This taunting reproof from Sandford made little impression upon Miss
Milner, whose thoughts were all fixed on a subject of much more
importance than the opinion which he entertained of her. She threw her
arms about her friend the moment they were left alone, and asked, with
anxiety, “What she thought of her behaviour?” Miss Woodley, who could
not approve of the duplicity she had betrayed, still wished to
reconcile her as much as possible to her own conduct, and replied, she
“Highly commended the frankness with which she had, at last,
acknowledged her sentiments.”
“Frankness!” cried Miss Milner, starting. “Frankness, my dear Miss
Woodley! What you have just now heard me say, is all a falsehood.”
“How, Miss Milner!”
“Oh, Miss Woodley,” returned she, sobbing upon her bosom, “pity the
agonies of my heart, my heart, by nature sincere, when such are the
fatal propensities it cherishes, that I must submit to the grossest
falsehoods rather than reveal the truth.”
“What can you mean?” cried Miss Woodley, with the strongest amazement
in her face.
“Do you suppose I love Lord Frederick? Do you suppose I _can_ love him?
Oh fly, and prevent my guardian from telling him such an untruth.”
“What can you mean?” repeated Miss Woodley; “I protest you terrify me.”
For this inconsistency in the behaviour of Miss Milner, appeared as if
her senses had been deranged.
“Fly,” she resumed, “and prevent the inevitable ill consequence which
will ensue, if Lord Frederick should be told this falsehood. It will
involve us all in greater disquiet than we suffer at present.”
“Then what has influenced you, my dear Miss Milner?”
“That which impels all my actions—an unsurmountable instinct—a
fatality, that will for ever render me the most miserable of human
beings; and yet you, even you, my dear Miss Woodley, will not pity me.”
Miss Woodley pressed her closely in her arms, and vowed, “That while
she was unhappy, from whatever cause, she still would pity her.”
“Go to Mr. Dorriforth then, and prevent him from imposing upon Lord
Frederick.”
“But that imposition is the only means of preventing the duel,” replied
Miss Woodley. “The moment I have told him that your affection was but
counterfeited, he will no longer refuse accepting the challenge.”
“Then at all events I am undone,” exclaimed Miss Milner, “for the duel
is horrible, even beyond every thing else.”
“How so?” returned Miss Woodley, “since you have declared you do not
care for Lord Frederick?”
“But are you so blind,” returned Miss Milner with a degree of madness
in her looks, “as to believe I do not care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh! Miss
Woodley! I love him with all the passion of a mistress, and with all
the tenderness of a wife.”
Miss Woodley at this sentence sat down—it was on a chair that was close
to her—her feet could not have taken her to any other. She trembled—she
was white as ashes, and deprived of speech. Miss Milner, taking her by
the hand, said,
“I know what you feel—I know what you think of me—and how much you hate
and despise me. But Heaven is witness to all my struggles—nor would I,
even to myself, acknowledge the shameless prepossession, till forced by
a sense of his danger”——
“Silence,” cried Miss Woodley, struck with horror.
“And even now,” resumed Miss Milner, “have I not concealed it from all
but you, by plunging myself into a new difficulty, from which I know
not how I shall be extricated? And do I entertain a hope? No, Miss
Woodley, nor ever will. But suffer me to own my folly to you—to entreat
your soothing friendship to free me from my weakness. And, oh! give me
your advice, to deliver me from the difficulties which surround me.”
Miss Woodley was still pale, and still silent.
Education, is called second nature; in the strict (but not enlarged)
education of Miss Woodley, it was more powerful than the first—and the
violation of oaths, persons, or things consecrated to Heaven, was, in
her opinion, if not the most enormous, yet among the most terrific in
the catalogue of crimes.
Miss Milner had lived so long in a family who had imbibed those
opinions, that she was convinced of their existence; nay, her own
reason told her that solemn vows of every kind, ought to be sacred; and
the more she respected her guardian’s understanding, the less did she
call in question his religious tenets—in esteeming him, she esteemed
all his notions; and among the rest, venerated those of his religion.
Yet that passion, which had unhappily taken possession of her whole
soul, would not have been inspired, had there not subsisted an early
difference, in their systems of divine faith. Had she been early taught
what were the sacred functions of a Roman ecclesiastic, though all her
esteem, all her admiration, had been attracted by the qualities and
accomplishments of her guardian, yet education, would have given such a
prohibition to her love, that she would have been precluded from it, as
by that barrier which divides a sister from a brother.
This, unfortunately, was not the case; and Miss Milner loved Dorriforth
without one conscious check to tell her she was wrong, except that
which convinced her—her love would be avoided by him with detestation,
and with horror.
Miss Woodley, something recovered from her first surprise, and
sufferings—for never did her susceptible mind suffer so
exquisitely—amidst all her grief and abhorrence, felt that pity was
still predominant—and reconciled to the faults of Miss Milner by her
misery, she once more looked at her with friendship, and asked, “What
she could do to render her less unhappy?”
“Make me forget,” replied Miss Milner, “every moment of my life since I
first saw you—that moment was teeming with a weight of cares, under
which I must labour till my death.”
