Sandford, now, with a determined countenance, went coolly up to Lady

Matilda, and taking her hand, seemed resolved to lead her to the

carriage.

Accustomed to be awed by every serious look of his, she yet resisted

this; and cried, “Would _you_ be the minister of my father’s cruelty?”

“Then,” said Sandford solemnly to her, “farewell—from this moment you

and I part. I will take my leave, and do you remain where you are—at

least till you are forced away. But I’ll not stay to be driven

hence—for it is impossible your father will suffer any friend of yours

to continue here, after this disobedience. Adieu.”

“I’ll go this moment,” said she, and rose hastily.

Miss Woodley took her at her word, and hurried her immediately out of

the room.

Sandford followed slow behind, as if he had followed at her funeral.

When she came to that spot on the stairs where she had met her father,

she started back, and scarce knew how to pass it. When she had—“There

he held me in his arms,” said she, “and I thought I felt him press me

to his heart, but I now find I was mistaken.”

As Sandford came forward, to hand her into the coach, “Now you behave

well;” said he, “by this behaviour, you do not entirely close all

prospect of reconciliation with your father.”

“Do you think it is not yet impossible?” cried she, clasping his hand.

“Giffard says he loves me,” continued she, “and do you think he might

yet be brought to forgive me?”

“Forgive you!” cried Sandford.

“Suppose I was to write to him, and entreat his forgiveness?”

“Do not write yet,” said Sandford, with no cheering accent.

The carriage drove off—and as it went, Matilda leaned her head from the

window, to survey Elmwood House from the roof to the bottom. She cast

her eyes upon the gardens too—upon the fish ponds—even the coach

houses, and all the offices adjoining—which, as objects that she should

never see again—she contemplated, as objects of importance.

CHAPTER II.

Rushbrook, who, at twenty miles distance, could have no conjecture what

had passed at Elmwood House, during the short visit Lord Elmwood made

there, went that way with his dogs and gun in order to meet him on his

return, and accompany him in the chaise back—he did so—and getting into

the carriage, told him eagerly the sport he had had during the day;

laughed at an accident that had befallen one of his dogs; and for some

time did not perceive but that his uncle was perfectly attentive. At

length, observing he answered more negligently than usual to what he

said, Rushbrook turned his eyes quickly upon him, and cried,

“My Lord, are you not well?”

“Yes; perfectly well, I thank you, Rushbrook,” and he leaned back

against the carriage.

“I thought, Sir,” returned Rushbrook, “you spoke languidly—I beg your

pardon.”

“I have the head-ache a little,” answered he:—then taking off his hat,

brushed the powder from it, and as he put it on again, fetched a most

heavy sigh; which no sooner had escaped him, than, to drown its sound,

he said briskly,

“And so you tell me you have had good sport to-day?”

“No, my Lord, I said but indifferent.”

“True, so you did. Bid the man drive faster—it will be dark before we

get home.”

“You will shoot to-morrow, my Lord?”

“Certainly.”

“How does Mr. Sandford do, Sir?”

“I did not see him.”

“Not see Mr. Sandford, My Lord? but he was out I suppose—for they did

not expect you at Elmwood House.”

“No, they did not.”

In such conversation Rushbrook and his uncle continued to the end of

their journey. Dinner was then immediately served, and Lord Elmwood

appeared much in his usual spirits; at least, not suspecting any cause

for their abatement, Rushbrook did not observe any alteration.

Lord Elmwood went, however, earlier to bed than ordinary, or rather to

his bed-chamber; for though he retired some time before his nephew,

when Rushbrook passed his chamber door it was open, and he not in bed,

but sitting in a musing posture, as if he had forgot to shut it.

When Rushbrook’s valet came to attend his master, he said to him,

“I suppose, Sir, you do not know what has happened at the Castle?”

“For heaven’s sake what?” cried Rushbrook.

“My Lord has met Lady Matilda:” replied the man.

“How? Where? What’s the consequence?”

“We don’t know yet, Sir; but all the servants suppose her Ladyship will

not be suffered to remain there any longer.”

“They all suppose wrong,” returned Rushbrook hastily—“My Lord loves her

I am certain, and this event may be the happy means of his treating her

as his child from this day.”

The servant smiled and shook his head.

“Why, what more do you know?”

“Nothing more than I have told you, Sir; except that his Lordship took

no kind of notice of her Ladyship that appeared like love.”

Rushbrook was all uneasiness and anxiety to know the particulars of

what had passed; and now Lord Elmwood’s inquietude, which he had but

slightly noticed before, came full to his observation. He was going to

ask more questions; but he recollected Lady Matilda’s misfortunes were

too sacred, to be talked of thus familiarly by the servants of the

family;—besides, it was evident this man thought, and but naturally, it

might not be for his master’s interest the father and the daughter

should be united; and therefore would certainly give to all he said the

opposite colouring.

In spite of his prudence, however, and his delicacy towards Matilda,

Rushbrook could not let his valet leave him till he had inquired, and

learned all the circumstantial account of what had happened; except,

indeed, the order received by Giffard, which being given after Lord

Elmwood was in his carriage and in concise terms, the domestics who

attended him (and from whom this man had gained his intelligence) were

unacquainted with it.

When the servant had left Rushbrook alone, the perturbation of his mind

was so great, that he was, at length, undetermined whether to go to

bed, or to rush into his uncle’s apartment, and at his feet beg for

that compassion upon his daughter, which he feared he had denied her.

But then, to what peril would he not expose himself by such a step?

Nay, he might perhaps even injure her whom he wished to serve; for if

his uncle was at present unresolved, whether to forgive or to resent

this disobedience to his commands, another’s interference might enrage,

and precipitate him on the latter.

This consideration was so weighty, it resigned Rushbrook to the

suspense he was compelled to endure till the morning; when he flattered

himself, that by watching every look and motion of Lord Elmwood, his

penetration would be able to discover the state of his heart, and how

he meant to act.

But the morning came, and he found all his prying curiosity was of no

avail; Lord Elmwood did not drop one word, give one look, or use one

action that was not customary.

On first seeing him, Rushbrook blushed at the secret with which he was

entrusted; then, as he gazed on the Earl, contemplated the joy he ought

to have known in clasping in his arms a child like Matilda, whose

tenderness, reverence, and duty, had deprived her of all sensation at

his sight; which was in Rushbrook’s mind an honour, that rendered him

superior to what he was before.

They were in the fields all the day as usual; Lord Elmwood now

cheerful, and complaining no more of the head-ache. Yet once being

separated from his nephew, Rushbrook crossed over a stile into another

field, and found him sitting by the side of a bank, his gun lying by

him, and himself lost in thought. He rose on seeing him, and proceeded

to the sport as before.

