The fashionable Mrs. G—— gave a masked ball; tickets were presented to

persons of quality and fashion; among the rest, three were sent to Miss

Milner. She had never been at a masquerade, and received them with

ecstasy—the more especially, as the masque being at the house of a

woman of fashion, she did not conceive there could be any objection to

her going. She was mistaken—the moment she mentioned it to Lord

Elmwood, he desired her, somewhat sternly, “Not to think of being

there.” She was vexed at the prohibition, but more at the manner in

which it was delivered, and boldly said, “That she should certainly

go.”

She expected a rebuke for this, but what alarmed her much more, he said

not a word; but looked with a resignation, which foreboded her sorrow

greater than the severest reproaches would have done. She sat for a

minute, reflecting how to rouse him from this composure—she first

thought of attacking him with upbraidings; then she thought of soothing

him; and at last of laughing at him. This was the most dangerous of

all, and yet, this she ventured upon.

“I am sure your Lordship,” said she, “with all your saintliness, can

have no objection to my being present at the masquerade, if I go as a

Nun.”

He made no reply.

“That is a habit,” continued she, “which covers a multitude of

faults—and, for that evening, I may have the chance of making a

conquest even of you—nay, I question not, if under that inviting

attire, even the pious Mr. Sandford would not ogle me.”

“Hush!” said Miss Woodley.

“Why hush?” cried Miss Milner, aloud, though Miss Woodley had spoken in

a whisper, “I am sure,” continued she, “I am only repeating what I have

read in books about nuns and their confessors.”

“Your conduct, Miss Milner,” replied Lord Elmwood “gives evident proofs

of the authors you have read; you may spare yourself the trouble of

quoting them.”

Her pride was hurt at this, beyond bearing; and as she could not, like

him, govern her anger, it flushed in her face, and almost forced her

into tears.

“My Lord,” said Miss Woodley, (in a tone so soft and peaceful, that it

should have calmed the resentment of both,) “my Lord, suppose you were

to accompany Miss Milner? there are tickets for three, and you can then

have no objection.”

Miss Milner’s brow was immediately smoothed; and she fetched a sigh, in

anxious expectation that he would consent.

“I go, Miss Woodley?” he replied, with astonishment, “Do you imagine I

would play the buffoon at a masquerade?”

Miss Milner’s face changed into its former state.

“I have seen grave characters there, my Lord,” said Miss Woodley.

“Dear Miss Woodley,” cried Miss Milner, “why persuade Lord Elmwood to

put on a mask, just at the time he has laid it aside?”

His patience was now tempted to its height, and he answered, “If you

suspect me of inconsistency, Madam, you shall find me changed.”

Pleased that she had been able at last to irritate him, she smiled with

a degree of triumph, and in that humour was going to reply; but before

she could speak four words, and before she thought of it, he abruptly

left the room.

She was highly offended at this insult, and declared, “From that moment

she banished him from her heart for ever.” And to prove that she set

his love and his anger at equal defiance, she immediately ordered her

carriage, and said, she “Was going to some of her acquaintance, whom

she knew to have tickets, and with whom she would fix upon the habit

she was to appear in at the masquerade; for nothing, unless she was

locked up, should alter the resolution she had formed, of being there.”

To remonstrate at that moment, Miss Woodley knew would be in vain—her

coach came to the door, and she drove away.

She did not return to dinner, nor till it was late in the evening; Lord

Elmwood was at home, but he never once mentioned her name.

She came home, after he had retired, in great spirits; and then, for

the first time, in her whole life, appeared careless what he might

think of her behaviour:—but her whole thoughts were occupied upon the

business which had employed the chief of her day; and her dress

engrossed all her conversation, as soon as Miss Woodley and she were

alone. She told her, she had been shewn the greatest variety of

beautiful and becoming dresses she had ever beheld; “and yet,” said

she, “I have at last fixed upon a very plain one; but one I look so

well in, that you will hardly know me, when I have it on.”

“You are seriously then resolved to go,” said Miss Woodley, “if you

hear no more on the subject from your guardian?”

“Whether I do hear or not, Miss Woodley, I am equally resolved to go.”

“But you know, my dear, he has desired you not—and you used always to

obey his commands.”

“As my guardian, I certainly did obey him; and I could obey him as a

husband; but as a lover, I will not.”

“Yet that is the way never to have him for a husband.”

“As he pleases—for if he will not submit to be my lover, I will not

submit to be his wife—nor has he the affection that I require in a

husband.”

Thus the old sentiments, repeated again and again, prevented a

separation till towards morning.

Miss Milner, for that night, dreamed less of her guardian than of the

masquerade. On the evening of the next day it was to be—she was up

early, breakfasted in her dressing room, and remained there most of the

day, busied in a thousand preparations for the night; one of them was,

to take every particle of powder out of her hair, and have it curled

all over in falling ringlets. Her next care was, that her dress should

exactly fit, and display her fine person to the best advantage—it did

so. Miss Woodley entered as it was trying on, and was all astonishment

at the elegance of the habit, and its beautiful effect upon her

graceful person; but, most of all, she was astonished at her venturing

on such a character—for though it represented the goddess of Chastity,

yet from the buskins, and the petticoat festooned far above the ankle,

it had, on a first glance, the appearance of a female much less

virtuous. Miss Woodley admired this dress, yet objected to it; but as

she admired first, her objections after had no weight.

“Where is Lord Elmwood?” said Miss Milner—“he must not see me.”

“No, for heaven’s sake,” cried Miss Woodley, “I would not have him see

you in such a disguise for the universe.”

“And yet,” returned the other, with a sigh, “why am I then thus pleased

with my dress? for I had rather he should admire me than all the world

besides, and yet he is not to see me in it.”

“But he would not admire you so dressed,” said Miss Woodley.

“How shall I contrive to avoid him,” said Miss Milner, “if in the

evening he should offer to hand me into my carriage? But I believe he

will not be in good humour enough for that.”

“You had better dress at the house of the ladies with whom you go,”

said Miss Woodley; and this was agreed upon.

At dinner they learnt that Lord Elmwood was to go that evening to

Windsor, in order to be in readiness for the king’s hunt early in the

morning. This intelligence having dispersed Miss Milner’s fears, she

concluded upon dressing at home.

Lord Elmwood appeared at dinner, in an even, but not in a good temper;

the subject of the masquerade was never brought up, nor indeed was it

once in his thoughts; for though he was offended at his ward’s

behaviour on the occasion, and considered that she committed a fault in

telling him, “She would go,” yet he never suspected she meant to do so,

not even at the time she said it, much less that she would persist,

coolly and deliberately, in so direct a contradiction to his will. She,

for her part, flattered herself, that his going to Windsor, was

intended in order to give her an opportunity of passing the evening as

she pleased, without his being obliged to know of it, and consequently

to complain. Miss Woodley, who was willing to hope as she wished, began

to be of the same opinion; and, without reluctance, dressed herself as

a wood-nymph to accompany her friend.

CHAPTER IX.

At half after eleven, Miss Milner’s chair, and another with Miss

Woodley, took them from Lord Elmwood’s, to call upon the party

(wood-nymphs and huntresses) who were to accompany them, and make up

the suit of Diana.

They had not left the house two minutes, when a thundering rap came at

the door—it was Lord Elmwood in a post chaise. Upon some occasion the

next day’s hunt was deferred: he had been made acquainted with it, and

came from Windsor at that late hour. After he had informed Mrs. Horton

and Mr. Sandford, who were sitting together, of the cause of his sudden

return, and had supper ordered for him, he enquired, “What company had

just left the house?”

“We have been alone the whole evening, my Lord,” replied Mrs. Horton.

“Nay,” returned he, “I saw two chairs, with several servants, come out

of the door as I drove up, but what livery I could not discern.”

“We have had no creature here,” repeated Mrs. Horton.

“Nor has Miss Milner had visitors?” asked he.

This brought Mrs. Horton to her recollection, and she cried, “Oh! now I

know;”——and then checked herself, as if she knew too much.

“What do you know, Madam?” said he, sharply.

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Horton, “I know nothing—” and she lifted up her

hands and shook her head.

“So all people say, who know a great deal,” cried Sandford, “and I

suspect that is at present your case.”

“Then I know more than I wish, I am sure, Mr. Sandford,” returned she,

shrugging up her shoulders.

Lord Elmwood was all impatience.

“Explain, Madam, explain.”

“Dear my Lord,” said she, “if your Lordship will recollect, you may

just have the same knowledge that I have.”

“Recollect what?” said he sternly.

“The quarrel you and your ward had about the masquerade.”

“What of that? she is not gone there?” he cried.

“I am not sure she is,” returned Mrs. Horton; “but if your Lordship saw

two sedan chairs going out of this house, I cannot but suspect it must

be Miss Milner and my niece going to the masquerade.”

He made no answer, but rang the bell violently. A servant entered.

“Send Miss Milner’s maid hither,” said he, “immediately.” The man

withdrew.

“Nay, my Lord,” cried Mrs. Horton, “any of the other servants could

tell you just as well, whether Miss Milner is at home, or gone out.”

“Perhaps not,” replied he.

The maid entered.

“Where is your mistress?” said Lord Elmwood.

The woman had received no orders to conceal where the ladies were gone,

and yet a secret influence which governs the thoughts of all

waiting-women and chambermaids, whispered to her that she ought not to

tell the truth.

“Where is your mistress?” repeated he, in a louder voice than before.

“Gone out, my Lord,” she replied.

“Where?”

“My Lady did not tell me.”

“And don’t you know?”

“No, my Lord:” she answered, and without blushing.

“Is this the night of the masquerade?” said he.

“I don’t know, my Lord, upon my word; but, I believe, my Lord, it is

not.”

Sandford, as soon as Lord Elmwood had asked the last question, ran

hastily to the table, at the other side of the room, took something

from it, and returned to his place again—and when the maid said, “It

was not the night of the masquerade,” he exclaimed, “But it is, my

Lord, it is—yes, it is,” and shewing a newspaper in his hand, pointed

to the paragraph which contained the information.

“Leave the room,” said Lord Elmwood to the woman, “I have done with

you.” She withdrew.

“Yes, yes, here it is,” repeated Sandford, with the paper in his

hand.——He then read the paragraph: “‘_The masquerade at the honorable

Mrs. G——’s this evening_’—This evening, my Lord, you find—‘_it is

expected will be the most brilliant, of any thing of the kind for these

many years past._’”

“They should not put such things in the papers,” said Mrs. Horton, “to

tempt young women to their ruin.” The word ruin grated upon Lord

Elmwood’s ear, and he said to the servant who came to wait on him,

while he supped, “Take the supper away.” He had not attempted either to

eat, or even to sit down; and he now walked backwards and forwards in

the room, lost in thought and care.

A little time after, one of Miss Milner’s footmen came in upon some

occasion, and Mr. Sandford said to him, “Pray did you attend your lady

to the masquerade?”

“Yes, Sir,” replied the man.

Lord Elmwood stopped himself short in his walk, and said to the

servant, “You did?”

“Yes, my Lord,” replied he.

He walked again.

“I should like to know what she was dressed in,” said Mrs. Horton: and

turning to the servant, “Do you know what your lady had on?”

“Yes, Madam,” replied the man, “she was in men’s clothes.”

“How!” cried Lord Elmwood.

“You tell a story, to be sure,” said Mrs. Horton to the servant.

“No,” cried Sandford, “I am sure he does not; for he is an honest good

young man, and would not tell a lie upon any account—would you,

George?”

