Sir Edward, not wholly discouraged by the denial with which Dorriforth
had, with delicacy, acquainted him, still hoped for a kind reception,
and was so often at the house of Mrs. Horton, that Lord Frederick’s
jealousy was excited, and the tortures he suffered in consequence,
convinced him, beyond a doubt, of the sincerity of his affection. Every
time he beheld the object of his passion, (for he still continued his
visits, though not so frequently as heretofore) he pleaded his cause
with such ardour, that Miss Woodley, who was sometimes present, and
ever compassionate, could not resist wishing him success. He now
unequivocally offered marriage, and entreated that he might lay his
proposals before Mr. Dorriforth, but this was positively forbidden.
Her reluctance he imputed, however, more to the known partiality of her
guardian for the addresses of Sir Edward, than to any motive which
depended upon herself; and to Mr. Dorriforth he conceived a greater
dislike than ever; believing that through his interposition, in spite
of his ward’s attachment, he might yet be deprived of her. But Miss
Milner declared both to him and to her friend, that love had, at
present, gained no influence over her mind. Yet did the watchful Miss
Woodley oftentimes hear a sigh escape from her unknown to herself, till
she was reminded of it, and then a sudden blush would instantly
overspread her face. This seeming struggle with her passion, endeared
her more than ever to Miss Woodley, and she would even risk the
displeasure of Dorriforth by her compliance with every new pursuit that
might amuse the time, which else her friend passed in heaviness of
heart.
Balls, plays, incessant company, at length roused her guardian from
that mildness with which he had been accustomed to treat her. Night
after night his sleep had been disturbed by fears for her when abroad;
morning after morning it had been broken by the clamour of her return.
He therefore gravely said to her one forenoon as he met her
accidentally upon the staircase,
“I hope, Miss Milner, you pass this evening at home?”
Unprepared for the sudden question, she blushed and replied,
“Yes.”—Though she knew she was engaged to a brilliant assembly, for
which her milliner had been consulted a whole week.
She, however, flattered herself that what she had said might be excused
as a mistake, the lapse of memory, or some other trifling fault, when
he should know the truth. The truth was earlier divulged than she
expected—for just as dinner was removed, her footman delivered a
message to her from her milliner concerning a new dress for the
evening—the _present evening_ particularly marked. Her guardian looked
astonished.
“I thought, Miss Milner, you gave me your word that you would pass this
evening at home?”
“I mistook—for I had before given my word that I should pass it
abroad.”
“Indeed!” cried he.
“Yes, indeed; and I believe it is right that I should keep my first
promise; is it not?”
“The promise you gave me then, you do not think of any consequence?”
“Yes, certainly, if you do.”
“I do.”
“And mean, perhaps, to make it of more consequence than it deserves, by
being offended.”
“Whether or not, I _am_ offended—you shall find I am.” And he looked
so.
She caught his piercing eyes—hers were immediately cast down; and she
trembled—either with shame or with resentment.
Mrs. Horton rose from her seat—moved the decanters and fruit round the
table—stirred the fire—and came back to her seat again, before another
word was uttered. Nor had this good woman’s officious labours taken the
least from the awkwardness of the silence, which, as soon as the bustle
she had made was over, returned in its full force.
At last, Miss Milner rising with alacrity, was preparing to go out of
the room, when Dorriforth raised his voice, and in a tone of authority
said,
“Miss Milner, you shall not leave the house this evening.”
“Sir!” she exclaimed with a kind of doubt of what she had heard—a
surprise, which fixed her hand on the door she had half opened, but
which now she shewed herself irresolute whether to open wide in
defiance, or to shut submissively. Before she could resolve, he rose
from his chair, and said, with a force and warmth she had never heard
him use before,
“I command you to stay at home this evening.” And he walked immediately
out of the apartment by another door.
Her hand fell motionless from that which she held—she appeared
motionless herself—till Mrs. Horton, “Beseeching her not to be uneasy
at the treatment she had received,” made her tears flow as if her heart
was breaking.
Miss Woodley would have said something to comfort her, but she had
caught the infection, and could not utter a word. It was not from any
real cause of grief that she wept; but there was a magnetic quality in
tears, which always attracted hers.
Mrs. Horton secretly enjoyed this scene, though the real well meaning
of her heart, and ease of her conscience, did not suffer her to think
so. She, however, declared she had “long prognosticated it would come
to this;” and she “only thanked heaven it was no worse.”
“What could be worse, Madam?” cried Miss Milner; “am not I disappointed
of the ball?”
“You don’t mean to go then?” said Mrs. Horton; “I commend your
prudence; and I dare say it is more than your guardian gives you credit
for.”
“Do you think I would go,” answered Miss Milner, with an eagerness that
for a time suppressed her tears, “in contradiction to his will?”
“It is not the first time, I believe, you have acted contrary to that,
Miss Milner,” replied Mrs. Horton, and affected a tenderness of voice,
to soften the harshness of her words.
“If you think so, Madam, I see nothing that should prevent me now.” And
she flung out of the room as if she had resolved to disobey him. This
alarmed poor Miss Woodley.
