Notwithstanding the seeming readiness with which Miss Milner had
resigned all farther acquaintance with Lord Frederick, during the short
ride home she appeared to have lost great part of her wonted spirits;
she was thoughtful, and once sighed heavily. Dorriforth began to fear
that she had not only made a sacrifice of her affections, but of her
veracity; yet, why she had done so, he could not comprehend.
As the carriage moved slowly through a lane between Elmwood Castle and
her own house, on casting her eyes out of the window, Miss Milner’s
countenance was brightened in an instant, and that instant Lord
Frederick, on horse-back, was at the coach door, and the coachman
stopped.
“Oh, Miss Milner,” cried he, (with a voice and manner that could give
little suspicion of the truth of what he said) “I am overjoyed at the
happiness of seeing you, even though it is but an accidental meeting.”
She was evidently glad to see _him_; but the earnestness with which he
spoke, put her upon her guard not to express the like, and she said, in
a cool constrained manner, she “Was glad to see his Lordship.”
The reserve with which she spoke, gave Lord Frederick immediate
suspicion who was in the coach with her, and turning his head quickly,
he met the stern eye of Dorriforth; upon which, without the smallest
salutation, he turned from him again abruptly and rudely. Miss Milner
was confused, and Miss Woodley in torture, at this palpable affront, to
which Dorriforth alone appeared indifferent.
“Go on,” said Miss Milner to the footman, “desire the coachman to drive
on.”
“No,” cried Lord Frederick, “not till you have told me when I shall see
you again.”
“I will write you word, my Lord,” replied she, something alarmed. “You
shall have a letter immediately after I get home.”
As if he guessed what its contents were to be, he cried out with
warmth, “Take care, then, Madam, how you treat me in that letter—and
you, Mr. Dorriforth,” turning to him, “do you take care what it
contains; for if it is dictated by you, to you I shall send the
answer.”
Dorriforth, without making any reply, or casting a look at him, put his
head out of the window on the opposite side, and called, in a very
angry tone, to the coachman, “How dare you not drive on, when your Lady
orders you?”
The sound of Dorriforth’s voice in anger, was to the servants so
unusual, that it acted like electricity upon the man, and he drove on
at the instant with such rapidity, that Lord Frederick was in a moment
left many yards behind. As soon, however, as he recovered from the
surprise into which this sudden command had thrown him, he rode with
speed after the carriage, and followed it, till it arrived at the door
of Miss Milner’s house; there, giving himself up to the rage of love,
or to rage against Dorriforth for the contempt he had shewn to him, he
leaped from his horse when Miss Milner stepped from her carriage, and
seizing her hand, entreated her “Not to desert him, in compliance with
the injunctions of monkish hypocrisy.”
Dorriforth heard this, standing silently by, with a manly scorn upon
his countenance.
Miss Milner struggled to loose her hand, saying, “Excuse me from
replying to you now, my Lord.”
In return, he lifted her hand eagerly to his lips, and began to devour
it with kisses; when Dorriforth, with an instantaneous impulse, rushed
forward, and struck him a violent blow in the face. Under the force of
this assault, and the astonishment it excited, Lord Frederick
staggered, and letting fall the hand of Miss Milner, her guardian
immediately laid hold of it, and led her into the house.
She was terrified beyond description; and with extreme difficulty Mr.
Dorriforth conveyed her to her own chamber, without taking her in his
arms. When, by the assistance of her maid, he had placed her upon a
sofa—covered with shame and confusion for what he had done, he fell
upon his knees before her, and earnestly “Entreated her forgiveness for
the indelicacy he had been guilty of in her presence.” And that he had
alarmed her, and had forgot the respect which he thought sacredly her
due, seemed the only circumstance which then dwelt upon his thoughts.
She felt the indecorum of the posture he had condescended to take, and
was shocked. To see her guardian at her feet, struck her with a sense
of impropriety, as if she had seen a parent there. All agitation and
emotion, she implored him to rise, and, with a thousand protestations,
declared, “That she thought the rashness of the action was the highest
proof of his regard for her.”
Miss Woodley now entered; her care being ever employed upon the
unfortunate, Lord Frederick had been the object of it: she had waited
by his side, and, with every good purpose, had preached patience to
him, while he was smarting under the pain, but more under the shame, of
his chastisement. At first, his fury threatened a retort upon the
servants around him (and who refused his entrance into the house) of
the punishment he had received. But, in the certainty of an _amende
honorable_, which must hereafter be made, he overcame the many
temptations which the moment offered, and re-mounting his horse rode
away from the scene of his disgrace.
No sooner had Miss Woodley entered the room, and Dorriforth had
resigned to her the care of his ward, than he flew to the spot where he
had left Lord Frederick, negligent of what might be the event if he
still remained there. After enquiring, and being told that he was gone,
Dorriforth returned to his own apartment; and with a bosom torn by more
excruciating sensations than those which he had given to his adversary.
The reflection that struck him first with remorse, as he shut the door
upon himself, was:—“I have departed from my character—from the sacred
character, and the dignity of my profession and sentiments—I have
departed from myself. I am no longer the philosopher, but the ruffian—I
have treated with an unpardonable insult a young nobleman, whose only
offence was love, and a fond desire to insinuate himself into the
favour of his mistress. I must atone for this outrage in whatever
manner he may choose; and the law of honour and of justice (though in
this one instance contrary to the law of religion) enjoins, that if he
demands my life in satisfaction for his wounded feelings, it is his
due. Alas! that I could have laid it down this morning, unsullied with
a cause for which it will make but inadequate atonement.”
His next reproach was—“I have offended and filled with horror, a
beautiful young woman, whom it was my duty to have protected from those
brutal manners, to which I myself have exposed her.”
Again—“I have drawn upon myself the just upbraidings of my faithful
preceptor and friend; of the man in whose judgment it was my delight to
be approved—above all, I have drawn upon myself the stings of my
conscience.”
“Where shall I pass this sleepless night?” cried he, walking repeatedly
across his chamber; “Can I go to the ladies? I am unworthy of their
society. Shall I go and repose my disturbed mind on Sandford? I am
ashamed to tell him the cause of my uneasiness. Shall I go to Lord
Frederick, and humbling myself before him, beg his forgiveness? He
would spurn me for a coward. No”——(and he lifted up his eyes to Heaven)
“Thou all great, all wise and omnipotent Being, Thou whom I have most
offended, it is to Thee alone that I have recourse in this hour of
tribulation, and from Thee alone I solicit comfort. And the confidence
in which I now address myself to Thee, encouraged by that long
intercourse which religion has effected, repays me amply in this one
moment, for the many years of my past life devoted with my best, though
imperfect, efforts to thy service.”