Lord Elmwood ordered Miss Milner’s woman to be again sent up. She came.

“In what dress did your lady go to the masquerade?” asked he, and with

a look so extremely morose, it seemed to command the answer in a single

word, and that word to be truth.

A mind, with a spark of sensibility more than this woman possessed,

could not have equivocated with such an interrogator, but her reply

was, “She went in her own dress, my Lord.”

“Was it a man’s or a woman’s?” asked he, with a look of the same

command.

“Ha, ha, my Lord,” (half laughing and half crying) “a woman’s dress, to

be sure, my Lord.”

On which Sandford cried——

“Call the footman up, and let him confront her.”

He was called; but Lord Elmwood, now disgusted at the scene, withdrew

to the further end of the room, and left Sandford to question them.

With all the authority and consequence of a country magistrate,

Sandford—his back to the fire, and the witnesses before him, began with

the footman.

“In what dress do you say, that you saw your lady, when you attended,

and went along with her, to the masquerade?”

“In men’s clothes,” replied the man, boldly and firmly as before.

“Bless my soul, George, how can you say such a thing?” cried the woman.

“What dress do _you_ say she went in?” cried Sandford to her.

“In women’s clothes, indeed, Sir.”

“This is very odd!” said Mrs. Horton.

“Had she on, or had she not on, a coat?” asked Sandford.

“Yes, Sir, a petticoat,” replied the woman.

“Do _you_ say she had on a petticoat?” said Sandford to the man.

“I can’t answer exactly for that,” replied he, “but I know she had

boots on.”

“They were not boots,” replied the maid with vehemence—“indeed, Sir,

(turning to Sandford) they were only half boots.”

“My girl,” said Sandford kindly to her, “your own evidence convicts

your mistress—What has a woman to do with _any_ boots?”

Impatient at this mummery, Lord Elmwood rose, ordered the servants out

of the room, and then, looking at his watch, found it was near one. “At

what hour am I to expect her home?” said he.

“Perhaps not till three in the morning,” answered Mrs. Horton.

“Three! more likely six,” cried Sandford.

“I can’t wait with patience till that time,” answered Lord Elmwood,

with a most anxious sigh.

“You had better go to bed, my Lord,” said Mrs. Horton; “and, by

sleeping, the time will pass away unperceived.”

“If I _could_ sleep, Madam.”

“Will you play a game of cards, my Lord?” said Sandford, “for I will

not leave you till she comes home; and though I am not used to sit up

all night——”

“All night!” repeated Lord Elmwood; “she dares not stay all night.”

“And yet, after going,” said Sandford, “in defiance to your commands, I

should suppose she dared.”

“She is in good company, at least, my Lord,” said Mrs. Horton.

“She does not know herself what company she is in,” replied he.

“How should she,” cried Sandford, “where every one hides his face?”

Till five o’clock in the morning, in conversation such as this, the

hours passed away. Mrs. Horton, indeed, retired to her chamber at two,

and left the gentlemen to a more serious discourse; but a discourse

still less advantageous to poor Miss Milner.

She, during this time, was at the scene of pleasure she had painted to

herself, and all the pleasure it gave her was, that she was sure she

should never desire to go to a masquerade again. Its crowd and bustle

fatigued her—its freedom offended her delicacy—and though she perceived

that she was the first object of admiration in the place, yet there was

one person still wanting to admire; and the remorse at having

transgressed his injunctions for so trivial an entertainment, weighed

upon her spirits, and added to its weariness. She would have come away

sooner than she did, but she could not, with any degree of good

manners, leave the company with whom she went; and not till half after

four, were they prevailed on to return.

Daylight just peeped through the shutters of the room in which Lord

Elmwood and Sandford were sitting, when the sound of her carriage, and

the sudden stop it made at the door, caused Lord Elmwood to start from

his chair. He trembled extremely, and looked pale. Sandford was ashamed

to seem to notice it, yet he could not help asking him, “To take a

glass of wine.” He took it—and for once, evinced he was reduced so low,

as to be _glad_ of such a resource.

What passion thus agitated Lord Elmwood at this crisis, it is hard to

define—perhaps it was indignation at Miss Milner’s imprudence, and

exultation at being on the point of revenge—perhaps it was emotion

arising from joy, to find that she was safe—perhaps it was perturbation

at the regret he felt that he must upbraid her—perhaps it was not one

alone of these sensations, but all of them combined.

She, wearied out with the tedious night’s dissipation, and far less

joyous than melancholy, had fallen asleep as she rode home, and came

half asleep out of her carriage. “Light me to my bed-chamber

instantly,” said she to her maid, who waited in the hall to receive

her. But one of Lord Elmwood’s valets went up to her, and answered,

“Madam, my Lord desires to see you before you retire.”

“Your Lord!” she cried, “Is he not out of town?”

“No, Madam, my Lord has been at home ever since you went out; and has

been sitting up with Mr. Sandford, waiting for you.”

She was wide awake immediately. The heaviness was removed from her

eyes, but fear, grief, and shame, seized upon her heart. She leaned

against her maid, as if unable to support herself under those feelings,

and said to Miss Woodley,

“Make my excuse—I cannot see him to-night—I am unfit—indeed I cannot.”

Miss Woodley was alarmed at the idea of going to him by herself, and

thus, perhaps, irritating him still more: she, therefore, said, “He has

sent for _you_; for heaven’s sake, do not disobey him a second time.”

“No, dear Madam, don’t,” cried her woman, “for he is like a lion—he has

been scolding me.”

“Good God!” (exclaimed Miss Milner, and in a tone that seemed

prophetic) “Then he is not to be my husband, after all.”

“Yes,” cried Miss Woodley, “if you will only be humble, and appear

sorry. You know your power over him, and all may yet be well.”

She turned her speaking eyes upon her friend, the tears starting from

them, her lips trembling—“Do I not appear sorry?” she cried.

The bell at that moment rang furiously, and they hastened their steps

to the door of the apartment where Lord Elmwood was.

“No, this shuddering is only fright,” replied Miss Woodley—“Say to him

you are sorry, and beg his pardon.”

“I cannot,” said she, “if Mr. Sandford is with him.”

The servant opened the door, and she and Miss Woodley went in. Lord

Elmwood, by this time, was composed, and received her with a slight

inclination of his head—she bowed to him in return, and said, with some

marks of humility,

“I suppose, my Lord, I have done wrong.”

“You have indeed, Miss Milner,” answered he; “but do not suppose, that

I mean to upbraid you: I am, on the contrary, going to release you from

any such apprehension _for the future_.”

Those last three words he delivered with a countenance so serious and

so determined, with an accent so firm and so decided, they pierced

through her heart. Yet she did not weep, or even sigh; but her friend,

knowing what she felt, exclaimed, “Oh?” as if for her.

She herself strove with her anguish, and replied, (but with a faltering

voice) “I expected as much, my Lord.”

“Then, Madam, you perhaps expect _all_ that I intend?”

“In regard to myself,” she replied, “I suppose I do.”

“Then,” said he, “you may expect that in a few days we shall part.”

“I am prepared for it, my Lord,” she answered, and, while she said so,

sunk upon a chair.

“My Lord, what you have to say farther,” said Miss Woodley, in tears,

“defer till the morning—Miss Milner, you see, is not able to bear it

now.”

“I have nothing to _say_ further,” replied he coolly—“I have now only

to act.”

“Lord Elmwood,” cried Miss Milner, divided between grief and anger,

“you think to terrify me by your menaces—but I can part with you—heaven

knows I can—your late behaviour has reconciled me to a separation.”

On this he was going out of the room—but Miss Woodley, catching hold of

him, cried, “Oh! my Lord, do not leave her in this sorrow—pity her

weakness, and forgive it.” She was proceeding; and he seemed as if

inclined to listen, when Sandford called out in a tone of voice so

harsh,

“Miss Woodley, what do you mean?”—She gave a start, and desisted.

Lord Elmwood then turned to Sandford, and said, “Nay, Mr. Sandford, you

need entertain no doubts of me—I have judged, and have deter——”

He was going to say _determined_; but Miss Milner, who dreaded the

word, interrupted the period, and exclaimed, “Oh! could my poor father

know the days of sorrow I have experienced since his death, how would

he repent his fatal choice of a protector!”

This sentence, in which his friend’s memory was recalled, with an

additional allusion to her long and secret love for him, affected Lord

Elmwood much—he was moved, but ashamed of being so, and as soon as

possible conquered the propensity to forgive. Yet, for a short

interval, he did not know whether to go out of the room, or to remain

in it; whether to speak, or to be silent. At length he turned towards

her, and said,

“Appeal to your father in some other form—in that (pointing at her

dress) he will not know you. Reflect upon him, too, in your moments of

dissipation, and let his idea controul your indiscretions—not merely in

an hour of contradiction call peevishly upon his name, only to wound

the dearest friend you have.”

There was a degree of truth, and a degree of passionate feeling, in the

conclusion of this speech, that alarmed Sandford—he caught up one of

the candles, and, laying hold of his friend’s elbow, drew him out of

the room, crying, “Come, my Lord, come to your bed-chamber—it is very

late—it is morning—it is time to rise.” And by a continual repetition

of these words, in a very loud voice, drowned whatever Lord Elmwood, or

any other person might have wished either to have said or to have

heard.

In this manner, Lord Elmwood was forced out of the apartment, and the

evening’s entertainment concluded.

CHAPTER X.

Two whole days passed in the bitterest suspense on the part of Miss

Milner, while neither one word or look from Lord Elmwood, denoted the

most trivial change of the sentiments he had declared, on the night of

the masquerade. Still those sentiments, or intentions, were not

explicitly delivered; they were more like intimations, than solemn

declarations—for though he had said, “He would never reproach her _for

the future_,” and that “She might expect they should part,” he had not

positively said they should; and upon this doubtful meaning of his

words, she hung with the strongest agitation of hope and of fear.

Miss Woodley seeing the distress of her mind, (much as she endeavoured

to conceal it) entreated, nay implored of her, to permit her to be a

mediator; to suffer her to ask for a private interview with Lord

Elmwood, and if she found him inflexible, to behave with a proper

spirit in return; but if he appeared not absolutely averse to a

reconciliation, to offer it in so cautious a manner, that it might take

place without farther uneasiness on either side. But Miss Milner

peremptorily forbade this, and acknowledging to her friend every

weakness she felt on the occasion, yet concluded with solemnly

declaring, “That after what had passed between her and Lord Elmwood,

_he_ must be the first to make a concession, before she herself would

condescend to be reconciled.”

“I believe I know Lord Elmwood’s temper,” replied Miss Woodley, “and I

do not think he will be easily induced to beg pardon for a fault which

he thinks _you_ have committed.”

“Then he does not love me.”

“Pshaw! Miss Milner, this is the old argument. He may love you too well

to spoil you—consider that he is your guardian as well as your lover,

he means also to become your husband; and he is a man of such nice

honour, that he will not indulge you with any power before marriage, to

which he does not intend to submit hereafter.”

“But tenderness, affection, the politeness due from a lover to his

mistress demands his submission; and as I now despair of enticing, I

will oblige him to it—at least I’ll make the trial, and know my fate at

once.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“Invite Lord Frederick to the house, and ask my guardian’s consent for

our immediate union; you will then see, what effect that will have upon

his pride.”

