elmwood's hand writing.—He then laid it on the table, and began again to un⯑dreſs. He did not proceed, but taking up the letter quickly, (with a kind of [43] effort in making the reſolution) broke it open. Theſe were its contents:

[47]While Lord Elmwood read this letter, it trembled in his hand: he once or twice wiped the tears from his eyes as he read, and once laid the letter down for a few minutes. At its concluſion the tears flowed faſt down his face; but he ſeemed both aſhamed and angry they did, and was going to throw the paper upon the fire; he however ſuddenly checked his hand, and putting it haſtily into his pocket, went to bed.

CHAPTER V.

THE next morning, when Lord Elm⯑wood and Sandford met at breakfaſt, Sandford was pale with fear for the ſuc⯑ceſs of Lady Elmwood's letter—his Lord⯑ſhip was pale too, but there was beſide upon his face ſomething which evidently marked he was diſpleaſed—Sandford ob⯑ſerved it, and was all humbleneſs, both in his words and looks, in order to ſoften him.

As ſoon as the breakfaſt was removed, his Lordſhip drew Lady Elmwood's let⯑ter from his pocket, and holding it to⯑wards Sandford, ſaid,

[49]"That may be of more value to you, than it is to me, therefore I give it you."

Sandford called up a look of ſurpriſe, as if he did not know the letter again.

"'Tis Lady Elmwood's letter," ſaid his Lordſhip, "and I give it to you for two reaſons."

Sandford took it, and putting it up, aſked fearfully "What thoſe two reaſons were?"

"Firſt," ſaid Lord Elmwood, "be⯑cauſe I think it is a relick you may like to preſerve—my ſecond reaſon is, that you may ſhow it to her daughter, and let her know why, and on what conditions I grant her mother's requeſt."

"You do then grant it?" cried Sand⯑ford joyfully; "I thank you — you are kind—you are conſiderate."

[50]"Be not too haſty in your gratitude," returned his Lordſhip, "you may have cauſe to recall it."

"I know what you have ſaid," re⯑plied Sandford, "You have ſaid you grant Lady Elmwood's requeſt — you cannot recall theſe words, nor I my gra⯑titude."

"Do you know what her requeſt is?" ſaid Lord Elmwood.

"Not exactly, my Lord—I told you before, I did not; but it is no doubt ſomething in favour of her child."

"I think not." replied his Lordſhip, "Such as it is, however, I grant it.— But in the ſtricteſt ſenſe of the word — no farther;—and one neglect of my com⯑mands, releaſes my promiſe totally."

"We will take care, Sir, not to diſ⯑obey them."

[51]"Then liſten to what they are—and to you I give the charge of delivering them again.—Lady Elmwood has peti⯑tioned me in the name of her father, (a name I reverence) to give his grand⯑child the ſanction of my protection.—In the litteral ſenſe, to ſuffer her to reſide occaſionally at one of my ſeats; diſpen⯑ſing at the ſame time with my ever ſeeing her."

"And you will comply?"

"I will, till ſhe encroaches on this conceſſion, and dare to aſk for a greater. —I will, while ſhe avoids my ſight, or the giving me any remembrance of her. —But whether by deſign or by accident, I ever ſee or hear from her; that moment my compliance to her mother's ſupplica⯑tion ceaſes, and I abandon her once more."

[52]Sandford ſighed.—His Lordſhip conti⯑nued.

"I am glad her requeſt ſtopped where it did.—I would rather comply with her deſires than not; and I rejoice they are ſuch as I can grant with eaſe and honour to myſelf. I am ſeldom now at Elm⯑wood houſe; let her daughter go there;— the few weeks or months I am down in the ſummer ſhe may eaſily in that exten⯑ſive houſe avoid me—while ſhe does, ſhe lives in ſecurity — when ſhe does not, you know my reſolution."

Sandford bowed — his Lordſhip re⯑ſumed.

"Nor can it be a hardſhip to obey this command — ſhe cannot lament the ſeparation from a parent whom ſhe never knew—" Sandford was going eagerly to prove the error of that aſſertion, but his Lordſhip prevented him ſaying, "In [53] a word—without farther argument—if ſhe obeys me in this, I certainly provide for her as my daughter during my life, and leave her a fortune at my death—but if ſhe dares—"

Sandford interrupted the menace he ſaw prepared for utterance, ſaying, "And you ſtill mean, I ſuppoſe, to make Mr. Ruſhbrook your heir?"

"Have you not heard me ſay ſo? And do you imagine I have changed my de⯑termination? I am not given to alter my reſolutions, Mr. Sandford; and I thought you knew I was not;—beſides, will not my title be extinct, whoever I make my heir?—Could any thing but a ſon have preſerved my title?"

"Then it is yet poſſible—"

"By marrying again, you mean?— No—no— I have had enough of mar⯑riage [54] — and Henry Ruſhbrook I leave my heir. Therefore, Sir—"

"My Lord, I do not preſume—"

"Do not, Sandford, and we may ſtill be friends.—But I am not to be control⯑ed as formerly; my temper is changed of late; changed to what it was origi⯑nally; till your ſcholaſtic and religious rules reformed it. You may remember, how troubleſome it was, to conquer my ſtubborn diſpoſition in my youth; then, indeed, you did; but in my manhood you will find the taſk more difficult."

Sandford again repeated "He ſhould not preſume—"

To which his Lordſhip again made anſwer, "Do not, Sandford;" and ad⯑ded, "For I have a ſincere regard for you, and ſhould be loath at theſe years to quarrel with you ſeriouſly."

[55]Sandford turned away his head to hide his tears.

"Nay, if we do quarrel," reſumed his Lordſhip, "You know it muſt be your own fault; —and as this is a theme the moſt likely of any (indeed the only one on which we can have a difference ſuch as we cannot forgive) take care never from this day to reſume it;—indeed that of itſelf, is an offence I will not par⯑don.—I have been clear and explicit in all I have ſaid; there can be no fear of miſtaking my meaning, therefore all fu⯑ture explanation is unneceſſary—nor will I permit a word, or a hint on the ſubject from any one, without ſhowing my reſent⯑ment to the hour of my death." He was going out of the room.

"But before we bid adieu to the ſub⯑ject for ever, my Lord—there was ano⯑ther perſon whom I named to you—"

[56]"Do you mean Miſs Woodley?— Oh, by all means let her live at Elm⯑wood Houſe too. — On conſideration, I have no objection to ſee Miſs Woodley at any time—I ſhall be glad to ſee her.— do not let her be frightened at me—to her I ſhall be the ſame, I have always been."

"She is a good woman, my Lord," cried Sandford, pleaſed.

"You need not tell me that, Mr. Sandford; I know her worth."—And his Lordſhip left the room.

Sandford, to relieve Miſs Woodley and her lovely charge from the ſuſpenſe in which he had left them, ſet off for their habitation the next day; in order himſelf to conduct them from thence to Elmwood Houſe, and ap⯑point ſome retired part of it for Lady Matilda, againſt the annual viſit her [57] father paid there. But before he left London, Giffard, the ſteward, took an opportunity to wait upon him, and let him know, that his Lord had acquainted him, with the conſent he had given for his daughter to be admitted at Elmwood Caſtle; and upon what reſtrictions; like⯑wiſe that he had denounced the moſt ſe⯑vere threats, ſhould theſe reſtrictions be broken. Sandford thanked Giffard for his friendly information, which ſerved him as a ſecond warning of the circum⯑ſpection that was neceſſary; and having taken leave of his Lordſhip under the pre⯑tence "he could not live in the ſmoke of London," he ſet out for the north.

It is unneceſſary to ſay with what de⯑light Sandford was received by Miſs Woodley, and the hapleſs daughter of Lady Elmwood, even before he told his [58] errand. They both loved him ſincerely; more eſpecially Lady Matilda; whoſe forlorn ſtate, and innocent ſufferings, had ever excited his compaſſion in the extremeſt degree, and had cauſed him ever to treat her with the utmoſt affec⯑tion, tenderneſs, and reſpect. She knew, too, how much he had been her mother's friend; for that ſhe alſo loved him; and being honoured with the friendſhip of her father, ſhe looked up to him with reverence and awe. For Matilda (with an excellent underſtanding, a ſedate⯑neſs above her years, and early accuſ⯑tomed to the moſt private converſe be⯑tween Lady Elmwood and Miſs Wood⯑ley) was perfectly acquainted with the whole fatal hiſtory of her mother; and was by her taught, that reſpect and ad⯑miration of her father's virtues which they juſtly merited.

[59]Notwithſtanding the joy of beholding Mr. Sandford, once more to cheer by his preſence their ſolitary dwelling; no ſooner were the firſt kind greetings over, than the dread of what he might have to inform them, poſſeſſed both poor Ma⯑tilda and Miſs Woodley ſo powerfully, their gladneſs was changed into affright. —Their apprehenſions were far more for⯑cible than their curioſity;—they durſt not aſk a queſtion, and even began to wiſh he would continue ſilent upon the ſub⯑ject, on which they feared to liſten.—For near two hours he was ſo.—At length, after a ſhort interval from ſpeaking, (du⯑ring which they waited with anxiety for what he might next ſay) he turned to Lady Matilda, and ſaid,

"You don't aſk for your father, my dear."

[60]"I did not know it was proper." ſhe replied timidly.

"It is always proper," anſwered Sandford, "for you to think of him, though he ſhould never think on you."

She burſt into tears, ſaying, ſhe "did think of him, but ſhe felt an apprehen⯑ſion at mentioning his name."—and ſhe wept bitterly while ſhe ſpoke.

"Nay, do not think I reproved you," ſaid Sandford; "I but told you what was right."

"Nay, ſaid Miſs Woodley, "it is not for that ſhe cries thus—ſhe fears her father has not complied with her mother's requeſt.—Perhaps not even read her let⯑ter?"

"Yes, he has read it." returned Sandford.

"Oh Heavens!" exclaimed Matilda, [61] claſping her hands together, and the tears falling faſter ſtill.

"Do not be ſo much alarmed, my dear," ſaid Miſs Woodley; "you know we are prepared for the worſt; and you know you promiſed your mother, what⯑ever your fate was, to ſubmit with pa⯑tience."

"Yes," replied Matilda, "and I am prepared for every thing, but my fa⯑ther's refuſal to my dear mother."

"Your father has not refuſed your mother's requeſt." replied Sandford.

She was leaping from her ſeat in ec⯑ſtaſy.

"But," continued he, "do you know what her requeſt was?"

"Not entirely," replied Matilda, "and ſince it is granted I am careleſs.— But ſhe told me her letter concerned none but me."

[62]To explain perfectly to Matilda Lady Elmwood's letter, and that ſhe might per⯑fectly underſtand upon what terms ſhe was admitted into Elmwood Houſe, Sandford now read the letter to her; and repeated, as nearly as he could remember, the whole of the conver⯑ſation that paſſed between Lord Elm⯑wood and himſelf; not even ſparing, with an erroneous delicacy, any of thoſe threats her father had denounced, ſhould ſhe dare to break through the limits he preſcribed—nor did he try to ſoften, in one inſtance, a word his Lordſhip ut⯑tered. She liſtened ſometimes with tears, ſometimes with hope, but always with awe, and terror, to every ſentence wherein her father was concerned. Once ſhe called him cruel—then exclaimed "he was kind;" but at the end of Sandford's intelligence, concluded ſhe was happy [63] and grateful for the boon beſtowed.— Even her mother had not a more ex⯑alted and tranſcendent idea of Lord Elm⯑wood's worth, than his daughter had formed; and this little bounty juſt ob⯑tained, had not been greater in her mother's eſtimation, than it was now in her's. — Miſs Woodley, too, ſmiled at the proſpect before her—ſhe eſteemed Lord Elmwood beyond any mortal liv⯑ing—ſhe was proud to hear what he had ſaid in her praiſe, and overjoyed at the proſpect ſhe ſhould be once again in his company; picturing, at the ſame time, a thouſand of the brighteſt hopes, from watching every emotion of his ſoul, and catching every proper occaſion to excite, or increaſe, his paternal ſentiments.— Yet ſhe had the prudence to conceal thoſe vague hopes from his child, leſt a diſappointment might prove fatal; and [64] aſſuming a behaviour not too much elated or depreſſed, ſhe adviſed they ſhould hope for the beſt, but yet, as uſual, expect and prepare for the worſt.— After taking meaſures for quitting their melancholy abode; within the fortnight they all departed for Elmwood Caſtle.— Matilda, Miſs Woodley, and even Sand⯑ford, firſt viſiting Lady Elmwood's grave, and bedewing it with their tears.

CHAPTER VI.

IT was on a dark evening in the month of March, that Lady Matilda, accom⯑panied by Sandford and Miſs Woodley, arrived at Elmwood Caſtle, the magni⯑ficent ſeat of her father.—Sandford choſe the evening; rather to ſteal into the Houſe privately, than by any appearance of parade, ſuffer Lord Elmwood to be reminded of it by the public prints, or by any other accident.—Nor would he give the neighbours or ſervants the ſlighteſt reaſon to ſuppoſe, the daughter of their Lord was admitted into his houſe in any other ſituation than, that, which ſhe really was.

[66]As the Porter opened the gates of the avenue to the carriage that brought them, Matilda felt an awful, and yet a gladſome ſenſation no terms can deſcribe.—As ſhe entered the door of the houſe this ſenſa⯑tion increaſed—and as ſhe paſſed along the ſpacious hall, the ſplendid ſtaircaſe, and many ſtately apartments, wonder! With a crowd of the tendereſt, yet moſt afflicting, ſentiments ruſhed to her heart. —She gazed with aſtoniſhment!—ſhe reflected with more.

"And is my father the maſter of this houſe?" ſhe cried—"And was my mo⯑ther once the miſtreſs of this houſe?"— Here a flood of tears relieved her from a part of that burthen, which was before inſupportable.

"Yes." replied Sandford, "And you are the miſtreſs of it now, till your father arrives."

[67]"Good God!" exclaimed ſhe, "and will he ever arrive? and ſhall I live to ſleep under the ſame roof with my fa⯑ther?"

"My dear," replied Miſs Woodley, "have not you been told ſo?"

