a greater. I will, while she avoids my sight, or the giving me any
remembrance of her. But if, whether by design or by accident, I ever
see or hear from her, that moment, my compliance to her mother’s
supplication ceases, and I abandon her once more.”
Sandford sighed. Lord Elmwood continued:
“I am glad her request stopped where it did. I would rather comply with
her desires than not; and I rejoice they are such as I can grant with
ease and honour to myself. I am seldom now at Elmwood castle; let her
daughter go there; the few weeks or months I am down in the summer, she
may easily in that extensive house avoid me—while she does, she lives
in security—when she does not—you know my resolution.”
Sandford bowed—the Earl resumed:
“Nor can it be a hardship to obey this command—she cannot lament the
separation from a parent whom she never knew—” Sandford was going
eagerly to prove the error of that assertion, but he prevented him,
saying, “In a word—without farther argument—if she obeys me in this, I
will provide for her as my daughter during my life, and leave her a
fortune at my death—but if she dares—”
Sandford interrupted the menace prepared for utterance, saying, “and
you still mean, I suppose, to make Mr. Rushbrook your heir?”
“Have you not heard me say so? And do you imagine I have changed my
determination? I am not given to alter my resolutions, Mr. Sandford;
and I thought you knew I was not; besides, will not my title be
extinct, whoever I make my heir? Could any thing but a son have
preserved my title?”
“Then it is yet possible——”
“By marrying again, you mean? No—no—I have had enough of marriage—and
Henry Rushbrook I shall leave my heir. Therefore, Sir——”
“My Lord, I do not presume—”
“Do not, Sandford, and we may still be good friends. But I am not to be
controlled as formerly; my temper is changed of late; changed to what
it was originally; till your religious precepts reformed it. You may
remember, how troublesome it was, to conquer my stubborn disposition in
my youth; _then_, indeed, you _did_; but in my more advanced age, you
will find the task too difficult.”
Sandford again repeated, “He should not presume—”
To which Lord Elmwood again made answer, “Do not, Sandford;” and added,
“for I have a sincere regard for you, and should be loath, at these
years, to quarrel with you seriously.”
Sandford turned away his head to conceal his feelings.
“Nay, if we do quarrel,” resumed Lord Elmwood, “You know it must be
your own fault; and as this is a theme the most likely of any, nay, the
only one on which we can have a difference (such as we cannot forgive)
take care never from this day to resume it; indeed that of itself,
would be an offence I could not pardon. I have been clear and explicit
in all I have said; there can be no fear of mistaking my meaning;
therefore, all future explanation is unnecessary—nor will I permit a
word, or a hint on the subject from any one, without shewing my
resentment even to the hour of my death.” He was going out of the room.
“But before we bid adieu to the subject for ever, my Lord—there was
another person whom I named to you—”
“Do you mean Miss Woodley? Oh, by all means let her live at Elmwood
House too. On consideration, I have no objection to see Miss Woodley at
any time—I shall be glad to see her—do not let _her_ be frightened at
me—to her I shall be the same, that I have always been.”
“She is a good woman, my Lord,” cried Sandford, pleased.
“You need not tell me that, Mr. Sandford; I know her worth.” And he
left the room.
Sandford, to relieve Miss Woodley and her lovely charge from the
suspence in which he had left them, prepared to set off for their
habitation, in order himself to conduct them from thence to Elmwood
Castle, and appoint some retired part of it for Lady Matilda, against
the annual visit her father should pay there. But before he left
London, Giffard, the steward, took an opportunity to wait upon him, and
let him know, that his Lord had acquainted him with the consent he had
given for his daughter to be admitted at Elmwood Castle, and upon what
restrictions: that he had farther uttered the severest threats, should
these restrictions ever be infringed. Sandford thanked Giffard for his
friendly information. It served him as a second warning of the
circumspection that was necessary; and having taken leave of his friend
and patron, under the pretence that “He could not live in the smoke of
London,” he set out for the North.
It is unnecessary to say with what delight Sandford was received by
Miss Woodley, and the hapless daughter of Lady Elmwood, even before he
told his errand. They both loved him sincerely; more especially Lady
Matilda, whose forlorn state, and innocent sufferings, had ever excited
his compassion and caused him to treat her with affection, tenderness,
and respect. She knew, too, how much he had been her mother’s friend;
for that, she also loved him; and for being honoured with the
friendship of her father, she looked up to him with reverence. For
Matilda (with an excellent understanding, a sedateness above her years,
and early accustomed to the most private converse between Lady Elmwood
and Miss Woodley) was perfectly acquainted with the whole fatal history
of her mother; and was, by her, taught the respect and admiration of
her father’s virtues which they justly merited.
Notwithstanding the joy of Mr. Sandford’s presence, once more to cheer
their solitary dwelling; no sooner were the first kind greetings over,
than the dread of what he might have to inform them of, possessed poor
Matilda and Miss Woodley so powerfully, that all their gladness was
changed into affright. Their apprehensions were far more forcible than
their curiosity; they dared not ask a question, and even began to wish
he would continue silent upon the subject on which they feared to
listen. For near two hours he was so.——At length, after a short
interval from speaking, (during which they waited with anxiety for what
he might next say) he turned to Lady Matilda, and said,
“You don’t ask for your father, my dear.”
“I did not know it was proper:” she replied, timidly.
“It is always proper,” answered Sandford, “for _you_ to think of him,
though he should never think on you.”
She burst into tears, and said that she “_Did_ think of him, but she
felt an apprehension of mentioning his name”—and she wept bitterly
while she spoke.
“Do not think I reproved you,” said Sandford; “I only told you what was
right.”
“Nay,” said Miss Woodley, “she does not weep for that—she fears her
father has not complied with her mother’s request. Perhaps—not even
read her letter?”
“Yes, he _has_ read it,” returned Sandford.
“Oh Heavens!” exclaimed Matilda, clasping her hands together, and the
tears falling still faster.
“Do not be so much alarmed, my dear,” said Miss Woodley; “you know we
are prepared for the worst; and you know you promised your mother,
whatever your fate should be, to submit with patience.”
“Yes,” replied Matilda, “and I am prepared for every thing, but my
father’s refusal to my dear mother.”
“Your father has not refused your mother’s request,” replied Sandford.
She was leaping from her seat in ecstasy.
“But,” continued he, “do you know what her request was?”
“Not entirely,” replied Matilda, “and since it is granted, I am
careless. But she told me her letter concerned none but me.”
To explain perfectly to Matilda, Lady Elmwood’s letter, and that she
might perfectly understand upon what terms she was admitted into
Elmwood Castle, Sandford now read the letter to her; and repeated, as
nearly as he could remember, the whole of the conversation that passed
between Lord Elmwood and himself; not even sparing, through an
erroneous delicacy, any of those threats her father had denounced,
should she dare to transgress the limits he prescribed—nor did he try
to soften, in one instance, a word he uttered. She listened sometimes
with tears, sometimes with hope, but always with awe, and with terror,
to every sentence in which her father was concerned. Once she called
him cruel—then exclaimed “He was kind;” but at the end of Sandford’s
intelligence, concluded “that she was happy and grateful for the boon
bestowed.” Even her mother had not a more exalted idea of Lord
Elmwood’s worth than his daughter had formed; and this little bounty
just obtained, would not have been greater in her mother’s estimation,
than it was now in hers. Miss Woodley, too, smiled at the prospect
before her—she esteemed Lord Elmwood beyond any mortal living—she was
proud to hear what he had said in her praise, and overjoyed at the
prospect of being once again in his company; painting at the same time
a thousand bright hopes, from watching every emotion of his soul, and
catching every proper occasion to excite or increase his paternal
sentiments. Yet she had the prudence to conceal those vague hopes from
his child, lest a disappointment might prove fatal; and assuming a
behaviour neither too much elated or depressed, she advised that they
should hope for the best, but yet, as usual, expect and prepare for the
worst.——After taking measures for quitting their melancholy abode,
within the fortnight, they all departed for Elmwood Castle—Matilda,
Miss Woodley, and even Sandford, first visiting Lady Elmwood’s grave,
and bedewing it with their tears.
CHAPTER VI.
It was on a dark evening in the month of March, that Lady Matilda,
accompanied by Sandford and Miss Woodley, arrived at Elmwood Castle,
the magnificent seat of her father. Sandford chose the evening, rather
to steal into the house privately, than by any appearance of parade, to
suffer Lord Elmwood to be reminded of their arrival by the public
prints, or by any other accident. Nor would he give the neighbours or
servants reason to suppose, the daughter of their Lord was admitted
into his house, in any other situation than that, in which she really
was permitted to be there.
As the porter opened the gates of the avenue to the carriage that
brought them, Matilda felt an awful, and yet gladsome sensation, which
no terms can describe. As she entered the door of the house this
sensation increased—and as she passed along the spacious hall, the
splendid staircase, and many stately apartments, wonder, with a crowd
of the tenderest, yet most afflicting sentiments, rushed to her heart.
She gazed with astonishment!—she reflected with still more.
“And is _my father_ the master of this house?” she cried—“and was my
mother once the mistress of this castle?” Here tears relieved her from
a part of that burthen, which was before insupportable.
“Yes,” replied Sandford, “and you are the mistress of it now, till your
father arrives.”
“Good God!” exclaimed she, “and will he ever arrive? and shall I live
to sleep under the same roof with my father?”
“My dear,” replied Miss Woodley, “have not you been told so?”
“Yes,” said she, “but though I heard it with extreme pleasure, yet the
idea never so forcibly affected me as at this moment. I now feel, as
the reality approaches, that to be admitted here, is kindness enough—I
do not ask for more—I am now convinced, from what this trial makes me
feel, that to see my father, would occasion emotions I could not
survive.”
The next morning gave to Matilda, more objects of admiration and
wonder, as she walked over the extensive gardens, groves, and other
pleasure grounds belonging to the house. She, who had never been beyond
the dreary, ruinous places which her deceased mother had made her
residence, was naturally struck with amazement and delight at the
grandeur of a seat, which travellers came for miles to see, nor thought
their time mispent.
There was one object, however, among all she saw, which attracted her
attention above the rest, and she would stand for hours to look at it.
This was a whole length portrait of Lord Elmwood, esteemed a very
capital picture, and a perfect likeness—to this picture she would sigh
and weep; though when it was first pointed out to her, she shrunk back
with fear, and it was some time before she dared venture to cast her
eyes completely upon it. In the features of her father she was proud to
discern the exact mould in which her own appeared to have been
modelled; yet Matilda’s person, shape, and complexion were so extremely
like what her mother’s once were, that at the first glance she appeared
to have a still greater resemblance of her, than of her father—but her
mind and manners were all Lord Elmwood’s; softened by the delicacy of
her sex, the extreme tenderness of her heart, and the melancholy of her
situation.
She was now in her seventeenth year—of the same age, within a year and
a few months, of her mother, when she became the ward of Dorriforth.
She was just three years old when her father went abroad, and
remembered something of bidding him farewell; but more of taking
cherries from his hand, as he pulled them from the tree to give to her.
Educated in the school of adversity, and inured to retirement from her
infancy, she had acquired a taste for all those amusements which a
recluse life affords. She was fond of walking and riding—was
accomplished in the arts of music and drawing, by the most careful
instructions of her mother—and as a scholar, she excelled most of her
sex, from the pains which Sandford had taken with that part of her
education, and the superior abilities he possessed for the task.
In devoting certain hours of the day to study with him, others to
music, riding, and such amusements, Matilda’s time never appeared
tedious at Elmwood Castle, although she received and paid no one
visit—for it was soon divulged in the neighbourhood, upon what
stipulation she resided at her father’s, and studiously intimated, that
the most prudent and friendly behaviour of her true friends, would be,
to take no notice whatever that she lived among them: and as Lord
Elmwood’s will was a law all around, such was the consequence of that
will, known, or merely supposed.
Neither did Miss Woodley regret the want of visitors, but found herself
far more satisfied in her present situation, than her most sanguine
hopes could have formed. She had a companion whom she loved with an
equal fondness, with which she had loved her deceased mother; and
frequently, in this charming mansion, where she had so often beheld
Lady Elmwood, her imagination represented Matilda as her friend risen
from the grave, in her former youth, health, and exquisite beauty.