“But you will then make it too late for him to be humble. If you

resolve on this, my dear Miss Milner, you are undone at once—you may

thus hurry yourself into a marriage with a man you do not love, and the

misery of your whole future life may be the result. Or, would you force

Mr. Dorriforth (I mean Lord Elmwood) to another duel with my Lord

Frederick?”

“No, call him Dorriforth,” answered she, with the tears stealing from

her eyes; “I thank you for calling him so; for by that name alone, is

he dear to me.”

“Nay, Miss Milner, with what rapture did you not receive his love, as

Lord Elmwood!”

“But under this title he has been barbarous; under the first, he was

all friendship and tenderness.”

Notwithstanding Miss Milner indulged herself in all these soft

bewailings to her friend—before Lord Elmwood she maintained a degree of

pride and steadiness, which surprised even him, who perhaps thought

less of her love for him, than any other person. She now began to fear

she had gone too far in discovering her affection, and resolved to make

trial of a contrary method. She determined to retrieve that haughty

character which had inspired so many of her admirers with passion, and

take the chance of its effect upon this only one, to whom she ever

acknowledged a mutual attachment. But although she acted this character

well—so well, that every one but Miss Woodley thought her in

earnest—yet, with nice and attentive anxiety, she watched even the

slightest circumstances that might revive her hopes, or confirm her

despair. Lord Elmwood’s behaviour was calculated only to produce the

latter—he was cold, polite, and perfectly indifferent. Yet, whatever

his manners now were, they did not remove from her recollection what

they had been—she recalled, with delight, the ardour with which he had

first declared his passion to her, and the thousand proofs he had since

given of its reality. From the constancy of his disposition, she

depended that sentiments like these were not totally eradicated; and

from the extreme desire which Mr. Sandford now, more than ever,

discovered of depreciating her in his patron’s esteem—from the now,

more than common zeal, which urged him to take Lord Elmwood from her

company, whenever he had it in his power, she was led to believe, that

while his friend entertained such strong fears of his relapsing into

love, she had reason to indulge the strongest hopes that he would.

But the reserve, and even indifference, that she had so well assumed

for a few days, and which might perhaps have effected her design, she

had not the patience to persevere in, without calling levity to their

aid. She visited repeatedly without saying where, or with whom—kept

later hours than usual—appeared in the highest spirits—sung, laughed,

and never heaved a sigh—but when she was alone.

Still Lord Elmwood protracted a resolution, that he was determined he

would never break when taken.

Miss Woodley was excessively uneasy, and with cause; she saw her friend

was providing herself with a weight of cares, that she would soon find

infinitely too much for her strength to bear—she would have reasoned

with her, but all her arguments had long since proved unavailing. She

wished to speak to Lord Elmwood upon the subject, and (unknown to her)

plead her excuse; but he apprehended Miss Woodley’s intention, and

evidently shunned her. Mr. Sandford was now the only person to whom she

could speak of Miss Milner, and the delight he took to expatiate on her

faults, was more sorrow to her friend, than not to speak of her at all.

She, therefore, sat a silent spectator, waiting with dread for the time

when she, who now scorned her advice, would fly to her in vain for

comfort.

Sandford had, however, said one thing to Miss Woodley, which gave her a

ray of hope. During their conversation on the subject, (not by way of

consolation to her, but as a reproach to Lord Elmwood) he one day

angrily exclaimed, “And yet, notwithstanding all this provocation, he

has not come to the determination that he will think no more of her—he

lingers and he hesitates—I never saw him so weak upon any occasion

before.”

This was joyful hearing to Miss Woodley; still, she could not but

reflect, the longer he was in coming to this determination, the more

irrevocable it would be, when once taken; and every moment that passed,

she trembled lest it should be the very moment, in which Lord Elmwood

should resolve to banish Miss Milner from his heart.

Amongst her unpardonable indiscretions, during this trial upon the

temper of her guardian, was the frequent mention of many gentlemen, who

had been her professed admirers, and the mention of them with

partiality. Teased, if not tortured, by this, Lord Elmwood still

behaved with a manly evenness of temper, and neither appeared provoked

on the subject, nor insolently careless. In a single instance, however,

this calmness was near deserting him.

Entering the drawing-room, one evening, he started, on seeing Lord

Frederick Lawnly there, in earnest conversation with Miss Milner.

Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley were both indeed present, and Lord

Frederick was talking in an audible voice, upon some indifferent

subjects; but with that impressive manner, in which a man never fails

to speak to the woman he loves, be the subject what it may. The moment

Lord Elmwood started, which was the moment he entered, Lord Frederick

arose.

“I beg your pardon, my Lord,” said Lord Elmwood, “I protest I did not

know you.”

“I ought to entreat your Lordship’s pardon,” returned Lord Frederick,

“for this intrusion, which an accident alone has occasioned. Miss

Milner has been almost overturned by the carelessness of a lady’s

coachman, in whose carriage she was, and therefore suffered me to bring

her home in mine.”

“I hope you are not hurt,” said Lord Elmwood to Miss Milner, but his

voice was so much affected by what he felt that he could scarce

articulate the words. Not with the apprehension that she was hurt, was

he thus agitated, for the gaiety of her manners convinced him _that_

could not be the case, nor did he indeed suppose any accident, of the

kind mentioned, had occurred; but the circumstance of unexpectedly

seeing Lord Frederick had taken him off his guard, and being totally

unprepared, he could not conceal indications of the surprise, and of

the shock it had given him.

Lord Frederick, who had heard nothing of his intended union with his

ward, (for it was even kept a secret, at present, from every servant in

the house) imputed this discomposure to the personal resentment he

might bear him, in consequence of their duel; for though Lord Elmwood

had assured the uncle of Lord Frederick, (who once waited upon him on

the subject of Miss Milner) that all resentment was, on his part,

entirely at an end; and that he was willing to consent to his ward’s

marriage with his nephew, if she would concur; yet Lord Frederick

doubted the sincerity of this, and would still have had the delicacy

not to have entered Lord Elmwood’s house, had he not been encouraged by

Miss Milner, and emboldened by his love. Personal resentment was

therefore the construction he put upon Lord Elmwood’s emotion on

entering the room; but Miss Milner and Miss Woodley knew his agitation

to arise from a far different cause.

After his entrance, Lord Frederick did not attempt once to resume his

seat, but having bowed most respectfully to all present, he took his

leave; while Miss Milner followed him as far as the door, and repeated

her thanks for his protection.

Lord Elmwood was hurt beyond measure; but he had a second concern,

which was, that he had not the power to conceal how much he was

affected. He trembled—when he attempted to speak, he stammered—he

perceived his face burning with confusion, and thus one confusion gave

birth to another, till his state was pitiable.

Miss Milner, with all her assumed gaiety and real insolence, had not,

however, the insolence to seem as if she observed him; she had only the

confidence to observe him by stealth. And Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley,

having opportunely begun a discourse upon some trivial occurrences,

gave him time to recover himself by degrees—yet, still it was merely by

degrees; for the impression which this incident had made, was deep, and

not easily to be erased. The entrance of Mr. Sandford, who knew nothing

of what had happened, was however, another relief; for he began a

conversation with him, which they very soon retired into the library to

terminate. Miss Milner, taking Miss Woodley with her, went directly to

her own apartment, and there exclaimed in rapture,

“He is mine—he loves me—and he is mine for ever.”

Miss Woodley congratulated her upon believing so, but confessed she

herself “Had her fears.”

“What fears?” cried Miss Milner: “don’t you perceive that he loves me?”

“I do,” said Miss Woodley, “but that I always believed; and, I think,

if he loves you now, he has yet the good sense to know that he has

reason to hate you.”

“What has good sense to do with love?” returned Miss Milner—“If a lover

of mine suffers his understanding to get the better of his affection—”

The same arguments were going to be repeated; but Miss Woodley

interrupted her, by requiring an explanation of her conduct as to Lord

Frederick, whom, at least, she was treating with cruelty, if she only

made use of his affection to stimulate that of Lord Elmwood.

“By no means, my dear Miss Woodley,” returned she—“I have, indeed, done

with my Lord Frederick from this day; and he has certainly given me the

proof I wanted of Lord Elmwood’s love; but then I did not engage him to

this by the smallest ray of hope. No; do not suspect me of that, while

my heart was another’s: and I assure you, seriously, that it was from

the circumstance we described he came with me home—yet, I must own,

that if I had not had this design upon Lord Elmwood’s jealousy in idea,

I would have walked on foot through the streets, rather than have

suffered his rival’s civilities. But he pressed his services so

violently, and my Lady Evans (in whose coach I was when the accident

happened) pressed me so violently to accept them, that he cannot expect

any farther meaning from this acquiescence than my own convenience.”

Miss Woodley was going to reply, when she resumed,

“Nay, if you intend to say I have done wrong, still I am not sorry for

it, when it has given me such convincing proofs of Lord Elmwood’s love.

Did you see him? I am afraid you did not see how he trembled? and that

manly voice faltered, as mine does sometimes—his proud heart was

humbled too, as mine is now and then. Oh! Miss Woodley, I have been

counterfeiting indifference to _him_—I now find that all _his_

indifference to _me_ has been counterfeit, and that we not only love,

but love equally.”

“Suppose this all as you hope—I yet think it highly necessary that your

guardian should be informed, seriously informed, it was mere accident

(for, at present, that plea seems but as a subterfuge) which brought

Lord Frederick hither.”

“No, that will be destroying the work so successfully begun. I will not

suffer any explanation to take place, but let my Lord Elmwood act just

as his love shall dictate; and now I have no longer a doubt of its

excess, instead of stooping to him, I wait in the certain expectation

of his submission to me.”

CHAPTER XI.

In vain, for three long days, did Miss Milner wait impatiently for this

submission; not a sign, not a symptom appeared—nay, Lord Elmwood had,

since the evening of Lord Frederick’s visit, (which, at the time it

happened, seemed to affect him so exceedingly) become just the same man

he was before the circumstance occurred; except, indeed, that he was

less thoughtful, and now and then cheerful; but without any appearance

that his cheerfulness was affected. Miss Milner was vext—she was

alarmed—but was ashamed to confess those humiliating sensations, even

to Miss Woodley—she supported, therefore, when in company, the vivacity

she had so long assumed; but gave way, when alone, to a still greater

degree of melancholy than usual. She no longer applauded her scheme of

bringing Lord Frederick to the house, and trembled, lest, on some

pretence, he should dare to call again. But as these were feelings

which her pride would not suffer her to disclose even to her friend,

who would have condoled with her, their effects were doubly poignant.

Sitting in her dressing-room one forenoon with Miss Woodley, and

burthened with a load of grief that she blushed to acknowledge, while

her companion was charged with apprehensions that she too was loath to

disclose, one of Lord Elmwood’s valets tapped gently at the door, and

delivered a letter to Miss Milner. By the person who brought it, as

well as by the address, she knew it came from Lord Elmwood, and laid it

down upon her toilet, as if she was fearful to unfold it.

“What is that?” said Miss Woodley.

“A letter from Lord Elmwood,” replied Miss Milner.

“Good Heaven!” exclaimed Miss Woodley.

“Nay,” returned she, “it is, I have no doubt, a letter to beg my

pardon.” But her reluctance to open it plainly evinced she did not

think so.

“Do not read it yet,” said Miss Woodley.

“I do not intend it,” replied she, trembling extremely.

“Will you dine first?” said Miss Woodley.

“No—for not knowing its contents, I shall not know how to conduct

myself towards him.”