"Yes," ſaid ſhe, "but though I heard it with extreme pleaſure, yet the idea never ſo forcibly affected me as at this moment.—I now feel, as the reality approaches, this has been kindneſs ſuf⯑ficient—I do not aſk for more—I am now convinced, from what this trial makes me feel, that to ſee my father, would cauſe a ſenſation, a feeling, I could not ſurvive."

The next morning gave to Matilda more objects ſtill of admiration and won⯑der, as ſhe walked over the extenſive gardens, groves, and other pleaſure [68] grounds belonging to the houſe. She, who had never been beyond the dreary, ruinate place where her deceaſed mother had choſen her reſidence, was naturally ſtruck with amazement and delight at the grandeur of a ſeat, which travellers have come for miles to ſee, and not thought their time miſpent.

There was one object, however, among all ſhe ſaw, which attracted her attention above the reſt, and ſhe would ſtand for hours to look at it —This was a full length portrait of Lord Elmwood, eſteemed a very capital picture, and a great likeneſs—to this picture ſhe would ſigh and weep; though when it was firſt pointed out to her, ſhe ſhrunk back with fear, and it was ſome time before ſhe dared venture to caſt her eyes completely upon it. In the features of her father [69] ſhe was proud to diſcern the exact moulds in which her own appeared to have been modelled; yet Matilda's perſon, ſhape, and complection were ſo extremely like what her mother's once were, that at the firſt glance ſhe appeared to have a ſtill greater reſemblance of her, than of her father— but her mind and manners were all Lord Elmwood's; ſoftened by the delicacy of her ſex, the extreme tenderneſs of her heart, and the melancholy of her ſitua⯑tion.

She was now in her ſeventeenth year—of the ſame age, within a year and a few months, of her mother when ſhe became the ward of Dorriforth.—She was juſt three years old when her father went abroad, and remembered ſomething of bidding him farewell; but more of taking cher⯑ries [70] from his hand as he pulled them from the tree to give to her.

Educated in the ſchool of adverſity, and inured to retirement from her in⯑fancy, ſhe had acquired a taſte for all thoſe amuſements which a recluſe life affords — She was fond of walking and riding — was accompliſhed in the arts of muſic and drawing, by the moſt careful inſtructions of her mother — and as a ſcholar ſhe excelled moſt of her ſex, from the great pains Sandford had taken with that part of her education, and the great abilities he poſſeſſed for the taſk.

In devoting certain hours of the day to ſtudy with him, others to muſic, riding, and ſuch recreations, Matilda's time never appeared tedious at Elmwood Houſe, although ſhe neither received [71] nor paid one viſit — for it was ſoon di⯑vulged in the neighbourhood upon what ſtipulation ſhe reſided at her father's, and intimated, that the moſt prudent and friendly behaviour of the friends both of her father and of herſelf, would be, to take no notice whatever that ſhe lived among them: and as Lord Elmwood's will was a law all around, ſuch was the conſequence, of his will being known or ſuppoſed.

Neither did Miſs Woodley regret the want of viſiters, but found herſelf far more ſatisfied in her preſent ſituation, than her moſt ſanguine hopes could have formed — She had a companion whom ſhe loved with an equal fondneſs, with which ſhe had loved her deceaſed mo⯑ther; and frequently in this charming manſion, where ſhe had ſo often beheld [72] Lady Elmwood, her imagination pic⯑tured Matilda as her riſen from the grave in her former youth, health, and exqui⯑ſite beauty.

In peace, in content, though far from happineſs, the days and weeks paſſed away till about the middle of Auguſt, when preparations began to be made for the arrival of Lord Elmwood. — The week in which he was to come was at length fixed, and ſome part of his reti⯑nue was arrived before him.—When this was told to Matilda ſhe ſtarted, and looked juſt as her mother at her age of⯑ten times had done, when, in ſpite of her love, ſhe was conſcious ſhe had of⯑fended him, and was terrified at his ap⯑proach. Sandford obſerving this, put out his hand, and taking hers ſhook it kindly; and bade her (but it was not in [73] a cheerful tone) "not be afraid." This gave her no confidence; and ſhe began, before his Lordſhip's arrival, to ſeclude herſelf in thoſe apartments which were allotted for her during the time of his ſtay; and in the timorous expectation of his coming, her appetite declined and ſhe loſt all her colour. — Even Miſs Woodley, whoſe ſpirits had been for ſome time elated with the hopes ſhe had formed, on drawing near to the teſt, found thoſe hopes vaniſhed; and though ſhe endeavoured to conceal it, ſhe was replete with apprehenſions. — Sandford, had certainly fewer fears an either; yet upon the eve of the day on which his patron was to arrive, he was evidently caſt down.

Lady Matilda once aſked him — "Are you certain, Mr. Sandford, you made no miſtake in reſpect to what Lord Elmwood ſaid, when he granted my [74] mother's requeſt? Are you ſure he did grant it?—Was there nothing equivocal on which he may ground his diſpleaſure ſhould he hear I am here?—Oh! do not let me hazard the being once again turn⯑ed out of his houſe!—Oh! ſave me from provoking him perhaps to curſe me."— And here ſhe claſped her hands together with the moſt fervent petition, in the dread of what might happen.

"If you doubt my word or my ſenſes," ſaid Sandford, "call Giffard, and let him inform you;—my Lord repeated the ſame words to him he did to me."

Though from her reaſon Matilda could not doubt of any miſtake from Mr. Sand⯑ford, yet her fears ſuggeſted a thouſand ſcruples; and this reference to the ſtew⯑ard ſhe received with the utmoſt ſatisfac⯑tion, (though ſhe did not think it neceſ⯑ſary to apply to him) as it perfectly con⯑vinced [75] her of the folly of thoſe ſuſpicions ſhe had entertained.

"And yet, Mr. Sandford," ſaid ſhe, "if it is ſo, why are you leſs cheerful than you were? I cannot help thinking but it muſt be the expectation of Lord Elmwood, which has cauſed in you this change."

"I don't know;" replied Sandford, careleſſly, "but I believe I am grown afraid of your father.—His temper is a great deal altered from what it once was— he exalts his voice, and uſes harſh ex⯑preſſions upon the leaſt provocation—his eyes flaſh lightning, and his face is diſ⯑torted with anger on the ſlighteſt motives — he turns away his old ſervants at a moment's warning, and no conceſſion can make their peace.—In a word, I am more at my eaſe when I am away from him — and I really believe," added he [76] with a ſmile, but with a tear at the ſame time, "I really believe I am more afraid of him in my age, than he was of me when he was a boy."

Miſs Woodley was preſent; ſhe and Matilda looked at one another; and each ſaw the other turn pale, at this deſcription.

The day at length came on which Lord Elmwood was expected to dinner. —It had been a high gratification to his daughter to have gone to the top⯑moſt window of the houſe, to have only beheld his chariot enter the avenue; but it was a gratification which her fears, her tremor, her extreme ſenſibility would not permit her to enjoy.

Miſs Woodley and ſhe ſat down that day to dinner in their retired apartments; which were detached from the other part [77] of the houſe by a gallery; and of the door leading to the gallery they had a key to impede any one from paſſing that way, without firſt ringing a bell; to an⯑ſwer which, was the ſole employment of a ſervant who was placed there during his Lordſhip's reſidence, leſt by any acci⯑dent he might chance to come near that unfrequented part of the houſe; on which occaſion the man was to give immediate notice to his Lady.

Miſs Woodley and ſhe ſat down to dinner, but did not dine.—Sandford ate, as uſual, with Lord Elmwood. —When the ſervant brought up tea, Miſs Wood⯑ley aſked him if he had ſeen his Lord— The man anſwered, "Yes, Madam; and he looks vaſtly well." — Matilda wept with joy to hear it.

[78]About nine in the evening Sandford rung at the bell, and was admitted—and never was he ſo welcome—Matilda hung upon him, as if his recent ſociety with her father had endeared him to her more than ever; and ſtaring anxiouſly in his face, ſeemed to aſk him to tell her ſome⯑thing of Lord Elmwood, and ſomething that ſhould not alarm her.

"Well—how do you find yourſelf?" ſaid he to her.

"How are you, Mr. Sandford?" ſhe returned, with a ſigh.

"Oh! very well." replied he.

"Is my Lord in a good temper?" aſked Miſs Woodley.

"Yes; very well." replied Sandford, with indifference.

"Did he ſeem glad to ſee you?" aſked Matilda.

[79]"He ſhook me by the hand." replied Sandford.

"That was a ſign he was glad to ſee you, was it not?" ſaid Matilda.

"Yes; but he could not do leſs."

"Nor more." replied ſhe.

"He looks very well, our ſervant tells us." ſaid Miſs Woodley.

"Extremely well indeed," anſwered Sandford: "and, to tell the truth, I never ſaw him in better ſpirits."

"That is well:" ſaid Matilda, and ſighed a weight of fears from her heart.

"Where is he now, Mr. Sandford?"

"Gone to take a walk about his grounds, and ſo I ſtole here the time."

"What was your converſation during dinner?"

"Horſes, hay, farming, and politics."

"Won't you ſup with him?"

[80]"I ſhall ſee him again before I go to bed."

"And again to-morrow!" — cried Matilda, "what happineſs!"

"He has viſiters to-morrow," ſaid Sandford, "coming for a week or two."

"Thank heaven!" ſaid Miſs Wood⯑ley, "he will then be diverted from thinking on us."

"Do you know," returned Sandford, "it is my firm opinion, that his think⯑ing of ye at preſent, is the cauſe of his good ſpirits."

"Oh, heavens!" cried Matilda, lift⯑ing up her hands with rapture.

"Nay, do not miſtake me;" ſaid Sandford; "I would not have you build a foundation for joy upon this; for if he is in ſpirits that you are in this houſe— ſo near him—poſitively under his protec⯑tion — yet he will not allow himſelf to [81] think that, is the cauſe of his content— and the ſentiments he has adopted, and are now become natural to him, will re⯑main the ſame as ever; nay, perhaps with greater force, while he ſuſpects his weakneſs (as he calls it) acting in oppo⯑ſition."

"If he does but think of me with tenderneſs," cried Matilda, "I am re⯑compenſed."

"And what recompenſe would his kind thoughts be to you," ſaid Sandford, "were he to turn you out to beggary?"

"A great deal — a great deal." ſhe replied.

"But how are you to know he has theſe kind thoughts, while he gives you no proof of them?"

"No, Mr. Sandford; but ſuppoſing we could know them without the proof."

[82]"But as that is impoſſible," anſwered he, "I ſhall ſuppoſe, till the proof ap⯑pears, I am miſtaken."

Matilda looked deeply concerned that the argument ſhould conclude in her diſappointment; for to have believed herſelf thought of with tenderneſs by her father, would have alone conſtituted her happineſs.

When the ſervant came up with ſome⯑thing by way of ſupper, he told Mr. Sandford his Lordſhip was returned from his walk and had enquired for him; Sand⯑ford immediately bade his companions good night, and left them.

"How ſtrange is this!" cried Matil⯑da, when Miſs Woodley and ſhe were alone, "My father within a few rooms of me, and yet I am debarred from ſee⯑ing him!—Only by walking a few paces [83] I might be at his feet, and perhaps re⯑ceive his bleſſing."

"You make me ſhudder," ſaid Miſs Woodley; "but ſome ſpirits leſs fear⯑ful than mine, might perhaps adviſe you to try the experiment."

"Not for worlds," returned Matilda; "no counſel could tempt me to ſuch temerity; and yet to entertain the thought, that it is poſſible I could do this, is a ſource of great comfort."

This converſation laſted till bed time, and later; for they ſat up beyond their uſual hour to indulge it.

Miſs Woodley ſlept little, but Matilda leſs — ſhe awaked repeatedly during the night, and every time ſighed to herſelf, "I ſleep in the ſame houſe with my fa⯑ther! Bleſſed ſpirit of my mother, look down and rejoice."

CHAPTER VII.

THE next day the whole Caſtle ap⯑peared to Lady Matilda (though ſhe was in ſome degree retired from it) all tumult and buſtle; as was uſually the caſe while his Lordſhip was there. She ſaw from her windows ſervants run⯑ning acroſs the yards and park, horſes and carriages driving with fury, all the ſuit of a nobleman; and it ſeemed ſome⯑times to elate, at other times to depreſs her.

Theſe impreſſions however, and others of fear and anxiety, which her father's firſt arrival had excited, by degrees wore away; and after ſome ſhort time, ſhe [85] was in the ſame tranquil ſtate ſhe enjoyed before he came.

He had viſitors, to ſtay a week or two; he paid ſome viſits himſelf for ſeveral days; and thus the time paſſed, till it was about four weeks ſince he ar⯑rived; during which, Sandford, with all his penetration, could never clearly diſ⯑cover whether he had once called to mind his daughter was living in the ſame houſe. He had not named her (that was not extraordinary) conſequently no one durſt name her to him; but he had not even mentioned Miſs Woodley, of whom he had ſo lately ſpoken in the kindeſt terms, and ſaid, "He ſhould take pleaſure in ſeeing her again." From theſe contra⯑dictions in Lord Elmwood's behaviour in reſpect to her, it was Miſs Woodley's plan neither to throw herſelf in his way, [86] or avoid him. She therefore frequently walked about the houſe while he was in it, not indeed wholly without re⯑ſtraint, but at leaſt with the ſhow of li⯑berty. This freedom, indulged for ſome time without peril, became at laſt leſs cautious; and no ill conſequences ariſing from its practice, her ſcruples gradually ceaſed.

