The power delegated by the confidential to those entrusted with their
secrets, Miss Woodley was the last person on earth to abuse—but she was
also the last, who, by an accommodating complacency, would participate
in the guilt of her friend—and there was no guilt, except that of
murder, which she thought equal to the crime in question, if it was
ever perpetrated. Adultery, reason would perhaps have informed her, was
a more pernicious evil to society; but to a religious mind, what sound
is so horrible as _sacrilege_? Of vows made to God or to man, the
former must weigh the heaviest. Moreover, the sin of infidelity in the
married state, is not a little softened to common understandings, by
its frequency; whereas, of religious vows broken by a devotee she had
never heard; unless where the offence had been followed by such
examples of divine vengeance, such miraculous punishments in this
world, (as well as eternal punishment in the other) as served to
exaggerate the wickedness.
She, who could, and who did pardon Miss Milner, was the person who saw
her passion in the severest light, and resolved upon every method,
however harsh, to root it from her heart—nor did she fear success,
resting on the certain assurance, that however deep her love might be
fixed, it would never be returned. Yet this confidence did not prevent
her taking every precaution, lest Dorriforth should come to the
knowledge of it. She would not have his composed mind disturbed with
such a thought—his steadfast principles so much as shaken by the
imagination—nor overwhelm him with those self-reproaches which his
fatal attraction, unpremeditated as it was, would still have drawn upon
him.
With this plan of concealment, in which the natural modesty of Miss
Milner acquiesced, there was but one effort for which this unhappy ward
was not prepared; and that was an entire separation from her guardian.
She had, from the first, cherished her passion without the most remote
prospect of a return—she was prepared to see Dorriforth, without ever
seeing him more nearly connected to her than as her guardian and
friend; but not to see him at all—for _that_, she was not prepared.
But Miss Woodley reflected upon the inevitable necessity of this
measure before she made the proposal; and then made it with a firmness
that might have done honour to the inflexibility of Dorriforth himself.
During the few days that intervened between her open confession of a
passion for Lord Frederick and this proposed plan of separation, the
most intricate incoherence appeared in the character of Miss Milner—and
in order to evade a marriage with him, and conceal, at the same time,
the shameful propensity which lurked in her breast, she was once even
on the point of declaring a passion for Sir Edward Ashton.
In the duel which had taken place between Lord Frederick and
Dorriforth, the latter had received the fire of his antagonist, but
positively refused to return it; by which he had kept his promise not
to endanger his Lordship’s life, and had reconciled Sandford, in great
measure, to his behaviour—and Sandford now (his resolution once broken)
no longer refused entering Miss Milner’s house, but came whenever it
was convenient, though he yet avoided the mistress of it as much as
possible; or showed by every word and look, when she was present, that
she was still less in his favour than she had ever been.
He visited Dorriforth on the evening of his engagement with Lord
Frederick, and the next morning breakfasted with him in his own
chamber; nor did Miss Milner see her guardian after his first return
from that engagement before the following noon. She enquired, however,
of his servant how he did, and was rejoiced to hear that his wound was
but slight—yet this enquiry she durst not make before Miss Woodley.
When Dorriforth made his appearance the next day, it was evident that
he had thrown from his heart a load of cares; and though they had left
a languor upon his face, content was in his voice, in his manners, in
every word and action. Far from seeming to retain any resentment
against his ward, for the danger into which her imprudence had led him,
he appeared rather to pity her indiscretion, and to wish to soothe the
perturbation which the recollection of her own conduct had evidently
raised in her mind. His endeavours were successful—she was soothed
every time he spoke to her; and had not the watchful eye of Miss
Woodley stood guard over her inclinations, she had plainly discovered,
that she was enraptured with the joy of seeing him again himself, after
the danger to which he had been exposed.
These emotions, which she laboured to subdue, passed, however, the
bounds of her ineffectual resistance, when at the time of retiring
after dinner, he said to her in a low voice, but such as it was meant
the company should hear, “Do me the favour, Miss Milner, to call at my
study some time in the evening; I have to speak with you upon
business.”
She answered, “I will, Sir.” And her eyes swam with delight, in
expectation of the interview.
Let not the reader, nevertheless, imagine, there was in that ardent
expectation, one idea which the most spotless mind, in love, might not
have indulged without reproach. Sincere love (at least among the
delicate of the female sex) is often gratified by that degree of
enjoyment, or rather forbearance, which would be torture in the pursuit
of any other passion. Real, delicate, and restrained love, such as Miss
Milner’s, was indulged in the sight of the object only; and having
bounded her wishes by her hopes, the height of her happiness was
limited to a conversation, in which no other but themselves took a
part.
Miss Woodley was one of those who heard the appointment, but the only
one who conceived with what sensation it was received.