In peace, in content, though not in happiness, the days and weeks
passed away till about the middle of August, when preparations began to
be made for the arrival of Lord Elmwood. The week in which he was to
come was at length fixed, and some part of his retinue was arrived
before him. When this was told Matilda, she started, and looked just as
her mother at her age had often done, when in spite of her love, she
was conscious that she had offended him, and was terrified at his
approach. Sandford observing this, put out his hand, and taking hers,
shook it kindly; and bade her (but it was not in a cheering tone) “not
be afraid.” This gave her no confidence; and she began, before her
father’s arrival, to seclude herself in the apartments allotted for her
during the time of his stay; and in the timorous expectation of his
coming, her appetite declined, and she lost all her colour. Even Miss
Woodley, whose spirits had been for some time elated with the hopes she
had formed, on drawing near to the test, found those hopes vanished;
and though she endeavoured to conceal it, she was full of
apprehensions. Sandford, had certainly fewer fears than either; yet
upon the eve of the day on which his patron was to arrive, he was
evidently cast down.
Lady Matilda once asked him—“Are you certain, Mr. Sandford, you made no
mistake in respect to what Lord Elmwood said, when he granted my
mother’s request? Are you sure he _did_ grant it? Was there nothing
equivocal on which he may ground his displeasure should he be told that
I am here? Oh do not let me hazard being once again turned out of his
house! Oh! save me from provoking him perhaps to curse me.” And here
she clasped her hands together with the most fervent petition, in the
dread of what might happen.
“If you doubt my words or my senses,” said Sandford, “call Giffard, and
let him inform you; the same words were repeated to him as to me.”
Though from her reason, Matilda could not doubt of any mistake from Mr.
Sandford, yet her fears suggested a thousand scruples; and this
reference to the steward she received with the utmost satisfaction,
(though she did not think it necessary to apply to him) as it perfectly
convinced her of the folly of the suspicions she had entertained.
“And yet, Mr. Sandford,” said she, “if it is so, why are you less
cheerful than you were? I cannot help thinking but it must be your
expectation of Lord Elmwood, which has occasioned this change.”
“I don’t know,” replied Sandford, carelessly, “but I believe I am grown
afraid of your father. His temper is a great deal altered from what it
once was—he raises his voice, and uses harsh expressions upon the least
provocation—his eyes flash lightning, and his face is distorted with
anger upon the slightest motives—he turns away his old servants at a
moment’s warning, and no concession can make their peace. In a word, I
am more at my ease when I am away from him—and I really believe,” added
he with a smile, but with a tear at the same time, “I really believe, I
am more afraid of _him_ in my age, than he was of _me_ when he was a
boy.”
Miss Woodley was present; she and Matilda looked at one another; and
each of them saw the other turn pale at this description.
The day at length came, on which Lord Elmwood was expected to dinner.
It would have been a high gratification to his daughter to have gone to
the topmost window of the house, and have only beheld his carriage
enter the avenue; but it was a gratification which her fears, her
tremor, her extreme sensibility would not permit her to enjoy.
Miss Woodley and she, sat down that day to dinner in their retired
apartments, which were detached from the other part of the house by a
gallery; and of the door leading to the gallery, they had a key to
impede any one from passing that way, without first ringing a bell; to
answer which, was the sole employment of a servant, who was placed
there during the Earl’s residence, lest by any accident he might chance
to come near that unfrequented part of the house, on which occasion the
man was to give immediate notice to his Lady.
Matilda and Miss Woodley sat down to dinner, but did not dine. Sandford
dined as usual, with Lord Elmwood. When tea was brought, Miss Woodley
asked the servant, who attended, if he had seen his Lord. The man
answered, “Yes, Madam; and he looks vastly well.” Matilda wept with joy
to hear it.
About nine in the evening, Sandford rang at the bell, and was
admitted—never had he been so welcome—Matilda hung upon him, as if his
recent interview with her father, had endeared him to her more than
ever; and staring anxiously in his face, seemed to enquire of him
something about Lord Elmwood, and something that should not alarm her.
“Well—how do you find yourself?” said he to her.
“How are you, Mr. Sandford?” she returned, with a sigh.
“Oh! very well,” replied he.
“Is my Lord in a good temper?” asked Miss Woodley.
“Yes; very well,” replied Sandford, with indifference.
“Did he seem glad to see you?” asked Matilda.
“He shook me by the hand,” replied Sandford.
“That was a sign he was glad to see you, was it not?” said Matilda.
“Yes; but he could not do less.”
“Nor more:” replied she.
“He looks very well, our servant tells us,” said Miss Woodley.
“Extremely well indeed,” answered Sandford: “and to tell the truth, I
never saw him in better spirits.”
“That is well—” said Matilda, and sighed a weight of fears from her
heart.
“Where is he now, Mr. Sandford?”
“Gone to take a walk about his grounds, and I stole here in the mean
time.”
“What was your conversation during dinner?” asked Miss Woodley.
“Horses, hay, farming, and politics.”
“Won’t you sup with him?”
“I shall see him again before I go to bed.”
“And again to-morrow!” cried Matilda, “what happiness!”
“He has visitors to-morrow,” said Sandford, “coming for a week or two.”
“Thank Heaven,” said Miss Woodley, “he will then be diverted from
thinking on us.”
“Do you know,” returned Sandford, “it is my firm opinion, that his
thinking of ye at present, is the cause of his good spirits.”
“Oh, Heavens!” cried Matilda, lifting up her hands with rapture.
“Nay, do not mistake me,” said Sandford; “I would not have you build a
foundation for joy upon this surmise; for if he is in spirits that you
are in this house—so near him—positively under his protection—yet he
will not allow himself to think it is the cause of his content—and the
sentiments he has adopted, and which are now become natural to him,
will remain the same as ever; nay, perhaps with greater force, should
he suspect his weakness (as he calls it) acting in opposition to them.”
“If he does but think of me with tenderness,” cried Matilda, “I am
recompensed.”
“And what recompense would his kind thoughts be to you,” said Sandford,
“were he to turn you out to beggary?”
“A great deal—a great deal,” she replied.
“But how are you to know he has these kind thoughts, if he gives you no
proof of them?”
“No, Mr. Sandford; but _supposing_ we could know them without proof.”
“But as that is impossible,” answered he, “I shall suppose, till proof
appears, that I have been mistaken in my conjectures.”
Matilda looked deeply concerned that the argument should conclude in
her disappointment; for to have believed herself thought of with
tenderness by her father, would have alone constituted her happiness.
When the servant came up with something by way of supper, he told Mr.
Sandford that his Lord was returned from his walk and had enquired for
him; Sandford immediately bade his companions good night, and left
them.
“How strange is this!” cried Matilda, when Miss Woodley and she were
alone, “My father within a few rooms of me, and yet I am debarred from
seeing him! Only by walking a few paces I could be at his feet, and
perhaps receive his blessing!”
“You make me shudder,” cried Miss Woodley; “but some spirits less timid
than mine, might perhaps advise you to the experiment.”
“Not for worlds!” returned Matilda, “no counsel could tempt me to such
temerity—and yet to entertain the thought that it is possible I could
do this, is a source of infinite comfort.”
This conversation lasted till bed time, and later; for they sat up
beyond their usual hour to indulge it.
Miss Woodley slept little, but Matilda less—she awaked repeatedly
during the night, and every time sighed to herself, “I sleep in the
same house with my father! Blessed spirit of my mother, look down and
rejoice.”
CHAPTER VII.
The next day the whole Castle appeared to Lady Matilda (though she was
in some degree retired from it) all tumult and bustle, as was usually
the case while Lord Elmwood was there. She saw from her windows, the
servants running across the yards and park; horses and carriages
driving with fury; all the suite of a nobleman; and it sometimes
elated, at other times depressed her.
These impressions however, and others of fear and anxiety, which her
father’s arrival had excited, by degrees wore off; and after some
little time, she was in the same tranquil state that she enjoyed before
he came.
He had visitors, who passed a week or two with him; he paid visits
himself for several days; and thus the time stole away, till it was
about four weeks from the time that he had arrived; in which long
period, Sandford, with all his penetration, could never clearly
discover whether he had once called to mind that his daughter was
living in the same house. He had not once named her (that was not
extraordinary) consequently no one dared name her to him; but he had
not even mentioned Miss Woodley, of whom he had so lately spoken in the
kindest terms, and had said, “He should take pleasure in seeing her
again.” From these contradictions in Lord Elmwood’s behaviour in
respect to her, it was Miss Woodley’s plan neither to throw herself in
his way, nor avoid him. She therefore frequently walked about the house
while he was in it, not indeed entirely without restraint, but at least
with the show of liberty. This freedom, indulged for some time without
peril, became at last less cautious; and as no ill consequences had
arisen from its practice, her scruples gradually ceased.
One morning, however, as she was crossing the large hall, thoughtless
of danger, a footstep at a distance alarmed her almost without knowing
why. She stopped for a moment, thinking to return; the steps approached
quicker, and before she could retreat, she beheld Lord Elmwood at the
other end of the hall, and perceived that he saw her. It was too late
to hesitate what was to be done; she could not go back, and had not
courage to go on; she therefore stood still. Disconcerted, and much
affected at his sight, (their former intimacy coming to her mind with
the many years, and many sad occurrences passed, since she last saw
him) all her intentions, all her meditated plans how to conduct herself
on such an occasion, gave way to a sudden shock—and to make the meeting
yet more distressing, her very fright, she knew, would serve to recall
more powerfully to his mind, the subject she most wished him to forget.
The steward was with him, and as they came up close by her side,
Giffard observing him look at her earnestly, said softly, but so as she
heard him, “My Lord, it is Miss Woodley.” Lord Elmwood took off his hat
instantly—and, with an apparent friendly warmth, laying hold of her
hand, he said, “Indeed, Miss Woodley, I did not know you—I am very glad
to see you:” and while he spoke, shook her hand with a cordiality which
her tender heart could not bear—and never did she feel so hard a
struggle as to restrain her tears. But the thought of Matilda’s
fate—the idea of awakening in his mind a sentiment that might irritate
him against his child, wrought more forcibly than every other effort;
and though she could not reply distinctly, she replied without weeping.
Whether he saw her embarrassment, and wished to release her from it, or
was in haste to conceal his own, he left her almost instantly: but not
till he had entreated she would dine that very day with him and Mr.
Sandford, who were to dine without other company. She curtsied assent,
and flew to tell Matilda what had occurred. After listening with
anxiety and with joy to all she told, Matilda laid hold of that hand
which she said Lord Elmwood had held, and pressed it to her lips with
love and reverence.
When Miss Woodley made her appearance at dinner, Sandford, (who had not
seen her since the invitation, and did not know of it) looked amazed;
on which Lord Elmwood said, “Do you know, Sandford, I met Miss Woodley
this morning, and had it not been for Giffard, I should have passed her
without knowing her—but Miss Woodley, if I am not so much altered but
that you knew me, I take it unkind you did not speak first.” She was
unable to speak even now—he saw it, and changed the conversation; when
Sandford eagerly joined in discourse, which relieved him from the pain
of the former.
As they advanced in their dinner, the embarrassment of Miss Woodley and
of Mr. Sandford diminished; Lord Elmwood in his turn became, not
embarrassed, but absent and melancholy. He now and then sighed
heavily—and called for wine much oftener than he was accustomed.
When Miss Woodley took her leave, he invited her to dine with him and
Sandford whenever it was convenient to her; he said, besides, many
things of the same kind, and all with the utmost civility, yet not with
that warmth with which he had spoken in the morning—into _that_ he had
been surprised—his coolness was the effect of reflection.
When she came to Lady Matilda, and Sandford had joined them, they
talked and deliberated on what had passed.
“You acknowledge Mr. Sandford,” said Miss Woodley, “that you think my
presence affected Lord Elmwood, so as to make him much more thoughtful
than usual; if you imagine these thoughts were upon Lady Elmwood, I
will never intrude again; but if you suppose that I made him think upon
his daughter, I cannot go too often.”
“I don’t see how he can divide those two objects in his mind,” replied
Sandford, “therefore you must e’en visit him on, and take your chance,
what reflections you may cause—but, be they what they will, time will
steal away from you that power of affecting him.”