At dinner, he said he should not go to Elmwood House the next day, as

he had appointed, but stay where he was, three or four days longer.

From these two small occurrences, Rushbrook would fain have extracted

something by which to judge the state of his mind; but upon the test,

that was impossible—he had caught him so musing many a time before; and

as to his prolonging his stay, that might arise from the sport—or,

indeed, had any thing more material swayed him, who could penetrate

whether it was the effect of the lenity, or the severity, he had dealt

towards his child? whether his continuance there was to shun her, or to

shun the house from whence he had banished her?

The three or four days for their temporary abode being passed, they

both returned together to Elmwood House. Rushbrook thought he saw his

uncle’s countenance change as they entered the avenue, yet he did not

appear less in spirits; and when Sandford joined them at dinner, the

Earl went with his usual alacrity to him, and (as was his custom after

any separation) put out his hand cheerfully to take his. Sandford said,

“How do you do, my Lord?” cheerfully in return; but put both his hands

into his bosom, and walked to the other side of the room. Lord Elmwood

did not seem to observe this affront—nor was it done as an affront—it

was merely what poor Sandford felt; and he felt he could _not_ shake

hands with him.

Rushbrook soon learned the news that Matilda was gone, and Elmwood

House was to him a desert—he saw there no real friend of her’s, except

poor Sandford, and to him, Rushbrook knew himself now, more displeasing

than ever; and all his overtures of atonement, he, at this time, found

more and more ineffectual. Matilda was exiled; and her supposed

triumphant rival was, to Sandford, more odious than he had ever been.

In alleviation of their banishment, Miss Woodley, with her charge, had

not returned to their old retreat; but were gone to a farm house, not

farther than thirty miles from Lord Elmwood’s: here Sandford, with

little inconvenience, visited them; nor did his patron ever take notice

of his occasional absence; for as he had before given his daughter, in

some measure, to his charge; so honour, delicacy, and the common ties

of duty, made him approve, rather than condemn his attention to her.

Though Sandford’s frequent visits soothed Matilda, they could not

comfort her; for he had no consolation to bestow that was suited to her

mind—her father had given no one token of regret for what he had done.

He had even inquired sternly of Giffard on his returning home,

“If Miss Woodley had left the house?”

The steward guessing the whole of his meaning, answered, “Yes, my Lord;

and _all_ your commands in that respect have been obeyed.”

He replied, “I am satisfied.” And, to the grief of the old man,

appeared really so.

To the farm-house, the place of Matilda’s residence, there came,

besides Sandford, another visitor far less welcome—Viscount Margrave.

He had heard with surprise, and still greater joy, that Lord Elmwood

had once more shut his doors against his daughter. In this her

discarded state, he no longer burthened his lively imagination with the

dull thoughts of marriage, but once more formed the idea of making her

his mistress.

Ignorant of a certain decorum which attended all Lord Elmwood’s

actions, he suspected that his child might be in want; and an

acquaintance with the worst part of her sex informed him, that relief

from poverty was the sure bargain for his success. With these hopes, he

again paid Miss Woodley and her a visit; but the coldness of the

former, and the haughtiness of the latter, still kept him at a

distance, and again made him fear to give one allusion to his purpose:

but he returned home resolved to write what he durst not speak—he did

so—he offered his services, his purse, his house—they were rejected

with contempt, and a stronger prohibition than ever given to his

visits.

CHAPTER III.

Lord Elmwood had now allowed Rushbrook a long vacation, in respect to

his answer upon the subject of marriage; and the young man vainly

imagined, his intentions upon that subject were entirely given up. One

morning, however, as he was attending him in the library,

“Henry,”——said his uncle, with a pause at the beginning of his speech,

which indicated that he was going to say something of importance,

“Henry——you have not forgot the discourse I had with you a little time

previous to your illness?”

Henry hesitated—for he wished to have forgotten it—but it was too

strongly impressed upon his memory. Lord Elmwood resumed,

“What! equivocating again, Sir? Do you remember it, or do you not?”

“Yes, my Lord, I do.”

“And are you prepared to give me an answer?”

Rushbrook paused again.

“In our former conversation,” continued the Earl, “I gave you but a

week to determine—there has, I think, elapsed since that time, half a

year.”

“About as much, Sir.”

“Then surely you have now made up your mind?”

“I had done that at first, my Lord—if it had met with your

concurrence.”

“You wished to lead a bachelor’s life, I think you said?”

Rushbrook bowed.

“Contrary to my will?”

“No, my Lord, I wished to have your approbation.”

“And you wished for my approbation of the very opposite thing to that I

proposed? But I am not surprised—such is the gratitude of the world—and

such is yours.”

“My Lord, if you doubt my gratitude——”

“Give me a proof of it, Harry, and I will doubt no longer.”

“Upon every other subject but this, my Lord, Heaven is my witness your

happiness——”

Lord Elmwood interrupted him. “I understand you—upon every other

subject, but the only one, my content requires, you are ready to obey

me. I thank you.”

“My Lord, do not torture me with this suspicion; it is so contrary to

my deserts, that I cannot bear it.”

“Suspicion of your ingratitude!—you judge too favourably of my

opinion—it amounts to certainty.”

“Then to convince you, Sir, I am not ungrateful, tell me who the Lady

is you have chosen for me, and here I give you my word, I will

sacrifice all my future prospects of happiness—all, for which I would

wish to live—and become her husband as soon as you shall appoint.”

This was spoken with a tone so expressive of despair, that Lord Elmwood

replied,

“And while you obey me, you take care to let me know, it will cost you

your future peace. This is, I suppose, to enhance the merit of the

obligation—but I shall not accept your acquiescence on these terms.”

“Then in dispensing with it, I hope for your pardon.”

“Do you suppose, Rushbrook, I can pardon an offence, the sole

foundation of which, arises from a spirit of disobedience?—for you have

declared to me your affections are disengaged. In our last conversation

did you not say so?”

“At first I did, my Lord—but you permitted me to consult my heart more

closely; and I have since found that I was mistaken.”

“You then own you at first told me a falsehood, and yet have all this

time, kept me in suspense without confessing it.”

“I waited, my Lord, till you should enquire——”

“You have then, Sir, waited too long;” and the fire flashed from his

eyes.

Rushbrook now found himself in that perilous state, that admitted of no

medium of resentment, but by such dastardly conduct on his part, as

would wound both his truth and courage; and thus, animated by his

danger, he was resolved to plunge boldly at once into the depth of his

patron’s anger.

“My Lord,” said he, (but he did not undertake this task without

sustaining the trembling and convulsion of his whole frame) “My

Lord—waving for a moment the subject of my marriage—permit me to remind

you, that when I was upon my sick bed, you promised, that on my

recovery, you would listen to a petition I should offer to you.”