“And even in death,” replied Miss Woodley, “do not hope to shake them
off. If unrepented in this world”——
She was proceeding—but the anxiety her friend endured, would not suffer
her to be free from the apprehension, that, notwithstanding the
positive assurance of her guardian, if he and Lord Frederick should
meet, the duel might still take place; she therefore rang the bell and
enquired if Mr. Dorriforth was still at home?—the answer was—“He had
rode out. You remember,” said Miss Woodley, “he told you he should dine
from home.” This did not, however, dismiss her fears, and she
dispatched two servants different ways in pursuit of him, acquainting
them with her suspicions, and charging them to prevent the duel.
Sandford had also taken his precautions; but though he knew the time,
he did not know the exact place of their appointment, for that Lord
Elmwood had forgot to enquire.
The excessive alarm which Miss Milner discovered upon this occasion,
was imputed by the servants, and by others who were witnesses of it, to
her affection for Lord Frederick; while none but Miss Woodley knew, or
had the most distant suspicion of the real cause.
Mrs. Horton and Miss Fenton, who were sitting together expatiating on
the duplicity of their own sex in the instance just before them, had,
notwithstanding the interest of the discourse, a longing desire to
break it off; for they were impatient to see this poor frail being whom
they were loading with their censure. They longed to see if she would
have the confidence to look them in the face: them, to whom she had so
often protested, that she had not the smallest attachment to Lord
Frederick, but from motives of vanity.
These ladies heard with infinite satisfaction that dinner had been
served, but met Miss Milner at the table with a less degree of pleasure
than they had expected; for her mind was so totally abstracted from any
consideration of _them_, that they could not discern a single blush, or
confused glance, which their presence occasioned. No, she had before
them divulged nothing of which she was ashamed; she was only ashamed
that what she had said was not true. In the bosom of Miss Woodley alone
was that secret entrusted which could call a blush into her face, and
before her, she _did_ feel confusion—before the gentle friend, to whom
she had till this time communicated all her faults without
embarrassment, she now cast down her eyes in shame.
Soon after the dinner was removed, Lord Elmwood entered; and that
gallant young nobleman declared—“Mr. Sandford had used him ill, in not
permitting him to accompany his relation; for he feared that Mr.
Dorriforth would now throw himself upon the sword of Lord Frederick,
without a single friend near to defend him.” A rebuke from the eye of
Miss Woodley, which from this day had a command over Miss Milner,
restrained her from expressing the affright she suffered from this
intimation. Miss Fenton replied, “As to that, my Lord, I see no reason
why Mr. Dorriforth and Lord Frederick should not now be friends.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Horton; “for as soon as my Lord Frederick is
made acquainted with Miss Milner’s confession, all differences must be
reconciled.”
“What confession?” asked Lord Elmwood.
Miss Milner, to avoid hearing a repetition of that which gave her pain
even to recollect, rose in order to retire into her own apartment, but
was obliged to sit down again, till she received the assistance of Lord
Elmwood and her friend, who led her into her dressing room. She
reclined upon a sofa there, and though left alone with that friend, a
silence followed of half an hour; nor when the conversation began, was
the name of Dorriforth once uttered—they were grown cool and
considerate since the discovery, and both were equally fearful of
naming him.
The vanity of the world, the folly of riches, the charms of retirement,
and such topics engaged their discourse, but not their thoughts, for
near two hours; and the first time the word Dorriforth was spoken, was
by a servant, who with alacrity opened the dressing room door, without
previously rapping, and cried, “Madam, Mr. Dorriforth.”
Dorriforth immediately came in, and went eagerly to Miss Milner. Miss
Woodley beheld the glow of joy and of guilt upon her face, and did not
rise to give him her seat, as was her custom, when she was sitting by
his ward and he came to her with intelligence. He therefore stood while
he repeated all that had happened in his interview with Lord Frederick.
But with her gladness to see her guardian safe, she had forgot to
enquire of the safety of his antagonist; of the man whom she had
pretended to love so passionately—even smiles of rapture were upon her
face, though Dorriforth might be returned from putting him to death.
This incongruity of behaviour Miss Woodley observed, and was
confounded—but Dorriforth, in whose thoughts a suspicion either of her
love for him, or indifference for Lord Frederick, had no place, easily
reconciled this inconsistency, and said,
“You see by my countenance that all is well, and therefore you smile on
me before I tell you what has passed.”
This brought her to the recollection of her conduct, and now with looks
ill constrained, she attempted the expression of an alarm she did not
feel.
“Nay, I assure you Lord Frederick is safe,” he resumed, “and the
disgrace of his blow washed entirely away, by a few drops of blood from
this arm.” And he laid his hand upon his left arm, which rested in his
waistcoat as a kind of sling.
She cast her eyes there, and seeing where the ball had entered the coat
sleeve, she gave an involuntary scream, and sunk upon the sofa. Instead
of that affectionate sympathy which Miss Woodley used to exert upon her
slightest illness or affliction, she now addressed her in an unpitying
tone, and said, “Miss Milner, you have heard Lord Frederick is safe,
you have therefore nothing to alarm you.” Nor did she run to hold a
smelling bottle, or to raise her head. Her guardian seeing her near
fainting, and without any assistance from her friend, was going himself
to give it; but on this, Miss Woodley interfered, and having taken her
head upon her arm, assured him, “It was a weakness to which Miss Milner
was accustomed: that she would ring for her maid, who knew how to
relieve her instantly with a few drops.” Satisfied with this,
Dorriforth left the room; and a surgeon being come to examine his
wound, he retired into his own chamber.