Here a silence followed. Miss Milner took up the letter—looked

earnestly at the handwriting on the outside—at the seal—inspected into

its folds—and seemed to wish, by some equivocal method, to guess at the

contents, without having the courage to come at the certain knowledge

of them.

Curiosity, at length, got the better of her fears—she opened the

letter, and, scarce able to hold it while she read, she read the

following words:—

“Madam,

“While I considered you only as my ward, my friendship for you was

unbounded—when I looked upon you as a woman formed to grace a

fashionable circle, my admiration equalled my friendship—and when fate

permitted me to behold you in the tender light of my betrothed wife, my

soaring love left those humbler passions at a distance.

“That you have still my friendship, my admiration, and even my love, I

will not attempt to deceive either myself or you by disavowing; but

still, with a firm assurance, I declare, that prudence outweighs them

all; and I have not, from henceforward, a wish to be regarded by you,

in any other respect than as one ‘who wishes you well.’ That you ever

beheld me in the endearing quality of a destined and an affectionate

husband, (such as I would have proved) was a deception upon my hopes:

they acknowledge the mistake, and are humbled—but I entreat you to

spare their farther trial, and for a single week do not insult me with

the open preference of another. In the short space of that period I

shall have taken my leave of you—_for ever_.

“I shall visit Italy, and some other parts of the Continent; from

whence I propose passing to the West Indies, in order to inspect my

possessions there: nor shall I return to England till after a few

years’ absence; in which time I hope to become once more reconciled to

the change of state I am enjoined—a change I now most fervently wish

could be entirely dispensed with.

“The occasion of my remaining here a week longer, is to settle some

necessary affairs, among which the principal is, that of delivering to

a friend, a man of worth and of tenderness, all those writings which

have invested me with the power of my guardianship—he will, the day

after my departure, (without one upbraiding word) resign them to you in

my name; and even your most respected father, could he behold the

resignation, would concur in its propriety.

“And now, my dear Miss Milner, let not affected resentment, contempt,

or levity, oppose that serenity, which, for the week to come, I wish to

enjoy. By complying with this request, give me to believe, that, since

you have been under my care, you think I have, at least, faithfully

discharged some part of my duty. And wherever I have been inadequate to

your wishes, attribute my demerits to some infirmity of mind, rather

than to a negligence of your happiness. Yet, be the cause what it will,

since these faults have existed, I do not attempt to disavow or

extenuate them, and I beg your pardon.

“However time, and a succession of objects, may eradicate more tender

sentiments, I am sure _never_ to lose the liveliest anxiety for your

welfare—and with all that solicitude, which cannot be described, I

entreat for your own sake, for mine—when we shall be far asunder—and

for the sake of your dead father’s memory, that, _upon every important

occasion, you will call your serious judgment to direct you_.

“I am, Madam,

“Your sincerest friend,

“Elmwood.”

After she had read every syllable of this letter, it dropped from her

hands; but she uttered not a word. There was, however, a paleness in

her face, a deadness in her eye, and a kind of palsy over her frame,

which Miss Woodley, who had seen her in every stage of her uneasiness,

never had seen before.

“I do not want to read the letter,” said Miss Woodley; “your looks tell

me its contents.”

“They will then discover to Lord Elmwood,” replied she, “what I feel;

but Heaven forbid—that would sink me even lower than I am.”

Scarce able to move, she rose, and looked in her glass, as if to

arrange her features, and impose upon him: alas! it was of no avail—a

serenity of mind could alone effect what she desired.

“You must endeavour,” said Miss Woodley, “to feel the disposition you

wish to make appear.”

“I will,” replied she, “I will feel a proper pride—and a proper scorn

of this treatment.”

And so desirous was she to attain the appearance of these sentiments,

that she made the strongest efforts to calm her thoughts, in order to

acquire it.

“I have but a few days to remain with him,” she said to herself, “and

we part for ever—during those few days it is not only my duty to obey

his commands, or rather comply with his request, but it is also my wish

to leave upon his mind an impression, which may not add to the ill

opinion he has formed of me, but, perhaps, serve to diminish it. If, in

every other instance, my conduct has been blameable, he shall, at least

in this, acknowledge its merit. The fate I have drawn upon myself, he

shall find I can be resigned to; and he shall be convinced, that the

woman, of whose weakness he has had so many fatal proofs, is yet in

possession of some fortitude—fortitude, to bid him farewell, without

discovering one affected or one real pang, though her death should be

the immediate consequence.”

Thus she resolved, and thus she acted. The severest judge could not

have arraigned her conduct, from the day she received Lord Elmwood’s

letter, to the day of his departure. She had, indeed, involuntary

weaknesses, but none with which she did not struggle, and, in general,

her struggles were victorious.

The first time she saw him after the receipt of his letter, was on the

evening of the same day—she had a little concert of amateurs of music,

and was herself singing and playing when he entered the room: the

connoisseurs immediately perceived she made a false cadence—but Lord

Elmwood was no connoisseur in the art, and he did not observe it.

They occasionally spoke to each other through the evening, but the

subjects were general—and though their manners every time they spoke,

were perfectly polite, they were not marked with the smallest degree of

familiarity. To describe his behaviour exactly, it was the same as his

letter, polite, friendly, composed, and resolved. Some of the company

staid supper, which prevented the embarrassment that must unavoidably

have arisen, had the family been by themselves.

The next morning each breakfasted in his separate apartments—more

company dined with them—in the evening, and at supper, Lord Elmwood was

from home.

Thus, all passed on as peaceably as he had requested, and Miss Milner

had not betrayed one particle of frailty; when, the third day at

dinner, some gentlemen of his acquaintance being at table, one of them

said,

“And so, my Lord, you absolutely set off on Tuesday morning?”

This was Friday.

Sandford and he both replied at the same time, “Yes.” And Sandford, but

not Lord Elmwood, looked at Miss Milner when he spoke. Her knife and

fork gave a sudden spring in her hand, but no other emotion witnessed

what she felt.

“Aye, Elmwood,” cried another gentleman at table, “you’ll bring home, I

am afraid, a foreign wife, and that I shan’t forgive.”

“It is his errand abroad, I make no doubt,” said another visitor.

Before he could return an answer, Sandford cried, “And what objection

to a foreigner for a wife? do not crowned heads all marry foreigners?

and who happier in the married state than some kings?”

Lord Elmwood directed his eyes to the side of the table, opposite to

that where Miss Milner sat.

“Nay,” (answered one of the guests, who was a country gentleman) “what

do you say, ladies—do you think my Lord ought to go out of his own

nation for a wife?” and he looked at Miss Milner for the reply.

Miss Woodley, uneasy at her friend’s being thus forced to give an

opinion upon so delicate a subject, endeavoured to satisfy the

gentleman, by answering to the question herself: “Whoever my Lord

Elmwood marries, Sir,” said Miss Woodley, “he, no doubt, will be

happy.”

“But what say you, Madam?” asked the visitor, still keeping his eyes on

Miss Milner.

“That whoever Lord Elmwood marries, he _deserves_ to be happy:”

returned she, with the utmost command of her voice and looks; for Miss

Woodley, by replying first, had given her time to collect herself.

The colour flew to Lord Elmwood’s face, as she delivered this short

sentence; and Miss Woodley persuaded herself, she saw a tear start in

his eye.

Miss Milner did not look that way.

In an instant he found means to change the subject, but that of his

journey still employed the conversation; and what horses, servants, and

carriages he took with him, was minutely asked, and so accurately

answered, either by himself or by Mr. Sandford, that Miss Milner,

although she had known her doom before, till now had received no

circumstantial account of it—and as circumstances increase or diminish

all we feel, the hearing these things told, increased the bitterness of

their truth.

Soon after dinner the ladies retired; and from that time, though Miss

Milner’s behaviour continued the same, yet her looks and her voice were

totally altered—for the world, she could not have looked cheerfully;

for the world, she could not have spoken with a sprightly accent; she

frequently began in one, but not three words could she utter, before

her tones sunk into dejection. Not only her colour, but her features

became changed; her eyes lost their brilliancy, her lips seemed to hang

without the power of motion, her head drooped, and her dress was

neglected. Conscious of this appearance, and conscious of the cause

from whence it arose, it was her desire to hide herself from the only

object she could have wished to have charmed. Accordingly, she sat

alone, or with Miss Woodley in her own apartment as much as was

consistent with that civility which her guardian had requested, and

which forbade her totally absenting herself.

Miss Woodley felt so acutely the torments of her friend, that had not

her reason told her, that the inflexible mind of Lord Elmwood, was

fixed beyond her power to shake, she had cast herself at his feet, and

implored the return of his affection and tenderness, as the only means

to save his once-beloved ward from an untimely death. But her

understanding—her knowledge of his firm and immoveable temper; and of

all his provocations—her knowledge of his word, long since given to

Sandford, “That if once resolved, he would not recall his

resolution”—the certainty of the various plans arranged for his

travels, all convinced her, that by any interference, she would only

expose Miss Milner’s love and delicacy, to a contemptuous rejection.

If the conversation did not every day turn upon the subject of Lord

Elmwood’s departure—a conversation he evidently avoided himself—yet,

every day, some new preparation for his journey, struck either the ear

or the eye of Miss Milner—and had she beheld a frightful spectre, she

could not have shuddered with more horror, than when she unexpectedly

passed his large trunks in the hall, nailed and corded, ready to be

sent off to meet him at Venice. At the sight, she flew from the company

that chanced to be with her, and stole to the first lonely corner of

the house to conceal her tears—she reclined her head upon her hands,

and bedewed them with the sudden anguish, that had overcome her. She

heard a footstep advancing towards the spot where she hoped to have

been concealed; she lifted up her eyes, and saw Lord Elmwood. Pride,

was the first emotion his presence inspired—pride, which arose from the

humility into which she was plunged.

She looked at him earnestly, as if to imply, “What now, my Lord?”

He only answered with a bow, which expressed; “I beg your pardon.” And

immediately withdrew.

Thus each understood the other’s language, without either having

uttered a word.

The just construction she put upon his looks and behaviour upon this

occasion, kept up her spirits for some little time; and she blessed

heaven, repeatedly, for the singular favour of shewing to her, clearly,

by this accident, his negligence of her sorrows, his total

indifference.

The next day was the eve of that on which he was to depart—of the day

on which she was to bid adieu to Dorriforth, to her guardian, to Lord

Elmwood; to all her hopes at once.

The moment she awoke on Monday morning, the recollection, that this

was, perhaps, the last day she was ever again to see him, softened all

the resentment his yesterday’s conduct had raised: forgetting his

austerity, and all she had once termed cruelties, she now only

remembered his friendship, his tenderness, and his love. She was

impatient to see him, and promised herself, for this last day, to

neglect no one opportunity of being with him. For that purpose she did

not breakfast in her own room, as she had done for several mornings

before, but went into the breakfast-room, where all the family in

general met. She was rejoiced on hearing his voice as she opened the

door, yet the sound made her tremble so much, that she could scarcely

totter to the table.

Miss Woodley looked at her as she entered, and was never so shocked at

seeing her; for never had she yet seen her look so ill. As she

approached, she made an inclination of her head to Mrs. Horton, then to

her guardian, as was her custom, when she first saw them in a

morning—he looked in her face as he bowed in return, then fixed his

eyes upon the fire-place, rubbed his forehead, and began talking with

Mr. Sandford.

Sandford, during breakfast, by accident cast a glance upon Miss Milner;

his attention was caught by her deadly countenance, and he looked

earnestly. He then turned to Lord Elmwood to see if he was observing

her appearance—he was not—and so much were her thoughts engaged on him

alone, that she did not once perceive Sandford gazing at her.