One morning, however, as ſhe was croſſing the large hall, thoughtleſs of danger, a footſtep at a diſtance alarmed her almoſt without knowing why—She ſtopped for a moment, thinking to re⯑turn; the ſteps approached quicker, and before ſhe could retreat ſhe beheld Lord Elmwood at the other end of the hall, and perceived that he ſaw her. — It was now too late to heſitate what was to be done; ſhe could not go back, and had [87] not courage to go on; ſhe therefore ſtood ſtill.—Diſconcerted, and much affected at his ſight, (their former intimacy com⯑ing to her mind, together with the many years, and many ſad occurrences paſſed, ſince ſhe laſt ſaw him) all her intentions, all her meditated plans how to conduct herſelf on ſuch an occaſion, gave way to a ſudden ſhock—and to make the meet⯑ing yet more diſtreſſing, her very fright ſhe knew muſt ſerve to recall more pow⯑erfully to his mind, the ſubject ſhe moſt wiſhed him to forget. The ſteward was with his Lordſhip, and as they came up cloſe by her ſide, Giffard obſerving him look at her earneſtly, ſaid ſoftly, but ſo as ſhe heard him, "My Lord, it is Miſs Woodley." Lord Elmwood's hat was off immediately, and coming to her with alacrity, he took her by the hand and ſaid, "Indeed, Miſs Woodley, I did not [88] know you—I am very glad to ſee you." and while he ſpoke, ſhook her hand with a cordiality her tender heart could not bear — and never did ſhe feel ſo hard a ſtruggle as to reſtrain her tears. But the thought of Matilda's fate—the idea of awaking in his mind a ſentiment that might irritate him againſt his child, wrought more forcibly than every other effort; and though ſhe could not reply diſtinctly, ſhe replied without weeping.— Whether he ſaw her embarraſſment, and wiſhed to releaſe her from it, or was in haſte to conceal his own; he left her al⯑moſt inſtantly; but not till he had en⯑treated ſhe would dine that very day with him and Mr. Sandford, who were to dine without other company.—She curt⯑ſied aſſent, and flew to tell Matilda what had occurred.—After liſtening with anx⯑iety and joy to all ſhe told, Matilda laid [89] hold of that hand ſhe ſaid Lord Elm⯑wood had held, and preſſed it to her lips with love and reverence.

When Miſs Woodley made her ap⯑pearance at dinner, Sandford, (who had not ſeen her ſince the invitation, and did not know of it) looked amazed!— on which his Lordſhip ſaid, "Do you know, Sandford, I met Miſs Woodley this morning, and had it not been for Giffard I ſhould have paſſed her without knowing her — but Miſs Woodley, if I am not ſo much altered but that you knew me, I take it unkind you did not ſpeak firſt."—She was unable to ſpeak even now — he ſaw it, and changed the converſation; which Sandford was happy to join, for in the preſent diſcourſe he did not feel himſelf very comfortable.

[90]As they advanced in their dinner, Miſs Woodley's and Sandford's embar⯑raſſment diminiſhed; while Lord Elm⯑wood in his turn became, not embarraſ⯑ſed, but abſent and melancholy. — He now and then ſighed heavily—and called for wine much oftener than he was ac⯑cuſtomed.

When Miſs Woodley took her leave, his Lordſhip invited her to dine with him and Sandford whenever it was con⯑venient to her;—he ſaid many things, too, of the ſame kind, and all with the utmoſt civility, yet not with that warmth with which he had ſpoken in the morn⯑ing — into that he had been ſurpriſed, while this coolneſs was the effect of re⯑flection.

[91]When ſhe came to Lady Matilda, and Sandford had joined them, they talked and deliberated on what had paſſed.—

"You acknowledge, Mr. Sandford," ſaid Miſs Woodley, "that you think my preſence affected Lord Elmwood ſo as to make him much more thoughtful than uſual; if you imagine theſe thoughts were upon Lady Elmwood, I will ne⯑ver intrude again; but if you ſuppoſe I cauſed him to think upon his daughter, I cannot go too often."

"I don't ſee how he can divide thoſe two objects in his mind," replied Sand⯑ford, "and therefore you muſt e'en viſit him on, and take your chance, what reflections you may inſpire—but, be they what they will, time, will take away from you that power of affecting him."

She concurred in the opinion, and occaſionally walked into his Lordſhip's [92] apartments, dined, or took coffee with him, as the accident ſuited; and obſerved according to Sandford's preſcience, that time, wore off that impreſſion her viſits firſt made.—Lord Elmwood now became juſt the ſame before her, as before others. —She eaſily diſcerned, too, through all that politeneſs which he aſſumed—he was no longer the conſiderate, the forbearing character he formally was; but haughty, impatient, imperious, and more than ever, implacable,

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN Lord Elmwood had been at his country ſeat about ſix weeks, Mr. Ruſhbrook, his nephew, and his adopted child, the friendleſs boy whom poor Lady Elmwood firſt introduced in⯑to his uncle's houſe, and by her kind⯑neſs preſerved there—arrived from his travels, and was received by his Lord⯑ſhip with all that affectionate warmth due to the man he thought worthy to make his heir. Ruſhbrook had been a beautiful boy, and was now an extremely handſome young man; he had made an unuſual progreſs in his ſtudies, had com⯑pleted the tour of Italy and Germany, and returned home with the air and addreſs of [94] a perfect man of faſhion—there was, be⯑ſide, an elegance and perſuaſion in his manner almoſt irreſiſtible.—Yet with all thoſe accompliſhments, when he was in⯑troduced to Sandford, and put out his hand to take his, Sandford, with evi⯑dent reluctance, gave it to him; and when Lord Elmwood aſked him, in the young man's preſence, "if he did not think his nephew greatly improved?" He looked at him from head to foot, and muttered "he could not ſay he ob⯑ſerved it." The colour heightened in Mr. Ruſhbrook's face upon this occaſion, but he was too well bred not to be ſtill in perfect good humour.

Sandford ſaw this young man treated in the houſe of Lord Elmwood with the ſame reſpect and attention as if he had been his Lordſhip's ſon; and it was but [95] probable the old prieſt ſhould make a compariſon between the ſituation of him, and of Lady Matilda Elmwood.—Before her, it was Sandford's meaning to have concealed his thoughts upon the ſubject, and never to have mentioned it but with compoſure; that was, however, impoſ⯑ſible — unuſed to conceal his feelings; at the name of Ruſhbrook his counte⯑nance would always change, and a ſar⯑caſtic ſneer, and ſometimes a frown of reſentment, force their way in ſpite of his reſolution. — Miſs Woodley, too, with all her boundleſs charity and good will, was, upon this occaſion, induced to limit their exceſs; and they did not extend ſo far as to reach poor Ruſh⯑brook — She even, and in reality, did not think him handſome or engaging in his manners—ſhe thought his gaiety fri⯑vilouſneſs, his complaiſance affectation, [96] and his good humour impertinence.—It was impoſſible to conceal thoſe unfavour⯑able ſentiments entirely from Matilda; for when the ſubject aroſe, as it frequently did, Miſs Woodley's undiſguiſed heart, and Sandford's undiſguiſed countenance, told them inſtantly.—Matilda had the underſtanding to imagine, ſhe was, per⯑haps, the object who had thus deformed Mr. Ruſhbrook, and frequently (though he was a ſtranger to her, and one who had cauſed her many a jealous heartach) fre⯑quently ſhe would ſpeak in his vindication.

"You are very good," ſaid Sandford one day to her; "you like him becauſe you know your father loves him."

This was a hard ſentence to the daugh⯑ter of Lord Elmwood, to whom her father's love would have been more pre⯑cious than any other bleſſing—She, how⯑ever, checked the aſſault of envy, and kindly replied,

[97]"My mother loved him, too, Mr. Sandford."

"Yes," anſwered Sandford, "he has been a grateful man to your poor mo⯑ther—She did not ſuppoſe when ſhe took him into the houſe, when ſhe intreated your father to take him, and through her careſſes and officious praiſes of him to his uncle, firſt gave him that power he now poſſeſſes over him; ſhe little foreſaw, at that time, his ingratitude, and its effects."

"Very true." ſaid Miſs Woodley, with a heavy ſigh.

"What ingratitude?" ſaid Matilda; "do you ſuppoſe Mr. Ruſhbrook is the cauſe my father will not ſee me? Oh do not pay Lord Elmwood's motives ſo ill a compliment."

"I do not ſay he is the abſolute cauſe," returned Sandford; "but if a [98] parent's heart is void, I would have it remain ſo, till ſtored by its lawful owner— a uſurper I deteſt."

"No one can take Lord Elmwood's heart by force," replied his daughter, "it muſt, I believe, be a free gift to the poſſeſſor; and as ſuch, whoever has it, has a right to it."

In this manner ſhe would plead the young man's excuſe—perhaps but to hear what could be ſaid in his disfavour, for ſecretly his name was bitter to her— and once ſhe exclaimed in vexation, on Sandford's ſaying Lord Elmwood and Mr. Ruſhbrook were gone out ſhooting together,

"All that pleaſure is now eclipſed which I uſed to take in liſtening to the report of my father's gun, for I cannot now diſtinguiſh his, from his paraſite's."

[99]Sandford, much as he diſliked Ruſh⯑brook—for this expreſſion which com⯑priſed her father in the reflection, turned to Matilda in extreme anger; but as he ſaw the colour mount to her face, for what, in the ſtrong feelings of her heart, had eſcaped her lips, he did not ſay a word—and by a flood of tears that fol⯑lowed after, he rejoiced to ſee how much ſhe reproved herſelf.

Miſs Woodley, vext to the heart, and provoked every time ſhe ſaw Lord Elmwood and Ruſhbrook together, and ſaw the familiar terms on which this young man lived with his benefactor, now made her viſits to his Lordſhip very ſeldom.—If Lord Elmwood obſerved this, he did not appear to obſerve it; and though he received her very politely when ſhe did pay him a viſit, it was al⯑ways [100] very coldly; nor did ſhe ſuppoſe if ſhe never went, he would ever aſk for her. For his daughter's ſake, how⯑ever, ſhe thought it right ſometimes to ſhow herſelf before him; for ſhe knew it muſt be impoſſible that, with all his ſeeming indifference, Lord Elmwood could ever ſee her without thinking for a moment on his child; and what one fortunate thought might ſometime bring about, was an object too ſerious for her to ſlight.—She therefore, after remaining confined to her apartments near three weeks, (excepting thoſe ſhort and anxi⯑ous walks ſhe and Matilda ſtole, while Lord Elmwood dined, or before he roſe in a morning) went one forenoon into his Lordſhip's apartments, where as uſual, ſhe found him, Mr. Sandford, and Mr. Ruſhbrook.—After ſhe had ſat about half an hour, converſing with [101] them all, though but very little with the latter, his Lordſhip was called out of the room upon ſome buſineſs; pre⯑ſently after Sandford; and now, not much pleaſed with the companion with whom ſhe was left, ſhe roſe and was going likewiſe, when Ruſhbrook fixed his ſpeaking eyes upon her, and cried,

"Miſs Woodley, will you pardon me what I am going to ſay?"

"Certainly, Sir—You can, I am ſure, ſay nothing but what I muſt forgive."— But ſhe made this reply with a diſtance and a reſerve, very unlike the uſual man⯑ners of Miſs Woodley.

He looked at her earneſtly and cried, "Ah! Miſs Woodley, you don't be⯑have ſo kindly to me as you uſed to do!"

"I do not underſtand you, Sir," — ſhe replied, very gravely;—"Times are [102] changed, Mr. Ruſhbrook, ſince you were laſt here — you were then but a child."

"Yet I love all thoſe perſons now, I loved then;" replied he; "and ſo I ſhall for ever."

"But you miſtake, Mr. Ruſhbrook; I was not even then ſo very much the object of your affections — there were other ladies you loved better.—Perhaps you don't remember Lady Elmwood?"

"Don't I?"—cried he, "Oh!" (claſp⯑ing his hands and lifting up his eyes to heaven) "ſhall I ever forget her?"

That moment Lord Elmwood opened the door; the converſation of courſe that moment ended; but confuſion at the ſudden ſurpriſe was on the face of both the parties — his Lordſhip ſaw it, [103] and looked at each by turns, with a ſternneſs that made poor Miſs Woodley ready to faint; while Ruſhbrook, with the moſt natural and happy laugh that ever was affected, cried, "No, don't tell my Lord, pray, Miſs Woodley."— She was more confuſed than before; and his Lordſhip turning to him, aſked what the ſubject was.—By this time he had invented one, and continuing his laugh, ſaid, "Miſs Woodley, my Lord, will to this day proteſt ſhe ſaw my apparition when I was a boy; and ſhe ſays it is a ſign I ſhall die young, and is really much affected at it."

Lord Elmwood turned away before this ridiculous ſpeech was concluded; yet ſo well had it been acted, he did not for an inſtant doubt its truth.

Miſs Woodley felt herſelf greatly re⯑lieved; [104] and yet ſo little is it in the power of thoſe we diſlike to do any thing to pleaſe us, that from this very circum⯑ſtance, ſhe formed a ſtill more unfavour⯑able opinion of Mr. Ruſhbrook than ſhe had done before. — She ſaw in this little incident the art of diſſimulation, cun⯑ning, and duplicity in its moſt glaring ſhape; and deteſted the method by which they had each eſcaped Lord Elmwood's ſuſpicion, and perhaps anger, the more, becauſe it was ſo dexterouſly managed.

Lady Matilda and Sandford were both in their turns informed of this trait in Mr. Ruſhbrook's character; and al⯑though Miſs Woodley had the beſt of diſ⯑poſitions, and upon every occaſion ſpoke the ſtricteſt truth, yet in relating this occurrence, ſhe did not ſpeak all the truth; for every circumſtance that would [105] have told to the young man's advantage, literally ſlipped her memory.

The twenty ninth of October arrived; on which a dinner, a ball, and ſupper, was given by Lord Elmwood to all the neighbouring gentry — the peaſants alſo dined in the park off a roaſted bullock; ſeveral caſks of ale were diſtributed, and the bells of the village rung. — Matilda, who heard and ſaw ſome part of this feſ⯑tivity from her windows, inquired the cauſe; but even the ſervant who waited upon her had too much ſenſibility to tell her, and anſwered, "he did not know." Miſs Woodley however ſoon learnt the reaſon, and groaning with the painful ſecret, informed her, "Mr. Ruſhbrook on that day was come of age."

"My birth day was laſt week." re⯑plied Matilda; but not a word beſide.

[106]In their retired apartments, the day paſſed away not only ſoberly, but almoſt ſilently; for to ſpeak upon any ſubject that did not engage their thoughts had been difficult, and to ſpeak upon the only one that did, had been afflictive.

Juſt as they were ſitting down to din⯑ner their bell gently rung, and in walked Sandford.

"Why are not you among the revel⯑lers, Mr. Sandford?" cried Miſs Wood⯑ley, with an ironical ſneer—(the firſt her features ever wore) —"Pray, were not you invited to dine with the company?"

