With an anxious desire that the affection, or acquaintance, between
Lord Frederick and Miss Milner might be finally dissolved, her guardian
received with infinite satisfaction, overtures of marriage from Sir
Edward Ashton. Sir Edward was not young or handsome; old or ugly; but
immensely rich, and possessed of qualities that made him worthy of the
happiness to which he aspired. He was the man whom Dorriforth would
have chosen before any other for the husband of his ward, and his
wishes made him sometimes hope, against his cooler judgment, that Sir
Edward would not be rejected—he was resolved, at all events, to try the
force of his own power in the strongest recommendation of him.
Notwithstanding that dissimilarity of opinion which, in almost every
instance, subsisted between Miss Milner and her guardian, there was in
general the most punctilious observance of good manners from each
towards the other—on the part of Dorriforth more especially; for his
politeness would sometimes appear even like the result of a system
which he had marked out for himself, as the only means to keep his ward
restrained within the same limitations. Whenever he addressed her there
was an unusual reserve upon his countenance, and more than usual
gentleness in the tone of his voice; this appeared the effect of
sentiments which her birth and situation inspired, joined to a studied
mode of respect, best calculated to enforce the same from her. The
wished-for consequence was produced—for though there was an instinctive
rectitude in the understanding of Miss Milner that would have taught
her, without other instruction, what manners to observe towards her
deputed father; yet, from some volatile thought, or some quick sense of
feeling, which she had not been accustomed to subdue, she was
perpetually on the verge of treating him with levity; but he would
immediately recall her recollection by a reserve too awful, and a
gentleness too sacred for her to violate. The distinction which both
required, was thus, by his skilful management alone, preserved.
One morning he took an opportunity, before her and Miss Woodley, to
introduce and press the subject of Sir Edward Ashton’s hopes. He first
spoke warmly in his praise, then plainly said that he believed she
possessed the power of making so deserving a man happy to the summit of
his wishes. A laugh of ridicule was the only answer; but a sudden frown
from Dorriforth having put an end to it, he resumed his usual
politeness, and said,
“I wish you would shew a better taste, than thus pointedly to
disapprove of Sir Edward.”
“How, Mr. Dorriforth, can you expect me to give proofs of a good taste,
when Sir Edward, whom you consider with such high esteem, has given so
bad an example of his, in approving me?”
Dorriforth wished not to flatter her by a compliment she seemed to have
sought for, and for a moment hesitated what answer to make.
“Reply, Sir, to that question,” she said.
“Why then, Madam,” returned he, “it is my opinion, that supposing what
your humility has advanced be just, yet Sir Edward will not suffer by
the suggestion; for in cases where the heart is so immediately
concerned, as I believe Sir Edward’s to be, taste, or rather reason,
has no power to act.”
“You are in the right, Mr. Dorriforth; this is a proper justification
of Sir Edward—and when I fall in love, I beg that you will make the
same excuse for me.”
“Then,” said he earnestly, “before your heart is in that state which I
have described, exert your reason.”
“I shall,” answered she, “and not consent to marry a man whom I could
never love.”
“Unless your heart is already given away, Miss Milner, what can make
you speak with such a degree of certainty?”
He thought on Lord Frederick when he said this, and he riveted his eyes
upon her as if to penetrate her sentiments, and yet trembled for what
he should find there. She blushed, and her looks would have confirmed
her guilty, if the unembarrassed and free tone of her voice, more than
her words, had not preserved her from that sentence.
“No,” she replied, “my heart is not given away; and yet I can venture
to declare, Sir Edward will never possess an atom of it.”
“I am sorry, for both your sakes, that these are your sentiments,” he
replied. “But as your heart is still your own,” (and he seemed rejoiced
to find it was) “permit me to warn you how you part with a thing so
precious—the dangers, the sorrows you hazard in bestowing it, are
greater than you may be aware of. The heart once gone, our thoughts,
our actions, are no more our own, than that is.” He seemed _forcing_
himself to utter all this, and yet broke off as if he could have said
much more, if the extreme delicacy of the subject had not prevented
him.
When he left the room, and she heard the door shut after him, she said,
with an inquisitive thoughtfulness, “What can make good people so
skilled in all the weaknesses of the bad? Mr. Dorriforth, with all
those prudent admonitions, appears rather like a man who has passed his
life in the gay world, experienced all its dangerous allurements, all
its repentant sorrows; than like one who has lived his whole time
secluded in a monastery, or in his own study. Then he speaks with such
exquisite sensibility on the subject of love, that he commends the very
thing which he attempts to depreciate. I do not think my Lord Frederick
would make the passion appear in more pleasing colours by painting its
delights, than Mr. Dorriforth could in describing its sorrows—and if he
talks to me frequently in this manner, I shall certainly take pity on
Lord Frederick, for the sake of his adversary’s eloquence.”
Miss Woodley, who heard the conclusion of this speech with the
tenderest concern, cried, “Alas! you then think seriously of Lord
Frederick!”
“Suppose I do, wherefore that _alas!_ Miss Woodley?”
“Because I fear you will never be happy with him.”
“That is plainly telling me he will not be happy with me.”
“I do not know—I cannot speak of marriage from experience,” answered
Miss Woodley, “but I think I can guess what it is.”
“Nor can I speak of love from experience,” replied Miss Milner, “but I
think I can guess what it is.”
“But do not fall in love, my dear,” (cried Miss Woodley, with her
accustomed simplicity of heart, as if she had been asking a favour that
depended upon the will of the person entreated,) “pray do not fall in
love without the approbation of your guardian.”
Her young friend smiled at the inefficacious prayer, but promised to do
all she could to oblige her.