She concurred in the opinion, and occasionally she walked into Lord
Elmwood’s apartments, dined, or took her coffee with him, as the
accident suited; and observed, according to Sandford’s prediction, that
time wore off the impression her visits first made. Lord Elmwood now
became just the same before her as before others. She easily discerned,
too, through all that politeness which he assumed—that he was no longer
the considerate, the forbearing character he formerly was; but haughty,
impatient, imperious, and more than ever, _implacable_.
CHAPTER VIII.
When Lord Elmwood had been at his country seat about six weeks, Mr.
Rushbrook, his nephew, and his adopted child—that friendless boy whom
poor Lady Elmwood first introduced into his uncle’s house, and by her
kindness preserved there—arrived from his travels, and was received by
his uncle with all the marks of affection due to the man he thought
worthy to be his heir. Rushbrook had been a beautiful boy, and was now
an extremely handsome young man; he had made unusual progress in his
studies, had completed the tour of Italy and Germany, and returned home
with the air and address of a perfect man of fashion—there was,
besides, an elegance and persuasion in his manner almost irresistible.
Yet with all those accomplishments, when he was introduced to Sandford,
and put forth his hand to take his, Sandford, with evident reluctance,
gave it to him; and when Lord Elmwood asked him, in the young man’s
presence, “If he did not think his nephew greatly improved?” He looked
at him from head to foot, and muttered “He could not say he observed
it.” The colour heightened in Mr. Rushbrook’s face upon the occasion,
but he was too well bred not to be in perfect good humour.
Sandford saw this young man treated, in the house of Lord Elmwood, with
the same respect and attention as if he had been his son; and it was
but probable the old priest would make a comparison between the
situation of him, and of Lady Matilda Elmwood. Before her, it was
Sandford’s meaning to have concealed his thoughts upon the subject, and
never to have mentioned it but with composure; that was, however,
impossible—unused to hide his feelings, at the name of Rushbrook, his
countenance would always change, and a sarcastic sneer, sometimes a
frown of resentment, would force its way in spite of his resolution.
Miss Woodley, too, with all her boundless charity and good will, was,
upon this occasion, induced to limit their excess; and they did not
extend so far as to reach poor Rushbrook. She even, and in _reality_,
did not think him handsome or engaging in his manners—she thought his
gaiety frivolousness, his complaisance affectation, and his good humour
impertinence. It was impossible to conceal those unfavourable
sentiments entirely from Matilda; for when the subject arose, as it
frequently did, Miss Woodley’s undisguised heart, and Sandford’s
undisguised countenance, told them instantly. Matilda had the
understanding to imagine, that she was, perhaps, the object who had
thus deformed Mr. Rushbrook, and frequently (though he was a stranger
to her, and one who had caused her many a jealous heart-ache)
frequently she would speak in his vindication.
“You are very good,” said Sandford, one day to her; “you like him,
because you know your father loves him.”
This was a hard sentence for the daughter of Lord Elmwood to hear, to
whom her father’s love would have been more precious than any other
blessing.—She, however, checked the assault of envy, and kindly
replied,
“My mother loved him too, Mr. Sandford.”
“Yes,” answered Sandford, “he has been a _grateful_ man to your poor
mother.—She did not suppose when she took him into the house; when she
intreated your father to take him; and through her caresses and
officious praises of him, first gave him that power which he now
possesses over his uncle; she little foresaw, at that time, his
ingratitude, and its effects.”
“Very true,” said Miss Woodley, with a heavy sigh.
“What ingratitude?” asked Matilda, “do you suppose Mr. Rushbrook is the
cause that my father will not see me? Oh do not pay Lord Elmwood’s
motive so ill a compliment.”
“I do not say that he is the absolute cause,” returned Sandford; “but
if a parent’s heart is void, I would have it remain so, till its lawful
owner is replaced—usurpers I detest.”
“No one can take Lord Elmwood’s heart by force,” replied his daughter,
“it must, I believe, be a free gift to the possessor; and as such,
whoever has it, has a right to it.”
In this manner she would plead the young man’s excuse—perhaps but to
hear what could be said in his disfavour, for secretly his name was
bitter to her—and once she exclaimed in vexation, on Sandford’s saying
Lord Elmwood and Mr. Rushbrook were gone out shooting together,
“All that pleasure is now eclipsed which I used to take in listening to
the report of my father’s gun, for I cannot now distinguish his, from
his parasite’s.”
Sandford, (much as he disliked Rushbrook) for this expression which
comprised her father in the reflection, turned to Matilda in extreme
anger—but as he saw the colour mount into her face, for what, in the
strong feelings of her heart had escaped her lips, he did not say a
word—and by her tears that followed, he rejoiced to see how much she
reproved _herself_.
Miss Woodley, vexed to the heart, and provoked every time she saw Lord
Elmwood and Rushbrook together, and saw the familiar terms on which
this young man lived with his benefactor, now made her visits to him
very seldom. If Lord Elmwood observed this, he did not appear to
observe it; and though he received her politely when she did pay him a
visit, it was always very coldly; nor did she suppose if she never
went, he would ever ask for her. For his daughter’s sake, however, she
thought it right sometimes to shew herself before him; for she knew it
must be impossible that, with all his apparent indifference, he could
ever see _her_ without thinking for a moment on his child; and what one
fortunate thought might some time bring about, was an object much too
serious for her to overlook. She therefore, after remaining confined to
her apartments near three weeks, (excepting those anxious walks she and
Matilda stole, while Lord Elmwood dined, or before he rose in a
morning) went one forenoon into his apartments, where, as usual, she
found him, with Mr. Sandford, and Mr. Rushbrook. After she had sat
about half an hour, conversing with them all, though but very little
with the latter, Lord Elmwood was called out of the room upon some
business; presently after, Sandford; and now, by no means pleased with
the companion with whom she was left, she rose, and was going likewise,
when Rushbrook fixed his speaking eyes upon her, and cried,
“Miss Woodley, will you pardon me what I am going to say?”
“Certainly, Sir. You can, I am sure, say nothing but what I must
forgive.” But she made this reply with a distance and a reserve, very
unlike the usual manners of Miss Woodley.
He looked at her earnestly and cried, “Ah! Miss Woodley, you don’t
behave so kindly to me as you used to do!”
“I do not understand you, Sir,” she replied very gravely; “Times are
changed, Mr. Rushbrook, since you were last here—you were then but a
child.”
“Yet I love all those persons now, that I loved then,” replied he; “and
so I shall for ever.”
“But you mistake, Mr. Rushbrook; I was not even then so very much the
object of your affections—there were other ladies you loved better.
Perhaps you don’t remember Lady Elmwood?”
“Don’t I,” cried he, “Oh!” (clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes
to heaven) “shall I ever forget her?”
That moment Lord Elmwood opened the door; the conversation of course
that moment ended; but confusion, at the sudden surprise, was on the
face of both parties—he saw it, and looked at each of them by turns,
with a sternness that made poor Miss Woodley ready to faint; while
Rushbrook, with the most natural and happy laugh that ever was
affected, cried, “No, don’t tell my Lord, pray Miss Woodley.” She was
more confused than before, and Lord Elmwood turning to him, asked what
the subject was. By this time he had invented one, and, continuing his
laugh, said, “Miss Woodley, my Lord, will to this day protest that she
saw my apparition when I was a boy; and she says it is a sign I shall
die young, and is really much affected at it.”
Lord Elmwood turned away before this ridiculous speech was concluded;
yet so well had it been acted, that he did not for an instant doubt its
truth.
Miss Woodley felt herself greatly relieved; and yet so little is it in
the power of those we dislike to do any thing to please us, that from
this very circumstance, she formed a more unfavourable opinion of Mr.
Rushbrook than she had done before. She saw in this little incident the
art of dissimulation, cunning, and duplicity in its most glaring shape;
and detested the method by which they had each escaped Lord Elmwood’s
suspicion, and perhaps anger, the more, because it was so dexterously
managed.
Lady Matilda and Sandford were both in their turns informed of this
trait in Mr. Rushbrook’s character; and although Miss Woodley had the
best of dispositions, and upon every occasion spoke the strictest
truth, yet in relating this occurrence, she did not speak _all_ the
truth; for every circumstance that would have told to the young man’s
advantage, _literally_ had slipped her memory.
The twenty-ninth of October arrived; on which a dinner, a ball, and
supper, was given by Lord Elmwood to all the neighbouring gentry—the
peasants also dined in the park off a roasted bullock, several casks of
ale were distributed, and the bells of the village rung. Matilda, who
heard and saw some part of this festivity from her windows, inquired
the cause; but even the servant who waited upon her had too much
sensibility to tell her, and answered, “He did not know.” Miss Woodley
however, soon learned the reason, and groaning with the painful secret,
informed her, “Mr. Rushbrook on that day was come of age.”
“_My_ birth-day was last week,” replied Matilda; but not a word beside.
In their retired apartments, this day passed away not only soberly, but
almost silently; for to speak upon any subject that did not engage
their thoughts had been difficult, and to speak upon the only one that
did, had been afflicting.
Just as they were sitting down to dinner their bell gently rung, and in
walked Sandford.
“Why are you not among the revellers, Mr. Sandford?” cried Miss
Woodley, with an ironical sneer—(the first her features ever
wore)—“Pray, were not you invited to dine with the company?”
“Yes,” replied Sandford; “but my head ached; and so I had rather come
and take a bit with you.”
Matilda, as if she had seen his heart as he spoke, clung round his neck
and sobbed on his bosom: he put her peevishly away, crying “Nonsense,
nonsense—eat your dinner.” But he did not eat himself.
CHAPTER IX.
About a week after this, Lord Elmwood went out two days for a visit;
consequently Rushbrook was for that time master of the house. The first
morning he went a shooting, and returning about noon, enquired of
Sandford, who was sitting in the room, if he had taken up a volume of
plays left upon the table. “I read no such things,” replied Sandford,
and quitted the room abruptly. Rushbrook then rang for his servant, and
desired him to look for the book, asking him angrily, “Who had been in
the apartment? for he was sure he had left it there when he went out.”
The servant withdrew to enquire, and presently returned with the volume
in his hand, and “Miss Woodley’s compliments, she begs your pardon,
Sir, she did not know the book was yours, and hopes you will excuse the
liberty she took.”
“Miss Woodley!” cried Rushbrook with surprise, “she comes so seldom
into these apartments, I did not suppose it was her who had it—take it
back to her instantly, with my respects, and I beg she will keep it.”
The man went; but returned with the book again, and laying it on the
table without speaking, was going away; when Rushbrook, hurt at
receiving no second message, said, “I am afraid, Sir, you did very
wrong when you first took this book from Miss Woodley.”
“It was not from her I took it, Sir,” replied the man, “it was from
Lady Matilda.”
Since he had entered the house, Rushbrook had never before heard the
name of Lady Matilda, he was shocked—confounded more than ever—and to
conceal what he felt, instantly ordered the man out of the room.
In the mean time, Miss Woodley and Matilda were talking over this
trifling occurrence; and frivolous as it was, drew from it strong
conclusions of Rushbrook’s insolence and power. In spite of her pride,
the daughter of Lord Elmwood even wept at the insult she had received
on this insignificant occasion; for the volume being merely taken from
her at Mr. Rushbrook’s command, she felt an insult; and the manner in
which it was done by the servant, might contribute to the offence.
While Miss Woodley and she were upon this conversation, a note came
from Rushbrook to Miss Woodley, wherein he entreated he might be
permitted to see her. She sent a verbal answer, “She was engaged.” He
sent again, begging she would name her own time. But sure of a second
denial, he followed the servant who took the last message, and as Miss
Woodley came out of her apartment into the gallery to speak to him,
Rushbrook presented himself, and told the man to retire.
“Mr. Rushbrook,” said Miss Woodley, “this intrusion is insupportable;
and destitute as you may think me of the friendship of Lord Elmwood”——
In the ardour with which Rushbrook was waiting to express himself, he
interrupted her, and caught hold of her hand.
She immediately snatched it from him, and withdrew into her chamber.
He followed, saying, in a low voice, “Dear Miss Woodley, hear me.”
At that juncture Lady Matilda, who was in an inner apartment, came out
of it into Miss Woodley’s. Perceiving a gentleman, she stopped short at
the door.
Rushbrook cast his eyes upon her, and stood motionless—his lips only
moved. “Do not depart, Madam,” said he, “without hearing my apology for
being here.”