"Yes," replied Sandford; "but my head aked; and ſo I had rather come and take a bit with you."

Matilda, as if ſhe had beheld his heart as he ſpoke, clung round his neck and ſobbed on his boſom: he put her [107] peeviſhly away, crying, "Nonſenſe, nonſenſe—eat your dinner." But he did not eat himſelf.

CHAPTER IX.

ABOUT a week after this, Lord Elm⯑wood went out two days for a viſit; con⯑ſequently Ruſhbrook was for that time maſter of the houſe. The firſt morning he went a ſhooting, and returning about noon, enquired of Sandford, who was ſitting in the room, if he had taken up a volume of plays left upon the table.— "I read no ſuch things." replied Sand⯑ford, and quitted the room abruptly. Ruſhbrook then rung for his ſervant, and deſired him to look for the book, aſking him angrily, "Who had been in the apartment? for he was ſure he had left it there when he went out."—The ſervant withdrew to enquire, and preſently re⯑turned [109] with the volume in his hand, and "Miſs Woodley's compliments, ſhe begs your pardon, Sir, ſhe did not know the book was yours, and hopes you will excuſe the liberty ſhe took."

"Miſs Woodley!" cried Ruſhbrook with ſurprize, "ſhe comes ſo ſeldom in⯑to theſe apartments, I did not ſuppoſe it was her who had it — take it back to her inſtantly, with my reſpects, and I beg ſhe will keep it."

The man went; but returned with the book again, and laying it on the table without ſpeaking, was going away; when Ruſhbrook, hurt at receiving no ſecond meſſage, ſaid, "I am afraid, Sir, you did very wrong in taking this book from Miſs Woodley."

"It was not from her I took it, Sir," replied the man, "it was from Lady Matilda."

[110]Since he had entered the houſe, Ruſh⯑brook had never before heard her name— he was ſhocked—confounded more than ever—and to conceal what he felt, in⯑ſtantly ordered the man out of the room.

In the mean time, Miſs Woodley and Matilda were talking over this trifling occurrence; and frivolous as it was, drew from it ſtrong concluſions of Ruſh⯑brook's inſolence and power.—In ſpite of her pride, the daughter of Lord Elm⯑wood even wept at the inſult ſhe had received on this inſignificant occaſion; for the volume being merely taken from her at Mr. Ruſhbrook's command, ſhe felt an inſult; and the manner in which it was done by the ſervant, might contribute to the offence.

[111]While Miſs Woodley and ſhe were upon this converſation, a note came from Ruſhbrook to Miſs Woodley, wherein he entreated he might be permitted to ſee her.—She ſent a verbal anſwer, "She was engaged." He ſent again, begging ſhe would name her own time. But certain of a ſecond denial, he followed the ſervant who took the laſt meſſage, and as Miſs Woodley came out of her apartment into the gallery to ſpeak to him, Ruſhbrook preſented himſelf, and told the man to retire.

"Mr. Ruſhbrook," ſaid Miſs Wood⯑ley, "this intruſion is inſupportable;— and deſtitute as you may think me of the friendſhip of Lord Elmwood"—

In the ardour with which Ruſhbrook was waiting to expreſs himſelf, he inter⯑rupted her, and caught hold of her hand.

[112]She immediately ſnatched it from him; and withdrew into her chamber.

He followed, ſaying in a low voice, "Dear Miſs Woodley hear me."

At that juncture Lady Matilda, who was in an inner room, came out of it in⯑to Miſs Woodley's.—Perceiving a gen⯑tleman, ſhe ſtopped ſhort at the door.

Ruſhbrook caſt his eyes upon her, and ſtood motionleſs — his lips only moved. "Do not dep [...], Madam," ſaid he, "without hearing my apology for being here."

Though Matilda had never ſeen him ſince her infancy, there was no cauſe to tell her who it was that addreſſed her— his elegant and youthful perſon, joined to the incident which had juſt occurred, convinced her it was Ruſhbrook; and ſhe looked at him with an air of ſurpriſe, but with ſtill more, of dignity.

[113]"Miſs Woodley is ſevere upon me, Madam," continued he, "ſhe judges me unkindly; and I am afraid ſhe will prepoſſeſs you with the ſame unfavour⯑able ſentiments."

Still Matilda did not ſpeak, but look⯑ed at him with the ſame air of dig⯑nity.

"If, Lady Matilda," reſumed he, "I have offended you, and muſt quit you without pardon, I am more unhappy than I ſhould be with the loſs of your father's protection — more forlorn, than when an orphan boy, your mother firſt took pity on me."

At this laſt ſentence, Matilda turned her eyes on Miſs Woodley, and ſeemed in doubt what reply ſhe was to give.

Ruſhbrook immediately fell upon his knees — "Oh! Lady Matilda," cried he, "if you knew the ſenſations of my [114] heart, you would not treat me with this diſdain."

"We can only judge of thoſe ſenſa⯑tions, Mr. Ruſhbrook," ſaid Miſs Wood⯑ley, "by the effect they have upon your conduct; and while you inſult Lord and Lady Elmwood's daughter by an intru⯑ſion like this, and then ridicule her abect ſtate by mockery, ſuch as the preſent"—

He flew from his knees inſtantly, and interrupted her, crying "What can I do? — What am I to ſay, to make you change your opinion of me? — While Lord Elmwood has been at home I have kept at an awful diſtance; and though every moment I breathed was a wiſh to caſt myſelf at his daughter's feet, yet as I feared, Miſs Woodley, you were in⯑cenſed againſt me, by what means was I to procure an interview but by ſtrata⯑gem [115] or force?—This accident has given a third method, and I had not ſtrength, I had not courage, to let it paſs.—Lord Elmwood will ſoon return, and we may both be hurried to town immediately;— then how for a tedious winter could I ſuſtain the thought that I was deſpiſed, nay perhaps conſidered as an object of ingratitude, by the only child of my deceaſed benefactreſs."

Matilda replied with all her father's haughtineſs, "Depend upon it, Sir, if you ſhould ever enter my thoughts, it will only be as an object of envy."

"Suffer me then, Madam," ſaid he, "as an earneſt you do not think worſe of me than I merit, ſuffer me to be ſometimes admitted into your preſence."

She ſcarcely permitted him to finiſh the period, before ſhe replied, "This is the laſt time, Sir, we ſhall ever meet, de⯑pend [116] upon it — unleſs, indeed, Lord Elmwood ſhould delegate to you the control of me — his commands I never diſpute." And here ſhe burſt into a flood of tears.

Ruſhbrook walked to the window, and did not ſpeak for a ſhort time—then turning himſelf to make a reply, both Matilda and Miſs Woodley were ſome⯑what ſurpriſed to ſee, he had ſhed tears too.—Having conquered them, he ſaid, "I will not offend you, Madam, by ſtaying one moment longer; and I give my honour, that, upon no pretence what⯑ever, will I preſume to intrude here again. — Profeſſions, I find, have no weight, and only by this obedience to your orders can I give a proof of that reſpect which you inſpire;—and let the agitation I now feel, convince you, Lady Matilda, that, with all my ſeeming good [117] fortune, I am not happier than yourſelf."— And ſo much was he agitated while he delivered this, it was with difficulty he came to the concluſion.—When he did, he bowed with reverence, as if he had left the preſence of a deity, and went away.

Matilda immediately entered the chamber ſhe had come from, and with⯑out caſting a ſingle look at Miſs Wood⯑ley, by which ſhe might gueſs of the opinion ſhe had formed of Mr. Ruſh⯑brook's conduct. — The next time they met they did not even mention his name; for they were aſhamed to own any par⯑tiality in his favour, and were too juſt to bring any ſerious accuſation againſt him.

But Miſs Woodley the day following communicated the intelligence of this [118] viſit to Mr. Sandford, who not being preſent, and a witneſs of thoſe marks of humility and reſpect which were conſpi⯑cuous in the deportment of Mr. Ruſh⯑brook, was highly offended at his pre⯑ſumption; and threatened if he ever dared to force his company there again, he would acquaint Lord Elmwood with his arrogance, whatever might be the event.—Miſs Woodley however, aſſured him, ſhe believed he would have no cauſe for ſuch a complaint, as the young man had made the moſt ſolemn promiſe never to commit the like offence; and ſhe thought it her duty to enjoin Sand⯑ford, till he did repeat it, not to men⯑tion the circumſtance, even to Ruſh⯑brook himſelf.

Matilda could not but feel a regard towards her father's heir in return for [119] that which he had ſo fervently declared for her; yet the more favourable her opinion of his mind and manners, the more he be⯑came a proper object of her jealouſy for the affections of Lord Elmwood, and was now conſequently an object of greater ſor⯑row to her, than when ſhe believed him leſs worthy. — This, was the reverſe on his part towards her — no jealouſy inter⯑vened to bar his admiration and eſteem, and the beauty of her perſon, and gran⯑deur of her mien, not only confirmed, but improved, the exalted idea he had formed of her previous to their meet⯑ing, and which his affection to both her parents had inſpired.—The next time he ſaw his benefactor, he began to feel a new eſteem and regard for him, for his daughter's ſake; as he had at firſt an eſteem for her on the foundation of his love for Lord and Lady Elmwood— [120] He gazed with wonder at his uncle's inſenſibility to his own happineſs, and longed to lead him to the jewel he caſt away, though even his own expulſion ſhould be the fatal conſequence. — Such was the youthful, warm, generous, grate⯑ful, but unthinking mind of Ruſhbrook.

CHAPTER X.

AFTER this incident, Miſs Wood⯑ley left her own apartments leſs frequently than before—ſhe was afraid, though till now miſtruſt had been a ſtranger to her heart, ſhe was afraid duplicity might be concealed under the apparent friendſhip of Ruſhbrook; it did not indeed appear ſo from any part of his behaviour, but ſhe was apprehenſive for the fate of Ma⯑tilda; ſhe diſliked him alſo, and there⯑fore ſhe ſuſpected him.—For near three weeks ſhe had not now paid a viſit to Lord Elmwood, and though to herſelf every viſit was a pain, yet as Matilda took a delight in hearing of her father, what he ſaid, what he did, what his at⯑tention [122] ſeemed moſt employed on, and a thouſand other circumſtantial informa⯑tions, in the detail of which, Sandford would ſcorn to be half ſo particular, it was a deprivation to her, Miſs Woodley did not go oftener.—Now too the middle of November had arrived, and it was expected his Lordſhip would ſhortly quit the country.

Partly therefore to indulge her hapleſs companion, and partly becauſe it was a neceſſary duty, Miſs Woodley paid his Lordſhip a morning viſit, and ſtaid din⯑ner. — Ruſhbrook was officiouſly polite to her, (for that was the epithet ſhe gave his attention in relating it to Lady Ma⯑tilda) yet ſhe owned he had not that for⯑ward impertinence ſhe had formerly diſ⯑covered in him, but appeared much more grave and ſedate.

[123]"But tell me of my father." ſaid Matilda.

"I was going, my dear — but don't be concerned — don't let it vex you."

"What? what?" cried Matilda, frightened by the preface.

"Why, on my obſerving that I thought Mr. Ruſhbrook looked paler than uſual, and appeared not to be in perfect health, (which was really the caſe) your father expreſſed the greateſt anxiety imaginable; he ſaid he could not bear to ſee him look ſo ill, begged him with all the tenderneſs of a parent to take the advice of a phyſician, and added a thouſand other affectionate things."

"I deteſt Mr. Ruſhbrook."—ſaid Ma⯑tilda, with her eyes flaſhing indignation.

"Nay, for ſhame," returned Miſs Woodley: "do you ſuppoſe I told you this, to make you hate him?"

[124]"No, there was no occaſion for that," replied Matilda; "my ſentiments (though I have never before avowed them) were long ago formed; he was always an object which added to my unhappineſs; but ſince his daring intru⯑ſion into my apartments, he has been an object of my hatred."

"But now perhaps I may tell you ſomething to pleaſe you." cried Miſs Woodley.

"And what is that?" ſaid Matilda, with indifference; for the firſt intelli⯑gence had hurt her ſpirits too much to ſuffer her to liſten with pleaſure to any other.

"Mr. Ruſhbrook," continued Miſs Woodley, "replied to your father, his indiſpoſition was but a ſlight nervous fe⯑ver, and he would defer a phyſician's advice till he went to London—on which [125] his Lordſhip ſaid, "And when do you expect to be there?"—he replied, "With⯑in a week or two, I ſuppoſe, my Lord." But your father anſwered, "I do not mean to go myſelf till after Chriſtmas." — "No indeed, my Lord!" ſaid Mr. Sandford, with ſurpriſe: "you have not paſſed your Chriſtmas here," continued he, "theſe many a year."—"No," re⯑turned his Lordſhip; "but I think I feel myſelf more attached to this houſe at preſent, than ever I did in my life."

"You imagine then, my father thought of me, when he ſaid that?" cried Matilda eagerly.

"But I may be miſtaken," replied Miſs Woodley.—"I leave you to judge. — But I am ſure Mr. Sandford imagined he thought of you, for I ſaw a ſmile over his whole face immediately."

"Did you, Miſs Woodley?"

[126]"Yes; it appeared on every feature except his lips; thoſe he cloſed faſt to⯑gether, for fear Lord Elmwood ſhould perceive it."

Miſs Woodley, with all her minute intelligence, did not however acquaint Matilda that Ruſhbrook followed her to the window while his Lordſhip was out of the room, and Sandford half aſleep at the other end of it, and inquired reſpectfully and anxiouſly for her Lady⯑ſhip; adding, "It is my concern for Lady Matilda which makes me thus in⯑diſpoſed: I ſuffer more than her; but I am not permitted to tell her ſo, nor can I hope, Miſs Woodley, you will."—She replied, "You are right, Sir." Nor did ſhe reveal this converſation, while not a ſentence that paſſed except that, was omitted.

