Sir Edward Ashton, though not invited by Miss Milner, yet frequently
did himself the honour to visit her at her house; sometimes he
accompanied Lord Elmwood, at other times he came to see Dorriforth
alone, who generally introduced him to the ladies. But Sir Edward was
either so unwilling to give pain to the object of his love, or so
intimidated by her frowns, that he seldom addressed her with a single
word, except the usual compliments at entering, and retiring. This
apprehension of offending, without one hope of pleasing, had the most
awkward effect upon the manners of the worthy Baronet; and his
endeavours to insinuate himself into the affections of the woman he
loved, merely by not giving her offence either in speaking to her or
looking at her, formed a character so whimsical, that it frequently
forced a smile from Miss Milner, though his very name had often power
to throw a gloom over her face: she looked upon him as the cause of her
being hurried to the election of a lover, before her own mind could
well direct her where to fix. Besides, his pursuit was troublesome,
while it was no triumph to her vanity, which by the addresses of Lord
Frederick, was in the highest manner gratified.
His Lordship now arrives in the country, and calls one morning at Miss
Milner’s; her guardian sees his carriage coming up the avenue, and
gives orders to the servants, to say their lady is not at home, but
that Mr. Dorriforth is: Lord Frederick leaves his compliments and goes
away.
The ladies all observed his carriage and servants. Miss Milner flew to
her glass, adjusted her dress, and in her looks expressed every sign of
palpitation—but in vain she keeps her eye fixed upon the door of the
apartment; no Lord Frederick appears.
After some minutes of expectation, the door opens and her guardian
comes in;—she was disappointed; he perceived that she was, and he
looked at her with a most serious face;—she immediately called to mind
the assurance he had given her, “That her acquaintance with Lord
Frederick in its then improper state should not continue,” and between
chagrin and confusion, she was at a loss how to behave.
Though the ladies were all present, Dorriforth said, without the
smallest reserve, “Perhaps, Miss Milner, you may think I have taken an
unwarrantable liberty, in giving orders to your servants to deny you to
Lord Frederick; but until his Lordship and I have had a private
conference, or you condescend to declare your sentiments more fully in
regard to his visits, I think it my duty to put an end to them.”
“You will always perform your duty, Mr. Dorriforth, I have no doubt,
whether I concur or not.”
“Yet believe me, madam, I should perform it more cheerfully, if I could
hope that it was sanctioned by your inclinations.”
“I am not mistress of my inclinations, Sir, or they should conform to
yours.”
“Place them under my direction, and I will answer for it they will.”
A servant came in—“Lord Frederick is returned, Sir, and says he should
be glad to see you.”
“Shew him into the study,” cried Dorriforth hastily, and rising from
his chair, left the room.
“I hope they won’t quarrel,” said Mrs. Horton, meaning, that she
thought they would.
“I am sorry to see you so uneasy, Miss Milner,” said Miss Fenton, with
perfect unconcern.
As the badness of the weather had prevented their usual morning’s
exercise, the ladies were employed at their needles till the dinner
bell called them away. “Do you think Lord Frederick is gone?” then
whispered Miss Milner to Miss Woodley.—“I think not,” she replied.—“Go
ask of the servants, dear creature.” And Miss Woodley went out of the
room. She soon returned and said, apart, “He is now getting into his
chariot; I saw him pass in violent haste through the hall; he seemed to
fly.”
“Ladies, the dinner is waiting,” cried Mrs. Horton, and they repaired
to the dining room, where Dorriforth soon after came, and engrossed
their whole attention by his disturbed looks, and unusual silence.
Before dinner was over, he was, however, more himself, but still he
appeared thoughtful and dissatisfied. At the time of their evening walk
he excused himself from accompanying them, and they saw him in a
distant field with Mr. Sandford in earnest conversation; for Sandford
and he often stopped on one spot for a quarter of an hour, as if the
interest of the subject had so engaged them, they stood still without
knowing it. Lord Elmwood, who had joined the ladies, walked home with
them; Dorriforth entered soon after, in a much less gloomy humour than
when he went out, and told his relation, that he and the ladies would
dine with him the next day if he was disengaged; and it was agreed they
should.
Still Dorriforth was in some perturbation, but the immediate cause was
concealed till the day following, when, about an hour before the
company’s departure from the Castle, Miss Milner and Miss Woodley were
desired, by a servant, to walk into a separate apartment, in which they
found Mr. Dorriforth with Mr. Sandford waiting for them. Her guardian
made an apology to Miss Milner for the form, the ceremony, of which he
was going to make use; but he trusted, the extreme weight which
oppressed his mind, lest he should mistake the real sentiments of a
person whose happiness depended upon his correct knowledge of them,
would plead his excuse.
“I know, Miss Milner,” continued he, “the world in general allows to
unmarried women great latitude in disguising their mind with respect to
the man they love. I too, am willing to pardon any little dissimulation
that is but consistent with a modesty that becomes every woman upon the
subject of marriage. But here, to what point I may limit, or you may
extend, this kind of venial deceit, may so widely differ, that it is
not impossible for me to remain unacquainted with your sentiments, even
after you have revealed them to me. Under this consideration, I wish
once more to hear your thoughts in regard to matrimony, and to hear
them before one of your own sex, that I may form an opinion by her
constructions.”
To all this serious oration, Miss Milner made no other reply than by
turning to Mr. Sandford, and asking, “If he was the person of her own
sex, to whose judgment her guardian was to submit his own?”