“Let me recollect,” replied he. “Yes—I do remember something of it. But

I said nothing to warrant any improper petition.”

“Its impropriety was not named, my Lord.”

“No matter—that, you must judge of, and answer for the consequences.”

“I would answer with my life, willingly—but I own that I shrink from

your anger.”

“Then do not provoke it.”

“I have already gone too far to recede—and you would of course demand

an explanation, if I attempted to stop here.”

“I should.”

“Then, my Lord, I am bound to speak—but do not interrupt me—hear me

out, before you banish me from your presence for ever.”

“I will, Sir,” replied he, prepared to hear something that would

displease him, and yet determined to hear with patience to the

conclusion.

“Then, my Lord,”—(cried Rushbrook, in the greatest agitation of mind

and body) “Your daughter”——

The resolution Lord Elmwood had taken (and on which he had given his

word to his nephew not to interrupt him) immediately gave way. The

colour rose in his face—his eye darted lightning—and his hand was

lifted up with the emotion, that word had created.

“You promised to hear me, my Lord!” cried Rushbrook, “and I claim your

promise.”

He now suddenly overcame his violence of passion, and stood silent and

resigned to hear him; but with a determined look, expressive of the

vengeance that should ensue.

“Lady Matilda,” resumed Rushbrook, “is an object that wrests from me

the enjoyment of every blessing your kindness bestows. I cannot but

feel myself as her adversary—as one, who has supplanted her in your

affections—who supplies her place, while she is exiled, a wanderer, and

an orphan.”

The Earl took his eyes from Rushbrook, during this last sentence, and

cast them on the floor.

“If I feel gratitude towards you, my Lord,” continued he, “gratitude is

innate in my heart, and I must also feel it towards her, who first

introduced me to your protection.”

Again the colour flew to Lord Elmwood’s face; and again he could hardly

restrain himself from uttering his indignation.

“It was the mother of Lady Matilda,” continued Rushbrook, “who was this

friend to me; nor will I ever think of marriage, or any other joyful

prospect, while you abandon the only child of my beloved patroness, and

load me with rights, which belong to her.”

Here Rushbrook stopped—Lord Elmwood was silent too, for near half a

minute; but still his countenance continued fixed, with his unvaried

resolves.

After this long pause, the Earl said with composure, but with firmness,

“Have you finished, Mr. Rushbrook?”

“All that I dare to utter, my Lord; and I fear, I have already said too

much.”

Rushbrook now trembled more than ever, and looked pale as death; for

the ardour of speaking being over, he waited his sentence, with less

constancy of mind than he expected he should.

“You disapprove my conduct, it seems;” said Lord Elmwood, “and in that,

you are but like the rest of the world—and yet, among all my

acquaintance, you are the only one who has dared to insult me with your

opinion. And this you have not done inadvertently; but willingly, and

deliberately. But as it has been my fate to be used ill, and severed

from all those persons to whom my soul has been most attached; with

less regret I can part from you, than if this were my first trial.”

There was a truth and a pathetic sound in the utterance of these words,

that struck Rushbrook to the heart—and he beheld himself as a

barbarian, who had treated his benevolent and only friend, with

insufferable liberty; void of respect for those corroding sorrows which

had imbittered so many years of his life, and in open violation of his

most peremptory commands. He felt that he deserved all he was going to

suffer, and he fell upon his knees; not so much to deprecate the doom

he saw impending, as thus humbly to acknowledge, it was his due.

Lord Elmwood, irritated by this posture, as a sign of the presumptuous

hope that he might be forgiven, suffered now his anger to burst all

bounds; and raising his voice, he exclaimed in a rage,

“Leave my house, Sir. Leave my house instantly, and seek some other

home.”

Just as these words were begun, Sandford opened the library door, was

witness to them, and to the imploring situation of Rushbrook. He stood

silent with amazement!

Rushbrook arose, and feeling in his mind a presage, that he might never

from that hour, behold his benefactor more; as he bowed in token of

obedience to his commands, a shower of tears covered his face; but Lord

Elmwood, unmoved, fixed his eyes upon him, which pursued him with

enraged looks to the end of the room. Here he had to pass Sandford;

who, for the first time in his life, took hold of him by the hand, and

said to Lord Elmwood, “My Lord, what’s the matter?”

“That ungrateful villain,” cried he, “has dared to insult me.—Leave my

house this moment, Sir.”

Rushbrook made an effort to go, but Sandford still held his hand; and

meekly said to Lord Elmwood,

“He is but a boy, my Lord, and do not give him the punishment of a

man.”

Rushbrook now snatched his hand from Sandford’s, and threw it with

himself upon his neck; where he indeed sobbed like a boy.

“You are both in league,” exclaimed Lord Elmwood.

“Do you suspect me of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook?” said Sandford,

advancing nearer to the Earl.

Rushbrook had now gained the point of remaining in the room; but the

hope that privilege inspired (while he still harboured all the just

apprehensions for his fate) gave birth, perhaps, to a more exquisite

sensation of pain, than despair would have done. He stood

silent—confounded—hoping that he was forgiven—fearing that he was not.

As Sandford approached still nearer to Lord Elmwood, he continued, “No,

my Lord, I know you do not suspect me, of partiality to Mr.

Rushbrook—has any part of my behaviour ever discovered it?”

“You now then only interfere to provoke me.”

“If that were the case,” returned Sandford, “there have been occasions,

when I might have done it more effectually—when my own heart-strings

were breaking, because I would not provoke, or add to what you

suffered.”

“I am obliged to you, Mr. Sandford:” he returned, mildly.

“And if, my Lord, I have proved any merit in a late forbearance, reward

me for it now; and take this young man from the depth of despair in

which I see he is sunk, and say you pardon him.”

Lord Elmwood made no answer—and Rushbrook, drawing strong inferences of

hope from his silence, lifted up his eyes from the ground, and ventured

to look in his face: he found it composed to what it had been, but

still strongly marked with agitation. He cast his eyes away again, in

confusion.

On which his uncle said to him—“I shall postpone executing your

obedience to my late orders, till you think fit once more to provoke

them—and then, not even Sandford, shall dare to plead your excuse.”

Rushbrook bowed.

“Go, leave the room, Sir.”

He instantly obeyed.

Then Sandford, turning to Lord Elmwood, shook him by the hand, and

cried, “My Lord, I thank you—I thank you very kindly, my Lord—I shall

now begin to think I have some weight with you.”

“You might indeed think so, did you know how much I have pardoned.”

“What was his offence, my Lord?”