“My dear aunt,” she cried to Mrs. Horton, “follow and prevail upon Miss
Milner to give up her design; she means to be at the ball in opposition
to her guardian’s will.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Horton, “I’ll not be instrumental in detering her—if
she does it may be for the best; it may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer
knowledge what means are proper to convert her from evil.”
“But, my dear Madam, she must be preserved from the evil of
disobedience; and as you tempted, you will be the most likely to
dissuade her. But if you will not, I must endeavour.”
Miss Woodley was leaving the room to perform this good work, when Mrs.
Horton, in imitation of the example given her by Dorriforth, cried,
“Niece, I command you not to stir out of this room this evening.”
Miss Woodley obediently sat down—and though her thoughts and heart were
in the chamber of her friend, she never marked by one impertinent word,
or by one line of her face, the restraint she suffered.
At the usual hour, Mr. Dorriforth and his ward were summoned to tea:—he
entered with a countenance which evinced the remains of anger; his eye
gave testimony of his absent thoughts; and though he took up a pamphlet
affecting to read, it was plain to discern that he scarcely knew he
held it in his hand.
Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as intent upon something else
as Dorriforth’s—she longed for the event of this misunderstanding; and
though she wished no ill to Miss Milner, yet with an inclination bent
upon seeing something new—without the fatigue of going out of her own
house—she was not over scrupulous what that novelty might be. But for
fear she should have the imprudence to speak a word upon the subject
which employed her thoughts, or even to look as if she thought of it at
all; she pinched her lips close together, and cast her eyes on vacancy,
lest their significant regards might expose her to detection. And for
fear any noise should intercept even the sound of what might happen,
she walked across the room more softly than usual, and more softly
touched every thing she was obliged to lay her hand on.
Miss Woodley thought it her duty to be mute; and now the gingle of a
tea spoon was like a deep-toned bell, all was so quiet.
Mrs. Horton, too, in the self-approving reflection that she was not in
a quarrel or altercation of any kind, felt herself at this moment
remarkably peaceful and charitable. Miss Woodley did not recollect
_herself_ so, but was so in reality—in her, peace and charity were
instinctive virtues, accident could not increase them.
The tea had scarce been made, when a servant came with Miss Milner’s
compliments, and she “did not mean to have any tea.” The pamphlet shook
in Dorriforth’s hand while this message was delivered—he believed her
to be dressing for her evening’s entertainment, and now studied in what
manner he should prevent, or resent her disobedience to his commands.
He coughed—drank his tea—endeavoured to talk, but found it
difficult—sometimes read—and in this manner near two hours were passed
away, when Miss Milner came into the room.—Not dressed for a ball, but
as she had risen from dinner. Dorriforth read on, and seemed afraid of
looking up, lest he should see what he could not have pardoned. She
drew a chair and sat at the table by the side of her delighted friend.
After a few minutes’ pause, and some little embarrassment on the part
of Mrs. Horton, at the disappointment she had to encounter from this
unexpected dutiful conduct, she asked Miss Milner, “if she would now
have any tea?” She replied, “No, I thank you, Ma’am,” in a voice so
languid, compared with her usual one, that Dorriforth lifted up his
eyes from the book; and seeing her in the same dress that she had worn
all the day, turned them hastily away from her again—not with a look of
triumph, but of confusion.
Whatever he might have suffered if he had seen her decorated, and
prepared to bid defiance to his commands, yet even upon that trial, he
would not have endured half the painful sensations he now for a moment
felt—he felt himself to blame.
He feared that he had treated her with too much severity—he admired her
condescension, accused himself for having exacted it—he longed to ask
her pardon—he did not know how.
A cheerful reply from her, to a question of Miss Woodley’s, embarrassed
him still more—he wished that she had been sullen, he then would have
had a temptation, or pretence, to have been sullen too.
With all these sentiments crowding fast upon his heart, he still read,
or seemed to read, as if he took no notice of what was passing; till a
servant came into the room and asked Miss Milner at what time she
should want the carriage? to which she replied, “I don’t go out
to-night.” Dorriforth then laid the book out of his hand, and by the
time the servant had left the room, thus began:
“Miss Milner, I give you, I fear, some unkind proofs of my regard. It
is often the ungrateful task of a friend to be troublesome—sometimes
unmannerly. Forgive the duties of my office, and believe that no one is
half so much concerned if it robs you of any degree of happiness, as I
myself am.”
What he said, he looked with so much sincerity, that had she been
burning with rage at his late behaviour, she must have forgiven him,
for the regret which he so forcibly exprest. She was going to reply,
but found she could not, without accompanying her words with tears,
therefore, after the first attempt, she desisted.
On this he rose from his chair, and going to her, said, “Once more shew
your submission by obeying me a second time to-day. Keep your
appointment, and be assured that I shall issue my commands with more
circumspection for the future, as I find how strictly they are complied
with.”
Miss Milner, the gay, the vain, the dissipated, the haughty Miss
Milner, sunk underneath this kindness, and wept with a gentleness and
patience, which did not give more surprise than it gave joy to
Dorriforth. He was charmed to find her disposition so
tractable—prophesied to himself the future success of his guardianship,
and her eternal as well as temporal happiness from this specimen.