Though Matilda had never seen him since her infancy, there was no
occasion to tell her who it was that addressed her—his elegant and
youthful person, joined to the incident which had just occurred,
convinced her it was Rushbrook: she looked at him with an air of
surprise, but with still more, of dignity.
“Miss Woodley is severe upon me, Madam,” continued he, “she judges me
unkindly; and I am afraid she will prepossess you with the same
unfavourable sentiments.”
Still Matilda did not speak, but looked at him with the same air of
dignity.
“If, Lady Matilda,” resumed he, “I have offended you, and must quit you
without pardon, I am more unhappy than I should be with the loss of
your father’s protection—more forlorn, than when an orphan boy, your
mother first took pity on me.”
At this last sentence, Matilda turned her eyes on Miss Woodley, and
seemed in doubt what reply she was to give.
Rushbrook immediately fell upon his knees—“Oh! Lady Matilda,” cried he,
“if you knew the sensations of my heart, you would not treat me with
this disdain.”
“We can only judge of those sensations, Mr. Rushbrook,” said Miss
Woodley, “by the effect they have upon your conduct; and while you
insult Lord and Lady Elmwood’s daughter by an intrusion like this, and
then ridicule her abject state by mockeries like these——”
He rose from his knees instantly, and interrupted her, crying, “What
can I do? What am I to say, to make you change your opinion of me?
While Lord Elmwood has been at home, I have kept an awful distance; and
though every moment I breathed was a wish to cast myself at his
daughter’s feet, yet as I feared, Miss Woodley, that you were incensed
against me, by what means was I to procure an interview but by
stratagem or force? This accident has given a third method, and I had
not strength, I had not courage, to let it pass. Lord Elmwood will soon
return, and we may both of us be hurried to town immediately—then how
for a tedious winter could I endure the reflexion that I was despised,
nay, perhaps considered as an object of ingratitude, by the only child
of my deceased benefactress?”
Matilda replied with all her father’s haughtiness, “Depend upon it,
Sir, if you should ever enter my thoughts, it will only be as an object
of envy.”
“Suffer me then, Madam,” said he, “as an earnest that you do not think
worse of me than I merit, suffer me to be sometimes admitted into your
presence—.”
She would scarce permit him to finish the period, before she replied,
“This is the last time, Sir, we shall ever meet, depend upon it—unless,
indeed, Lord Elmwood should delegate to you the controul of me—_his_
commands I never dispute.” And here she burst into tears.
Rushbrook walked towards the window, and did not speak for some
time—then turning himself to make a reply, both Matilda and Miss
Woodley were somewhat surprised to see, that he had been shedding tears
himself.—Having conquered them, he said, “I will not offend you, Madam,
by remaining one moment longer; and I give you my honour, that, upon no
pretence whatever, will I presume to intrude here again. Professions, I
find, have no weight, and only by this obedience to your orders, can I
give a proof of that respect which you inspire;—and let the agitation I
now feel, convince you, Lady Matilda, that, with all my seeming good
fortune, I am not happier than yourself.” And so much was he agitated
while he delivered this, that it was with difficulty he came to the
conclusion. When he did, he bowed with reverence, as if leaving the
presence of a deity, and retired.
Matilda immediately entered the chamber she had left, and without
casting a single look at Miss Woodley by which she might guess of the
opinion she had formed of Mr. Rushbrook’s conduct. The next time they
met they did not even mention his name; for they were ashamed to own a
partiality in his favour, and were too just to bring any accusation
against him.
But Miss Woodley, the day following, communicated the intelligence of
this visit to Mr. Sandford, who not being present, and a witness of
those marks of humility and respect which were conspicuous in the
deportment of Mr. Rushbrook, was highly offended at his presumption,
and threatened if he ever dared to force his company there again, he
would acquaint Lord Elmwood with his arrogance, whatever might be the
event. Miss Woodley, however, assured him, she believed he would have
no cause for such a complaint, as the young man had made the most
solemn promise never to commit the like offence; and she thought it her
duty to enjoin Sandford, till he did repeat it, not to mention the
circumstance, even to Rushbrook himself.
Matilda could not but feel a regard for her father’s heir, in return
for that which he had so fervently declared for her; yet the more
favourable her opinion of his mind and manners, the more he became an
object of her jealousy for the affections of Lord Elmwood, and he was
now consequently, an object of greater sorrow to her, than when she
believed him less worthy. These sentiments were reversed on his part
towards her—no jealousy intervened to bar his admiration and esteem—the
beauty of her person, and grandeur of her mien, not only confirmed, but
improved, the exalted idea he had formed of her previous to their
meeting, and which his affection to both her parents had inspired. The
next time he saw his benefactor, he began to feel a new esteem and
regard for him, for his daughter’s sake; as he had at first an esteem
for her, on the foundation of his love for Lord and Lady Elmwood. He
gazed with wonder at his uncle’s insensibility to his own happiness,
and would gladly have led him to the jewel he cast away, though even
his own expulsion should be the fatal consequence. Such was the
youthful, warm, generous, grateful, but unreflecting mind of Rushbrook.
CHAPTER X.
After this incident, Miss Woodley left her apartments less frequently
than before—she was afraid, though till now mistrust had been a
stranger to her heart, she was afraid that duplicity might be concealed
under the apparent friendship of Rushbrook; it did not indeed appear so
from any part of his behaviour, but she was apprehensive for the fate
of Matilda; she disliked him too, and therefore she suspected him. Near
three weeks she had not now paid a visit to Lord Elmwood, and though to
herself every visit was a pain, yet as Matilda took a delight in
hearing of her father, what he said, what he did, what his attention
seemed most employed on, and a thousand other circumstantial
informations, in which Sandford would scorn to be half so particular,
it was a deprivation to her, that Miss Woodley did not go oftener. Now
too, the middle of November was come, and it was expected her father
would soon quit the country.
Partly therefore to indulge her hapless companion, and partly because
it was a duty, Miss Woodley once again paid Lord Elmwood a morning
visit, and staid dinner. Rushbrook was officiously polite, (for that
was the epithet she gave his attention in relating it to Lady Matilda)
yet she owned he had not that forward impertinence she had formerly
discovered in him, but appeared much more grave and sedate.
“But tell me of my father,” said Matilda.
“I was going, my dear—but don’t be concerned—don’t let it vex you.”
“What? what?” cried Matilda, frightened by the preface.
“Why, on my observing that I thought Mr. Rushbrook looked paler than
usual, and appeared not to be in perfect health, (which was really the
case) your father expressed the greatest anxiety imaginable; he said he
could not bear to see him look so ill, begged him, with all the
tenderness of a parent, to take the advice of a physician, and added a
thousand other affectionate things.”
“I detest Mr. Rushbrook,” said Matilda, with her eyes flashing
indignation.
“Nay, for shame,” returned Miss Woodley; “do you suppose I told you
this, to make you hate him?”
“No, there was no occasion for that,” replied Matilda; “my sentiments
(though I have never before avowed them) were long ago formed; he was
always an object which added to my unhappiness; but since his daring
intrusion into my apartments, he has been an object of my hatred.”
“But now, perhaps, I may tell you something to please you,” cried Miss
Woodley.
“And what is that?” said Matilda, with indifference; for the first
intelligence had hurt her spirits too much to suffer her to listen with
pleasure to anything.
“Mr. Rushbrook,” continued Miss Woodley, “replied to your father, that
his indisposition was but a slight nervous fever, and he would defer a
physician’s advice till he went to London”—on which Lord Elmwood said,
“And when do you expect to be there?”—he replied, “Within a week or
two, I suppose, my Lord.” But your father answered, “I do not mean to
go myself till after Christmas.” “No indeed, my Lord!” said Mr.
Sandford, with surprise: “you have not passed your Christmas here these
many years.” “No,” returned your father; “but I think I feel myself
more attached to this house at present, than ever I did in my life.”
“You imagine, then, my father thought of me, when he said this?” cried
Matilda eagerly.
“But I may be mistaken,” replied Miss Woodley. “I leave you to judge.
Though I am sure Mr. Sandford imagined he thought of you, for I saw a
smile over his whole face immediately.”
“Did you, Miss Woodley?”
“Yes; it appeared on every feature except his lips; those he kept fast
closed, for fear Lord Elmwood should perceive it.”
Miss Woodley, with all her minute intelligence, did not however
acquaint Matilda, that Rushbrook followed her to the window when the
Earl was out of the room, and Sandford half asleep at the other end of
it, and inquired respectfully but anxiously for _her_; adding, “It is
my concern for Lady Matilda which makes me thus indisposed: I suffer
more than she does; but I am not permitted to tell her so, nor can I
hope, Miss Woodley, you will.” She replied, “You are right, Sir.” Nor
did she reveal this conversation, while not a sentence that passed
except that, was omitted.
When Christmas arrived, Lord Elmwood had many convivial days at Elmwood
House, but Matilda was never mentioned by one of his guests, and most
probably was never thought of. During all those holidays, she was
unusually melancholy, but sunk into the deepest dejection when she was
told the day was fixed, on which her father was to return to town. On
the morning of that day she wept incessantly; and all her consolation
was, “She would go to the chamber window that was fronting the door
through which he was to pass to his carriage, and for the first time,
and most probably for the last time in her life, behold him.”
This design was soon forgot in another:—“She would rush boldly into the
apartment where he was, and at his feet take leave of him for ever—she
would lay hold of his hands, clasp his knees, provoke him to spurn her,
which would be joy in comparison to this cruel indifference.” In the
bitterness of her grief, she once called upon her mother, and
reproached her memory—but the moment she recollected this offence,
(which was almost instantaneously) she became all mildness and
resignation. “What have I said?” cried she; “Dear, dear saint, forgive
me; and for your sake I will bear all with patience—I will not groan, I
will not even sigh again—this task I set myself to atone for what I
have dared to utter.”
While Lady Matilda laboured under this variety of sensations, Miss
Woodley was occupied in bewailing and endeavouring to calm her
sorrows—and Lord Elmwood, with Rushbrook, was ready to set off. The
Earl, however, loitered, and did not once seem in haste to be gone.
When at last he got up to depart, Sandford thought he pressed his hand,
and shook it with more warmth than ever he had done in his life.
Encouraged by this supposition, Sandford said, “My Lord, won’t you
condescend to take your leave of Miss Woodley?”
“Certainly, Sandford,” replied he, and seemed glad of an excuse to sit
down again.
Impressed with the idea of the state in which she had left his only
child, Miss Woodley, when she came before Lord Elmwood to bid him
farewell, was pale, trembling, and in tears. Sandford, notwithstanding
his patron’s apparently kind humour, was shocked at the construction he
must put upon her appearance, and cried, “What, Miss Woodley, are you
not recovered of your illness yet?” Lord Elmwood, however, took no
notice of her looks, but after wishing her her health, walked slowly
out of the house; turning back frequently and speaking to Sandford, or
to some other person who was behind him, as if part of his thoughts
were left behind, and he went with reluctance.
When he had quitted the room where Miss Woodley was, Rushbrook, timid
before her, as she had been before her benefactor, went up to her, all
humility, and said, “Miss Woodley, we ought to be friends: our concern,
our devotion is paid to the same objects, and one common interest
should teach us to be friendly.”
She made no reply.—“Will you permit me to write to you when I am away?”
said he; “You may wish to hear of Lord Elmwood’s health, and of what
changes may take place in his resolutions.—Will you permit me?” At that
moment a servant came and said, “Sir, my Lord is in the carriage, and
waiting for you.” He hastened away, and Miss Woodley was relieved from
the pain of giving him a denial.
No sooner was the chaise, with all its attendants, out of sight, than
Lady Matilda was conducted by Miss Woodley from her lonely retreat,
into that part of the house from whence her father had just
departed—and she visited every spot where he had so long resided, with
a pleasing curiosity that for a while diverted her grief. In the
breakfast and dining rooms, she leaned over those seats with a kind of
filial piety, on which she was told he had been accustomed to sit. And,
in the library, she took up with filial delight, the pen with which he
had been writing; and looked with the most curious attention into those
books that were laid upon his reading desk. But a hat, lying on one of
the tables, gave her a sensation beyond any other she experienced on
this occasion—in that trifling article of his dress, she thought she
saw himself, and held it in her hand with pious reverence.