“Such as I would not have forgiven you, or any earthly being besides

himself—but while you were speaking in his behalf, I recollected there

was a gratitude so extraordinary in the hazards he ran, that almost

made him pardonable.”

“I guess the subject then,” cried Sandford; and yet I could not have

supposed”——

“It is a subject we cannot speak on, Sandford, therefore let us drop

it.”

At these words the discourse concluded.

CHAPTER IV.

To the relief of Rushbrook, Lord Elmwood that day dined from home, and

he had not the confusion to see him again till the evening. Previous to

this, Sandford and he met at dinner; but as the attendants were

present, nothing passed on either side respecting the incident in the

morning. Rushbrook, from the peril which had so lately threatened him,

was now in his perfectly cool, and dispassionate senses; and

notwithstanding the real tenderness which he bore to the daughter of

his benefactor, he was not insensible to the comfort of finding

himself, once more in the possession of all those enjoyments he had

forfeited, and for a moment lost.

As he reflected on this, to Sandford he felt the first tie of

acknowledgement—but for his compassion, he knew he should have been at

that very time of their meeting at dinner, away from Elmwood House for

ever; and bearing on his mind a still more painful recollection, the

burthen of his kind patron’s continual displeasure. Filled with these

thoughts, all the time of dinner, he could scarce look at his

companion, without tears of gratitude; and whenever he attempted to

speak to him, gratitude choaked his utterance.

Sandford, on his part, behaved just the same as ever; and to show he

did not wish to remind Rushbrook of what he had done, he was just as

uncivil as ever.

Among other things, he said, “He did not know Lord Elmwood dined from

home, for if he had, he should have dined in his own apartment.”

Rushbrook was still more obliged to him for all this; and the weight of

obligations with which he was oppressed, made him long for an

opportunity to relieve himself by expressions. As soon, therefore, as

the servants were all withdrawn, he began:

“Mr. Sandford, whatever has been your opinion of _me_, I take pride to

myself, that in my sentiments towards _you_, I have always

distinguished you for that humane, disinterested character, you have

this day proved.”

“Humane, and disinterested,” replied Sandford, “are flattering epithets

indeed, for an old man going out of the world, and who can have no

temptation to be otherwise.”

“Then suffer me to call your actions generous and compassionate, for

they have saved me——”

“I know, young man,” cried Sandford, interrupting him, “you are glad at

what I have done, and that you find a gratification in telling me you

are; but it is a gratification I will not indulge you with—therefore,

say another sentence on the subject, and” (rising from his seat) “I’ll

leave the room, and never come into your company again, whatever your

uncle may say to it.”

Rushbrook saw by the solemnity of his countenance, he was serious, and

positively assured him he would never thank him more: on which Sandford

took his seat again, but he still frowned, and it was many minutes

before he conquered his ill humour. As his countenance became less

sour, Rushbrook fell from some general topics he had eagerly started in

order to appease him, and said,

“How hard is it to restrain conversation from the subject of our

thoughts; and yet amidst our dearest friends, and among persons who

have the same dispositions and sentiments as our own, their minds, too,

fixed upon the self-same objects, is this constraint practised—and

thus, society, which was meant for one of our greatest blessings,

becomes insipid, nay, often more wearisome than solitude.”

“I think, young man,” replied Sandford, “you have made pretty free with

your speech to-day, and ought not to complain of the want of toleration

on that score.”

“I do complain;” replied Rushbrook, “for if toleration was more

frequent, the favour of obtaining it would be less.”

“And your pride, I suppose, is above receiving a favour.”

“Never from those I esteem; and to convince you of it, I wish this

moment to request a favour of you.”

“I dare say I shall refuse it. However what is it?”

“Permit me to speak to you upon the subject of Lady Matilda?”

Sandford made no answer, consequently did not forbid him—and he

proceeded.

“For her sake—as I suppose Lord Elmwood may have told you—I this

morning rashly threw myself into the predicament from whence you

released me—for her sake, I have suffered much—for her sake I have

hazarded a great deal, and am still ready to hazard more.”

“But for your own sake, do not,” returned Sandford, drily.

“You may laugh at these sentiments as romantic, Mr. Sandford, but if

they are, to me they are nevertheless natural.”

“But of what service are they to be either to her, or to yourself?”

“To me they are painful, and to her would be but impertinent, were she

to know them.”

“I shan’t inform her of them, so do not trouble yourself to caution me

against it.”

“I was not going—you know I was not—but I was going to say, that from

no one so well as from you, could she be told my sentiments, without

the danger of receiving offence.”

“And what impression do you wish to give her, from her becoming

acquainted with them?”

“The impression, that she has one sincere friend: that upon every

occurrence in life, there is a heart so devoted to all she feels, that

she never can suffer without the sympathy of another: or can ever

command him, and all his fortunes to unite for her welfare, without his

ready, his immediate compliance.”

“And do you imagine, that any of your professions, or any of her

necessities, would ever prevail upon her to put you to the trial?”

“Perhaps not.”

“What, then, are the motives which induce you to wish her to be told of

this?”

Rushbrook paused.

“Do you think,” continued Sandford, “the intelligence will give her any

satisfaction?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Will it be of any to yourself?”

“The highest in the world.”

“And so all you have been urging upon this occasion, is, at last, only

to please yourself.”

“You wrong my meaning—it is her merit which inspires me with the desire

of being known to her—it is her sufferings, her innocence, her

beauty——”

Sandford stared—Rushbrook proceeded: “It is her——”

“Nay, stop where you are,” cried Sandford; “you are arrived at the

zenith of perfection in a woman, and to add one qualification more,

would be an anti-climax.”

“Oh!” cried Rushbrook with warmth, “I loved her, before I ever beheld

her.”

“Loved her!” cried Sandford, with astonishment, “You are talking of

what you did not intend.”

“I am, indeed:” returned he in confusion, “I fell by accident on the

word love.”

“And by the same accident stumbled on the word beauty; and thus by

accident, am I come to the truth of all your professions.”

Rushbrook knew that he loved; and though his affection had sprung from

the most laudable motives, yet was he ashamed of it, as of a vice—he

rose, he walked about the room, and he did not look Sandford in the

face for a quarter of an hour: Sandford, satisfied that he had judged

rightly, and yet unwilling to be too hard upon a passion, which he

readily believed must have had many noble virtues for its foundation,

now got up and went away, without saying a word in censure, though not

a word in approbation.

It was in the month of October, and just dark, at the time Rushbrook

was left alone, yet in the agitation of his mind, arising from the

subject on which he had been talking, he found it impossible to remain

in the house, and therefore walked into the fields; but there was

another instigation, more powerful than the necessity of walking—it was

the allurement of passing along that path where he had last seen Lady

Matilda, and where, for the only time, she had condescended to speak to

him divested of haughtiness; and with a gentleness that dwelt upon his

memory beyond all her other endowments.