Mrs. Horton, after a little while observed, “It was a beautiful

morning.”

Lord Elmwood said, “He thought he heard it rain in the night.”

Sandford cried, “For his part he slept too well to know.” And then

(unasked) held a plate with biscuits to Miss Milner—it was the first

civility he had ever in his life offered her; she smiled at the

whimsicality of the circumstance, but she took one in return for his

attention. He looked grave beyond his usual gravity, and yet not with

his usual ill temper. She did not eat what she had so politely taken,

but laid it down soon after.

Lord Elmwood was the first who rose from breakfast, and he did not

return to dinner.

At dinner, Mrs. Horton said, “She hoped he would, however, favour them

with his company at supper.”

To which Sandford replied, “No doubt, for you will hardly any of you

see him in the morning; as we shall be off by six, or soon after.”

Sandford was not going abroad with Lord Elmwood, but was to go with him

as far as Dover.

These words of his—“_Not see Lord Elmwood in the morning_”—[never again

to see him after this evening,] were like the knell of death to Miss

Milner. She felt the symptoms of fainting, and eagerly snatched a glass

of water, which the servant was holding to Sandford, who had called for

it, and drank it off;—as she returned the glass to the servant, she

began to apologize to Mr. Sandford for her seeming rudeness, but before

she could utter what she intended, he said, good-naturedly, “Never

mind—you are very welcome—I am glad you took it.” She looked at him to

observe, whether he had really spoken kindly, or ironically; but before

his countenance could satisfy her, her thoughts were called away from

that trivial matter, and again fixed upon Lord Elmwood.

The moments seemed tedious till he came home to supper, and yet, when

she reflected how short the remainder of the evening would be after

that time, she wished to defer the hour of his return for months. At

ten o’clock he arrived; and at half after ten the family, without any

visitor, met at supper.

Miss Milner had considered, that the period for her to counterfeit

appearances, was diminished now to a most contracted one; and she

rigorously enjoined herself not to shrink from the little which

remained. The certain end, that would be so soon put to this painful

deception, encouraged her to struggle through it with redoubled zeal;

and this was but necessary, as her weakness increased. She therefore

listened, she talked, and even smiled with the rest of the company, nor

did _their_ vivacity seem to arise, from a much less compulsive source

than her own.

It was past twelve, when Lord Elmwood looked at his watch, and rising

from his chair, went up to Mrs. Horton, and taking her hand, said,

“Till I see you again, Madam, I sincerely wish you every happiness.”

Miss Milner fixed her eyes upon the table before her.

“My Lord,” replied Mrs. Horton, “I sincerely wish you health and

happiness likewise.”

He then went to Miss Woodley, and taking her hand, repeated much the

same, as he had said to Mrs. Horton.

Miss Milner now trembled beyond all power of concealment.

“My Lord,” replied Miss Woodley, a good deal affected, “I sincerely

hope my prayers for your happiness may be heard.”

She and Mrs. Horton were both standing as well as Lord Elmwood; but

Miss Milner kept her seat, till his eye was turned upon her, and he

moved slowly towards her; she then rose:—every one who was present,

attentive to what he would now say, and how she would receive what he

said, here cast their eyes upon them, and listened with impatience.

They were all disappointed—he did not utter a syllable. Yet he took her

hand, and held it closely between his. He then bowed most respectfully

and left her.

No “I wish you well;—I wish you health and happiness.” No “Prayers for

blessings on her.” Not even the word “Farewell,” escaped his

lips—perhaps, to have attempted any of these, might have choaked his

utterance.

She had behaved with fortitude the whole evening, and she continued to

do so, till the moment he turned away from her. Her eyes then

overflowed with tears, and in the agony of her mind, not knowing what

she did, she laid her cold hand upon the person next to her—it happened

to be Sandford; but not observing it was he, she grasped his hand with

violence—yet he did not snatch it away, nor look at her with his wonted

severity. And thus she stood, silent and motionless, while Lord

Elmwood, now at the door, bowed once more to all the company, and

retired.

Sandford had still Miss Milner’s hand fixed upon his; and when the door

was shut after Lord Elmwood, he turned his head to look in her face,

and turned it with some marks of apprehension for the grief he might

find there. She strove to overcome that grief, and after a heavy sigh,

sat down, as if resigned to the fate to which she was decreed.

Instead of following Lord Elmwood, as usual, Sandford poured out a

glass of wine, and drank it. A general silence ensued for near three

minutes. At last, turning himself round on his seat, towards Miss

Milner, who sat like a statue of despair at his side, “Will you

breakfast with us to-morrow?” said he.

She made no answer.

“We shan’t breakfast before half after six,” continued he, “I dare say;

and if you can rise so early—why do.”

“Miss Milner,” said Miss Woodley, (for she caught eagerly at the hope

of her passing this night in less unhappiness than she had foreboded)

“pray rise at that hour to breakfast; Mr. Sandford would not invite

you, if he thought it would displease Lord Elmwood.”

“Not I,” replied Sandford, churlishly.

“Then desire her maid to call her:” said Mrs. Horton to Miss Woodley.

“Nay, she will be awake, I have no doubt;” returned her niece.

“No;” replied Miss Milner, “since Lord Elmwood has thought proper to

take his leave of me, without even speaking a word; by my own design,

never will I see him again.” And her tears burst forth, as if her heart

burst at the same time.

“Why did not _you_ speak to _him_?” cried Sandford—“Pray did _you_ bid

_him_ farewell? and I don’t see why one is not as much to be blamed, in

that respect, as the other.”

“I was too weak to say I wished him happy,” cried Miss Milner; “but,

Heaven is my witness, I do wish him so from my soul.”

“And do you imagine he does not wish you so?” cried Sandford. “You

should judge him by your own heart; and what you feel for him, imagine

he feels for you, my dear.”

Though “_my dear_” is a trivial phrase, yet from certain people, and

upon certain occasions, it is a phrase of infinite comfort and

assurance. Mr. Sandford seldom said “my dear” to any one; to Miss

Milner never; and upon this occasion, and from him, it was an

expression most precious.

She turned to him with a look of gratitude; but as she only looked, and

did not speak, he rose up, and soon after said, with a friendly tone he

had seldom used in her presence, “I sincerely wish you a good night.”

As soon as he was gone, Miss Milner exclaimed, “However my fate may

have been precipitated by the unkindness of Mr. Sandford, yet, for that

particle of concern which he has shown for me this night, I will always

be grateful to him.”

“Ay,” cried Mrs. Horton, “good Mr. Sandford may show his kindness now,

without any danger from its consequences. Now Lord Elmwood is going

away for ever, he is not afraid of your seeing him once again.” And she

thought she praised him by this suggestion.

CHAPTER XII.

When Miss Milner retired to her bed-chamber, Miss Woodley went with

her, nor would leave her the whole night—but in vain did she persuade

her to rest—she absolutely refused; and declared she would never, from

that hour, indulge repose. “The part I undertook to perform,” cried

she, “is over—I will now, for my whole life, appear in my own

character, and give a loose to the anguish I endure.”

As daylight showed itself—“And yet I might see him once again,” said

she—“I might see him within these two hours, if I pleased, for Mr.

Sandford invited me.”

“If you think, my dear Miss Milner,” said Miss Woodley, “that a second

parting from Lord Elmwood would but give you a second agony, in the

name of Heaven do not see him any more—but, if you hope your mind would

be easier, were you to bid each other adieu in a more direct manner

than you did last night, let us go down and breakfast with him. I’ll go

before, and prepare him for your reception—you shall not surprise

him—and I will let him know, it is by Mr. Sandford’s invitation you are

coming.”

She listened with a smile to this proposal, yet objected to the

indelicacy of her wishing to see him, after he had taken his leave—but

as Miss Woodley perceived that she was inclined to infringe this

delicacy, of which she had so proper a sense, she easily persuaded her,

it was impossible for the most suspicious person (and Lord Elmwood was

far from such a character) to suppose, that the paying him a visit at

that period of time, could be with the most distant idea of regaining

his heart, or of altering one resolution he had taken.

But though Miss Milner acquiesced in this opinion, yet she had not the

courage to form the determination that she would go.

Daylight now no longer peeped, but stared upon them. Miss Milner went

to the looking-glass, breathed upon her hands and rubbed them on her

eyes, smoothed her hair and adjusted her dress; yet said, after all, “I

dare not see him again.”

“You may do as you please,” said Miss Woodley, “but I will. I that have

lived for so many years under the same roof with him, and on the most

friendly terms, and he going away, perhaps for these ten years, perhaps

for ever, I should think it a disrespect not to see him to the last

moment of his remaining in the house.”

“Then do you go,” said Miss Milner, eagerly; “and if he should ask for

me, I will gladly come, you know; but if he does not ask for me, I will

not—and pray don’t deceive me.”

Miss Woodley promised her not to deceive her; and soon after, as they

heard the servants pass about the house, and the clock had struck six,

Miss Woodley went to the breakfast room.

She found Lord Elmwood there in his travelling dress, standing

pensively by the fire-place—and, as he did not dream of seeing her, he

started when she entered, and, with an appearance of alarm, said, “Dear

Miss Woodley, what’s the matter?” She replied, “Nothing, my Lord; but I

could not be satisfied without seeing your Lordship once again, while I

had it in my power.”

“I thank you,” he returned with a sigh—the heaviest and most

intelligent sigh she ever heard him condescend to give. She imagined,

alas, that he looked as if he wished to ask how Miss Milner did, but

would not allow himself the indulgence. She was half inclined to

mention her to him, and was debating in her mind whether she should or

not, when Mr. Sandford came into the room, saying, as he entered,

“For Heaven’s sake, my Lord, where did you sleep last night?”

“Why do you ask!” said he.

“Because,” replied Sandford, “I went into your bed-chamber just now,

and I found your bed made. You have not slept there to-night.”

“I have slept no where,” returned he; “I could not sleep—and having

some papers to look over, and to set off early, I thought I might as

well not go to bed at all.”

Miss Woodley was pleased at the frank manner in which he made this

confession, and could not resist the strong impulse to say, “You have

done just then, my Lord, like Miss Milner, for she has not been in bed

the whole night.”

Miss Woodley spoke this in a negligent manner, and yet, Lord Elmwood

echoed back the words with solicitude, “Has not Miss Milner been in bed

the whole night?”

“If she is up, why does not she come and take some coffee?” said

Sandford, as he began to pour it out.

“If she thought it would be agreeable,” returned Miss Woodley, “I dare

say she would.” And she looked at Lord Elmwood while she spoke, though

she did not absolutely address him; but he made no reply.

“Agreeable!” returned Sandford, angrily—“Has she then a quarrel with

any body here? or does she suppose any body here bears enmity to _her_?

Is she not in peace and charity?”

“Yes,” replied Miss Woodley, “that I am sure she is.”

“Then bring her hither,” cried Sandford, “directly. Would she have the

wickedness to imagine we are not all friends with her?”

Miss Woodley left the room, and found Miss Milner almost in despair,

lest she should hear Lord Elmwood’s carriage drive off before her

friend’s return.

“Did he send for me?” were the words she uttered as soon as she saw

her.

“Mr. Sandford did, in his presence,” returned Miss Woodley, “and you

may go with the utmost decorum, or I would not tell you so.”

She required no protestations of this, but readily followed her beloved

adviser, whose kindness never appeared in so amiable a light as at that

moment.