In the mean time, Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook were proceeding on the
road, with hearts not less heavy than those which they had left at
Elmwood House; though neither of them could so well define the cause of
this oppression, as Matilda could account for the weight which
oppressed her’s.
CHAPTER XI.
Young as Lady Matilda was during the life of her mother, neither her
youth, nor the recluse state in which she lived, had precluded her from
the notice and solicitations of a nobleman who had professed himself
her lover. Viscount Margrave had an estate not far distant from the
retreat Lady Elmwood had chosen; and being devoted to the sports of the
country, he seldom quitted it for any of those joys which the town
offered. He was a young man, of a handsome person, and was, what his
neighbours called, “A man of spirit.” He was an excellent fox-hunter,
and as excellent a companion over his bottle at the end of the chace—he
was prodigal of his fortune, where his pleasures were concerned, and as
those pleasures were chiefly social, his sporting companions and his
mistresses (for these were also of the plural number) partook largely
of his wealth.
Two months previous to Lady Elmwood’s death, Miss Woodley and Lady
Matilda were taking their usual walk in some fields and lanes near to
their house, when chance threw Lord Margrave in their way during a
thunder storm in which they were suddenly caught; and he had the
satisfaction to convey his new acquaintances to their home in his
coach, safe from the fury of the elements. Grateful for the service he
had rendered them, Miss Woodley and her charge, permitted him to
enquire occasionally after their health, and would sometimes see him.
The story of Lady Elmwood was known to Lord Margrave, and as he beheld
her daughter with a passion such as he had been unused to overcome, he
indulged it with the probable hope, that on the death of the mother
Lord Elmwood would receive his child, and perhaps accept him as his
son-in-law. Wedlock was not the plan which Lord Margrave had ever
proposed to himself for happiness; but the excess of his love on this
new occasion, subdued all the resolutions he had formed against the
married state; and not daring to hope for the consummation of his
wishes by any other means, he suffered himself to look forward to that,
as his only resource. No sooner was the long expected death of Lady
Elmwood arrived, than he waited with impatience to hear that Lady
Matilda was sent for and acknowledged by her father; for he meant to be
the first to lay before Lord Elmwood his pretensions as a suitor. But
those pretensions were founded on the vague hopes of a lover only; and
Miss Woodley, to whom he first declared them, said every thing possible
to convince him of their fallacy. As to the object of his passion, she
was not only insensible, but wholly inattentive to all that was said to
her on the subject. Lady Elmwood died without ever being disturbed with
it; for her daughter did not even remember his proposals so as to
repeat them again, and Miss Woodley thought it prudent to conceal from
her friend, every new incident which might give her cause for new
anxieties.
When Sandford and the ladies left the north and came to Elmwood House,
so much were their thoughts employed with other ideas, that Lord
Margrave did not occupy a place; and during the whole time they had
been at their new abode, they had never once heard of him. He had,
nevertheless, his whole mind fixed upon Lady Matilda, and had placed
spies in the neighbourhood to inform him of every circumstance relating
to her situation. Having imbibed an aversion to matrimony, he heard
with but little regret, that there was no prospect of her ever becoming
her father’s heir, while such an information gave him the hope of
obtaining her, upon the terms of a mistress.
Lord Elmwood’s departure to town forwarded this hope, and flattering
himself that the humiliating state in which Matilda must feel herself
in the house of her father might gladly induce her to take shelter
under any other protection, he boldly advanced as soon as the Earl was
gone, to make such overture as his wishes and his vanity told him,
could not be rejected.
Inquiring for Miss Woodley, he easily gained admittance; but at the
sight of so much modesty and dignity in the person of Matilda, the
appearance of so much good will, and yet such circumspection in her
companion; and charmed at the good sense and proper spirit which were
always apparent in the manners of Sandford, he fell once more into the
despondency of never becoming to Lady Matilda any thing of more
importance to his reputation, than a husband.
Even that humble hope was sometimes denied him, while Sandford set
forth the impropriety of troubling Lord Elmwood on such a subject at
present; and while the Viscount’s penetration, small as it was,
discovered in his fair one, more to discourage, than to favour his
wishes. Plunged, however, too deep in his passion to emerge from it in
haste, he meant still to visit, and wait for a change to happier
circumstances, when he was peremptorily desired by Mr. Sandford to
desist from ever coming again.
“And why, Mr. Sandford?” cried he.
“For two reasons, my Lord;—in the first place, your visits might be
displeasing to Lord Elmwood; in the next place, I know they are so to
his daughter.”
Unaccustomed to be addressed so plainly, particularly in a case where
his heart was interested, he nevertheless submitted with patience; but
in his own mind determined how long this patience should continue—no
longer than it served as the means to prove his obedience, and by that
artifice, to secure his better reception at some future period.
On his return home, cheered with the huzzas of his jovial companions,
he began to consult those friends, what scheme was best to be adopted
for the accomplishment of his desires. Some, boldly advised application
to the father in defiance to the old priest; but that was the very last
method his Lordship himself approved, as marriage must inevitably have
followed Lord Elmwood’s consent: besides, though a Peer, Lord Margrave
was unused to rank with Peers; and even the formality of an interview
with one of his equals, carried along with it a terror, or at least a
fatigue, to a rustic Baron. Others of his companions advised seduction;
but happily the Viscount possessed no arts of this kind, to affect a
heart joined with such an understanding as Matilda’s. There were not
wanting among his most favourite counsellors some, who painted the
superior triumph and gratification of force; those assured him there
was nothing to apprehend under this head, as from the behaviour of Lord
Elmwood to his child, it was more than probable, he would be utterly
indifferent as to any violence that might be offered her. This last
advice seemed inspired by the aid of wine; and no sooner had the wine
freely circulated, than this was always the expedient, which appeared
by far the best.
While Lord Margrave alternately cherished his hopes and his fears in
the country, Rushbrook in town gave way to his fears only. Every day of
his life made him more acquainted with the firm, unshaken temper of
Lord Elmwood, and every day whispered more forcibly to him, that pity,
gratitude, and friendship, strong and affectionate as these passions
are, were weak and cold to that, which had gained the possession of his
heart—he doubted, but he did not long doubt, that, which he felt was
love. “And yet,” said he to himself, “it is love of such a kind, as
arising from causes independent of the object itself can scarce deserve
that sacred name. Did I not love Lady Matilda before I beheld her?—for
her mother’s sake I loved her—and even for her father’s. Should I have
felt the same affection for her, had she been the child of other
parents? No. Or should I have felt that sympathetic tenderness which
now preys upon my health, had not her misfortunes excited it? No.” Yet
the love which is the result of gratitude and pity only, he thought had
little claim to rank with his; and after the most deliberate and deep
reflection, he concluded with this decisive opinion—He had loved Lady
Matilda, in _whatever state_, in _whatever circumstances_; and that the
tenderness he felt towards her, and the anxiety for her happiness
before he knew her, extreme as they were, were yet cool and
dispassionate sensations, compared to those which her person and
demeanour had incited—and though he acknowledged, that by the preceding
sentiments, his heart was softened, prepared, and moulded, as it were,
to receive this last impression, yet the violence of his passion told
him that genuine love, if not the basis on which it was founded, had
been the certain consequence. With a strict scrutiny into his heart he
sought this knowledge, but arrived at it with a regret that amounted to
despair.
To shield him from despondency, he formed in his mind a thousand
visions, displaying the joys of his union with Lady Matilda; but her
father’s implacability confounded them all. Lord Elmwood was a man who
made few resolutions—but those were the effect of deliberation; and as
he was not the least capricious or inconstant in his temper, they were
resolutions which no probable event could shake. Love, that produces
wonders, that seduces and subdues the most determined and rigid
spirits, had in two instances overcome the inflexibility of Lord
Elmwood; he married Lady Elmwood contrary to his determination, because
he loved; and for the sake of this beloved object, he had, contrary to
his resolution, taken under his immediate care young Rushbrook; but the
magic which once enchanted away this spirit of immutability was no
more—Lady Elmwood was no more, and the charm was broken.
As Miss Woodley was deprived of the opportunity of desiring Rushbrook
not to write, when he asked her the permission, he passed one whole
morning, in the gratification of forming and writing a letter to her,
which he thought might possibly be shewn to Matilda. As he dared not
touch upon any of those circumstances in which he was the most
interested, this, joined to the respect he wished to pay the lady to
whom he wrote, limited his letter to about twenty lines; yet the
studious manner with which these lines were dictated, the hope that
they might, and the fear that they might not, be seen and regarded by
Lady Matilda, rendered the task an anxiety so pleasing, that he could
have wished it might have lasted for a year; and in this tendency to
magnify trifles, was discoverable, the never-failing symptom of ardent
love.
A reply to this formal address, was a reward he wished for with
impatience, but he wished in vain; and in the midst of his chagrin at
the disappointment, a sorrow, little thought of, occurred, and gave him
a perturbation of mind he had never before experienced. Lord Elmwood
proposed a wife to him; and in a way so assured of his acquiescence,
that if Rushbrook’s life had depended upon his daring to dispute his
benefactor’s will, he would not have had the courage to have done so.
There was, however, in his reply, and his embarrassment, something
which his uncle distinguished from a free concurrence; and looking
stedfastly at him, he said, in that stern manner which he now almost
invariably adopted,
“You have no engagements, I suppose! Have made no previous promises!”
“None on earth, my Lord,” replied Rushbrook candidly.
“Nor have you disposed of your heart?”
“No, my Lord,” replied he; but not candidly—nor with any appearance of
candour: for though he spoke hastily, it was rather like a man
frightened than assured. He hurried to tell the falsehood he thought
himself obliged to tell, that the pain and shame might be over; but
there he was deceived—the lie once told was as troublesome as in the
conception, and added another confusion to the first.
Lord Elmwood now fixed his eyes upon him with a sullen contempt, and
rising from his chair, said, “Rushbrook, if you have been so
inconsiderate as to give away your heart, tell me so at once, and tell
me the object.”
Rushbrook shuddered at the thought.
“I here,” continued the Earl, “tolerate the first untruth you ever told
me, as the false assertion of a lover; and give you an opportunity of
recalling it—but after this moment, it is a lie between man and man—a
lie to your friend and father, and I will not forgive it.”
Rushbrook stood silent, confused, alarmed, and bewildered in his
thoughts. Lord Elmwood proceeded:
“Name the person, if there is any, on whom you have bestowed your
heart; and though I do not give you the hope that I shall not censure
your folly, I will at least not reproach you for having at first denied
it.”
To repeat these words in writing, the reader must condemn the young man
that he could hesitate to own he loved, if he was even afraid to name
the object of his passion; but his interrogator had made the two
answers inseparable, so that all evasions of the second, Rushbrook knew
would be fruitless, after having avowed the first—and how could he
confess the latter? The absolute orders he received from the steward on
his first return from his travels, were, “Never to mention his
daughter, any more than his late wife, before Lord Elmwood.” The fault
of having rudely intruded into Lady Matilda’s presence, rushed also
upon his mind; for he did not even dare to say, by what means he had
beheld her. But more than all, the threatening manner in which this
rational and apparently conciliating speech was uttered, the menaces,
the severity which sat upon the Earl’s countenance while he delivered
those moderate words, might have intimidated a man wholly independent,
and less used to fear than his nephew had been.
“You make no answer, Sir,” said Lord Elmwood, after waiting a few
moments for his reply.
“I have only to say, my Lord,” returned Rushbrook, “that although my
heart may be totally disengaged, I may yet be disinclined to marriage.”
“May! May! Your heart _may_ be disengaged,” repeated he. “Do you dare
to reply to me equivocally, when I have asked a positive answer?”
“Perhaps I am not positive myself, my Lord; but I will enquire into the
state of my mind, and make you acquainted with it very soon.”
As the angry demeanour of his uncle affected Rushbrook with fear, so
that fear, powerfully (but with proper manliness) expressed, again
softened the displeasure of Lord Elmwood; and seeing and pitying his
nephew’s sensibility, he now changed his austere voice, and said
mildly, but firmly,
“I give you a week to consult with yourself; at the expiration of that
time I shall talk with you again, and I command you to be then prepared
to speak, not only without deceit, but without hesitation.” He left the
room at these words, and left Rushbrook released from a fate, which his
apprehensions had beheld impending that moment.