Here, he retraced his own steps repeatedly, his whole imagination

engrossed with her idea, till the sound of her father’s carriage

returning from his visit, roused him from the delusion of his trance,

to the dread of the confusion and embarrassment he should endure, on

next meeting him. He hoped Sandford might be present, and yet he was

now, almost as much ashamed of seeing him, as his uncle, whom he had so

lately offended.

Loath to leave the spot where he was, as to enter the house, he

remained there, till he considered it would be ill manners, in his

present humiliated situation, not to show himself at the usual supper

hour, which was immediately.

As he laid his hand upon the door of the apartment to open it, he was

sorry to hear by Lord Elmwood’s voice, he was in the room before him;

for there was something much more conspicuously distressing, in

entering where he already was, than had his uncle come in after him. He

found himself, however, re-assured, by overhearing the Earl laugh and

speak in a tone expressive of the utmost good humour to Sandford, who

was with him.

Yet again, he felt all the awkwardness of his own situation; but making

one courageous effort, opened the door and entered. Lord Elmwood had

been away half the day, had dined abroad, and it was necessary to take

some notice of his return; Rushbrook, therefore, bowed humbly, and what

was more to his advantage, he looked humbly. His uncle made a slight

return to the salutation, but continued the recital he had begun to

Sandford; then sat down to the supper table—supped—and passed the whole

evening without saying a syllable, or even casting a look, in

remembrance of what had passed in the morning. Or if there was any

token, that shewed he remembered the circumstance at all, it was the

putting his glass to his nephew’s, when Rushbrook called for wine, and

drinking at the time he did.

CHAPTER V.

The repulse Lord Margrave received, did not diminish the ardour of his

pursuit; for as he was no longer afraid of resentment from the Earl,

whatever treatment his daughter might receive, he was determined the

anger of Lady Matilda, or of her female friend, should not impede his

pretensions.

Having taken this resolution, he laid the plan of an open violation of

all right; and determined to bear away that prize by force, which no

art was likely to procure. He concerted with two of his favourite

companions, but their advice was, “One struggle more of fair means.”

This was totally against his inclination; for, he had much rather have

encountered the piercing cries of a female in the last agonies of

distress, than the fatigue of her sentimental harangues, or elegant

reproofs, such as he had the sense to understand, but not the capacity

to answer.

Stimulated, however, by his friends to one more trial, in spite of the

formal dismission he had twice received, he intruded another visit on

Lady Matilda at the Farm. Provoked beyond bearing at such unfeeling

assurance, Matilda refused to come into the room where he was, and Miss

Woodley alone received him, and expressed her surprise at the little

attention he had paid to her explicit desire.

“Madam,” replied the nobleman, “to be plain with you, I am in love.”

“I do not the least doubt it, my Lord,” replied Miss Woodley: “nor

ought you to doubt the truth of what I advance, when I assure you, that

you have not the smallest reason to hope your love will be returned;

for Lady Matilda is resolved _never_ to listen to your passion.”

“That man,” he replied, “is to blame, who can relinquish his hopes,

upon the mere resolution of a lady.”

“And that lady would be wrong,” replied Miss Woodley, “who should

entrust her happiness in the care of a man, who can think thus meanly

of her and of her sex.”

“I think highly of them all,” he replied; “and to convince you in how

high an estimation I hold _her_ in particular, my whole fortune is at

her command.”

“Your entire absence from this house, my Lord, she would consider as a

much greater mark of your respect.”

A long conversation, as uninteresting as this, ensued: the unexpected

arrival of Mr. Sandford, put an end to it. He started at the sight of

Lord Margrave; but the Viscount was much more affected at the sight of

him.

“My Lord,” said Sandford boldly to him, “have you received any

encouragement from Lady Matilda to authorize this visit?”

“None, upon my honour, Mr. Sandford; but I hope you know how to pardon

a lover!”

“A rational one I do—but you, my Lord, are not of that class while you

persecute the pretended object of your affection.”

“Do you call it persecution that I once offered her a share of my title

and fortune—and even now, declare my fortune is at her disposal?”

Sandford was uncertain whether he understood his meaning—but Lord

Margrave, provoked at his ill reception, felt a triumph in removing his

doubts, and proceeded thus:

“For the discarded daughter of Lord Elmwood, cannot expect the same

proposals, which I made, while she was acknowledged, and under the

protection of her father.”

“What proposals then, my Lord?” asked Sandford hastily.

“Such,” replied he, “as the Duke of Avon made to her mother.”

Miss Woodley quitted the room that instant. But Sandford, who never

felt resentment but against those in whom he saw some virtue, calmly

replied,

“My Lord, the Duke of Avon was a gentleman, a man of elegance and

breeding; and what have you to offer in recompense for your defects in

qualities like these?”

“My wealth,” replied he, “opposed to her indigence.” Sandford smiled,

and answered,

“Do you suppose _that_ wealth can be esteemed, which has not been able

to make you respectable? What is it makes wealth valuable? Is it the

pleasures of the table? the pleasure of living in a fine house? or of

wearing fine cloaths? These are pleasures, a Lord enjoys, but in common

with his valet. It is the pleasure of being conspicuous, which makes

riches desirable; but if we are conspicuous only for our vice and

folly, had we not better remain in poverty?”

“You are beneath my notice.”

“I trust I shall continue so—and that your Lordship will never again

condescend to come where I am.”

“A man of rank condescends to mix with any society, when a pretty woman

is the object.”

“My Lord, I have a book here in my pocket, which I am eager to read; it

is an author who speaks sense and reason—will you pardon the impatience

I feel for such company; and permit me to call your carriage?”

Saying this, he went hastily and beckoned to the coachman; the carriage

drove up, the door was opened, and Lord Margrave, ashamed to be exposed

before his attendants, and convinced of the inutility of remaining any

longer where he was, departed.

Sandford was soon joined by the ladies; and the conversation falling,

of course, upon the nobleman who had just taken his leave, Sandford

unwarily exclaimed, “I wish Rushbrook had been here.”

“Who?” cried Lady Matilda.

“I do believe,” said Miss Woodley, “that young man has some good

qualities.”

“A great many,” returned Sandford, mutteringly.

“Happy young man!” cried Matilda: “he is beloved by all those, whose

affection it would be my choice to possess, beyond any other blessing

this world could bestow.”

“And yet I question, if Rushbrook is happy,” said Sandford.

“He cannot be otherwise,” returned Matilda, “if he is a man of

understanding.”

“He does not want understanding neither,” replied Sandford; “although

he has certainly many indiscretions.”

“But which Lord Elmwood, I suppose,” said Matilda, “looks upon with

tenderness.”