While the ladies remained in the same room with Dorriforth, Miss Milner
thought of little, except of him. As soon as they withdrew into another
apartment, she remembered Miss Woodley; and turning her head suddenly,
saw her friend’s face imprinted with suspicion and displeasure: this at
first was painful to her—but recollecting that in a couple of hours she
was to meet her guardian alone—to speak to him, and hear him speak to
her only—every other thought was absorbed in that one, and she
considered with indifference, the uneasiness, or the anger of her
friend.
Miss Milner, to do justice to her heart, did not wish to beguile
Dorriforth into the snares of love: could any supernatural power have
endowed her with the means, and at the same time have shewn to her the
ills that must arise from such an effect of her charms, she had
assuredly virtue enough to have declined the conquest; but without
enquiring what she proposed, she never saw him, without previously
endeavouring to look more attractive, than she would have desired,
before any other person. And now, without listening to the thousand
exhortations that spoke in every feature of Miss Woodley, she flew to a
looking-glass, to adjust her dress in a manner that she thought most
enchanting.
Time stole away, and the time of going to her guardian arrived. In his
presence, unsupported by the presence of any other, every grace that
she had practised, every look that she had borrowed to set off her
charms, were annihilated; and she became a native beauty, with the
artless arguments of reason only for her aid. Awed thus by his power,
from every thing but what she really was, she never was perhaps half so
bewitching, as in those timid, respectful, and embarrassed moments she
passed alone with him. He caught at those times her respect, her
diffidence, nay, even her embarrassment; and never would one word of
anger pass on either side.
On the present occasion, he first expressed the high satisfaction that
she had given him, by at length revealing to him the real state of her
mind.
“And when I take every thing into consideration, Miss Milner,” added
he, “I rejoice that your sentiments happen to be such as you have
owned. For, although my Lord Frederick is not the very man I could have
wished for your perfect happiness; yet, in the state of human
perfection and human happiness, you might have fixed your affections
with perhaps less propriety; and still, where my unwillingness to
thwart your inclinations might not have permitted me to contend with
them.”
Not a word of reply did this demand; or if it had, not a word could she
have given.
“And now, Madam, the reason of my desire to speak with you—is, to know
the means you think most proper to pursue, in order to acquaint Lord
Frederick, that notwithstanding this late repulse, there are hopes of
your partiality in his favour.”
“Defer the explanation,” she replied eagerly.
“I beg your pardon—it cannot be. Besides, how can you indulge a
disposition thus unpitying? Even so ardently did I desire to render the
man who loves you happy, that though he came armed against my life, had
I not reflected, that previous to our engagement it would appear like
fear, and the means of bartering for his forgiveness, I should have
revealed your sentiments the moment I had seen him. When the engagement
was over, I was too impatient to acquaint you with his safety, to think
then on gratifying him. And indeed, the delicacy of the declaration,
after the many denials which you have no doubt given him, should be
considered. I therefore consult your opinion upon the manner in which
it shall be made.”
“Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments of surprise, and
that pity, which the fate impending inspired? and which might urge me
to express myself of Lord Frederick, in a manner my cooler thoughts
will not warrant?”
“There was nothing in your expressions, my dear Miss Milner, the least
equivocal—if you were off your guard when you pleaded for Lord
Frederick, as I believe you were, you said more sincerely what you
thought; and no discreet, or rather indiscreet attempts to retract, can
make me change these sentiments.”
“I am very sorry,” she replied, confused and trembling.
“Why sorry? Come give me commission to reveal your partiality. I’ll not
be too hard upon you—a hint from me will do. Hope is ever apt to
interpret the slightest words to its own use, and a lover’s hope is
beyond all others, sanguine.”
“I never gave Lord Frederick hope.”
“But you never plunged him into despair.”
“His pursuit intimates that I never have, but he has no other proof.”
“However light and frivolous you have been upon frivolous subjects, yet
I must own, Miss Milner, that I did expect when a case of this
importance came seriously before you, you would have discovered a
proper stability in your behaviour.”
“I do, Sir; and it was only when I was affected with a weakness, which
arose from accident, that I have betrayed inconsistency.”
“You then assert again, that you have no affection for my Lord
Frederick?”
“Not enough to become his wife.”
“You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder you should be so; it
shews a prudent foresight which does you honour—but, my dear, are there
no dangers in a single state? If I may judge, Miss Milner, there are
many more to a young lady of your accomplishments, than if you were
under the protection of a husband.”
“My father, Mr. Dorriforth, thought your protection sufficient.”
“But that protection was rather to direct your choice, than to be the
cause of your not choosing at all. Give me leave to point out an
observation which, perhaps, I have too frequently made before, but upon
this occasion I must intrude it once again. Miss Fenton is its
object—her fortune is inferior to your’s, her personal attractions are
less”——
Here the powerful glow of joy, and of gratitude, for an opinion so
negligently, and yet so sincerely expressed, flew to Miss Milner’s
face, neck, and even to her hands and fingers; the blood mounted to
every part of her skin that was visible, for not a fibre but felt the
secret transport, that Dorriforth thought her more beautiful than the
beautiful Miss Fenton.