On entering the room, through all the dead white of her present

complection, she blushed to a crimson. Lord Elmwood rose from his seat,

and brought a chair for her to sit down.

Sandford looked at her inquisitively, sipped his tea, and said, “He

never made tea to his own liking.”

Miss Milner took a cup, but had scarce strength to hold it.

It seemed but a very short time they were at breakfast, when the

carriage, that was to take Lord Elmwood away, drove to the door. Miss

Milner started at the sound—so did he—but she had nearly dropped her

cup and saucer; on which Sandford took them out of her hand, saying,

“Perhaps you had rather have coffee?”

Her lips moved, but he could not hear what she said.

A servant came in, and told Lord Elmwood, “The carriage was at the

door.”

He replied, “Very well.” But though he had breakfasted, he did not

attempt to move.

At last, rising briskly, as if it was necessary to go in haste when he

did go; he took up his hat, which he had brought with him into the

room, and was turning to Miss Woodley to take his leave, when Sandford

cried, “My Lord, you are in a great hurry.” And then, as if he wished

to give poor Miss Milner every moment he could, added, (looking about)

“I don’t know where I have laid my gloves.”

Lord Elmwood, after repeating to Miss Woodley his last night’s

farewell, now went up to Miss Milner, and taking one of her hands,

again held it between his, but still without speaking—while she, unable

to suppress her tears as heretofore, suffered them to fall in torrents.

“What is all this?” cried Sandford, going up to them in anger.

They neither of them replied, or changed their situation.

“Separate this moment,” cried Sandford, “or resolve to be separated

only by—death.”

The commanding and awful manner in which he spoke this sentence, made

them both turn to him in amazement, and as it were, petrified with the

sensation his words had caused.

He left them for a moment, and going to a small bookcase in one corner

of the room, took out of it a book, and returning with it in his hand,

said,

“Lord Elmwood, do you love this woman?”

“More than my life.” He replied, with the most heartfelt accents.

He then turned to Miss Milner—“Can you say the same by him?”

She spread her hands over her eyes, and exclaimed, “Oh, Heavens!”

“I believe you _can_ say so,” returned Sandford; “and in the name of

God, and your own happiness, since this is the state of you both, let

me put it out of your power to part.”

Lord Elmwood gazed at him with wonder! and yet, as if enraptured by the

sudden change this conduct gave to his prospects.

She, sighed with a kind of trembling ecstasy; while Sandford, with all

the dignity of his official character, delivered these words——

“My Lord, while I thought my counsel might save you from the worst of

misfortunes, conjugal strife, I importuned you hourly, and set forth

your danger in the light it appeared to me. But though old, and a

priest, I can submit to think I have been in an error; and I now firmly

believe, it is for the welfare of you both, to become man and wife. My

Lord, take this woman’s marriage vows—you can ask no fairer promises of

her reform—she can give you none half so sacred, half so binding; and I

see by her looks that she will mean to keep them. And my dear,”

continued he, addressing himself to her, “act but under the dominion of

those vows, to a husband of sense and virtue, like him, and you will be

all that I, himself, or even Heaven can desire. Now, then, Lord

Elmwood, this moment give her up for ever, or this moment constrain her

by such ties from offending you, as she shall not _dare_ to violate.”

Lord Elmwood struck his forehead in doubt and agitation; but, still

holding her hand, he cried, “I cannot part from her.” Then feeling this

reply as equivocal, he fell upon his knees, and cried, “Will you pardon

my hesitation? and will you, in marriage, show me that tender love you

have not shown me yet? Will you, in possessing all my affections, bear

with all my infirmities?”

She raised him from her feet, and by the expression of her countenance,

by the tears that bathed his hands, gave him confidence.

He turned to Sandford—then placing her by his own side, as the form of

matrimony requires, gave this for a sign to Sandford that he should

begin the ceremony. On which, he opened his book, and—married them.

With voice and manners so serious, so solemn and so fervent, he

performed these rites, that every idea of jest, or even of lightness,

was absent from the mind of all who were present.

Miss Milner, covered with shame, sunk on the bosom of Miss Woodley.

When the ring was wanting, Lord Elmwood supplied it with one from his

own hand, but throughout all the rest of the ceremony, appeared lost in

zealous devotion to Heaven. Yet, no sooner was it finished, than his

thoughts descended to this world. He embraced his bride with all the

transport of the fondest, happiest bridegroom, and in raptures called

her by the endearing name of “wife.”

“But still, my Lord,” cried Sandford, “you are only married by your own

church and conscience, not by your wife’s, or by the law of the land;

and let me advise you not to defer that marriage long, lest in the time

you disagree, and she should refuse to become your legal spouse.”

“I think there is danger,” returned Lord Elmwood, “and therefore our

second marriage must take place to-morrow.”

To this the ladies objected, and Sandford was to fix their second

wedding-day, as he had done their first. He, after consideration, gave

them four days.

Miss Woodley then recollected (for every one else had forgot it) that

the carriage was still at the door to convey Lord Elmwood far away. It

was of course dismissed—and one of those great incidents of delight

which Miss Milner that morning tasted, was to look out of the window,

and see this very carriage drive from the door unoccupied.

Never was there a more rapid change from despair to happiness—to

happiness perfect and supreme—than was that, which Miss Milner and Lord

Elmwood experienced in one single hour.

The few days that intervened between this and their lawful marriage,

were passed in the delightful care of preparing for that happy day—yet,

with all its delights inferior to the first, when every unexpected joy

was doubled by the once expected sorrow.

Nevertheless, on that first wedding-day, that joyful day, which

restored her lost lover to her hopes again; even on that _very_ day,

after the sacred ceremony was over, Miss Milner—(with all the fears,

the tremors, the superstition of her sex)—felt an excruciating shock;

when, looking on the ring Lord Elmwood had put upon her finger, in

haste, when he married her, she perceived it was a—mourning ring.

A

SIMPLE STORY,

IN FOUR VOLUMES,

BY

MRS. INCHBALD.

VOL. III.

_THE FOURTH EDITION._

LONDON:

Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,

Paternoster Row.

1799.

A SIMPLE STORY.

CHAPTER I.

Not any event, throughout life, can arrest the reflection of a

thoughtful mind more powerfully, or leave so lasting an impression, as

that of returning to a place after a few years absence, and observing

an entire alteration, in respect to all the persons who once formed the

neighbourhood. To find that many, who but a few years before were left

in their bloom of youth and health, are dead—to find that children left

at school, are married and have children of their own—that some, who

were left in riches, are reduced to poverty—that others, who were in

poverty are become rich—to find, those once renowned for virtue, now

detested for vice—roving husbands, grown constant—constant husbands,

become rovers—the firmest friends, changed to the most implacable

enemies—beauty faded. In a word, every change to demonstrate, that,

“All is transitory on this side the grave.”

Guided by a wish, that the reflecting reader may experience the

sensation, which an attention to circumstances like these, must excite;

he is desired to imagine seventeen years elapsed, since he has seen or

heard of any of those persons who in the foregoing volumes have been

introduced to his acquaintance—and then, supposing himself at the

period of those seventeen years, follow the sequel of their history.

To begin with the first female object of this story. The beautiful, the

beloved Miss Milner—she is no longer beautiful—no longer beloved—no

longer—tremble while you read it!—no longer—virtuous.

Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth, is become a

hard-hearted tyrant. The compassionate, the feeling, the just Lord

Elmwood, an example of implacable rigour and injustice.

Miss Woodley is grown old, but less with years than grief.

The boy, Rushbrook, is become a man, and the apparent heir of Lord

Elmwood’s fortune; while his own daughter, his only child by his once

adored Miss Milner, he refuses ever to see again, in vengeance to her

mother’s crimes.

The least wonderful change, is, the death of Mrs. Horton. Except

Sandford, who remains much the same as heretofore.

We left Lady Elmwood in the last volume at the summit of human

happiness; a loving and beloved bride. We begin this volume, and find

her upon her death-bed.

At thirty-five, her “Course was run”—a course full of perils, of hopes,

of fears, of joys, and at the end, of sorrows; all exquisite of their

kind, for exquisite were the feelings of her susceptible heart.

At the commencement of this story, her father is described in the last

moments of his life, with all his cares fixed upon her, his only

child—how vain these cares! how vain every precaution that was taken

for her welfare! She knows, she reflects upon this; and yet, impelled

by that instinctive power which actuates a parent, Lady Elmwood on

_her_ dying day has no worldly thoughts, but that of the future

happiness of an only child. To every other prospect in her view, “Thy

will be done” is her continual exclamation; but where the misery of her

daughter presents itself, the expiring penitent would there combat the

will of Heaven.

To detail the progression by which vice gains a predominancy in the

heart, may be a useful lesson; but it is one so little to the

satisfaction of most readers, that the degrees of misconduct by which

Lady Elmwood fell, are not meant to be related here; but instead of

picturing every occasion of her fall, to come briefly to the events

that followed.

There are, nevertheless, some articles under the former class, which

ought not to be entirely omitted.

Lord Elmwood, after four years enjoyment of the most perfect happiness

that marriage could give, after becoming the father of a beautiful

daughter, whom he loved with a tenderness almost equal to his love of

her mother, was under the indispensable necessity of leaving them both

for a time, in order to rescue from the depredation of his own steward,

his very large estates in the West Indies. His voyage was tedious; his

residence there, from various accidents, prolonged from time to time,

till near three years had at length passed away. Lady Elmwood, at first

only unhappy, became at last provoked; and giving way to that irritable

disposition which she had so seldom governed, resolved, in spite of his

injunctions, to divert the melancholy hours caused by his absence, by

mixing in the gay circles of London.

Lord Elmwood at this time, and for many months before, had been

detained abroad by a severe and dangerous illness, which a too cautious

fear of her uneasiness, had prompted him to conceal; and she received

his frequent apologies for not returning, with a suspicion and

resentment they were calculated, but not intended, to inspire.

To violent anger, succeeded a degree of indifference still more

fatal—Lady Elmwood’s heart was not formed for such a state—there, where

all the tumultuous passions harboured by turns, one among them soon

found the means to occupy all vacancies: a passion, commencing

innocently, but terminating in guilt. The dear object of her fondest,

her truest affections, was away; and those affections, painted the time

so irksome that was past; so wearisome, that, which was still to come;

that she flew from the present tedious solitude, to the dangerous

society of one, whose whole mind depraved by fashionable vices, could

not repay her for a moment’s loss of him, whose absence he supplied.

Or, if the delirium gave her a moment’s recompence, what were her

sufferings, her remorse, when she was awakened from the fleeting joy,

by the arrival of her husband? How happy, how transporting would have

been that arrival a few months before! As it would then have been

felicity unbounded, it was now—language affords no word that can

describe Lady Elmwood’s sensations, on being told her Lord was arrived,

and that necessity alone had so long delayed his return.

Guilty, but not hardened in her guilt, her pangs, her shame were the

more excessive. She fled from the place at his approach; fled from his

house, never again to return to a habitation where he was the master.

She did not, however, elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter

herself in the most dreary retreat; where she partook of no one comfort

from society, or from life, but the still unremitting friendship of

Miss Woodley. Even her infant daughter she left behind, nor would allow

herself the consolation of her innocent, though reproachful smiles—she

left her in her father’s house, that she might be under his protection;

parted with her, as she thought, for ever, with all the agonies with

which mothers part from their infant children: and yet, even a mother

can scarce conceive how much more sharp those agonies were, on

beholding—the child sent after her, as the perpetual outcast of its

father.