“Not upon all his faults,” answered Sandford; “for I have seen him in

very dangerous circumstances with your father.”

“Have you indeed?” cried Matilda: “then I pity him.”

“And I believe,” said Miss Woodley, “that from his heart, he

compassionates you. Now, Mr. Sandford,” continued she, “though this is

the first time I ever heard you speak in his favour, (and I once

thought as indifferently of Mr. Rushbrook as you can do) yet now I will

venture to ask you, whether you do not think he wishes Lady Matilda

much happier than she is?”

“I have heard him say so,” answered Sandford.

“It is a subject,” returned Lady Matilda, “which I did not imagine you,

Mr. Sandford, would have permitted him to have mentioned lightly, in

your presence.”

“Lightly! Do you suppose, my dear, we turned your situation into

ridicule?”

“No, Sir,—but there is a sort of humiliation in the grief to which I am

doomed, that ought surely to be treated with the highest degree of

delicacy by my friends.”

“I don’t know on what point you fix real delicacy; but if it consists

in sorrow, the young man gives a proof he possesses it, for he shed

tears when I last heard him mention your name.”

“I have more cause to weep at the mention of his.”

“Perhaps so.—But let me tell you, Lady Matilda, that your father might

have preferred a more unworthy object.”

“Still had he been to me,” she cried, “an object of envy. And as I

frankly confess my envy of Mr. Rushbrook, I hope you will pardon my

malice, which is, you know, but a consequent crime.”

The subject now turned again upon Lord Margrave; and all of them being

firmly persuaded, this last reception would put an end to every further

intrusion from him, they treated his pretensions, and himself, with the

contempt they inspired—but not with the caution that was requisite.

CHAPTER VI.

The next morning early, Mr. Sandford returned to Elmwood House, but

with his spirits depressed, and his heart overcharged with sorrow. He

had seen Lady Matilda, the object of his visit, but he had beheld her

considerably altered in her looks and in her health; she was become

very thin, and instead of the vivid bloom that used to adorn her

cheeks, her whole complexion was of a deadly pale—her countenance no

longer expressed hope or fear, but a fixed melancholy—she shed no

tears, but was all sadness. He had beheld this, and he had heard her

insulted by the licentious proposals of a nobleman, from whom there was

no satisfaction to be demanded, because she had no friend to vindicate

her honour.

Rushbrook, who suspected where Sandford was gone, and imagined he would

return that day, took his morning’s ride, so as to meet him on the

road, at the distance of a few miles from the Castle; for, since his

perilous situation with Lord Elmwood, he was so fully convinced of the

general philanthropy of Sandford’s character, that in spite of his

churlish manners, he now addressed him, free from that reserve to which

his rough behaviour had formerly given birth. And Sandford, on his

part, believing he had formed an illiberal opinion of Lord Elmwood’s

heir, though he took no pains to let him know that his opinion was

changed, yet resolved to make him restitution upon every occasion that

offered.

Their mutual greetings when they met, were unceremonious, but cordial;

and Rushbrook turned his horse and rode back with Sandford; yet,

intimidated by his respect and tenderness for Lady Matilda, rather than

by fear of the rebuffs of his companion, he had not the courage to name

her, till the ride was just finished, and they came within a few yards

of the house—incited then by the apprehension, he might not soon again

enjoy so fit an opportunity, he said,

“Pardon me, Mr. Sandford, if I guess where you have been, and if my

curiosity forces me to inquire for Miss Woodley’s and Lady Matilda’s

health?”

He named Miss Woodley first, to prolong the time before he mentioned

Matilda; for though to name her gave him extreme pleasure, yet it was a

pleasure accompanied by confusion and pain.

“They are both very well,” replied Sandford, “at least they did not

complain they were sick.”

“They are not in spirits, I suppose?” said Rushbrook.

“No, indeed:” replied Sandford, shaking his head.

“No new misfortune has happened, I hope?” cried Rushbrook; for it was

plain to see Sandford’s spirits were unusually cast down.

“Nothing new,” returned he, “except the insolence of a young nobleman.”

“What nobleman?” cried Rushbrook.

“A lover of Lady Matilda’s,” replied Sandford.

Rushbrook was petrified. “Who? What lover, Mr. Sandford?—explain?”

They were now arrived at the house; and Sandford, without making any

reply to this question, said to the servant who took his horse, “She

has come a long way this morning; take care of her.”

This interruption was torture to Rushbrook, who kept close to his side,

in order to obtain a further explanation; but Sandford, without

attending to him, walked negligently into the hall, and before they

advanced many steps, they were met by Lord Elmwood.

All further information was put an end to for the present.

“How do you do, Sandford?” said Lord Elmwood with extreme kindness; as

if he thanked him for the journey which, it was likely, he suspected he

had been taking.

“I am indifferently well, my Lord:” replied he, with a face of deep

concern, and a tear in his eye, partly in gratitude for his patron’s

civility, and partly in reproach for his cruelty.

It was not now till the evening, that Rushbrook had an opportunity of

renewing the conversation, which had been so barbarously interrupted.

In the evening, no longer able to support the suspense into which he

was thrown; without fear or shame, he followed Sandford into his

chamber at the time of his retiring, and entreated of him, with all the

anxiety he suffered, to explain his allusion when he talked of a lover,

and of insolence to Lady Matilda.

Sandford, seeing his emotion, was angry with himself that he had

inadvertently mentioned the subject; and putting on an air of surly

importance, desired,—if he had any business with him, that he would

call in the morning.

Exasperated at so unexpected a reception, and at the pain of his

disappointment, Rushbrook replied, “He treated him cruelly, nor would

he stir out of his room, till he had received a satisfactory answer to

his question.”

“Then bring your bed,” replied Sandford, “for you must pass your whole

night here.”

He found it vain to think of obtaining any intelligence by threats, he

therefore said in a timid and persuasive manner,

“Did you, Mr. Sandford, hear Lady Matilda mention my name?”

“Yes,” replied Sandford, a little better reconciled to him.

“Did you tell her what I lately declared to you?” he asked with still

more diffidence.

“No,” replied Sandford.

“It is very well, Sir,” returned he, vexed to the heart—yet again

wishing to sooth him—

“You certainly, Mr. Sandford, know what is for the best—yet I entreat

you will give me some further account of the nobleman you named?”

“I know what is for the best,” replied Sandford, “and I won’t.”

Rushbrook bowed, and immediately left the room. He went apparently

submissive, but the moment he showed this submission, he took the

resolution of paying a visit himself to the farm at which Lady Matilda

resided; and of learning, either from Miss Woodley, the people of the

house, the neighbours, or perhaps from Lady Matilda’s own lips, the

secret which the obstinacy of Sandford had with-held.