He had now a week to call his thoughts together, to weigh every
circumstance, and to determine whether implicitly to submit to Lord
Elmwood’s recommendation of a wife, or to revolt from it, and see
another, with more subserviency to his will, appointed his heir.
Undetermined how to act upon this trial which was to decide his future
destiny, Rushbrook suffered so poignant an uncertainty, that he became
at length ill, and before the end of the week that was allotted him for
his reply, he was confined to his bed in a high fever. Lord Elmwood was
extremely affected at his indisposition; he gave him every care he
could bestow, and even much of his personal attendance. This last
favour had a claim upon the young man’s gratitude, superior to every
other obligation which since his infancy his benefactor had conferred;
and he was at times so moved by those marks of kindness he received,
that he would form the intention of tearing from his heart every trace
that Lady Matilda had left there, and as soon as his health would
permit him, obey, to the utmost of his views, every wish his uncle had
conceived. Yet again, her pitiable situation presented itself to his
compassion, and her beauteous person to his love. Divided between the
claims of obligation to the father, and tender attachment to the
daughter, his illness was increased by the tortures of his mind, and he
once sincerely wished for that death, of which he was in danger, to
free him from the dilemma in which his affections had involved him.
At the time his disorder was at the height, and he lay complaining of
the violence of his fever, Lord Elmwood, taking his hand, asked him,
“If there was any thing he could do for him?”
“Yes, yes, my Lord, a great deal:” he replied eagerly.
“What is it, Harry?”
“Oh! my Lord,” replied he, “that is what I must not tell you.”
“Defer it then till you are well:” said Lord Elmwood; afraid of being
surprised, or affected by the state of his health, into any promises
which he might hereafter find the impropriety of granting.
“And when I recover, my Lord, you give me leave to reveal to you my
wishes, let them be what they will?”
His uncle hesitated——but seeing an anxiety for the answer, by his
raising himself upon his elbow in the bed and staring wildly, Lord
Elmwood at last said, “Certainly—Yes, yes,” as a child is answered for
its quiet.
That Lord Elmwood could have no idea what the real petition was, which
Rushbrook meant to present him is certain; but it is certain he
expected he had some request to make, with which it might be wrong for
him to comply, and therefore he avoided hearing what it was; for great
as his compassion for him was in his present state, it was not of
sufficient force to urge him to give a promise he did not mean to
perform. Rushbrook, on his part was pleased with the assurance he might
speak when he was restored to health; but no sooner was his fever
abated, and his senses perfectly recovered from the slight derangement
his malady had occasioned, than the lively remembrance of what he had
hinted, alarmed him, and he was even afraid to look his kind, but awful
relation in the face. Lord Elmwood’s cheerfulness, however, on his
returning health, and his undiminished attention, soon convinced him
that he had nothing to fear. But, alas! he found too, that he had
nothing to hope. As his health re-established, his wishes
re-established also, and with his wishes, his despair.
Convinced now, that his nephew had something on his mind which he
feared to reveal, the Earl no longer doubted but that some youthful
attachment had armed him against any marriage he should propose; but he
had so much pity for his present weak state, to delay that further
inquiry which he had threatened before his illness, to a time when he
should be entirely restored.
It was the end of May before Rushbrook was able to partake in the usual
routine of the day—the country was now prescribed him as the means of
complete restoration; and as Lord Elmwood designed to leave London some
time in June, he advised him to go to Elmwood House a week or two
before him; this advice was received with delight, and a letter was
sent to Mr. Sandford to prepare for Mr. Rushbrook’s arrival.
CHAPTER XII.
During the illness of Rushbrook, news had been sent of his danger, from
the servants in town to those at Elmwood House, and Lady Matilda
expressed compassion when she was told of it—she began to conceive, the
instant she thought he would soon die, that his visit to her had merit
rather than impertinence in its design, and that he might possibly be a
more deserving man, than she had supposed him to be. Even Sandford and
Miss Woodley, began to recollect qualifications he possessed, which
they never had reflected on before, and Miss Woodley in particular,
reproached herself that she had been so severe and inattentive to him.
Notwithstanding the prospects his death pointed out to her, it was with
infinite joy she heard he was recovered; nor was Sandford less
satisfied; for he had treated the young man too unkindly not to dread,
lest any ill should befall him; but although he was glad to hear of his
restored health, when he was informed he was coming down to Elmwood
House for a few weeks in the style of its master, Sandford, with all
his religious and humane principles, could not help thinking, “That if
the lad had been properly prepared to die, he had been as well out of
the world as in it.”
He was still less his friend when he saw him arrive with his usual
florid complexion: had he come pale and sickly, Sandford had been kind
to him; but in apparently good health and spirits, he could not form
his lips to tell him he was “Glad to see him.”
On his arrival, Matilda, who for five months had been at large,
secluded herself as she would have done upon the arrival of Lord
Elmwood; but with far different sensations. Notwithstanding her
restriction on the latter occasion, the residence of her father in that
house had been a source of pleasure, rather than of sorrow to her; but
from the abode of Rushbrook she derived punishment alone.
When, from inquiries, Rushbrook found that on his approach, Matilda had
retired to her own confined apartments, the thought was torture to him;
it was the hope of seeing and conversing with her, of being admitted at
all times to her society as the mistress of the house, that had raised
his spirits, and effected his perfect cure beyond any other cause; and
he was hurt to the greatest degree at this respect, or rather contempt,
shown to him by her retreat.
It was, nevertheless, a subject too delicate for him to touch upon in
any one sense—an invitation for her company on his part, might carry
the appearance of superior authority, and an affected condescension,
which he justly considered as the worst of all insults. And yet, how
could he support the idea that his visit had placed the daughter of his
benefactor, as a dependent stranger in that house, where in reality
_he_ was the dependent, and she the lawful heir? For two or three days
he suffered the torment of these reflections, hoping that he should
come to an explanation of all he felt, by a fortunate meeting with Miss
Woodley; but when that meeting occurred, though he observed she talked
to him with less reserve than she had formerly done, and even gave some
proofs of the native goodness of her disposition, yet she scrupulously
avoided naming Lady Matilda; and when he diffidently inquired of her
health, a cold restraint overspread Miss Woodley’s face, and she left
him instantly. To Sandford it was still more difficult for him to
apply; for though frequently together, they were never sociable; and as
Sandford seldom disguised his feelings, to Rushbrook he was always
extremely severe, and sometimes unmannerly.
In this perplexed situation, the country air was rather of detriment
than service to the invalid; and had he not, like a true lover, clung
fast to hope, while he could perceive nothing but despair, he would
have returned to town, rather than by his stay have placed in a
subordinate state, the object of his adoration. Persisting in his
hopes, he one morning met Miss Woodley in the garden, and engaging her
a longer time than usual in conversation, at last obtained her promise
“She would that day dine with him and Mr. Sandford.” But no sooner had
she parted from him, than she repented of her consent; and upon
communicating it, Matilda, for the first time in her life, darted upon
her kind companion, a look of the most cutting reproach and haughty
resentment. Miss Woodley’s own sentiments had upbraided her before; but
she was not prepared to receive so pointed a mark of disapprobation
from her young friend, till now duteous and humble to her as to a
mother, and not less affectionate. Her heart was too susceptible to
bear this disrespectful and contumelious frown, from the object of her
long-devoted care and concern; the tears instantly covered her face,
and she laid her hands upon her heart, as if she thought it would
break. Matilda was moved, but she possessed too much of the manly
resentment of her father, to discover what she felt for the first few
minutes. Miss Woodley, who had given so many tears to her sorrows, but
never till now, one to her anger, had a deeper sense of this
indifference, than of the anger itself, and to conceal what she
suffered, left the room. Matilda, who had been till this time working
at her needle, seemingly composed, now let her work drop from her hand,
and sat for a while in a deep reverie. At length she rose up, and
followed Miss Woodley to the other apartment. She entered grave,
majestic and apparently serene, while her poor heart fluttered with a
thousand distressing sensations. She approached Miss Woodley (who was
still in tears) with silence; and awed by her manners, the faithful
friend of her deceased mother exclaimed, “Dear Lady Matilda, think no
more on what I have done—do not resent it any longer, and on my knees
I’ll beg your pardon.” Miss Woodley rose as she uttered these last
words; but Matilda laid fast hold of her to prevent the posture she
offered to take, and instantly assumed it herself. “Oh, let this be my
atonement!” she cried with the most earnest supplication.
They interchanged forgiveness; and as this reconciliation was sincere,
they each, without reserve, gave their opinion upon the subject that
had caused the misunderstanding; and it was agreed an apology should be
sent to Mr. Rushbrook, “That Miss Woodley had been suddenly
indisposed:” nor could this be said to differ from the truth, for since
what had passed she was unfit to pay a visit.
Rushbrook, who had been all the morning elated with the advance he
supposed he had made in that lady’s favour, was highly disappointed,
vexed, and angry, when this apology was delivered; nor did he, nor
perhaps could he, conceal what he felt, although his severe observer,
Mr. Sandford, was present.
“I am a very unfortunate man!” said he, as soon as the servant was gone
who brought the message.
Sandford cast his eyes upon him with a look of surprise and contempt.
“A very unfortunate man indeed, Mr. Sandford,” repeated he, “although
you treat my complaint contemptuously.”
Sandford made no reply, and seemed above making one.
They sat down to dinner;—Rushbrook eat scarce any thing, but drank
frequently; Sandford took no notice of either, but had a book (which
was his custom when he dined with persons whose conversation was not
interesting to him) laid by the side of his plate, which he
occasionally looked into, as the dishes were removing, or other
opportunities served.
Rushbrook, just now more hopeless than ever of forming an acquaintance
with Lady Matilda, began to give way to symptoms of despondency; and
they made their first attack, by urging him, to treat on the same level
of familiarity that he himself was treated, Mr. Sandford, to whom he
had, till now, ever behaved with the most profound tokens of respect.
“Come,” said he to him as soon as the dinner was removed, “lay aside
your book and be good company.”
Sandford lifted up his eyes upon him—stared in his face—and cast them
on the book again.
“Pshaw,” continued Rushbrook, “I want a companion; and as Miss Woodley
has disappointed me, I must have your company.”
Sandford now laid his book down upon the table; but still holding his
fingers in the pages he was reading, said, “And why are you
disappointed of Miss Woodley’s company? When people expect what they
have no right to hope, ’tis impertinent assurance to complain they are
disappointed.”
“I had a right to hope she would come,” answered Rushbrook, “for she
promised she would.”
“But what right had you to ask her?”
“The right every one has, to make his time pass as agreeably as he
can.”
“But not at the expence of another.”
“I believe, Mr. Sandford, it would be a heavy expence to you, to see me
happy; I believe it would cost you even your own happiness.”
“That is a price I have not now to give:” replied Sandford, and began
reading again.
“What, you have already paid it away? No wonder that at your time of
life it should be gone. But what do you think of my having already
squandered mine?”
“I don’t think about you;” returned Sandford, without taking his eyes
from the book.
“Can you look me in the face and say that, Mr. Sandford? No, you
cannot—for you know you _do_ think of me, and you know you hate
me.”—Here he drank two glasses of wine one after another; “And I can
tell you why you hate me,” continued he: “It is from a cause for which
I often hate myself.”
Sandford read on.
“It is on Lady Matilda’s account you hate me, and use me thus.”
Sandford put down the book hastily, and put both his hands by his side.
“Yes,” resumed Rushbrook, “you think I am wronging her.”
“I think you insult her,” exclaimed Sandford, “by this rude mention of
her name; and I command you at your peril to desist.”
“At my peril! Mr. Sandford? Do you assume the authority of my Lord
Elmwood?”
“I do on this occasion; and if you dare to give your tongue a
freedom”——
Rushbrook interrupted him—“Why then I boldly say, (and as her friend
you ought rather to applaud than resent it) I boldly say, that my heart
suffers so much for her situation, that I am regardless of my own. I
love her father—I loved her mother more—but I love _her_ beyond
either.”
“Hold your licentious tongue,” cried Sandford, “or quit the room.”
“Licentious! Oh! the pure thoughts that dwell in her innocent mind, are
not less sensual than mine towards her. Do you upbraid me with my
respect, my pity for her? They are the sensations which impel me to
speak thus undisguised, even to you, my open—no, even worse—my secret
enemy!”