Lord Elmwood’s love to his wife had been extravagant—the effect of his

hate was the same. Beholding himself separated from her by a barrier

never to be removed, he vowed in the deep torments of his revenge,

never to be reminded of her by one individual object; much less, by one

so near to her as her child. To bestow upon that child his affections,

would be, he imagined, still, in some sort, to divide them with the

mother. Firm in his resolution, the beautiful Matilda, was, at the age

of six years, sent out of her father’s house, and received by her

mother with all the tenderness, but with all the anguish, of those

parents, who behold their offspring visited by the punishment due only

to their own offences.

While this rigid act was executing by Lord Elmwood’s agents at his

command, himself was engaged in an affair of still weightier

importance—that of life or death:—he determined upon his own death, or

the death of the man who had wounded his honour and destroyed his

happiness. A duel with his old antagonist was the result of this

determination; nor was the Duke of Avon (who before the decease of his

father and eldest brother, was Lord Frederick Lawnly) averse from

giving him all the satisfaction he required. For it was no other than

he, whose passion for Lady Elmwood had still subsisted, and whose

address in gallantry left no means unattempted for the success of his

designs;—no other than he, (who, next to Lord Elmwood, had been of all

her lovers, the most favoured,) to whom Lady Elmwood sacrificed her own

and her husband’s future peace, and thus gave to his vanity a prouder

triumph, than if she had never bestowed her hand in marriage on

another. This triumph however was but short—a month only, after the

return of Lord Elmwood, the Duke was called upon to answer for his

conduct, and was left where they met, so defaced with scars, as never

again to endanger the honour of a husband. As Lord Elmwood was

inexorable to all accommodation, their engagement continued for a long

space of time; nor could any thing but the assurance that his opponent

was slain, have at last torn him from the field, though he himself was

dangerously wounded.

Yet even during the period of his danger, while for days he lay in the

continual expectation of his own death, not all the entreaties of his

dearest, most intimate, and most respected friends, could prevail upon

him to pronounce forgiveness of his wife, or to suffer them to bring

his daughter to him, for his last blessing.

Lady Elmwood, who was made acquainted with the minutest circumstance as

it passed, appeared to wait the news of her husband’s decease with

patience; but upon her brow, and in every lineament of her face was

marked, that his death was an event she would not for a day survive:

and she would have left her child an orphan, to have followed Lord

Elmwood to the tomb. She was prevented the trial; he recovered; and

from the ample vengeance he had obtained upon the irresistible person

of the Duke, in a short time seemed to regain his usual tranquillity.

He recovered, but Lady Elmwood fell sick and languished—possessed of

youth to struggle with her woes, she lingered on, till ten years

decline brought her to that period, with which the reader is now going

to be presented.

CHAPTER II.

In a lonely country on the borders of Scotland, a single house by the

side of a dreary heath, was the residence of the once gay, volatile

Miss Milner. In a large gloomy apartment of this solitary habitation

(the windows of which scarce rendered the light accessible) was laid

upon her death-bed, the once lovely Lady Elmwood—pale, half suffocated

with the loss of breath; yet her senses perfectly clear and collected,

which served but to sharpen the anguish of dying.

In one corner of the room, by the side of an old fashioned stool,

kneels Miss Woodley, praying most devoutly for her still beloved

friend, but in vain endeavouring to pray composedly—floods of tears

pour down her furrowed cheeks, and frequent sobs of sorrow, break

through each pious ejaculation.

Close by her mother’s side, one hand supporting her head, the other

wiping from her face the cold dew of death, behold Lady Elmwood’s

daughter—Lord Elmwood’s daughter too—yet he far away, negligent of what

either suffers. Lady Elmwood turns to her often and attempts an

embrace, but her feeble arms forbid, and they fall motionless. The

daughter perceiving these ineffectual efforts, has her whole face

convulsed with grief: kisses her mother; holds her to her bosom; and

hangs upon her neck, as if she wished to cling there, not to be parted

even by the grave.

On the other side of the bed sits Sandford—his hair grown white—his

face wrinkled with age—his heart the same as ever.—The reprover, the

enemy of the vain, the idle, and the wicked; but the friend and

comforter of the forlorn and miserable.

Upon those features where sarcasm, reproach, and anger dwelt, to

threaten and alarm the sinner; mildness, tenderness, and pity beamed,

to support and console the penitent. Compassion changed his language,

and softened all those harsh tones that used to denounce perdition.

“In the name of God,” said he to Lady Elmwood, “of that God, who

suffered for you, and, suffering, knew and pitied all our weaknesses—By

him, who has given his word to _take compassion on the sinner’s tears_,

I bid you hope for mercy. By that innocence in which you once lived, be

comforted—By the sorrows you have known since your degradation, hope,

that in some measure, you have atoned—By the sincerity that shone upon

your youthful face when I joined your hands, and those thousand virtues

you have since given proofs of, trust, that you were not born to die

_the death of the wicked_.”

As he spoke these words of consolation, her trembling hand clasped

his—her dying eyes darted a ray of brightness—but her failing voice

endeavoured in vain, to articulate. At length, fixing her looks upon

her daughter as their last dear object, she was just understood to

utter the word “Father.”

“I understand you,” replied Sandford, “and by all that influence I ever

had over him, by my prayers, my tears,” (and they flowed as he spoke)

“I will implore him to own his child.”

She could now only smile in thanks.

“And if I should fail,” continued he, “yet while I live, she shall not

want a friend or protector—all an old man, like me can answer

for”——here his tears interrupted him.

Lady Elmwood was sufficiently sensible of his words and their import,

to make a sign as if she wished to embrace him: but finding her life

leaving her fast, she reserved this last token of love for her

daughter—with a struggle she lifted herself from her pillow, clung to

her child—and died in her arms.

CHAPTER III.

Lord Elmwood was by nature, and more from education, of a serious,

thinking, and philosophic turn of mind. His religious studies had

completely taught him to consider this world but as a passage to

another; to enjoy with gratitude what Heaven in its bounty should

bestow, and to bear with submission, whatever in its vengeance it might

inflict. In a greater degree than most people he practised this

doctrine; and as soon as the shock he received from Lady Elmwood’s

conduct was abated, an entire calmness and resignation ensued; but

still of that sensible and feeling kind, that could never suffer him to

forget the happiness he had lost; and it was this sensibility, which

urged him to fly from its more keen recollection as much as

possible—this, he alleged as the reason why he would never permit Lady

Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing. But this

injunction (which all his friends, and even the servants in the house

who attended his person, had received) was, by many people, suspected

rather to proceed from his resentment, than his tenderness; nor did he

deny, that resentment co-operated with his prudence: for prudence he

called it, not to remind himself of happiness he could never taste

again, and of ingratitude that might impel him to hatred: and prudence

he called it, not to form another attachment near to his heart, more

especially so near as a parent’s which might again expose him to all

the torments of ingratitude, from an object whom he affectionately

loved.

Upon these principles he formed the unshaken resolution, never to

acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child—or acknowledging her as

such—never to see, to hear of, or take one concern whatever in her fate

and fortune. The death of her mother appeared a favourable time, had he

been so inclined, to have recalled this declaration which he had

solemnly and repeatedly made—she was now destitute of the protection of

her other parent, and it became his duty, at least, to provide her a

guardian, if he did not chuse to take that tender title upon

himself—but to mention either the mother or child to Lord Elmwood, was

an equal offence, and prohibited in the strongest terms to all his

friends and household; and as he was an excellent good master, a

sincere friend, and a most generous patron, not one of his acquaintance

or dependants, were hardy enough to draw upon themselves his certain

displeasure, which was always violent in the extreme, by even the

official intelligence of Lady Elmwood’s death.

Sandford himself, intimidated through age, or by the austere, and

morose manners which Lord Elmwood had of late years adopted; Sandford

wished, if possible, that some other would undertake the dangerous task

of recalling to his memory there ever was such a person as his wife. He

advised Miss Woodley to write a proper letter to him on the subject;

but she reminded him that such a step would be more perilous to her,

than to any other person, as she was the most destitute being on earth,

without the benevolence of Lord Elmwood. The death of her aunt, Mrs.

Horton, had left her solely relying on the bounty of Lady Elmwood, and

now her death, had left her totally dependant upon the Earl—for Lady

Elmwood though she had separate effects, had long before her death

declared it was not her intention to leave a sentence behind her in the

form of a will. She had no will, she said, but what she would wholly

submit to Lord Elmwood’s; and, if it were even his will, that her child

should live in poverty, as well as banishment, it should be so. But,

perhaps, in this implicit submission to him, there was a distant hope,

that the necessitous situation of his daughter, might plead more

forcibly than his parental love; and that knowing her bereft of every

support but through himself, that idea might form some little tie

between them, and be at least a token of the relationship.

But as Lady Elmwood anxiously wished this principle upon which she

acted, should be concealed from his suspicion, she included her friend,

Miss Woodley, in the same fate; and thus, the only persons dear to her,

she left, but at Lord Elmwood’s pleasure, to be preserved from

perishing in want. Her child was too young to advise her on this

subject, her friend too disinterested; and at this moment they were

both without the smallest means of subsistence, except through the

justice or compassion of Lord Elmwood. Sandford had indeed promised his

protection to the daughter; but his liberality had no other source than

from his patron, with whom he still lived as usual, except during part

of the winter, when the Earl resided in town; he then mostly stole a

visit to Lady Elmwood.—On this last visit he staid to see her buried.

After some mature deliberations, Sandford was now preparing to go to

Lord Elmwood at his house in town, and there, to deliver himself the

news that must sooner or later be told; and he meant also to venture,

at the same time, to keep the promise he had made to his dying Lady—but

the news reached his Lordship before Sandford arrived; it was announced

in the public papers, and by that means first came to his knowledge.

He was breakfasting by himself, when the newspaper that first gave the

intelligence of Lady Elmwood’s death, was laid before him—the paragraph

contained these words:

“On Wednesday last died, at Dring Park, a village in Northumberland,

the right honourable Countess Elmwood.—This lady, who has not been

heard of for many years in the fashionable world, was a rich heiress,

and of extreme beauty; but although she received overtures from many

men of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the present Lord

Elmwood (then Mr. Dorriforth) to them all—and it is said, their

marriage was followed by an uncommon share of felicity, till his

Lordship going abroad, and remaining there some time, the consequences

(to a most captivating young woman left without a protector) were such

as to cause a separation on his return. Her Ladyship has left one child

by the Earl, a daughter, about fifteen.”

Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this, as to lay down the

paper, and not take it up again for several minutes—nor did he taste

his chocolate during this interval, but leaned his elbow on the table

and rested his head upon his hand. He then rose up—walked two or three

times across the room—sat down again—took up the paper—and read as

usual.—Nor let the vociferous mourner, or the perpetual weeper, here

complain of his want of sensibility—but let them remember that Lord

Elmwood was a man—a man of understanding—of courage—of fortitude—above

all, a man of the nicest feelings—and who shall say, but that at the

time he leaned his head upon his hand, and rose to walk away the sense

of what he felt, he might not feel as much as Lady Elmwood did in her

last moments.

Be this as it may, his susceptibility on the occasion was not suspected

by any one—yet he passed that day the same as usual; the next day too,

and the day after. On the morning of the fourth, he sent for his

steward to his study, and after talking of other business, said to him;

“Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead?”

“It is, my Lord.”

His Lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply, fetched an

involuntary sigh.