[127]When Chriſtmas arrived Lord Elm⯑wood had many convivial days at Elm⯑wood Houſe, but the name of Matilda was never mentioned by one of his gueſts, and moſt probably never thought of.— During all thoſe holidays ſhe was unuſu⯑ally melancholy, but ſunk into the deep⯑eſt dejection when ſhe was told the day was fixed on which her father was to depart for the ſeaſon. — On the morning of that day ſhe wept inceſſantly; and all her conſolation was, "She would go to the chamber window which was front⯑ing the door he was to paſs through to his carriage, and for the firſt time, and moſt likely for the laſt time of her life, behold him."

This deſign was ſoon forgot in an⯑other: — "She would ruſh boldly into the apartment where he was, and at his [128] feet take leave of him for ever—She would lay hold of his hands, claſp his knees, provoke him to ſpurn her, which would be joy in compariſon to this cruel indifference."—In the bitterneſs of her grief, ſhe once called upon her mother, and reproached her memory—but the moment ſhe recollected the offence, (which was almoſt inſtantaneouſly) ſhe became all mildneſs and reſignation. "What have I ſaid?" cried ſhe; "Dear, dear ſaint, forgive me, and behold for your ſake I will bear all with patience—I will not groan, I will not even ſigh again—this taſk I ſet my⯑ſelf to atone for what I have dared to utter."

While Lady Matilda laboured under theſe variety of ſenſations, Miſs Wood⯑ley was occupied in bewailing and en⯑deavouring [129] to calm her ſorrows — and Lord Elmwood, with Ruſhbrook, was prepared ready to ſet off. — His Lord⯑ſhip, however, loitered, and did not once ſeem in haſte to be gone.—When at laſt he got up to depart, Sandford thought he preſſed his hand, and ſhook it with more warmth than ever he had done in his life. — Encouraged by this ſuppoſition, Sandford, with the tears ſtarting in his eyes, ſaid, "my Lord, won't you condeſcend to take your leave of Miſs Woodley?" — "Certainly, Sandford." replied his Lordſhip, and ſeemed glad of an excuſe to ſit down again.

Impreſſed with the idea of the ſtate in which ſhe had left his only child, Miſs Woodley, when ſhe came before Lord Elmwood to bid him farewell, [130] was pale, trembling, and in tears. — Sandford, notwithſtanding his Lordſhip's apparent kind humour, was ſhocked at the conſtruction he muſt put upon her appearance, and cried, "What, Miſs Woodley, are you not recovered of your illneſs yet." Lord Elmwood, how⯑ever, took no notice of her looks, but after wiſhing her health and happineſs, walked ſlowly out of the houſe; turning back frequently and ſpeaking to Sand⯑ford or ſome other perſon who was be⯑hind him, as if part of his thoughts were left behind, and he went with reluc⯑tance.

When he had quitted the room where Miſs Woodley was; Ruſhbrook, timid before her, as ſhe had been before her benefactor, went up to her all humility, and ſaid, "Miſs Woodley, we ought [131] to be friends; our concern, our devo⯑tion is paid to the ſame objects, and one common intereſt ſhould teach us to be friendly."

She made no reply.—"Will you per⯑mit me to write to you when I am away?" ſaid he; "You may wiſh to hear of Lord Elmwood's health, and of what changes may take place in his reſo⯑lutions—Will you permit me?"—At that moment a ſervant came and ſaid, "Sir, my Lord is in his carriage and waiting for you." He haſted away, and Miſs Woodley was relieved from the pain of giving him a denial.

No ſooner was the chariot, with all its attendants, out of ſight, than Lady Matilda was conducted by Miſs Wood⯑ley from her lonely retreat into that part of the houſe from whence her father had [132] juſt departed—and ſhe viſited every ſpot where he had ſo long reſided, with a pleaſing curioſity that for a while di⯑verted her grief. — In the breakfaſt and dining rooms ſhe leaned over thoſe ſeats with a kind of filial piety, on which ſhe was told he had been accuſtomed to ſit. And in the library ſhe took up with filial delight, the pen with which he had been writing; and looked with the moſt curious attention into thoſe books that were laid upon his reading deſk.—But a hat, lying on one of the tables, gave her a ſenſation beyond any other ſhe ex⯑perienced on thi [...] occaſion—in that tri⯑fling article of his dreſs, ſhe thought ſhe ſaw he himſelf, and held it in her hand with pious reverence.

In the mean time, Lord Elmwood and Ruſhbrook were proceeding on [133] their road with hearts not leſs heavy than thoſe which they had left at Elm⯑wood Houſe, though neither of them could ſo well as Matilda tell the cauſe of the weight.

CHAPTER XI.

YOUNG as Lady Matilda was du⯑ring the life of her mother, neither her youth, nor the recluſe ſtate in which ſhe lived, had precluded her from the no⯑tice and ſolicitations of a nobleman who had profeſſed himſelf her lover. Viſ⯑count Margrave had an eſtate not far diſtant from the retreat Lady Elmwood had choſen, and being devoted to the ſports of the country, he ſeldom quitted it for any of thoſe joys which the town offered.—He was a young man, of a handſome perſon, and was what his neighbours ſtiled "A man of ſpirit."— He was an excellent fox-hunter, and as excellent a companion over his bottle at [135] the end of the chace — he was prodigal of his fortune in all caſes where his plea⯑ſures were concerned, and as thoſe plea⯑ſures were moſtly ſocial, his ſporting companions and his miſtreſſes (for theſe were alſo of the plural number) partook largely of his wealth.

Two months previous to Lady Elm⯑wood's death, Miſs Woodley and Lady Matilda were taking their uſual walk in ſome fields and lanes near to their houſe, when chance threw Lord Margrave in their way, during a thunder ſtorm in which they were ſuddenly caught; and he had the ſatisfaction to convey his new acquaintances to their home in his carri⯑age, ſafe from the fury of the elements.— Grateful for the ſervice his Lordſhip had rendered them, Miſs Woodley and her charge permitted him to enquire occa⯑ſionally [136] of their healths, and would ſome-ſee him.—The ſtory of Lady Elmwood was known to Lord Margrave, and as he beheld her daughter with a paſſion ſuch as he had been unuſed to over⯑come, he indulged it with the probable hope, that on the death of the mother Lord Elmwood would receive his child, and perhaps accept him as his ſon-in-law. —Wedlock was not the plan which Lord Margrave had ever propoſed to himſelf for happineſs; but the exceſs of his love on this new occaſion, ſubdued every re⯑ſolution he had taken againſt the marriage ſtate, and not daring to hope for the conſummation of his wiſhes by any other means, he ſuffered himſelf to look for⯑ward to that, as his only reſource.—No ſooner was the long-expected death of Lady Elmwood arrived, than his Lord⯑ſhip waited with impatience to hear Lady [137] Matilda was ſent for and acknowledged by her father; for he meant to be the firſt to lay before Lord Elmwood his pretenſions as a ſuitor.—But thoſe preten⯑ſions were founded on the vague hopes of a lover only; and Miſs Woodley, to whom he firſt declared them, ſaid every thing poſſible to convince him of their falaciouſneſs. — As to the object of his paſſion, ſhe was not only inſenſible, but totally inattentive to all that was ſaid to her on the ſubject.—Lady Elmwood died without ever being diſturbed with it; for her daughter did not even remember his propoſals ſo as to repeat them again, and Miſs Woodley thought it prudent to conceal from her friend, every new incident which might give her cauſe for freſh anxieties.

[138]When Sandford and the ladies left the north and came to Elmwood Houſe, ſo much were their thoughts employed with other ideas, Lord Margrave did not oc⯑cupy a place; and during the whole time they had been at their new abode, they had never once heard of him.—He had, nevertheleſs, his whole mind fixed upon Lady Matilda, and placed ſpies in the neighbourhood to inform him of every circumſtance in her ſituation. — Having imbibed an averſion to matri⯑mony, he heard with but little regret, that there was no proſpect of her ever becoming her father's heir; while ſuch an information gave him the hope of obtaining her, upon the illegal terms of a miſtreſs.

Lord Elmwood's departure to town forwarded this hope, and flattering him⯑ſelf [139] that the humiliating ſituation in which Matilda muſt feel herſelf in the houſe of her father, might gladly induce her to take ſhelter under any other pro⯑tection, he boldly advanced as ſoon as the Earl was gone, to make ſuch over⯑tures as his wiſhes and his vanity told him, could not be rejected.

Inquiring for Miſs Woodley, he eaſily gained admittance; but at the ſight of ſo much modeſty and dignity in the per⯑ſon of Matilda, ſo much good will, and yet ſuch circumſpection in her compa⯑nion; and the good ſenſe and proper ſpirit which were always apparent in the man⯑ners of Sandford, his Lordſhip fell once more into the deſpondency, of becoming to Lady Matilda nothing more important to his reputation, than a huſband.

[140]Even that humble hope was, however, ſometimes denied him, while Sandford ſet forth the impropriety of troubling Lord Elmwood on ſuch a ſubject at pre⯑ſent; and while the Viſcount's penetra⯑tion, ſmall as it was, diſcovered in his fair one much more to diſcourage than to favour his wiſhes.—Plunged, how⯑ever, too deep in his paſſion to emerge from it in haſte, he meant ſtill to viſit, and wait for a change to happier circum⯑ſtances, when he was peremptorily de⯑ſired by Mr. Sandford to deſiſt from ever coming again.

"Wherefore, Mr. Sandford?" cried his Lordſhip.

"For two reaſons, my Lord;—in the firſt place, your viſits might be diſpleaſ⯑ing to Lord Elmwood;—in the next place, I know they are ſo to his daugh⯑ter."

[141]Unaccuſtomed to be ſpoken to ſo plain⯑ly, particularly in a caſe where his heart was intereſted, his Lordſhip nevertheleſs ſubmitted with patience; but in his own mind determined how long this patience ſhould continue—no longer than it ſerved as the means to prove his obedience, and by that artifice, ſecure his better recep⯑tion at ſome future period.

On his return home, cheered with the huzzas of his jovial companions, he began to conſult thoſe friends, what ſcheme was beſt to be adopted for the accompliſhment of his deſires. — Some, boldly adviſed application to the father, in defiance to the old prieſt; but that was the very laſt method his Lordſhip himſelf approved, as marriage muſt inevitably have followed Lord Elm⯑wood's conſent; beſides, though a Peer, [142] Lord Margrave was unuſed to rank with Peers; and even the neceſſary formality of an interview with one of his equals, carried along with it a terror, or at leaſt a fatigue, to a ruſtic Baron. — Others, of his companions adviſed ſeduction; but happily his Lordſhip poſſeſſed no arts of this kind to affect a heart appendant to ſuch a mind as Matilda's.—There were not wanting among his moſt favourite counſellors ſome, who painted the triumph and gratification of force; thoſe aſſured him there was nothing to apprehend un⯑der this head; as from the behaviour of Lord Elmwood to his child, it was more than probable he would be utterly indif⯑ferent to any violence that might be offered her.—This laſt advice ſeemed in⯑ſpired by the aid of wine; and no ſooner had the wine freely circulated, than [143] this was always the ſcheme which ap⯑peared by far the beſt.

While Lord Margrave alternately che⯑riſhed his hopes and his fears in the country, Ruſhbrook in town gave way to his fears only — every day of his life made him more acquainted with the firm, unſhaken temper of Lord Elmwood, and every day whiſpered more forcibly to his own heart, that pity, gratitude, and friendſhip, ſtrong and affectionate as theſe paſſions are, are weak and cold to that, which had gained the poſſeſſion of him—he doubted, but he did not long doubt, that which he felt was love.— "And yet," ſaid he to himſelf, "it is love of that kind, which ariſing from cauſes independant of the object itſelf, can ſcarcely deſerve this ſacred title.— Did I not love Lady Matilda before I [144] beheld her?—for her mother's ſake I loved her — and even for her father's.— Should I have felt the ſame affection for her, had ſhe been the child of other pa⯑rents?—no. Or ſhould I have felt that ſympathetic tenderneſs which now preys upon my health, had not her misfortunes excited it?—no." — Yet the love which is the reſult of gratitude and pity only, he thought had little claim to rank with his; and after the moſt deliberate and deep reflection, he concluded with this deciſive opinion—He had loved Lady Matilda, in whatever ſtate, in whatever circumſtances; and that the tenderneſs he felt towards her, and the anxiety for her happineſs before he knew her, extreme as they were, were yet cool and diſpaſ⯑ſionate ſenſations, compared to that which her perſon and demeanour had incited— and though he acknowledged, that by [145] thoſe preceding ſentiments his heart was ſoftened, prepared, and moulded, as it were, to receive this laſt impreſſion, yet the violence of his paſſion told him ge⯑nuine love, if not the baſis on which it was founded, had been the certain con⯑ſequence. — With a ſtrict ſcrutiny into his heart he ſought this knowledge, but arrived at it with a regret that amounted to deſpair.

To ſhield him from deſpondency, he formed in his mind a thouſand projects, depicting the joys of his union with Lady Matilda; but her father's implacability ſtood foremoſt and confounded them all. — His Lordſhip was a man who made but few reſolutions—thoſe were the effect of deliberation; and as he was not the leaſt capricious or inconſtant in his tem⯑per, they were reſolutions which no pro⯑bable [146] event could ſhake. — Love, that produces wonders, that ſeduces and ſub⯑dues the moſt determined and rigid ſpirits, had in two inſtances overcome the inflexibility of Lord Elmwood; he married Lady Elmwood contrary to his determination, becauſe he loved; and for the ſake of this beloved object, he had, contrary to his reſolution, taken under his immediate care young Ruſh⯑brook; but the magic which once en⯑chanted away this ſpirit of immutability was no more — Lady Elmwood was no more, and the charm was broken.

As Miſs Woodley was deprived the opportunity of deſiring Ruſhbrook not to write when he aſked her the permiſſion, he paſſed one whole morning in the gra⯑tification of forming and writing a letter to her, which he thought might poſſibly [147] be ſhewn to Matilda. — As he durſt not touch upon any of thoſe circumſtances in which he was the moſt intereſted, that, joined to the reſpect he wiſhed to pay the lady to whom he wrote, limited his letter to about twenty lines; yet the ſtudious manner with which theſe lines were dictated, the hope and fear they might, or might not, be ſeen and re⯑garded by Lady Matilda, rendered the taſk an anxiety ſo pleaſing, he could have wiſhed it to have laſted for a year; and in all this magnifying of trifles was diſcoverable, the never-failing ſymptom of ardent love.