“Insult _me_ as you please, Mr. Rushbrook,—but beware how you mention
Lord Elmwood’s daughter.”
“Can it be to her dishonour that I pity her? that I would quit the
house this moment never to return, so that she supplied the place I
with-hold from her.”
“Go, then;” cried Sandford.
“It would be of no use to her, or I would. But come, Mr. Sandford, I
will dare do as much as you. Only second me, and I will entreat Lord
Elmwood to be reconciled—to see and own her.”
“Your vanity would be equal to your temerity—_you_ entreat? She must
greatly esteem those paternal favours which _your_ entreaties gained
her! Do you forget, young man, how short a time it is, since you were
_entreated for_?”
“I prove that I do not, while this anxiety for Lady Matilda, arises,
from what I feel on that account.”
“Remove your anxiety, then, from her to yourself; for were I to let
Lord Elmwood know what has now passed”—
“It is for your own sake, not for mine, if you do not.”
“You shall not dare me to it, Mr. Rushbrook.” And he rose from his
seat: “You shall not dare me to do you an injury. But to avoid the
temptation, I will never again come into your company, unless my
friend, Lord Elmwood, be present, to protect me and his child from your
insults.”
Rushbrook rose in yet more warmth than Sandford
“Have you the injustice to say that I have insulted Lady Matilda?”
“To speak of her at all, is in you an insult. But you have done
more—you have dared to visit her—to force into her presence and shock
her with your offers of services which she scorns; and with your
compassion, which she is above.”
“Did she complain to you?”
“She or her friend did.”
“I rather suppose, Mr. Sandford, that you have bribed some of the
servants to reveal this.”
“The suspicion becomes Lord Elmwood’s heir.”
“It becomes the man, who lives in a house with you.”
“I thank you, Mr. Rushbrook, for what has passed this day—it has taken
a weight off my mind. I thought my disinclination to you, might perhaps
arise from prejudice—this conversation has relieved me from those
fears, and—I thank you.” Saying this he calmly walked out of the room,
and left Rushbrook to reflect on what he had been doing.
Heated with the wine he had drank (and which Sandford, engaged on his
book, had not observed) no sooner was he alone, than he became by
degrees cool and repentant. “What had he done?” was the first question
to himself—“He had offended Sandford.”—The man, whom reason as well as
prudence had ever taught him to respect, and even to revere. He had
grossly offended the firm friend of Lady Matilda, by the unreserved and
wanton use of her name. All the retorts he had uttered came now to his
memory; with a total forgetfulness of all that Sandford had said to
provoke them.
He once thought to follow him and beg his pardon; but the contempt with
which he had been treated, more than all the anger, with-held him.
As he sat forming plans how to retrieve the opinion, ill as it was,
which Sandford formerly entertained of him, he received a letter from
Lord Elmwood, kindly enquiring after his health, and saying that he
should be down early in the following week. Never were the friendly
expressions of his uncle half so welcome to him; for they served to
sooth his imagination, racked with Sandford’s wrath, and his own
displeasure.
CHAPTER XIII.
When Sandford acted deliberately, he always acted up to his duty; it
was his duty to forgive Rushbrook, and he did so—but he had declared he
would never “Be again in his company unless Lord Elmwood was present;”
and with all his forgiveness, he found an unforgiving gratification, in
the duty, of being obliged to keep his word.
The next day Rushbrook dined alone, while Sandford gave his company to
the ladies. Rushbrook was too proud to seek to conciliate Sandford by
abject concessions, but he endeavoured to meet him as by accident, and
meant to try what, in such a case, a submissive apology might effect.
For two days all the schemes he formed on that head proved fruitless;
he could never procure even a sight of him. But on the evening of the
third day, taking a lonely walk, he turned the corner of a grove, and
saw in the very path he was going, Sandford accompanied by Miss
Woodley; and, what agitated him infinitely more, Lady Matilda was with
them. He knew not whether to proceed, or to quit the path and palpably
shun them—to one, who seemed to put an unkind construction upon all he
said and did, he knew that to do either, would be to do wrong. In spite
of the propensity he felt to pass so near to Matilda, could he have
known what conduct would have been deemed the most respectful, whatever
painful denial it had cost him, _that_, he would have adopted. But
undetermined whether to go forward, or to cross to another path, he
still walked on till he came too nigh to recede: he then, with a
diffidence not affected, but most powerfully felt, pulled off his hat;
and without bowing, stood respectfully silent while the company passed.
Sandford walked on some paces before, and took no further notice as he
went by him, than just touching the fore part of his hat with his
finger. Miss Woodley curtsied as she followed. But Lady Matilda made a
full stop, and said, in the gentlest accents, “I hope, Mr. Rushbrook,
you are perfectly recovered.”
It was the sweetest music he had ever listened to; and he replied with
the most reverential bow, “I am better a great deal, Ma’am.” Then
instantly pursued his way as if he did not dare to utter another
syllable.
Sandford seldom found fault with Lady Matilda; not because he loved
her, but because she seldom did wrong—upon this occasion, however, he
was half inclined to reprimand her; but yet he did not know what to
say—the subsequent humility of Rushbrook, had taken from the
indiscretion of her speaking to him, and the event could by no means
justify his censure. On hearing her begin to speak, Sandford had
stopped; and as Rushbrook after replying, walked away, Sandford called
to her crossly, “Come, come along.” But at the same time he put out his
elbow for her to take hold of his arm.
She hastened her steps, and did so—then turning to Miss Woodley, she
said, “I expected you would have spoken to Mr. Rushbrook; it might have
prevented me.”
Miss Woodley replied, “I was at a loss what to do;—when we met
formerly, he always spoke first.”
“And he ought now,” cried Sandford angrily—and then added, with a
sarcastic smile, “It is certainly proper that the _superior_, should be
the first who speaks.”
“He did not look as if he thought himself our superior,” replied
Matilda.
“No,” returned Sandford, “some people can put on what looks they
please.”
“Then while he looks so pale,” replied Matilda, “and so dejected, I can
never forbear speaking to him when we meet, whatever he may think of
it.”
“And were he and I to meet a hundred, nay a thousand times,” returned
Sandford, “I don’t think I should ever speak to him again.”
“Bless me! what for, Mr. Sandford?” cried Matilda—for Sandford, who was
not a man that repeated little incidents, had never mentioned the
circumstance of their quarrel.
“I have taken such a resolution,” answered he, “yet I bear him no
enmity.”
As this short reply indicated that he meant to say no more, no more was
asked; and the subject was dropped.
In the mean time, Rushbrook, happier than he had been for months,
intoxicated with joy at that voluntary mark of civility he had received
from Lady Matilda, felt his heart so joyous, and so free from every
particle of malice, that he resolved, in the humblest manner, to make
atonement for the violation of decorum he had lately committed against
Mr. Sandford.
Too happy, at this time, to suffer a mortification from any indignities
he might receive, he sent his servant to him into his study, as soon as
he was returned home, to beg to know “If he might be permitted to wait
upon him, with a message he had to deliver from Lord Elmwood.”
The servant returned—“Mr. Sandford desired he would send the message by
him, or the house-steward.” This was highly affronting; but Rushbrook
was not in a humour to be offended, and he sent again, begging he would
admit him; but the answer was, “He was busy.”
Thus wholly defeated in his hopes of reconciliation, his new transports
felt an allay, and the few days that remained before Lord Elmwood came,
he passed in solitary musing, and ineffectual walks and looks towards
that path in which he had met Matilda—she came that way no more—indeed
scarce quitted her apartment, in the practice of that confinement she
was to experience on the arrival of her father.
All her former agitations now returned. On the day he arrived she
wept—all the night she did not sleep—and the name of Rushbrook again
became hateful to her. The Earl came in extremely good health and
spirits, but appeared concerned to find Rushbrook less well than when
he went from town. Sandford was now under the necessity of being in
Rushbrook’s company, yet he would never speak to him but when he was
obliged; or look at him, but when he could not help it. Lord Elmwood
observed this conduct, yet he neither wondered, or was offended at
it—he had perceived what little esteem Sandford showed his nephew from
his first return; but he forgave, in Sandford’s humour, a thousand
faults he would not forgive in any other; nor did he deem this one of
his greatest faults, knowing the demand upon his partiality from
another object.
Miss Woodley waited on Lord Elmwood as formerly; dined with him, and
related, as heretofore, to the attentive Matilda, all that passed.
About this time Lord Margrave, deprived by the season of all the sports
of the field, felt his love for Matilda (which had been violent, even
though divided with the love of hunting) now too strong to be subdued;
and he resolved, though reluctantly, to apply to her father for his
consent to their union; but writing to Sandford this resolution, he was
once more repulsed, and charged as a man of honour, to forbear to
disturb the tranquillity of the family by any application of the kind.
To this, Sandford received no answer; for the peer, highly incensed at
his mistress’s repugnance to him, determined more firmly than ever to
consult his own happiness alone; and as that depended merely upon his
obtaining her, he cared not by what method it was effected.
About a fortnight after Lord Elmwood came into the country, as he was
riding one morning, his horse fell with him, and crushed his leg in so
unfortunate a manner, as to be at first pronounced of dangerous
consequence. He was brought home in a post chaise, and Matilda heard of
the accident with more grief than would, perhaps, on such an occasion,
appertain to the most fondled child.
In consequence of the pain he suffered, his fever was one night very
high; and Sandford, who seldom quitted his apartment, went frequently
to his bedside, every time with the secret hope he should hear him ask
to see his daughter—he was every time disappointed—yet he saw him
shake, with a cordial friendship, the hand of Rushbrook, as if he
delighted in seeing those he loved.
The danger in which Lord Elmwood was supposed to be, was but of short
duration, and his sudden recovery succeeded. Matilda, who had wept,
moaned, and watched during the crisis of his illness, when she heard he
was amending, exclaimed, (with a kind of surprise at the novelty of the
sensation) “And this is joy that I feel! Oh! I never till now knew,
what those persons felt who experienced joy.”
Nor did she repine, like Mr. Sandford and Miss Woodley, at her father’s
inattention to her during his malady, for she did not hope like
them—she did not hope he would behold her, even in dying.
But notwithstanding his seeming indifference, while his indisposition
continued, no sooner was he recovered so as to receive the
congratulations of his friends, than there was no one person he
evidently showed so much satisfaction at seeing, as Miss Woodley. She
waited upon him timorously, and with more than ordinary distaste at his
late conduct, when he put out his hand with the utmost warmth to
receive her; drew her to him; saluted her, (an honour he had never in
his life conferred before) with signs of the sincerest friendship and
affection. Sandford was present; and ever associating the idea of
Matilda with Miss Woodley, felt his heart bound with a triumph it had
not enjoyed for many a day.
Matilda listened with delight to the recital Miss Woodley gave on her
return, and many times while it lasted exclaimed, “She was happy.” But
poor Matilda’s sudden transports of joy, which she termed happiness,
were not made for long continuance; and if she ever found cause for
gladness, she far oftener had motives for grief.
As Mr. Sandford was sitting with her and Miss Woodley, one evening
about a week after, a person rang at the bell and inquired for him: on
being told of it by the servant, he went to the door of the apartment,
and cried, “Oh! is it you? Come in.” An elderly man entered, who had
been for many years the head gardener at Elmwood House; a man of
honesty and sobriety, and with an indigent family of aged parents,
children, and other relations, who subsisted wholly on the income
arising from his place. The ladies, as well as Sandford, knew him well,
and they all, almost at once, asked, “What was the matter?” for his
looks told them something distressful had befallen him.
“Oh, Sir!” said he to Sandford, “I come to intreat your interest.”
“In what, Edwards?” said Sandford with a mild voice; for when his
assistance was supplicated in distress, his rough tones always took a
plaintive key.
“My Lord has discharged me from his service!” (returned Edwards
trembling, and the tears starting in his eyes) “I am undone, Mr.
Sandford, unless you plead for me.”
“I will,” said Sandford, “I will.”
“And yet I am almost afraid of your success,” replied the man, “for my
Lord has ordered me out of his house this moment; and though I knelt
down to him to be heard, he had no pity.”
Matilda sighed from the bottom of her heart, and yet she envied this
poor man, who had been kneeling to her father.
“What was your offence?” cried Sandford.
The man hesitated; then looking at Matilda, said, “I’ll tell you, Sir,
some other time.”