He saw all the dangers of this undertaking, but none appeared so great

as the danger of losing her he loved, by the influence of a rival—and

though Sandford had named “insolence,” he was in doubt whether what had

appeared so to him, was so in reality, or would be so considered by

her.

To prevent the cause of his absence being suspected by Lord Elmwood, he

immediately called his groom, ordered his horse, and giving those

servants concerned, a strict charge of secrecy, with some frivolous

pretence to apologize for his not being present at breakfast (resolving

to be back by dinner) he set off that night, and arrived at an inn

about a mile from the farm at break of day.

The joy he felt when he found himself so near to the beloved object of

his journey, made him thank Sandford in his heart, for the unkindness

which had sent him thither. But new difficulties arose, how to

accomplish the end for which he came; he learned from the people of the

inn, that a Lord, with a fine equipage, had visited at the farm, but

who he was, or for what purpose he went, no one could inform him.

Dreading to return with his doubts unsatisfied, and yet afraid of

proceeding to extremities that might be construed into presumption, he

walked disconsolately (almost distractedly) about the fields, looking

repeatedly at his watch, and wishing the time would stand still, till

he was ready to go back with his errand compleated.

Every field he passed, brought him nearer to the house on which his

imagination was fixed; but how, without forfeiting every appearance of

that respect which he so powerfully felt, could he attempt to enter

it?—he saw the indecorum, resolved not to be guilty of it, and yet

walked on till he was within but a small orchard of the door. Could he

then retreat?—he wished he could; but he found that he had proceeded

too far to be any longer master of himself. The time was urgent; he

must either behold her, and venture her displeasure, or by diffidence

during one moment, give up all his hopes perhaps for ever.

With that same disregard to consequences, which actuated him when he

dared to supplicate Lord Elmwood in his daughter’s behalf, he at length

went eagerly to the door and rapped.

A servant came—he asked to “Speak with Miss Woodley, if she was quite

alone.”

He was shown into an apartment, and Miss Woodley entered to him.

She started when she beheld who it was; but as he did not see a frown

upon her face, he caught hold of her hand, and said persuasively,

“Do not be offended with me. If I mean to offend you, may I forfeit my

life in atonement.”

Poor Miss Woodley, glad in her solitude to see any one from Elmwood

House, forgot his visit was an offence, till he put her in mind of it;

she then said, with some reserve,

“Tell me the purport of your coming, Sir, and perhaps I may have no

reason to complain?”

“It was to see Lady Matilda,” he replied, “or to hear of her health. It

was to offer her my services—it was, Miss Woodley, to convince her, if

possible, of my esteem.”

“Had you no other method, Sir?” said Miss Woodley, with the same

reserve.

“None;” replied he, “or with joy I should have embraced it; and if you

can inform me of any other, tell me I beseech you instantly, and I will

immediately be gone, and pursue your directions.”

Miss Woodley hesitated.

“You know of no other means, Miss Woodley,” he cried.

“And yet I cannot commend this,” said she.

“Nor do I. Do not imagine because you see me here, that I approve my

conduct; but reduced to this necessity, pity the motives that have

urged it.”

Miss Woodley did pity them; but as she would not own that she did, she

could think of nothing else to say.

At this instant a bell rung from the chamber above.

“That is Lady Matilda’s bell,” said Miss Woodley; “she is coming to

take a short walk. Do you wish to see her?”

Though it was the first wish of his heart, he paused, and said, “Will

you plead my excuse?”

As the flight of stairs was but short, which Matilda had to come down,

she was in the room with Miss Woodley and Mr. Rushbrook, just as that

sentence ended.

She had stepped beyond the door of the apartment, when perceiving a

visitor, she hastily withdrew.

Rushbrook, animated, though trembling at her presence, cried, “Lady

Matilda, do not avoid me, till you know that I deserve such a

punishment.”

She immediately saw who it was, and returned back with a proper pride,

and yet a proper politeness in her manner.

“I beg your pardon, Sir,” said she, “I did not know you; I was afraid I

intruded upon Miss Woodley and a stranger.”

“You do not then consider me as a stranger, Lady Matilda? and that you

do not, requires my warmest acknowledgements.”

She sat down, as if overcome by ill spirits and ill health.

Miss Woodley now asked Rushbrook to sit—for till now she had not.

“No, Madam,” replied he, with confusion, “not unless Lady Matilda gives

me permission.”

She smiled, and pointed to a chair—and all the kindness which Rushbrook

during his whole life had received from Lord Elmwood, never inspired

half the gratitude, which this one instance of civility from his

daughter excited.

He sat down, with the confession of the obligation upon every feature

of his face.

“I am not well, Mr. Rushbrook,” said Matilda, languidly; “and you must

excuse any want of etiquette at this house.”

“While you excuse me, Madam, what can I have to complain of?”

She appeared absent while he was speaking, and turning to Miss Woodley,

said, “Do you think I had better walk to-day?”

“No, my dear,” answered Miss Woodley; “the ground is damp, and the air

cold.”

“You are not well, indeed, Lady Matilda,” said Rushbrook, gazing upon

her with the most tender respect.

She shook her head; and the tears, without any effort either to impel

or to restrain them, ran down her face.

Rushbrook rose from his seat, and with an accent and manner the most

expressive, said, “We are cousins, Lady Matilda—in our infancy we were

brought up together—we were beloved by the same mother—fostered by the

same father”——

“Oh!” cried she, interrupting him, with a tone which indicated the

bitterest anguish.

“Nay, do not let me add to your uneasiness,” he resumed, “while I am

attempting to alleviate it. Instruct me what I can do to show my esteem

and respect, rather than permit me thus unguided, to rush upon what you

may construe into insult and arrogance.”

Miss Woodley went to Matilda, took her hand, then wiped the tears from

her eyes, while Matilda reclined against her, entirely regardless of

Rushbrook’s presence.

“If I have been in the least instrumental to this sorrow,”—said

Rushbrook, with a face as much agitated as his mind.

“No,” said Miss Woodley, in a low voice, “you have not—she is often

thus.”

“Yes,” said Matilda, raising her head, “I am frequently so weak that I

cannot resist the smallest incitement to grief. But do not make your

visit long, Mr. Rushbrook,” she continued, “for I was just then

thinking, that should Lord Elmwood hear of this attention you have paid

me, it might be fatal to you.” Here she wept again, as bitterly as

before.

“There is no probability of his hearing of it, Madam,” Rushbrook

replied; “or if there was, I am persuaded that he would not resent it;

for yesterday, when I am confident he knew that Mr. Sandford had been

to see you, he received him on his return, with unusual marks of

kindness.”