A reply to this formal addreſs was a reward he wiſhed for with impatience, but he wiſhed in vain; and in the midſt of his chagrin at the diſappointment, a ſorrow, little thought of, occurred, and [148] gave him a perturbation of mind he had never before experienced. — Lord Elm⯑wood propoſed a wife to him; and in a way ſo aſſured of his acquieſcence, that if Ruſhbrook's life had depended upon his daring to diſpute his benefactor's will, he would not have had the courage to have done ſo. There was, however, in his reply, and his embarraſſment, ſomething which his Lordſhip diſcerned from a free concurrence; and looking ſteadfaſtly at him, he ſaid, in that ſtern manner which he now almoſt conſtantly adopted,

"You have no engagements, I ſup⯑poſe? Have made no previous pro⯑miſes?"

"None on earth, my Lord." replied Ruſhbrook candidly.

"Nor have you diſpoſed of your heart?"

[149]"No, my Lord." replid he; but not candidly,—nor with the appearance of candour: for though he ſpoke haſtily, it was rather like a man frightened than aſſured.—He hurried to tell the falſehood he thought himſelf obliged to tell, that the pain and ſhame might be over; but there Ruſhbrook was deceived; the lie once told was as troubleſome as in the conception, and added to his firſt con⯑confuſion, an encreaſing one.

Lord Elmwood now fixed his eyes upon him with a ſullen contempt, and riſing from his ſeat, ſaid, "Ruſhbrook, if you have been ſo inconſiderate as to give away your heart, tell me ſo at once, and tell me the object."

Ruſhbrook ſhuddered at the thought.

"I here," continued his Lordſhip, "tolerate the firſt untruth you ever told [150] me, as the falſe aſſertion of a lover; and give you an opportunity to recall it—but after this moment, it is a lie be⯑tween man and man—a lie to your friend and father, and I will not forgive it."

Ruſhbrook ſtood ſilent, confuſed, alarmed, and bewildered in his thoughts. —His Lordſhip reſumed,

"Name the perſon, if there is any ſuch, on whom you have beſtowed your heart; and though I do not give you the ſmalleſt hope I ſhall not cenſure your folly, I will at leaſt not reproach you for having at firſt denied it."

To repeat theſe words in writing, the reader muſt condemn the young man that he could heſitate to own he loved, if he was even afraid to name the object of his paſſion; but his Lordſhip in his queſtion had made the two anſwers inſe⯑parable, [151] and all evaſions of the ſecond, Ruſhbrook knew would be fruitleſs, after having avowed the firſt—and how could he confeſs the latter? The abſo⯑lute orders he received from the ſteward on his firſt return from his travels, were, "Never to mention his daughter, any more than his late wife, before Lord Elmwood."—The fault of having rudely intruded into Lady Matilda's preſence, ruſhed too upon his mind; for he did not even dare to ſay, by what means he had beheld her. — But more than all, the threatening manner in which his Lord⯑ſhip uttered this rational and ſeeming conciliating ſpeech, the menaces, the ſeverity which ſat upon his countenance while he delivered thoſe moderate words, might have intimidated a man wholly independent, and leſs uſed to fear him than his nephew had been.

[152]"You make no anſwer, Sir." ſaid his Lordſhip, after waiting a few mo⯑ments for his reply.

"I have only to ſay, my Lord," re⯑turned Ruſhbrook, "that although my heart may be totally diſengaged, I may yet be diſinclined to the proſpect of mar⯑riage."

"May! May! Your heart may be diſengaged," repeated his Lordſhip. "Do you dare to reply to me equivo⯑cally, when I have aſked a poſitive an⯑ſwer?"

"Perhaps I am not poſitive myſelf, my Lord; but I will inquire the ſtate of my mind, and make you acquainted with it very ſoon."

As the angry demeanour of his uncle affected Ruſhbrook with fear, ſo that fear, powerfully (but with proper man⯑lineſs) [153] expreſſed, again ſoftened the diſ⯑pleaſure of Lord Elmwood; and ſeeing and pitying his nephew's ſenſibilit [...] ▪ [...]e now changed his auſtere voice, and [...] mildly, but firmly,

"I give you a week to conſu [...]t [...] yourſelf; at the expiration of that ti [...] I ſhall talk with you again, and I com⯑mand you to be then prepared to ſpeak, not only without deceit, but without heſitation." He left the room at theſe words, and left Ruſhbrook releaſed from a fate, which his apprehenſions had be⯑held depending that moment.

He had now a week to call his thoughts together, to weigh every circumſtance, and to determine whether implicitly to ſubmit to his Lordſhip's recommenda⯑tion for a wiſe, or revolt from it, and ſee ſome other more ſubſervient to his will, appointed his heir.

[154]Undetermined how to act upon this great trial which was to decide his fu⯑ture deſtiny, Ruſhbrook ſuffered ſo poignant an uncertainty, that he became at length ill, and before the end of the week which his uncle had allotted him for his reply, he was confined to his bed in a high fever.—His Lordſhip was ex⯑tremely affected at his indiſpoſition; he gave him every care he could beſtow, and even a great deal of his perſonal attendance.—This laſt favour had a claim upon the young man's gratitude, ſuperior to every other obligation which ſince his infancy his benefactor had conſerred; and he was at times ſo moved by thoſe marks of kindneſs he received from Lord Elmwood, he would form the in⯑tention of tearing from his heart every trace Lady Matilda had left there, and as ſoon as his health permitted him, obey [155] to the utmoſt of his views every wiſh his uncle had conceived. — Yet again, Matilda's pitiable ſituation preſented it⯑ſelf to his compaſſion, and her beautious perſon to his love. — Divided between the claims of obligation to the father, and tender attachment to the daughter, his ſickneſs was increaſed by the tortures of his mind, and he once ſincerely wiſhed for that death, of which he was in danger, to free him from the dilem⯑ma into which his affections had involv⯑ed him.

At the time his illneſs was at its height, and he lay complaining of the violence of his fever, Lord Elmwood, taking his hand, aſked him, "If there was any thing he could do for him?"

"Yes, yes, my Lord, a great deal." he replied eagerly

[156]"What is it, Harry?" aſked his Lordſhip kindly.

"Oh! my Lord," replied he, "that is what I muſt not tell you."

"Defer it then till you are well." ſaid his Lordſhip, fearful of being ſur⯑priſed, or affected by the ſtate of his health, into any promiſes which he might hereafter find the impropriety of grant⯑ing.

"And when I recover, my Lord, you give me leave to reveal to you, that which I wiſh you to comply with, let it be what it will?"

His Lordſhip heſitated—but ſeeing an anxiety for the anſwer, by his raiſing himſelf upon his elbow in the bed and ſtaring wildly, Lord Elmwood at laſt ſaid, "Certainly — Yes, yes." as a child is anſwered for its quiet.

[157]That Lord Elmwood could have no idea what was the real petition which Ruſhbrook meant to preſent him is cer⯑tain; but it is certain he expected he had ſome requeſt to make, with which it might be wrong for him to comply, and therefore he avoided hearing what it was; for great as his compaſſion for him in his preſent ſtate, it was not of force to urge him to give a promiſe he did not mean to perform.—Ruſh⯑brook on his part was pleaſed with the aſſurance he might ſpeak when he was reſtored to health, but no ſooner was his fever abated, and his ſenſes perfectly recovered from the ſlight derangement his malady had cauſed, than the lively remembrance of what he had hinted alarmed him, and he was even afraid to look his kind, but awful relation in the face. — Lord Elmwood's cheerfulneſs, [158] however, on his returning health, and his undiminiſhed attention, ſoon con⯑vinced him he had nothing to fear— But, alas! he found too, he had nothing to hope. — As his health re-eſtabliſhed his wiſhes re-eſtabliſhed alſo, and with his wiſhes his deſpair.

Convinced now that his nephew had ſomething on his mind which he feared to reveal, his Lordſhip no longer doubt⯑ed but ſome youthful attachment had armed his heart againſt any marriage he ſhould propoſe; but he had ſo much pity for his preſent weak ſtate, to delay that farther inquiry which he had threat⯑ened before his ſickneſs, to a time when he ſhould be wholly reſtored.

It was the end of May before Ruſh⯑brook was able to be preſent and partake [159] in the uſual routine of the day — the country was now preſcribed him as the means of entire reſtoration; and as Lord Elmwood deſigned to leave London ſome time in June, he adviſed him to go to Elmwood Houſe a week or two before him;—this advice was received with delight, and a letter was ſent to Mr. Sandford to prepare for Mr. Ruſh⯑brook's arrival.

CHAPTER XII.

DURING the illneſs of Ruſhbrook, news had been ſent of his danger from the ſervants in town to thoſe at Elmwood Houſe, and Lady Matilda expreſſed compaſſion when ſhe was told of it—ſhe began to conceive the inſtant ſhe thought he would ſoon die, that his viſit to her had ſome merit rather than impertinence in its deſign, and that he might poſſibly be a more deſerving man than ſhe had ſuppoſed him to be. Even Sandford and Miſs Woodley began to recollect qualifications he poſſeſſed, which they never had reflected on before, and Miſs Woodley in particular reproached her⯑ſelf that ſhe had been ſo ſevere and inat⯑tentive [161] to him. — Notwithſtanding the proſpects his death pointed out to her, it was with infinite joy ſhe heard he was recovered; nor was Sandford leſs ſatis⯑fied; for he had treated the young man too unkindly not to dread, leſt any ill ſhould befall him;—but although he was glad to hear of his reſtored health, when he was informed he was coming down to Elmwood Houſe for a few weeks in the ſtyle of its maſter, Sandford, with all his religious and humane principles, could not help thinking, "that provided the lad had been properly prepared, he had been as well out of the world as in it."

He was ſtill leſs his friend when he ſaw him arrive with his uſual florid ap⯑pearance: had he come pale and ſickly, Sandford had been kind to him; but in apparent good health and ſpirits, he [162] could not form his mouth to tell him he was "glad to ſee him."

On his arrival, Matilda, who for five months had been at large, ſecluded her⯑ſelf as ſhe would have done upon the arrival of Lord Elmwood; but with far different ſenſations. — Notwithſtanding her reſtriction on the latter occaſion, the reſidence of her father in that houſe had been a ſource of pleaſure, rather than of ſorrow to her; but from the abode of Ruſhbrook ſhe derived puniſhment alone.

When, from inquiries made to his own ſervant, who inquired again, Ruſh⯑brook found that on his approach Ma⯑tilda had retired to her own confined apartments, the thought was torture to him; it was the hope of ſeeing and con⯑verſing with her, of being admitted at [163] all times to her ſociety as the miſtreſs of the houſe, that had raiſed his ſpirits, and effected his perfect cure, beyond any other cauſe; and he was hurt to the greateſt degree at this reſpect, or rather contempt, ſhown to him by her retreat.

It was, nevertheleſs, a ſubject too de⯑licate to touch upon in any one ſenſe— an invitation for her company on his part, might carry the appearance of ſu⯑perior authority, and an affected conde⯑ſcenſion, which he juſtly conſidered as the worſt of all inſults.—And yet, how could he ſupport the idea that his viſit had placed the daughter of his benefactor as a dependant ſtranger in that houſe, where in reality he was the dependant, and ſhe the lawful heir. — For two or three days he ſuffered the torments of theſe reflec⯑tions, hoping to come to an explanation [164] of all he felt by a fortunate meeting with Miſs Woodley; but when that meeting occurred, although he obſerved ſhe talk⯑ed to him with leſs reſerve than ſhe had formerly done, and even gave ſome proofs of the goodneſs of her diſpoſition, yet ſhe ſcrupulouſly avoided naming Lady Matilda; and when he diffidently enquired of her Ladyſhip's health, a cold reſtraint ſpread over Miſs Woodley's face, and ſhe left him inſtantly.—To Sandford it was ſtill more difficult to apply; for though they were frequently together, they were never ſociable; and as Sand⯑ford ſeldom diſguiſed his feelings, to Ruſhbrook he was always extremley ſe⯑vere, and ſometimes unmannerly.

In this perplexed ſituation, the coun⯑try air was rather of detriment than ſer⯑vice to the invalid; and had he not, like [165] a true lover, held faſt to hope, while he could perceive nothing but deſpair; he had returned to town, rather than by his ſtay placed in a ſubordinate ſtate the object of his adoration.—But ſtill perſiſt⯑ing in his hopes, he one morning met Miſs Woodley in the garden, and en⯑gaging her a longer time than uſual in converſation, at laſt obtained her promiſe "She would that day dine with him and Mr. Sandford."—But no ſooner had ſhe parted from him than ſhe repented of her conſent, and upon communicating it to Matilda, that young lady, for the firſt time in her life, darted upon her kind companion, a look of the moſt cut⯑ting reproach and haughty reſentment.— Miſs Woodley's own ſentiments had up⯑braided her before; but ſhe was not pre⯑pared to receive ſo pointed a mark of diſapprobation from her young friend, [166] till now, duteous and humble to her as to a mother, and not leſs affectionate. Her heart was too ſuſceptible to bear this diſreſpectful and contumelious frown from the object of her long-devoted care and concern; the tears inſtantly covered her face, and ſhe laid her hands upon her heart, as if ſhe thought it would break.—Matilda was moved, but ſhe poſ⯑ſeſſed too much of the manly reſentment of her father, to diſcover what ſhe felt for the firſt few minutes. — Miſs Woodley, who had given ſo many tears to her ſorrows, but never till now, one to her anger, had a ſtill deeper ſenſe of this indifference, than of the anger itſelf, and to conceal what ſhe ſuffered, left the room.—Matil⯑da, who had been till this time working at her needle, ſeemingly compoſed, now let her work drop from her hand, and ſat for a little while in a deep reverie.— [167] At length ſhe roſe up, and followed Miſs Woodley to the other apartment.— She entered grave, majeſtical, and appa⯑rently ſerene, while her poor heart flutter⯑ed with a thouſand diſtreſſing ſenſations.— She approached Miſs Woodley (who was ſtill in tears) with a ſullen ſilence; and awed by her manners the faithful friend of her deceaſed mother exclaimed, "Dear Lady Matilda, think no more on what I have done — do not reſent it any longer, and on my knees I'll beg your pardon." Miſs Woodley roſe as ſhe uttered theſe laſt words; but Ma⯑tilda laid faſt hold of her to prevent the poſture ſhe offered to take, and inſtantly aſſumed it herſelf. "Oh, let this be my atonement!" ſhe cried with the moſt earneſt ſupplication.

