Although Miss Milner had not foreseen any fatal event resulting from
the indignity offered to Lord Frederick, yet she passed a night very
different from those to which she had been accustomed. No sooner was
she falling into a sleep, than a thousand vague, but distressing, ideas
darted across her imagination. Her heart would sometimes whisper to her
when she was half asleep, “Lord Frederick is banished from you for
ever.” She shakes off the uneasiness this idea brings along with it—she
then starts, and sees the blow still aimed at him by Dorriforth. No
sooner has she driven away this painful image, than she is again
awakened by beholding her guardian at her feet sueing for pardon. She
sighs, she trembles, and is chilled with terror.
Relieved by tears, towards the morning she sinks into a slumber, but
waking, finds the same images crowding all together upon her mind: she
is doubtful to which to give the preference—one, however, rushes the
foremost, and continues so. She knows not the fatal consequence of
ruminating, nor why she dwells upon that, more than upon all the rest,
but it will give place to none.
She rises languid and disordered, and at breakfast, adds fresh pain to
Dorriforth by her altered appearance.
He had scarce left the room, when an officer waited upon him with a
challenge from Lord Frederick. To the message delivered by this
gentleman, he replied,
“Sir, as a clergyman, more especially of the church of Rome, I know not
whether I am not exempt from answering a demand of this kind; but not
having had forbearance to avoid an offence, I will not claim an
exemption that would only indemnify me from making reparation.”
“You will then, Sir, meet Lord Frederick at the appointed hour?” said
the officer.
“I will, Sir; and my immediate care shall be to find a gentleman who
will accompany me.”
The officer withdrew, and when Dorriforth was again alone, he was going
once more to reflect, but he durst not. Since yesterday, reflection,
for the first time, was become painful to him; and even as he rode the
short way to Lord Elmwood’s immediately after, he found his own
thoughts were so insufferable, that he was obliged to enter into
conversation with his servant. Solitude, that formerly charmed him,
would, at those moments, have been worse than death.
At Lord Elmwood’s, he met Sandford in the hall, and the sight of him
was no longer welcome—he knew how different the principles which he had
just adopted were to those of that reverend friend, and without his
complaining, or even suspecting what had happened, his presence was a
sufficient reproach. He passed him as hastily as he could, and
enquiring for Lord Elmwood, disclosed to him his errand. It was to ask
him to be his second;—the young Earl started, and wished to consult his
tutor, but that, his kinsman strictly forbade; and having urged his
reasons with arguments, which at least _he_ could not refute, he was at
length prevailed upon to promise that he would accompany him to the
field, which was at the distance only of a few miles, and the parties
were to be there at seven on the same evening.
As soon as his business with Lord Elmwood was settled, Dorriforth
returned home, to make preparations for the event which might ensue
from this meeting. He wrote letters to several of his friends, and one
to his ward, in writing which, he could with difficulty preserve the
usual firmness of his mind. Sandford going into Lord Elmwood’s library
soon after his relation had left him, expressed his surprise at finding
he was gone; upon which that nobleman having answered a few questions,
and given a few significant hints that he was entrusted with a secret,
frankly confessed, what he had promised to conceal.
Sandford, as much as a holy man could be, was enraged at Dorriforth for
the cause of the challenge, but was still more enraged at his
wickedness in accepting it. He applauded his pupil’s virtue in making
the discovery, and congratulated himself that he should be the
instrument of saving not only his friend’s life, but of preventing the
scandal of his being engaged in a duel.
In the ardour of his designs, he went immediately to Miss
Milner’s—entered that house which he had so long refused to enter, and
at a time when he was upon aggravated bad terms with its owner.
He asked for Dorriforth, went hastily into his apartment, and poured
upon him a torrent of rebukes. Dorriforth bore all he said with the
patience of a devotee, but with the firmness of a man. He owned his
fault, but no eloquence could make him recall the promise he had given
to repair the injury. Unshaken by the arguments, persuasions, and
menaces of Sandford, he gave an additional proof of that inflexibility
for which he had been long distinguished—and after a dispute of two
hours, they parted, neither of them the better for what either had
advanced, but Dorriforth something the worse; his conscience gave
testimony to Sandford’s opinion, “that he was bound by ties more sacred
than worldly honour.” But while he owned, he would not yield to the
duty.
Sandford left him, determined, however, that Lord Elmwood should not be
accessory in his guilt, and this he declared; upon which Dorriforth
took the resolution of seeking another second.
In passing through the house on his return home, Sandford met, by
accident, Mrs. Horton, Miss Milner, and the other two ladies returning
from a saunter in the garden. Surprised at the sight of Mr. Sandford in
her house, Miss Milner would not express that surprise, but going up to
him with all the friendly benevolence which in general played about her
heart, she took hold of one of his hands, and pressed it with a
kindness which told him more forcibly that he was welcome, than if she
had made the most elaborate speech to convince him of it. He, however,
seemed little touched with her behaviour, and as an excuse for breaking
his word, cried,
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I was brought hither in my anxiety to
prevent murder.”
“Murder!” exclaimed all the ladies.
“Yes,” answered he, addressing himself to Miss Fenton, “your betrothed
husband is a party concerned; he is going to be second to Mr.
Dorriforth, who means this very evening to be killed by my Lord
Frederick, or to kill him, in addition to the blow that he gave him
last night.”
Mrs. Horton exclaimed, “if Mr. Dorriforth dies, he dies a martyr.”
Miss Woodley cried with fervour, “Heaven forbid!”
Miss Fenton cried, “dear me!”