“Madam,” cried Sandford angrily, “you are come hither upon serious
business.”
“Any business must be serious to me, Mr. Sandford, in which you are
concerned; and if you had called it _sorrowful_, the epithet would have
suited as well.”
“Miss Milner,” said her guardian, “I did not bring you here to contend
with Mr. Sandford.”
“Then why, Sir, bring him hither? for where he and I are, there must be
contention.”
“I brought him hither, Madam, or I should rather say, brought you to
this house, merely that he might be present on this occasion, and with
his discernment relieve me from a suspicion, that my own judgment is
neither able to suppress nor to confirm.”
“Are there any more witnesses you may wish to call in, Sir, to remove
your doubts of my veracity? if there are, pray send for them before you
begin your interrogations.”
He shook his head—she continued.
“The whole world is welcome to hear what I say, and every different
person is welcome to judge me differently.”
“Dear Miss Milner,”—cried Miss Woodley, with a tone of reproach for the
vehemence with which she had spoken.
“Perhaps, Miss Milner,” said Dorriforth, “you will not now reply to
those questions I was going to put?”
“Did I ever refuse, Sir,” returned she with a self-approving air, “to
comply with any request that you have seriously made? Have I ever
refused obedience to your commands whenever you thought proper to lay
them upon me? If not, you have no right to suppose that I will do so
now.”
He was going to reply, when Mr. Sandford sullenly interrupted him, and
making towards the door, cried, “When you come to the point for which
you brought me here, send for me again.”
“Stay now,” said Dorriforth. “And Miss Milner,” continued he, “I not
only entreat, but command you to tell me—have you given your word, or
your affections to Lord Frederick Lawnly?”
The colour spread over her face, and she replied—“I thought confessions
were always to be in secret; however, as I am not a member of your
church, I submit to the persecution of a heretic, and I answer—Lord
Frederick has neither my word, nor any share in my affections.”
Sandford, Dorriforth, and Miss Woodley looked at each other with a
degree of surprise that for some time kept them silent. At length
Dorriforth said, “And it is your firm intention never to become his
wife?”
To which she answered—“At present it is.”
“At present! do you suspect you shall change your sentiments?”
“Women sometimes do.”
“But before that change can take place, your acquaintance will be at an
end: for it is that which I shall next insist upon, and to which you
can have no objection.”
She replied, “I had rather it should continue.”
“On what account?” cried Dorriforth.
“Because it entertains me.”
“For shame, for shame!” returned he; “it endangers your character and
your happiness. Yet again, do not suffer me to interfere, if the
breaking with Lord Frederick can militate against your felicity.”
“By no means,” she answered; “Lord Frederick makes part of my
amusement, but could never constitute my felicity.”
“Miss Woodley,” said Dorriforth, “do you comprehend your friend in the
same literal and unequivocal sense that I do?”
“Certainly I do, Sir.”
“And pray, Miss Woodley,” said he, “were those the sentiments which you
have always entertained?”
Miss Woodley hesitated—he continued. “Or has this conversation altered
them?”
She hesitated again, then answered—“This conversation has altered
them.”
“And yet you confide in it!” cried Sandford, looking at her with
contempt.
“Certainly I do,” replied Miss Woodley.
“Do not you then, Mr. Sandford?” asked Dorriforth.
“I would advise you to act as if I did,” replied Sandford.
“Then, Miss Milner,” said Dorriforth, “you see Lord Frederick no
more—and I hope I have your permission to apprize him of this
arrangement.”
“You have, Sir,” she replied with a completely unembarrassed
countenance and voice.
Her friend looked at her as if to discover some lurking wish, adverse
to all these protestations, but she could not discern one. Sandford too
fixed his penetrating eyes upon her, as if he would look through her
soul, but finding it perfectly composed, he cried out,
“Why then not write his dismission herself, and save you, Mr.
Dorriforth, the trouble of any farther contest with him?”
“Indeed, Miss Milner,” said Dorriforth, “that would oblige me; for it
is with great reluctance that I meet him upon this subject—he was
extremely impatient and importunate when he was last with me—he took
advantage of my ecclesiastical situation to treat me with a levity and
ill breeding, that I could ill have suffered upon any other
consideration than a compliance with my duty.”
“Dictate what you please, Mr. Dorriforth, and I will write it,” said
she, with a warmth like the most unaffected inclination. “And while
you, Sir,” she continued, “are so indulgent as not to distress me with
the importunities of any gentleman to whom I am averse, I think myself
equally bound to rid you of the impertinence of every one to whom you
may have objection.”
“But,” answered he, “rest assured I have no material objection to my
Lord Frederick, except from that dilemma, in which your acquaintance
with him has involved us all; and I should conceive the same against
any other man, where the same circumstance occurred. As you have now,
however, freely and politely consented to the manner in which it has
been proposed that you shall break with him, I will not trouble you a
moment longer upon a subject on which I have so frequently explained my
wishes, but conclude it by assuring you, that your ready acquiescence
has given me the sincerest satisfaction.”
“I hope, Mr. Sandford,” said she, turning to him with a smile, “I have
given _you_ satisfaction likewise?”
Sandford could not say yes, and was ashamed to say no; he, therefore,
made answer only by his looks, which were full of suspicion. She,
notwithstanding, made him a very low courtesy. Her guardian then handed
her out of the apartment into her coach, which was waiting to take her,
Miss Woodley, and himself, home.