They interchanged forgiveneſs; and as this reconciliation was ſincere, they [168] each without reſerve gave their opinion upon the ſubject that had cauſed the miſ⯑underſtanding; and it was agreed that an apology ſhould be ſent to Mr. Ruſh⯑brook, "That Miſs Woodley had been ſuddenly indiſpoſed." nor could this be ſaid to differ from the truth, for ſince what had paſſed ſhe was unfit to pay a viſit.

Ruſhbrook, who had been all the morning elated with the advance he ſup⯑poſed he had made in that lady's favour, was highly diſappointed, vext, and an⯑gry when this apology was delivered to him; nor did he, nor perhaps could he, conceal what he felt, although his ſevere obſerver, Mr. Sandford, was preſent.

"I am a very unfortunate man." ſaid he, as ſoon as the ſervant was gone who brought the meſſage.

[169]Sandford caſt his eyes upon him with a look of ſurpriſe and contempt.

"A very unfortunate man indeed, Mr. Sandford," repeated he, "although you treat my complaint contemptu⯑ouſly."

Sandford made no reply, and ſeemed above making one.

They ſat down to dinner;—Ruſhbrook eat ſcarce any thing, but drank frequent⯑ly; Sandford took no notice of either, but had a book (which was his cuſtom when he dined with perſons whoſe con⯑verſation was not intereſting to him) laid by the ſide of his plate, which he occaſionally looked into, as the diſhes were removing, or other opportunities ſerved.

Ruſhbrook, juſt now more hopeleſs than ever of forming an acquaintance [170] with Lady Matilda, began to give way to the ſymptoms of deſpair; and they made their firſt attack by urging him to treat on the ſame level of familiarity that he himſelf was treated, Mr. Sand⯑ford, to whom he had till now ever behaved with the moſt profound tokens of reſpect.

"Come," ſaid he to him as ſoon as the dinner was removed, "Lay aſide your book and be good company."

Sandford lifted up his eyes upon him —ſtared in his face—and caſt them on the book again.

"I ſay," continued Ruſhbrook, "I want a companion; and as Miſs Wood⯑ley has diſappointed me, I muſt have your company."

Sandford now laid down his book upon the table, but ſtill holding his fingers in the pages he was reading, ſaid, "And [171] why are you diſappointed of Miſs Wood⯑ley's company?—When people expect what they have no right to hope for, they have yet the aſſurance to complain they are diſappointed."

"I had a right to expect ſhe would come," anſwered Ruſhbrook, "for ſhe promiſed ſhe would.

"But what right had you to aſk her?"

"The right every one has, to make his time paſs as agreeably as he can."

"But not at the expence of another."

"I believe, Mr. Sandford, it would be a heavy expence to you, to ſee me happy; I believe it would coſt you even your own happineſs."

"That is a price I have not now to give." replied Sandford, and he began reading again.

"What, you have already paid it away? No wonder that at your time of [172] life it ſhould be gone.—But what do you think of my having already ſquandered mine?"

"I don't think about you." returned Sandford, without taking his eyes from the book.

"Can you look me in the face and ſay that, Mr. Sandford?—No, you cannot — for you know you do think of me, and you know you hate me."—Here he drank two glaſſes of wine one after another; "And I can tell you why you hate me." continued he: "It is from a cauſe for which I often hate my⯑ſelf."

Sandford read on.

"It is on Lady Matilda's account you hate me, and uſe me thus."

Sandford put down his book haſtily, and put both his hands by his ſide.

[173]"Yes," reſumed Ruſhbrook, "you think I am wronging her."

"I think you groſſly inſult her," ex⯑claimed Sandford, "by this rude men⯑tion of her name; and I command you at your peril to deſiſt."

"At my peril! Mr. Sandford? Do you aſſume the authority of Lord Elm⯑wood?"

"I do on this occaſion; and if you dare to give your tongue a freedom"—

Ruſhbrook interrupted him—"Why then I boldly ſay, (and as her friend you ought rather to applaud than reſent it) I boldly ſay, my heart ſuffers ſo much for her ſituation, I am regardleſs of my own.—I love her father—I loved her mother more—but ſhe herſelf beyond either."

"Hold your licentious tongue," cried Sandford, "or quit the room."

[174]"Licentious? Oh! the pure thoughts that dwell in her innocent mind, are not leſs ſenſual than mine towards her.—Do you upbraid me with my reſpect, my pity for her? They are the ſenſations which impel me to ſpeak thus undiſguiſed, even to you, my open—no, even worſe— my ſecret enemy!"

"Inſult me as you pleaſe, Mr. Ruſh⯑brook,—but beware how you mention Lord Elmwood's daughter."

"Can it be to her diſhonour that I pity her? that I would quit the houſe this moment never to return, ſo ſhe ſup⯑plied the place I withhold from her."

"Go, then." cried Sandford.

"It would be of no uſe to her, or I would. — But come, Mr. Sandford, I will dare do as much as you.—Only ſe⯑cond me, and I will entreat Lord Elm⯑wood [175] to be reconciled—to ſee and own her."

"Your vanity would be equal to your raſhneſs.—You entreat?—She muſt greatly eſteem thoſe parental favours which your entreaties gained her! — Do you forget, young man, how ſhort a time it is, ſince you were entreated for?"

"I prove I do not, while this anxiety for Lady Matilda, ariſes, from what I feel on that account."

"Remove your anxiety, then, from her to yourſelf; for were I to let Lord Elmwood know what has paſſed now"—

"It is for your own ſake, not for mine, if you don't."

"You ſhall not dare me to it, Mr. Ruſhbrook,"—And he roſe from his ſeat: "You ſhall not dare me to do you an injury.—But to avoid the temptation, I will never again come into your com⯑pany, [176] unleſs my friend Lord Elmwood is preſent, to protect me and his child from your inſults."

Ruſhbrook roſe in yet more warmth than Sandford. "Have you the in⯑juſtice to ſay I have inſulted Lady Ma⯑tilda?"

"To ſpeak of her at all, is in you an inſult. — But you have done more — You have dared to viſit her—to force into her preſence and ſhock her with your offers of ſervices which ſhe ſcorns; and of your compaſſion which ſhe is far above."

"Did ſhe complain to you?"

"She, or her friend did."

"I rather ſuppoſe, Mr. Sandford, you have bribed ſome of the ſervants to reveal this."

"The ſuſpicion becomes Lord Elm⯑wood's heir."

[177]"It becomes the man, who lives in a houſe with you."

"I thank you, Mr. Ruſhbrook, for what has paſſed this day—it has taken a weight off my mind.—I thought my diſ⯑inclination to you, might perhaps ariſe from prejudice—this converſation has relieved me from thoſe fears, and I thank you." — Saying this he calmly walked out of the room, and left Ruſh⯑brook to reflect on what he had been doing.

Heated with the wine he had drank, (and which Sandford engaged on his book had not obſerved) no ſooner was he alone, than he became at once cool and repentant.— "What had he done?" was the firſt queſtion to himſelf—"He had offended Sandford" — The man whom reaſon as well as prudence had [178] ever taught him to treat with reſpect and even reverence.—He had groſſly offended the firm friend of Lady Matilda, and even by the unreſerved, the wanton uſe of her name. — All the retorts he had uttered came now to his memory; with a total forgetfulneſs of all Sandford had ſaid to provoke them.

He once thought to follow him and Beg his pardon; but the contempt with which he had been treated, more than all the anger, withheld him.

As he ſat forming plans how to re⯑trieve the opinion, ill as it was, which Sandford formerly entertained of him, he received a letter from Lord Elm⯑wood, kindly enquiring after his health, and ſaying he ſhould be down early in the following week. — Never were the friendly expreſſions of his Lordſhip half [179] ſo welcome to him; for they ſerved to ſooth his imagination, racked with Sand⯑ford's wrath and his own diſpleaſure.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHEN Sandford acted deliberately he always acted up to his duty; it was his duty to forgive Ruſhbrook and he did ſo — but he had declared he would never "be again in his company unleſs Lord Elmwood was preſent;"—and with all his forgiveneſs, he found an unfor⯑giving gratification, in the duty, of being obliged to keep his word.

The next day Ruſhbrook dined alone, while Sandford gave his company to the ladies. — Ruſhbrook was too proud to ſeek to Sandford with abject conceſ⯑ſions, but he endeavoured to meet him [181] as by accident, and try what, in ſuch a caſe, a ſubmiſſive apology might effect. — For a day or two, all the ſchemes he formed on that head proved fruitleſs; he could never procure even a ſight of him.—But on the evening of the third day, taking a lonely walk, he turned the corner of a grove, and ſaw in the very path he was going, Sandford ac⯑companied by Miſs Woodley; and, what agitated him much more, Lady Matilda was with them.—He knew not whether to proceed, or to quit the path and palpably ſhun them — To one who ſeemed to put an unkind conſtruction upon all he ſaid and did, he knew to do either, would be to do wrong.—In ſpite of the propenſity he felt to paſs ſo near to Lady Matilda, could he have known what conduct would have been deemed the moſt reſpectful, whatever painful [182] denial it had coſt him, that, he would have adopted.—But undetermined whe⯑ther to go forward, or to croſs to another path, he ſtill walked on till he came too nigh to recede; he then, with a diffi⯑dence not affected, but felt in the moſt powerful degree, pulled of his hat; and without bowing, ſtood ſilently while the company paſſed. — Sandford walked on ſome paces before, and took no farther notice as he went by him, than juſt touching the fore part of his hat with his finger.—Miſs Woodley curtſied as ſhe followed.—But Lady Matilda made a full ſtop, and ſaid, in the gentleſt ac⯑cents, "I hope, Mr. Ruſhbrook, you are perfectly recovered."

It was the ſweeteſt muſic he ever liſ⯑tened to; and he returned with the moſt reſpectful bow, "I am better a great deal, Ma'am." and purſued his way as [183] if he did not dare to utter another ſyl⯑lable.

Sandford ſeldom found fault with Lady Matilda; not becauſe he loved her, but becauſe ſhe ſeldom did wrong— upon this occaſion, however, he was half inclined to reprimand her; but yet he did not know what to ſay—the ſubſe⯑quent humility of Ruſhbrook had taken from the indiſcretion of her ſpeaking to him, and the event could by no means juſtify his cenſure.—On hearing her be⯑gin to ſpeak Sandford had ſtopped; and as Ruſhbrook after replying, walked away, Sandford called to her croſſly, "Come, come along." But at the ſame time he put out his elbow for her to take hold of his arm.

She haſtened her ſteps, and did ſo— then turning to Miſs Woodley, ſhe ſaid, "I expected you would have ſpoken [184] to Mr. Ruſhbrook; it might have pre⯑vented me."

Miſs Woodley replied, "I was at a loſs what to do;—when we met formerly, he always ſpoke firſt."

"And ought now." cried Sandford angrily—and then added, with a ſarcaſ⯑tic ſmile, "It is certainly the duty of the ſuperior, to be the firſt who ſpeaks."

"He did not look as if he thought himſelf our ſuperior." replied Matilda.

"No," returned Sandford, "ſome people can put on what looks they pleaſe."

"Then while he looks ſo pale," re⯑plied Matilda, "and ſo dejected, I can never forbear ſpeaking to him when we meet, whatever he may think of it."

"And were he and I to meet a hun⯑dred, nay a thouſand times," replied [185] Sandford, "I don't think I ſhall ever ſpeak to him again."

"Bleſs me! what for, Mr. Sandford?" cried Matilda — for Sandford, who was not a man that repeated little incidents, had never mentioned the circumſtance of their quarrel.

"I have taken ſuch a reſolution,"— anſwered he, "yet I bear him no en⯑mity."

As this ſhort reply indicated he meant to ſay no more, no more was aſked; and the ſubject dropped.

In the mean time, Ruſhbrook, hap⯑pier than he had been for months; in⯑toxicated with joy at that voluntary mark of civilty he had received from Lady Matilda, felt his heart ſo joyous, ſo free from every particle of malice, that he reſolved in the humbleſt man⯑ner, [186] to make atonement for the breach of decorum he had lately been guilty of to Mr. Sandford.

Too happy at this time to ſuffer a mortification from any treatment he might receive, he ſent his ſervant to him into his ſtudy, as ſoon as he was returned home, to beg to know "If he might be permitted to wait upon him, with a meſſage he had to deliver from Lord Elmwood."

The ſervant returned — "Mr. Sand⯑ford deſired he would ſend the meſſage by him, or the houſe ſteward." This was highly affronting; but Ruſhbrook was not in a humour to be offended, and he ſent again, begging he would admit him; —but the anſwer was, "He was buſy."

Thus defeated in his hopes of recon⯑ciliation, his new tranſports felt an allay, [187] and the few days that remained before Lord Elmwood came, he paſſed in ſoli⯑tary muſing, and ineffectual walks and looks towards that path where he had met Matilda — ſhe came that way no more — nor indeed ſcarce quitted her apartment, in the practice of that con⯑finement ſhe had to experience on the arrival of her father.

All her former agitations now return⯑ed.—On the day he arrived ſhe wept — all the night ſhe did not ſleep — and the name of Ruſhbrook again became hateful to her. — His Lordſhip came in extreme good health and ſpirits, but ap⯑peared concerned to find Ruſhbrook leſs well than when he went from town. — Sandford was now under the neceſſity of being in Ruſhbrook's company, yet he took care never to ſpeak to him but when [188] he was obliged; or to look at him but when he could not help it.—Lord Elm⯑wood obſerved this conduct, yet he neither wondered, or was offended at it— he had always perceived what little eſteem Sandford ſhowed his nephew from his firſt return; but he forgave in Sandford's humour a thouſand faults he would for⯑give in no other; nor did he deem this one of his greateſt faults, knowing the claim to his partiality from another object.

Miſs Woodley waited on Lord Elm⯑wood as formerly; dined with him, and as heretofore related to the attentive Ma⯑tilda all that paſſed.