If he observed her blushes, he was unsuspicious of the cause, and went
on.
“There is, besides, in the temper of Miss Fenton, a sedateness that
might with less hazard ensure her safety in an unmarried life; and yet
she very properly thinks it her duty, as she does not mean to seclude
herself by any vows to the contrary, to become a wife—and in obedience
to the counsel of her friends, will be married within a very few
weeks.”
“Miss Fenton may marry from obedience, I never will.”
“You mean to say, that love shall alone induce you.”
“I do.”
“If you would point out a subject upon which I am the least able to
reason, and on which my sentiments, such as they are, are formed only
from theory, (and even there, more cautioned than instructed) it is the
subject of love. And yet, even that little which I know, tells me,
without a doubt, that what you said yesterday, pleading for Lord
Frederick’s life, was the result of the most violent and tender love.”
“The _little you know_ then, Mr. Dorriforth, has deceived you; had you
_known more_, you would have judged otherwise.”
“I submit to the merit of your reply; but without allowing me a judge
at all, I will appeal to those who were present with me.”
“Are Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford to be the connoisseurs?”
“No; I’ll appeal to Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley.”
“And yet, I believe,” replied she with a smile, “I believe theory must
only be the judge even there.”
“Then from all you have said, Madam, on this occasion, I am to conclude
that you still refuse to marry Lord Frederick?”
“You are.”
“And you submit never to see him again?”
“I do.”
“All you then said to me, yesterday, was false?”
“I was not mistress of myself at the time.”
“Therefore it was truth!—for shame, for shame!”
At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Sandford walked in—he started
back on seeing Miss Milner, and was going away; but Dorriforth called
to him to stay, and said with warmth,
“Tell me, Mr. Sandford, by what power, by what persuasion, I can
prevail upon Miss Milner to confide in me as her friend; to lay her
heart open, and credit mine when I declare to her, that I have no view
in all the advice I give to her, but her immediate welfare.”
“Mr. Dorriforth, you know my opinion of that lady,” replied Sandford;
“it has been formed ever since my first acquaintance with her, and it
continues the same.”
“But instruct me how I am to inspire her with confidence,” returned
Dorriforth; “how I am to impress her with a sense of that, which is for
her advantage?”
“You can work no miracles,” replied Sandford, “you are not holy
enough.”
“And yet my ward,” answered Dorriforth, “appears to be acquainted with
that mystery; for what but the force of a miracle can induce her to
contradict to-day, what before you, and several other witnesses, she
positively acknowledged yesterday?”
“Do you call that miraculous?” cried Sandford; “the miracle had been if
she had _not_ done so—for did she not yesterday contradict what she
acknowledged the day before? and will she not to-morrow disavow what
she says to-day?”
“I wish that she may—” replied Dorriforth mildly, for he saw the tears
flowing down her face at the rough and severe manner in which Sandford
had spoken, and he began to feel for her uneasiness.
“I beg pardon,” cried Sandford, “for speaking so rudely to the mistress
of the house—I have no business here, I know; but where _you_ are, Mr.
Dorriforth, unless I am turned out, I shall always think it my duty to
come.”
Miss Milner curtsied, as much as to say, he was welcome to come. He
continued,
“I was to blame, that upon a nice punctilio, I left you so long without
my visits, and without my counsel; in that time, you have run the
hazard of being murdered, and what is worse, of being excommunicated;
for had you been so rash as to have returned your opponent’s fire, not
all my interest at Rome would have obtained remission of the
punishment.”
Miss Milner, through all her tears, could not now restrain her
laughter. On which he resumed;
“And here do I venture, like a missionary among savages—but if I can
only save you from their scalping knives—from the miseries which that
lady is preparing for you, I am rewarded.”
Sandford spoke this with great fervour, and the offence of her love
never appeared to her in so tremendous a point of view, as when thus,
unknowingly, alluded to by him.
“_The miseries that lady is preparing for you_,” hung upon her ears
like the notes of a raven, and sounded equally ominous. The words
“_murder_” and “_excommunication_” he had likewise uttered; all the
fatal effects of sacrilegious love. Frightful superstitions struck her
to the heart, and she could scarcely prevent falling down under their
oppression.
Dorriforth beheld the difficulty she had in sustaining herself, and
with the utmost tenderness went towards her, and supporting her, said,
“I beg your pardon—I invited you hither with a far different intention
than your uneasiness, and be assured——”
Sandford was beginning to speak, when Dorriforth resumed,—“Hold, Mr.
Sandford, the lady is under my protection, and I know not whether it is
not requisite that you should apologize to her, and to me, for what you
have already said.”
“You asked my opinion, or I had not given it you—would you have me,
like _her_, speak what I do not think?”
“Say no more, Sir,” cried Dorriforth—and leading her kindly to the
door, as if to defend her from his malice, told her, “He would take
another opportunity of renewing the subject.”