While Miss Milner, without uttering one word, sunk speechless on the
floor.
They lifted her up and brought her to the door which entered into the
garden. She soon recovered; for the tumult of her mind would not suffer
her to remain inactive, and she was rouzed, in spite of her weakness,
to endeavour to ward off the impending disaster. In vain, however, she
attempted to walk to her guardian’s apartment—she sunk as before, and
was taken to a settee, while Miss Woodley was dispatched to bring him
to her.
Informed of the cause of her indisposition, he followed Miss Woodley
with a tender anxiety for her health, and with grief and confusion that
he had so carelessly endangered it. On his entering the room Sandford
beheld the inquietude of his mind, and cried, “Here is your
_Guardian_,” with a cruel emphasis on the word.
He was too much engaged by the sufferings of his ward to reply to
Sandford. He placed himself on the settee by her, and with the utmost
tenderness, reverence, and pity, entreated her not to be concerned at
an accident in which he, and he alone, had been to blame; but which he
had no doubt would be accommodated in the most amicable manner.
“I have one favour to require of you, Mr. Dorriforth,” said she, “and
that is, your promise, your solemn promise, which I know is ever
sacred, that you will not meet my Lord Frederick.”
He hesitated.
“Oh, Madam,” cried Sandford, “he is grown a libertine now, and I would
not believe his word, if he were to give it you.”
“Then, Sir,” returned Dorriforth angrily, “you _may_ believe my word,
for I will keep that which I gave to _you_. I will give Lord Frederick
all the restitution in my power. But my dear Miss Milner, let not this
alarm you; we may not find it convenient to meet this many a day; and
most probably some fortunate explanation may prevent our meeting at
all. If not, reckon but among the many duels that are fought, how few
are fatal: and even in that case, how small would be the loss to
society, if——” He was proceeding.
“I should ever deplore the loss!” cried Miss Milner; “on such an
occasion, I could not survive the death of either.”
“For my part,” he replied, “I look upon my life as much forfeited to my
Lord Frederick, to whom I have given a high offence, as it might in
other instances have been forfeited to the offended laws of the land.
Honour, is the law of the polite part of the land; we know it; and when
we transgress against it knowingly, we justly incur our punishment.
However, Miss Milner, this affair will not be settled immediately, and
I have no doubt, but that all will be as you could wish. Do you think I
should appear thus easy,” added he with a smile, “if I were going to be
shot at by my Lord Frederick?”
“Very well!” cried Sandford, with a look that evinced he was better
informed.
“You will stay within then, all this day?” said Miss Milner.
“I am engaged to dinner,” he replied; “it is unlucky—I am sorry for
it—but I’ll be at home early in the evening.”
“Stained with human blood,” cried Sandford, “or yourself a corpse.”
The ladies lifted up their hands!—Miss Milner rose from her seat, and
threw herself at her guardian’s feet.
“You kneeled to me last night, I now kneel to you,” (she cried) “kneel,
never desiring to rise again, if you persist in your intention. I am
weak, I am volatile, I am indiscreet, but I have a heart from which
some impressions can never—oh! never, be erased.”
He endeavoured to raise her, she persisted to kneel—and here the
affright, the terror, the anguish, she endured, discovered to her, her
own sentiments—which, till that moment, she had doubted—and she
continued,
“I no longer pretend to conceal my passion—I love Lord Frederick
Lawnly.”
Her guardian started.
“Yes, to my shame I love him:” (cried she, all emotion) “I meant to
have struggled with the weakness, because I supposed it would be
displeasing to you—but apprehension for his safety has taken away every
power of restraint, and I beseech you to spare his life.”
“This is exactly what I thought,” cried Sandford, with an air of
triumph.
“Good heaven!” cried Miss Woodley.
“But it is very natural,” said Mrs. Horton.
“I own,” said Dorriforth, (struck with amaze, and now taking her from
his feet with a force that she could not resist) “I own, Miss Milner, I
am greatly affected and wounded at this contradiction in your
character.”—
“But did not I say so?” cried Sandford, interrupting him.
“However,” continued he, “you may take my word, though you have
deceived me in your’s, that Lord Frederick’s life is secure. For your
sake, I would not endanger it for the universe. But let this be a
warning to you”——
He was proceeding with the most austere looks, and pointed language,
when observing the shame, and the self-reproach that agitated her mind,
he divested himself in great measure of his resentment, and said,
mildly,
“Let this be a warning to you, how you deal in future with the friends
who wish you well. You have hurried me into a mistake that might have
cost me my life, or the life of the man you love; and thus exposed
_you_ to misery, more bitter than death.”
“I am not worthy of your friendship, Mr. Dorriforth,” said she, sobbing
with grief, “and from this moment forsake me.”
“No, Madam, not in the moment you first discover to me, how I can make
you happy.”
The conversation appearing now to become of a nature in which the rest
of the company could have no share whatever, they were all, except Mr.
Sandford, retiring; when Miss Milner called Miss Woodley back, saying,
“Stay you with me; I was never so unfit to be left without your
friendship.”
“Perhaps at present you can dispense with mine?” said Dorriforth. She
made no answer. He then, once more assured her Lord Frederick’s life
was safe, and was quitting the room—but when he recollected in what
humiliation he had left her, turning towards her as he opened the door,
he added,
“And be assured, Madam, that my esteem for you, shall be _the same as
ever_.”
Sandford, as he followed him, bowed, and repeated the same words—“And,
Madam, be assured that my esteem for you, shall be the same as ever.”