“Did you name me, before Lord Elmwood?” cried she eagerly, and
terrified.
“No, Madam,” replied he, “but I unthinkingly spoke of my poor Lady who
is dead and gone.”
Matilda burst into tears.
“How came you to do so mad a thing?” cried Sandford; and the
encouragement which his looks had once given him, now fled from his
face.
“It was unthinkingly,” repeated Edwards; “I was showing my Lord some
plans for the new walks, and told him, among other things, that her
Ladyship had many years ago approved of them. ‘Who?’ cried he. Still I
did not call to mind, but said, ‘Lady Elmwood, Sir, while you were
abroad.’—As soon as these words were delivered, I saw my doom in his
looks, and he commanded me to quit his house and service that instant.”
“I am afraid,” said Sandford, shaking his head, “I can do nothing for
you.”
“Yes, Sir, you know you have more power over my Lord than any body—and
perhaps you may be able to save me and all mine from misery.”
“I would, if I could,” replied Sandford quickly.
“You can but try, Sir.”
Matilda was all this while bathed in tears; nor was Miss Woodley much
less affected—Lady Elmwood was before their eyes—Matilda beheld her in
her dying moments; Miss Woodley saw her as the gay ward of Dorriforth.
“Ask Mr. Rushbrook,” said Sandford, “prevail on him to speak for you;
he has more power than I have.”
“He has not enough, then,” replied Edwards, “for he was in the room
with my Lord when what I have told you happened.”
“And did he say nothing?” asked Sandford.
“Yes, Sir; he offered to speak in my behalf, but my Lord interrupted
him, and ordered him out of the room—he instantly went.”
Sandford, now observing the effect which this narration had on the two
ladies, led the man to his own apartments, and there assured him he
dared not undertake his cause; but that if time or chance should
happily make an alteration in his Lord’s disposition, he would be the
first who would endeavour to replace him.—Edwards was obliged to
submit; and before the next day at noon, his pleasant house by the side
of the park, his garden, and his orchard, which he had occupied above
twenty years, were cleared of their old inhabitant, and all his
wretched family.
CHAPTER XIV.
This melancholy incident, perhaps affected Matilda and all the friends
of the deceased Lady Elmwood, beyond any other that had occurred since
her death. A few days after this circumstance, Miss Woodley, in order
to divert the disconsolate mind of Lady Matilda, (and in the hope of
bringing her some little anecdotes, to console her for that which had
given her so much pain) waited upon Lord Elmwood in his library, and
borrowed some books out of it. He was now perfectly well from his fall,
and received her with his usual politeness, but, of course, not with
that peculiar warmth which he had discovered when he received her just
after his illness. Rushbrook was in the library at the same time; he
shewed her several beautiful prints which Lord Elmwood had just
received from London, and appeared anxious to entertain and give tokens
of his esteem and respect for her. But what gave her pleasure beyond
any other attention, was, that after she had taken (by the aid of
Rushbrook) about a dozen volumes from different shelves, and had laid
them together, saying she would send her servant to fetch them; Lord
Elmwood went eagerly to the place where they were, and taking up each
book, examined minutely what it was. One author he complained was too
light, another too depressing, and put them on the shelves again:
another was erroneous, and he changed it for a better: thus, he warned
her against some, and selected other authors, as the most cautious
preceptor culls for his pupil, or a fond father for his darling Child.
She thanked him for his attention to her, but her heart thanked him for
his attention to his daughter. For as she had herself never received
such a proof of his care since all their long acquaintance, she
reasonably supposed, Matilda’s reading, and not hers, was the object of
his solicitude.
Having in these books store of comfort for poor Matilda, she eagerly
returned with them; and in reciting every particular circumstance, made
her consider the volumes, almost like presents from her father.
The month of September was now arrived; and Lord Elmwood, accompanied
by Rushbrook, went to a small shooting seat, near twenty miles distant
from Elmwood Castle, for a week’s particular sport. Matilda was once
more at large; and one beautiful morning, about eleven o’clock, seeing
Miss Woodley walking on the lawn before the house, she hastily took her
hat to join her; and not waiting to put it on, went nimbly down the
great staircase, with it hanging on her arm. When she had descended a
few stairs, she heard a footstep walking slowly up; and, (from what
emotion she could not tell,) she stopped short, half resolved to turn
back. She hesitated a single instant whether she should or not—then
went a few steps further till she came to the second landing place;
when, by the sudden winding of the staircase,—Lord Elmwood was
immediately before her!
She had felt something like affright before she saw him; but her reason
told her she had nothing to fear, as he was away. But now, the
appearance of a stranger whom she had never before seen; the authority
in his looks, as well as in the sound of his steps; a resemblance to
the portrait she had been shown of him; a start of astonishment which
he gave on beholding her; but above all—her _fears_ confirmed her that
it was him. She gave a scream of terror—put out her trembling hands to
catch the balustrades for support—missed them—and fell motionless into
her father’s arms.
He caught her, as by the same impulse, he would have caught any other
person falling for want of aid. Yet when he found her in his arms, he
still held her there—gazed on her attentively—and once pressed her to
his bosom.
At length trying to escape the snare into which he had been led, he was
going to leave her on the spot where she fell, when her eyes opened and
she uttered, “Save me.” Her voice unmanned him. His long-restrained
tears now burst forth—and seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he cried
out eagerly to recall her. Her name did not, however, come to his
recollection—nor any name but this—“Miss Milner—Dear Miss Milner.”
That sound did not awaken her; and now again he wished to leave her in
this senseless state, that not remembering what had passed, she might
escape the punishment.
But at this instant, Giffard, with another servant, passed by the foot
of the stairs: on which, Lord Elmwood called to them—and into Giffard’s
hands delivered his apparently dead child; without one command
respecting her, or one word of any kind; while his face was agitated
with shame, with pity, with anger, with paternal tenderness.
As Giffard stood trembling, while he relieved his Lord from this
hapless burthen, her father had to unloose her hand from the side of
his coat, which she had caught fast hold of as she fell, and grasped so
closely, it was with difficulty released.—On attempting to take the
hand away he trembled—faltered—then bade Giffard do it.
“Who, I, my Lord! I separate you!” cried he. But recollecting himself,
“My Lord, I will obey your commands whatever they are.” And seizing her
hand, pulled it with violence—it fell—and her father went away.
Matilda was carried to her own apartments, laid upon the bed, and Miss
Woodley hasted to attend her, after listening to the recital of what
had passed.
When Lady Elmwood’s old and affectionate friend entered the room, and
saw her youthful charge lying pale and speechless, yet no father by to
comfort or sooth her, she lifted up her hands to Heaven exclaiming,
with a burst of tears, “And is this the end of thee, my poor child? Is
this the end of all our hopes?—of thy own fearful hopes—and of thy
mother’s supplications! Oh! Lord Elmwood! Lord Elmwood!”
At that name Matilda started, and cried, “Where is he? Is it a dream,
or have I seen him?”
“It is all a dream, my dear,” said Miss Woodley.
“And yet I thought he held me in his arms,” she replied—“I thought I
felt his hands press mine.—Let me sleep and dream again.”
Now thinking it best to undeceive her, “It is no dream, my dear,”
returned Miss Woodley.
“Is it not?” cried she, starting up and leaning on her elbow—“Then I
suppose I must go away—go for ever away.”
Sandford now entered. Having been told the news, he came to condole—but
at the sight of him Matilda was terrified, and cried, “Do not reproach
me, do not upbraid me—I know I have done wrong—I know I had but one
command from my father, and that I have disobeyed.”
Sandford could not reproach her, for he could not speak; he therefore
only walked to the window and concealed his tears.
That whole day and night was passed in sympathetic grief, in alarm at
every sound, lest it should be a messenger to pronounce Matilda’s
destiny.
Lord Elmwood did not stay upon this visit above three hours at Elmwood
House; he then set off again for the seat he had left; where Rushbrook
still remained, and from whence his Lordship had merely come by
accident, to look over some writings which he wanted dispatched to
town.
During his short continuance here, Sandford cautiously avoided his
presence; for he thought, in a case like this, what nature would not of
herself effect, no art, no arguments of his, could accomplish: to
Nature and Providence he left the whole. What these two powerful
principles brought about, the reader will judge, when he peruses the
following letter, received early the next morning by Miss Woodley.
A
SIMPLE STORY,
IN FOUR VOLUMES,
BY
MRS. INCHBALD.
VOL. IV.
_THE FOURTH EDITION._
LONDON:
Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1799.
A SIMPLE STORY.
CHAPTER I.
_A letter from Giffard, Lord Elmwood’s House Steward, to Miss Woodley._
“Madam,
“My Lord, above a twelvemonth ago, acquainted me he had permitted his
daughter to reside in his house; but at the same time he informed me,
the grant was under a certain restriction, which, if ever broken, I was
to see his then determination (of which he also acquainted me) put in
execution. In consequence of Lady Matilda’s indisposition, Madam, I
have ventured to delay this notice till morning.—I need not say with
what concern I now give it, or mention to you, I believe, what is
forfeited. My Lord staid but a few hours yesterday, after the unhappy
circumstance on which I write, took place; nor did I see him after,
till he was in his carriage; he then sent for me to the carriage door,
and told me he should be back in two days time, and added, ‘Remember
your duty.’ That duty, I hope, Madam, you will not require me to
explain in more direct terms.—As soon as my Lord returns, I have no
doubt but he will ask me if it is fulfilled, and I shall be under the
greatest apprehension, should his commands not be obeyed.
“If there is any thing wanting for the convenience of your and Lady
Matilda’s departure, you have but to order it, and it is at your
service—I mean likewise any cash you may have occasion for. I should
presume to add my opinion where you might best take up your abode; but
with such advice as you will have from Mr. Sandford, mine would be but
assuming.
“I would also have waited upon you, Madam, and have delivered myself
the substance of this letter; but I am an old man, and the changes I
have been witness to in my Lord’s house since I first lived in it, has
encreased my age many years; and I have not the strength to see you
upon this occasion. I loved my deceased Lady—I love my Lord—and I love
their child—nay, so I am sure does my Lord himself; but there is no
accounting for his resolutions, or for the alteration his disposition
has lately undergone.
“I beg pardon, Madam, for this long intrusion, and am, and ever will
be, (while you and my Lord’s daughter are so) your afflicted humble
servant,
“Robert Giffard.
“Elmwood House,
“Sept. 12.”
When this letter was brought to Miss Woodley, she knew what it
contained before she opened it, and therefore took it with an air of
resignation—yet though she guessed the momentous part of its contents,
she dreaded in what words it might be related; and having now no
essential good to expect, hope, that will never totally expire, clung
at this crisis to little circumstances, and she hoped most fervently,
the terms of the letter might not be harsh, but that Lord Elmwood had
delivered his commands in gentle language. The event proved he had; and
lost to every important comfort, she felt grateful to him for this
small one.
Matilda, too, was cheered by this letter, for she expected something
worse; and the last line, in which Giffard said he knew “His Lordship
loved her,” she thought repaid her for the purport of the other part.
Sandford was not so easily resigned or comforted—he walked about the
room when the letter was shewn to him—called it cruel—stifled his
tears, and wished to show his resentment only—but the former burst
through all his endeavours, and he sunk into grief.
Nor was the fortitude of Matilda, which came to her assistance on the
first onset of this trial, sufficient to arm her, when the moment came
she was to quit the house—her father’s house—never to see that, or him
again.
When word was brought that the carriage was at the door, which was to
convey her from all she held so dear, and she saw before her the
prospect of a long youthful and healthful life, in which misery and
despair were all she could discern; that despair seized her at once,
and gaining courage from it, she cried,
“What have I to fear if I disobey my father’s commands once more?—he
cannot use me worse. I’ll stay here till he returns—again throw myself
in his way, and then I will not faint, but plead for mercy. Perhaps
were I to kneel to him—kneel, like other children to their parents, and
beg his blessing, he would not refuse it me.”
“You must not try:” said Sandford, mildly.
“Who,” cried she, “shall prevent me flying to my father? Have I another
friend on earth? Have I one relation in the world but him? This is the
second time I have been turned out of his house. In my infant state my
cruel father turned me out; but then, he sent me to a mother—now I have
none; and I will stay with him.”
Again the steward sent to let them know the coach was waiting.