About this time Lord Margrave, de⯑prived by the ſeaſon of all the ſports of the field, felt his love for Matilda (which had been extreme while divided with the [189] love of hunting) too violent to be ſubdued; and he reſolved, though re⯑luctantly, to apply to her father for his conſent to their union;—but writing to Sandford this reſolution, he was once more repulſed, and charged as a man of honour, to forbear to diſturb the tran⯑quility of the family by any application of the kind.—To this Sandford received no anſwer; for his Lordſhip, highly incenſed at his miſtreſs's repugnance to him, determined more firmly than ever, to conſult his own happineſs alone; and as that depended merely upon his ob⯑taining her, he cared not by what me⯑thod it was effected.

About a fortnight after Lord Elmwood came into the country, as he was riding one morning, his horſe fell with him, and cruſhed his leg in ſo unfortunate a [190] manner, as to be pronounced of dange⯑rous conſequence. — He was brought home in a poſt chaiſe, and Matilda heard of the accident with more grief than would, on ſuch an occaſion, appertain to the moſt fondled child.

In conſequence of the pain he ſuffered his fever was one night very high; and Sandford, who ſeldom quitted his apart⯑ment, went frequently to his bed ſide; every time with the ſecret hope he ſhould hear him aſk to ſee his daughter —he was every time diſappointed—yet he ſaw him ſhake with a cordial friend⯑ſhip the hand of Ruſhbrook, as if he de⯑lighted in ſeeing thoſe he loved.

The danger in which Lord Elmwood was ſuppoſed to be, was but of ſhort dura⯑tion, and his ſudden recovery ſucceeded. —Matida who had wept, moaned, and [191] watched during the criſis of his illneſs, when ſhe heard he was amending, ex⯑claimed (with a kind of ſurpriſe at the novelty of the ſenſation) "And this is joy that I feel!—Oh! I never till now knew, what thoſe perſons felt that expe⯑rienced joy."

Nor did ſhe repine, like Mr. Sandford and Miſs Woodley, at her father's inat⯑tention to her during his malady, for ſhe did not hope like them—ſhe did not hope he would behold her, even in dying.

But notwithſtanding his Lordſhip's ſeeming indifference while his indiſpoſi⯑tion continued, no ſooner was he recover⯑ed ſo as to receive the congratulations of his friends, than there was no one perſon he evidently ſhowed ſo much ſatisfaction at ſeeing, as Miſs Woodley.— She waited upon him timorouſly, and with more than [192] ordinary diſtaſte at his late conduct; when he put out his hand with the utmoſt warmth to receive her, drew her to him, ſaluted her, (an honour he had never in his life conferred before) and all with ſigns of the ſincereſt friendſhip and af⯑fection. — Sandford was preſent, and ever aſſociating the idea of Matilda with Miſs Woodley, felt his heart bound with a triumph it had not enjoyed for many a day.

Matilda liſtened with delight to the recital Miſs Woodley gave on her re⯑turn, and many times while it laſted exclaimed "She was happy." But poor Matilda's ſudden tranſports of joy, which ſhe termed happineſs, were not made for long continuance; and if ſhe ever found cauſe for gladneſs, ſhe far oftener had motives for grief.

[193]As Mr. Sandford was ſitting with her and Miſs Woodley one evening about a week after, a perſon rung at the bell and enquired for him; on being told of it by the ſervant, he went to the door of the apartment and cried "Oh! is it you? Come in." — An elderly man entered, who had been for many years the head gardener at Elmwood Houſe; a man of honeſty and ſobriety, and with a large indigent family of aged parents, children, and other relatives, who ſubſiſted whol⯑ly on the income ariſing from his place — The ladies, as well as Sandford, know him well, and they all, almoſt at once, aſked "What was the matter?" for his looks told them ſomething diſtreſsful had befallen him.

"Oh, Sir!" ſaid he to Sandford, "I come to entreat your intereſt."

[194]"In what, Edwards?" ſaid Sandford with a mild voice; for when his aſſiſtance was ſupplicated in diſtreſs, his rough tones always took a plaintive key.

"My Lord has diſcharged me from his ſervice,"—(returned Edwards trem⯑bling, and the tears ſtarting in his eyes) "I am undone, Mr. Sandford, unleſs you plead for me."

"I will," ſaid Sandford, "I will."

"And yet I am almoſt afraid of your ſucceſs," replied the man, "for my Lord has ordered me out of his houſe this moment; and though I knelt down to him to be heard, he had no pity."

Matilda ſighed from the bottom of her heart, and yet ſhe envied this poor man who had been kneeling to her father.

"What was your offence?" cried Sandford.

[195]The man heſitated; then looking at Matilda, ſaid, "I'll tell you, Sir, ſome other time."

"Did you name me, before Lord Elmwood?" cried ſhe eagerly, and ter⯑rified.

No, Madam," replied he, "but I unthinkingly ſpoke of my poor Lady that is dead and gone."

Matilda burſt into tears.

"How came you to do ſo mad a thing?" cried Sandford, with the en⯑couragement his looks had once given him, now fled from his face.

"It was unthinkingly," repeated Ed⯑wards; "I was ſhowing my Lord ſome plans for the new walks, and told him, among other things, that her Ladyſhip had many years ago approved of them." —'Who?' cried he. — Still I did not call to mind, but repeated 'Lady Elm⯑wood, [196] Sir, while you were abroad' — As ſoon as theſe words were delivered, I ſaw my doom in his looks, and he commanded me to quit his houſe and ſervice that inſtant."

"I am afraid," ſaid Sandford, ſitting down, "I can do nothing for you."

"Yes, Sir, you know you have more power over my Lord than any body— and perhaps you may be able to ſave me and all mine from miſery."

"I would if I could." replied Sand⯑ford quickly.

"You can but try, Sir."

Matilda was all this while drowned in tears; nor Miſs Woodley much leſs af⯑fected—Lady Elmwood was before their eyes — Matilda beheld her in her dying moments; Miſs Woodley ſaw her, as the gay ward of Dorriforth.

[197]"Aſk Mr. Ruſhbrook," ſaid Sand⯑ford, "prevail on him to ſpeak; he has more power than I have."

"He has not enough, then," replied Edwards, "for he was in the room with my Lord when what I have told you happened."

"And did he ſay nothing? aſked Sandford.

"Yes, Sir; he offered to ſpeak in my behalf, but my Lord interrupted him, and ordered him out of the room — he inſtantly went.

Sandford now obſerving the effect which this narration had on the two la⯑dies, led the man to his own apartments, and there aſſured him he durſt not un⯑dertake his cauſe; but that if time or chance ſhould happily make an alteration in his Lordſhip's dipoſition, he would [198] be the firſt to try to replace him. — Ed⯑wards was obliged to ſubmit; and before the next day at noon, his pleaſant houſe by the ſide of the park, his garden, and his orchard, which he had occupied above twenty years, were cleared of their old inhabitant, and all his wretched family.

CHAPTER XIV.

THIS melancholy incident perhaps affected Matilda and all the friends of the deceaſed Lady Elmwood, beyond any other that had occurred ſince her death. — A few days after this cir⯑cumſtance, Miſs Woodley, in order to divert the diſconſolate mind of Lady Matilda, (and perhaps bring her ſome little anecdotes, to conſole her for that which had given her ſo much pain) waited upon Lord Elmwood in his li⯑brary, and borrowed ſome books out of it.—He was now perfectly well from his fall, and received her with the ſame politeneſs as uſual, but, of courſe, not with that particular warmth he had re⯑ceived [200] her juſt after his illneſs. — Ruſh⯑brook was in the library at the ſame time; he ſhewed to her ſeveral beautiful prints which his Lordſhip had juſt re⯑ceived from London, and appeared anxious to entertain, and give tokens of his eſteem and reſpect for her.—But what gave her pleaſure beyond any other attention was, that after ſhe had taken (by the aid of Ruſhbrook) about a do⯑zen volumes from different ſhelves, and had laid them together, ſaying ſhe would ſend her ſervant to fetch them, Lord Elmwood went eagerly to the place where they were, and taking up each book, examined attentively what it was.— One author he complained was too light, another too depreſſing, and put them on the ſhelves again; another was erro⯑neous and he changed it for a better; and thus he warned her againſt ſome, [201] and ſelected other authors; as the moſt cautious preceptor culls for his pupil, or a fond father for his darling child.—She thanked him for his attention to her, but her heart thanked him for his attention to his daughter.—For as ſhe herſelf had never received ſuch a proof of his care ſince all their long acquaintance, ſhe reaſonably ſuppoſed Matilda's reading, and not hers, was the object of his ſoli⯑citude.

Having in theſe books ſtore of com⯑fort for poor Matilda, ſhe eagerly return⯑ed with them; and in reciting every particular circumſtance, made her con⯑ſider the volumes almoſt like preſents from her father.

The month of September was now arrived, and Lord Elmwood, accom⯑panied by Ruſhbrook, went to a ſmall [202] ſhooting ſeat, about twenty miles diſ⯑tant from Elmwood Caſtle, for a week's particular ſport. — Matilda was once more at large; and one beautiful fore⯑noon, about eleven o'clock, ſeeing Miſs Woodley walking on the lawn before the houſe, ſhe haſtily took her hat to join her; and not waiting to put it on, went nimbly down the great ſtaircaſe with it hanging on her arm.—When ſhe had deſcended a few ſtairs, ſhe heard a footſtep walking ſlowly up; and, (from what emotion ſhe could not tell,) ſhe ſtopt ſhort, half reſolved to return back. —She heſitated a ſingle inſtant which to do — then went a few ſteps farther till ſhe came to the ſecond landing place; when, by the ſudden winding of the ſtaircaſe,—Lord Elmwood was immedi⯑ately before her!

[203]She had felt ſomething like affright be⯑fore ſhe ſaw him—but her reaſon told her ſhe had nothing to fear, as he was far away.—But now the appearance of a ſtran⯑ger whom ſhe had never before ſeen; an air of authority in his looks as well as in the ſound of his ſteps; a reſemblance to the portrait ſhe had ſeen of him; a ſtart of aſtoniſhment which he gave on behold⯑ing her; but above all — her fears con⯑firmed her it was him. — She gave a ſcream of terror—put out her trembling hands to catch the baluſtrades on the ſtairs for ſupport—miſſed them—and fell motionleſs into her father's arms.

He caught her, as by that impulſe he would have caught any other perſon falling for want of aid. — Yet when he found her in his arms, he ſtill held her [204] there — gazed on her attentively — and once preſſed her to his boſom.

At length, trying to eſcape the ſnare into which he had been led, he was going to leave her on the ſpot where ſhe fell, when her eyes opened and ſhe ut⯑tered, "Save me." — Her voice un⯑manned him.—His long-reſtrained tears now burſt forth — and ſeeing her relapſ⯑ing into the ſwoon again, he cried out eagerly to recall her. — Her name did not however come to his recollection — nor any name but this—"Miſs Milner— Dear Miſs Milner."

That ſound did not awake her; and now again he wiſhed to leave her in this ſenſeleſs ſtate, that not remember⯑ing what had paſſed, ſhe might eſcape the puniſhment.

[205]But at this inſtant Giffard, with an⯑other ſervant, paſſed by the foot of the ſtairs; on which, Lord Elmwood called to them — and into Giffard's hands deli⯑vered his apparently dead child; with⯑out one command reſpecting her, or one word of any kind; while his face was agitated with ſhame, with pity, with anger, with paternal tenderneſs.

As Giffard ſtood trembling, while he relieved his Lord from this hapleſs bur⯑then; his Lordſhip had to unlooſe her hand from the ſide of his coat, which ſhe had caught faſt hold of as ſhe fell, and graſped ſo cloſely, it was with diffi⯑culty releaſed. — On taking the hand away his Lordſhip trembled—faltered— then bade Giffard do it.

"Who, I, my Lord, I ſeparate you?" cried he. — But recollecting himſelf, [206] "My Lord, I will obey your commands whatever they are." And ſeizing her hand, pulled it with violence—it fell— and her father went away.

Matilda was carried to her own apart⯑ments, laid upon the bed, and Miſs Woodley called to attend her, after liſtening to the recital of what had paſſed.

When Lady Elmwood's old and af⯑fectionate friend entered the room, and ſaw her youthful charge lying pale and ſpeechleſs, yet no father by to comfort or ſooth her, ſhe lifted up her hands to heaven exclaiming, with a flood of tears, "And is this the end of thee, my poor child? — Is this the end of all our hopes? — of thy own fearful hopes — [207] and of thy mother's ſupplications? — Oh! Lord Elmwood! Lord Elmwood!"

"At that name Matilda ſtarted, and cried, "Where is he? — Is it a dream, or have I ſeen him?"

"It is all a dream, my dear." ſaid Miſs Woodley.

"And yet I thought he held me in his arms," ſhe replied — "I thought I felt his hands preſs mine—Let me ſleep and dream it again."

Now thinking it beſt to undeceive her, "It is no dream, my dear." re⯑turned Miſs Woodley.

"Is it not?" cried ſhe, ſtarting up and leaning on her elbow —"Then I ſuppoſe I muſt go away — go for ever away."—

Sandford now entered.—Having been told the news he came to condole—But [208] at the ſight of him Matilda was terrified, and cried, "Do not reproach me, do not upbraid me — I know I have done wrong—I know I had but one command from my father, and that I have diſ⯑obeyed."

Sandford could not reproach her, for he could not ſpeak;—he therefore only walked to the window and concealed his tears.

That whole day and night was paſſed in ſympathetic grief, in alarm at every ſound, leſt it ſhould be a meſſenger to pronounce Matilda's deſtiny.

Lord Elmwood did not ſtay upon this viſit above three hours at Elmwood Houſe; he then ſet off again for the ſeat he had left; where Ruſhbrook ſtill remained, and from whence his Lordſhip [209] had merely come by accident, to look over ſome writings he wanted diſpatched to town.

During his ſhort continuance here, Sandford cautiouſly avoided his pre⯑ſence; for he thought, in a caſe like this, what nature would not of herſelf do, no art, no arguments of his could effect—and to nature and to providence he left the whole.—What theſe two powerful principles brought about, the reader muſt judge, on peruſing the fol⯑lowing letter, received early the next morning by Miſs Woodley.