“Mr. Sandford, my lord,” continued the steward, “sent me word of the

news, but left it to my own discretion, whether I would make your

Lordship acquainted with it or not: I let him know I declined.”

“Where is Sandford?” asked Lord Elmwood.

“He was with my Lady,” replied the steward.

“When she died?” asked he.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I am glad of it—he will see that every thing she desired is

done—Sandford is a good man, and would be a friend to every body.”

“He is a very good man indeed, my Lord.”

There was now a silence.——Mr. Giffard then bowing, said, “Has your

Lordship any further commands?”

“Write to Sandford,” said Lord Elmwood, hesitating as he spoke, “and

tell him to have every thing performed as she desired. And whoever she

may have selected for the guardian of her child, has my consent to act

as such.—Nor in one instance, where I myself am not concerned, shall I

oppose her will.” The tears rushed into his eyes as he said this, and

caused them to start in the steward’s—observing which, he sternly

resumed,

“Do not suppose from this conversation, that any of those resolutions I

have long since taken, are, or will be changed—they are the same; and

shall continue inflexible.”

“I understand you, my Lord,” replied Mr. Giffard, “your express orders,

to me, as well as to every other person, remain just the same as

formerly, never to mention this subject to you again.”

“They do, Sir.”

“My Lord, I always obeyed you, and hope I always shall.”

“I hope so too,” he replied in a threatening accent—“Write to

Sandford,” continued he, “to let him know my pleasure, and that is all

you have to do.”

The steward bowed and withdrew.

But before his letter arrived to Sandford, Sandford arrived in town;

and Mr. Giffard related, word for word, what had passed between him and

his Lord. Upon every occasion, and upon every topic, except that of

Lady Elmwood and her child, Sandford was just as free with Lord Elmwood

as he had ever been; and as usual (after his interview with the

steward) went into his apartment without any previous notice. Lord

Elmwood shook him by the hand, as upon all other meetings; and yet,

whether his fear suggested it or not, Sandford thought he appeared more

cool and reserved with him than formerly.

During the whole day, the slightest mention of Lady Elmwood, or of her

child, was cautiously avoided—and not till the evening, (after Sandford

had risen to retire, and had wished Lord Elmwood good night) did he

dare to mention the subject. He then, after taking leave, and going to

the door—turned back and said, “My Lord,”—

It was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak—his voice

failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, he took out his

handkerchief, and could proceed no farther.

“I thought,” said Lord Elmwood, angrily, “I thought I had given my

orders upon the subject—did not my steward write them to you?”

“He did, my Lord,” said Sandford, humbly, “but I was set out before

they arrived.”

“Has he not _told_ you my mind then?” cried he, more angrily still.

“He has;” replied Sandford,—“But”——

“But what, Sir?” cried Lord Elmwood.

“Your Lordship,” continued Sandford, “was mistaken in supposing that

Lady Elmwood left a will, she left none.”

“No will? no will at all?” returned he, surprised.

“No, my Lord,” answered Sandford, “she wished every thing to be as you

willed.”

“She left me all the trouble, then, you mean?”

“No great trouble, Sir; for there are but two persons whom she has left

behind her, to hope for your protection.”

“And who are those two?” cried he hastily.

“One, my Lord, I need not name—the other is Miss Woodley.”

There was a delicacy and humility in the manner in which Sandford

delivered this reply, that Lord Elmwood could _not_ resent, and he only

returned,

“Miss Woodley—is she yet living?”

“She is—I left her at the house I came from.”

“Well then,” answered he, “you must see that my steward provides for

those two persons. That care I leave to you—and should there be any

complaints, on you they fall.”

Sandford bowed and was going.

“And now,” resumed Lord Elmwood, in a more stern voice, “let me never

hear again on this subject. You have power to act in regard to the

persons you have mentioned; and upon you their situation, the care, the

whole management of them depends—but be sure you never let them be

named before me, from this moment.”

“Then,” said Sandford, “as this must be the last time they are

mentioned, I must now take the opportunity to disburden my mind of a

charge”—

“What charge?” cried Lord Elmwood, morosely interrupting him.

“Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind her, she left a

request.”

“A request!” said he, starting, “If it is for me to see her daughter, I

tell you now before you ask, that I will not grant it—for by heaven

(and he spoke and looked most solemnly) though I have no resentment

against the innocent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see

her. Never, for her mother’s sake, suffer my heart again to be softened

by an object I might dote upon. Therefore, Sir, if that is the request,

it is already answered; my will is fixed.”

“The request, my Lord,” replied Sandford, (and he took out a

pocket-book from whence he drew several papers) “is contained in this

letter; nor do I rightly know what its contents are.” And he held it

out to him.

“Is it Lady Elmwood’s writing?” asked Lord Elmwood, extremely

discomposed.

“It is, my Lord.—She wrote it a few days before she died, and enjoined

me to deliver it to you, with my own hands.”

“I refuse to read it:” cried he, putting it from him—and trembling

while he did so.

“She desired me,” said Sandford, (still presenting the letter) “to

conjure you to read it, _for her father’s sake_.”

Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was in his hand, he

seemed distressed to know what he should do with it—in what place to go

and read it—or how to fortify himself against its contents. He appeared

ashamed too, that he had been so far prevailed upon, and said, by way

of excuse,

“For Mr. Milner’s sake I would do much—nay, any thing, but that to

which I have just now sworn never to consent. For his sake I have borne

a great deal—for his sake alone, his daughter died my wife. You know,

no other motive than respect for him, prevented my divorcing her. Pray

(and he hesitated) was she buried with him?”

“No, my Lord—she expressed no such desire; and as that was the case, I

did not think it necessary to carry the corpse so far.”

At the word corpse, Lord Elmwood shrunk, and looked shocked beyond

measure—but recovering himself, said, “I am sorry for it; for he loved

_her_ sincerely, if she did not love him—and I wish they had been

buried together.”

“It is not then too late,” said Sandford, and was going on—but the

other interrupted him.

“No, no—we will have no disturbing the dead.”

“Read her letter then,” said Sandford, “and bid her rest in peace.”

“If it is in my power,” returned he, “to grant what she asks, I

will—but if her demand is what I apprehend, I cannot, I will not, bid

her rest by complying. You know my resolution, my disposition, and take

care how you provoke me. You may do an injury to the very person you

are seeking to befriend—the very maintenance I mean to allow her

daughter I can withdraw.”

Poor Sandford, all alarmed at this menace, replied with energy, “My

Lord, unless you begin the subject, I never shall presume to mention it

again.”

“I take you at your word, and in consequence of that, but of that

alone, we are friends. Good night, Sir.”

Sandford bowed with humility, and they went to their separate

bedchambers.

CHAPTER IV.

After Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it was some time

before he read the letter Sandford had given him. He first walked

backwards and forwards in the room—he then began to take off some part

of his dress, but he did it slowly. At length, he dismissed his valet,

and sitting down, took the letter from his pocket. He looked at the

seal, but not at the direction; for he seemed to dread seeing Lady

Elmwood’s handwriting. He then laid it on the table, and began again to

undress. He did not proceed, but taking up the letter quickly, (with a

kind of effort in making the resolution) broke it open. These were its

contents:

“My Lord,

“Who writes this letter I well know—I well know also to whom it is

addressed—I feel with the most powerful force both our situations; nor

should I dare to offer you even this humble petition, but that at the

time you receive it, there will be no such person as I am, in

existence.

“For myself, then, all concern will be over—but there is a care that

pursues me to the grave, and threatens my want of repose even there.

“I leave a child—I will not call her mine: that has undone her—I will

not call her yours; that will be of no avail—I present her before you

as the granddaughter of Mr. Milner. Oh! do not refuse an asylum even in

your own house, to the destitute offspring of your friend; the last,

and only remaining branch of his family.

“Receive her into your household, be her condition there ever so

abject. I cannot write distinctly what I would—my senses are not

impaired, but the powers of expression are. The complaint of the

unfortunate child in the scriptures (a lesson I have studied) has made

this wish cling so fast to my heart, that without the distant hope of

its being fulfilled, death would have more terrors than my weak mind

could support.

“‘_I will go to my father; how many servants live in my father’s house,

and are fed with plenty, while I starve in a foreign land?_’

“I do not ask a parent’s festive rejoicing at her approach—I do not

even ask her father to behold her; but let her live under his

protection. For her grandfather’s sake do not refuse this—to the child

of his child, whom he entrusted to your care, do not refuse it.

“Be her host; I remit the tie of being her parent. Never see her—but

let her sometimes live under the same roof with you.

“It is Miss Milner, your ward, to whom you never refused a request, who

supplicates you—not now for your nephew, Rushbrook, but for one so much

more dear, that a denial——she dares not suffer her thoughts to glance

that way.—She will hope—and in that hope, bids you farewell, with all

the love she ever bore you.

“Farewell Dorriforth—farewell Lord Elmwood—and before you throw this

letter from you with contempt or anger, cast your imagination into the

grave where I am lying. Reflect upon all the days of my past life—the

anxious moments I have known, and what has been their end. Behold _me_,

also—in my altered face there is no anxiety—no joy or sorrow—all is

over.——My whole frame is motionless—my heart beats no more. Look at my

horrid habitation, too,—and ask yourself—whether I am an object of

resentment?”

While Lord Elmwood read this letter, it trembled in his hand: he once

or twice wiped the tears from his eyes as he read, and once laid the

letter down for a few minutes. At its conclusion, the tears flowed fast

down his face; but he seemed both ashamed and angry they did, and was

going to throw the paper upon the fire—he however suddenly checked his

hand, and putting it hastily into his pocket, went to bed.

CHAPTER V.

The next morning, when Lord Elmwood and Sandford met at breakfast, the

latter was pale with fear for the success of Lady Elmwood’s letter—the

Earl was pale too, but there was besides upon his face, something which

evidently marked he was displeased. Sandford observed it, and was all

humbleness, both in his words and looks, in order to soften him.

As soon as the breakfast was removed, Lord Elmwood drew the letter from

his pocket, and holding it towards Sandford, said,

“That, may be of more value to you, than it is to me, therefore I give

it you.”

Sandford called up a look of surprise, as if he did not know the letter

again.

“’Tis Lady Elmwood’s letter,” said Lord Elmwood, “and I return it to

you for two reasons.”

Sandford took it, and putting it up, asked fearfully, “What those two

reasons were?”

“First,” said he, “because I think it is a relick you may like to

preserve—my second reason is, that you may shew it to her daughter, and

let her know why, and on what conditions, I grant her mother’s

request.”

“You _do_ then grant it?” cried Sandford joyfully; “I thank you—you are

kind—you are considerate.”

“Be not hasty in your gratitude; you may have cause to recall it.”

“I know what you have said;” replied Sandford, “you have said you grant

Lady Elmwood’s request—you cannot recall these words, nor I my

gratitude.”

“Do you know what her request is?” returned he.

“Not exactly, my Lord—I told you before, I did not; but it is no doubt

something in favour of her child.”

“I think not,” he replied: “such as it is, however, I grant it: but in

the strictest sense of the word—no farther—and one neglect of my

commands, releases me from this promise totally.”

“We will take care, Sir, not to disobey them.”

“Then listen to what they are, for to you I give the charge of

delivering them again. Lady Elmwood has petitioned me in the name of

her father, (a name I reverence) to give his grandchild the sanction of

my protection. In the literal sense, to suffer that she may reside at

one of my seats; dispensing at the same time with my ever seeing her.”

“And you will comply?”