“Did he?” said she—and again she lifted up her head; her eyes for a

moment beaming with hope and joy.

“There is something which we cannot yet define,” said Rushbrook, “that

Lord Elmwood struggles with; but when time shall have eradicated”——

Before he could proceed further, Matilda was once more sunk into

despondency, and scarce attended to what he was saying.

Miss Woodley observing this, said, “Mr. Rushbrook, let it be a token we

shall be glad to see you hereafter, that I now use the freedom to beg

you will put an end to your visit.”

“You send me away, Madam,” returned he, “with the warmest thanks for

the reception you have give me; and this last assurance of your

kindness, is beyond any other favour you could have bestowed. Lady

Matilda,” added he, “suffer me to take your hand at parting, and let it

be a testimony that you acknowledge me for a relation.”

She put out her hand—which he knelt to receive, but did not raise it to

his lips—he held the boon too sacred—and looking earnestly upon it, as

it lay pale and wan in his, he breathed one sigh over it, and withdrew.

CHAPTER VII.

Sorrowful and affecting as this interview had been, Rushbrook, as he

rode home, reflected upon it with the most inordinate delight; and had

he not seen decline of health, in the looks and behaviour of Lady

Matilda, his felicity had been unbounded. Entranced in the happiness of

her society, the thought of his rival never came once to his mind while

he was with her; a want of recollection, however, he by no means

regretted, as her whole appearance contradicted every suspicion he

could possibly entertain, that she favoured the addresses of any man

living—and had he remembered, he would not have dared to name the

subject.

The time ran so swiftly while he was away, that it was beyond the

dinner hour at Elmwood House, when he returned. Heated, his dress and

his hair disordered, he entered the dining room just as the dessert was

put upon the table. He was confounded at his own appearance, and at the

falsehoods he should be obliged to fabricate in his excuse: there was

yet, that which engaged his attention, beyond any circumstance relating

to himself—the features of Lord Elmwood—of which his daughter’s, whom

he had just beheld, had the most striking resemblance; though her’s

were softened by sorrow, while his were made austere by the self-same

cause.

“Where have you been?” said his uncle, with a frown.

“A hers chase, my Lord—I beg your pardon—but a pack of dogs I

unexpectedly met.” For in the hacknied art of lying without injury to

any one, Rushbrook, to his shame, was proficient.

His excuses were received, and the subject ceased.

During his absence that day, Lord Elmwood had called Sandford apart,

and said to him,—that as the malevolence which he once observed between

him and Rushbrook, had, he perceived, subsided, he advised him, if he

was a well-wisher to the young man, to sound his heart, and counsel him

not to act against the will of his nearest relation and friend. “I

myself am too hasty,” continued Lord Elmwood, “and, unhappily, too much

determined upon what I have once (though, perhaps, rashly) said, to

speak upon a topic where it is probable I shall meet with opposition.

You, Sandford, can reason with moderation. For after all that I have

done for my nephew, it would be a pity to forsake him at last; and yet,

that is but too likely, if he provokes me.”

“Sir,” replied Sandford, “I will speak to him.”

“Yet,” added Lord Elmwood, sternly, “do not urge what you say for my

sake, but for his—I can part from him with ease—but he may then repent,

and, you know, repentance always comes too late with me.”

“My Lord, I will exert all the efforts in my power for his welfare. But

what is the subject on which he has refused to comply with your

desires?”

“Matrimony—have not I told you?”

“Not a word.”

“I wish him to marry, that I may then conclude the deeds in respect to

my estate,—and the only child of Sir William Winterton (a rich heiress)

was the wife I meant to propose; but from his indifference to all I

have said on the occasion, I have not yet mentioned her name to him;

you may.”

“I will, my Lord, and use all my persuasion to engage his obedience;

and you shall have, at least, a faithful account of what he says.”

Sandford the next morning sought an opportunity of being alone with

Rushbrook—he then plainly repeated to him what Lord Elmwood had said,

and saw him listen to it all, and heard him answer with the most

tranquil resolution, “That he would do any thing to preserve the

friendship and patronage of his uncle—but marry.”

“What can be your reason?” asked Sandford—though he guessed.

“A reason, I cannot give to Lord Elmwood.”

“Then do not give it to me, for I have promised to tell him every thing

you say to me.”

“And every thing I _have_ said?” asked Rushbrook hastily.

“As to what you have said, I don’t know whether it has made impression

enough on my memory, to enable me to repeat it.”

“I am glad it has not.”

“And my answer to your uncle, is to be simply, that you will not obey

him?”

“I should hope, Mr. Sandford, that you would express it in better

terms.”

“Tell me the terms, and I will be exact.”

Rushbrook struck his forehead, and walked about the room.

“Am I to give him any reason for your disobeying him?”

“I tell you again, that I dare not name the cause.”

“Then why do you submit to a power you are ashamed to own?”

“I am not ashamed—I glory in it.—Are you ashamed of your esteem for

Lady Matilda?”

“Oh! if she is the cause of your disobedience, be assured I shall not

mention it, for I am forbid to name her.”

“And surely, as that is the case, I need not fear to speak plainly to

you. I love Lady Matilda—or, perhaps, unacquainted with love, what I

feel may be only pity—and if so, pity is the most pleasing passion that

ever possessed a human heart, and I would not change it for all her

father’s estates.”

“Pity, then, gives rise to very different sensations—for I pity you,

and that sensation I would gladly exchange for approbation.”

“If you really feel compassion for me, and I believe you do, contrive

some means by your answers to Lord Elmwood to pacify him, without

involving me in ruin. Hint at my affections being engaged, but not to

whom; and add, that I have given my word, if he will allow me a short

time, a year or two only, I will, during that period, try to disengage

them, and use all my power to render myself worthy of the union for

which he designs me.”

“And this is not only your solemn promise—but your fixed

determination?”

“Nay, why will you search my heart to the bottom, when the surface

ought to content you?”

“If you cannot resolve on what you have proposed, why do you ask this

time of your uncle? For should he allow it you, at the expiration, your

disobedience to his commands will be less pardonable than it is now.”

“Within a year, Mr. Sandford, who can tell what strange events may not

occur, to change all our prospects? Even my passion may decline.”

“In that expectation, then—the failure of which yourself must answer

for—I will repeat as much of this discourse as shall be proper.”

Here Rushbrook communicated his having been to see Lady Matilda, for

which Sandford reproved him, but in less rigorous terms than he

generally used in his reproofs; and Rushbrook, by his entreaties, now

gained the intelligence who the nobleman was who addressed Matilda, and

on what views; but was restrained to patience, by Sandford’s arguments

and threats.

Upon the subject of this marriage, Sandford met his patron, without

having determined exactly what to say, but rested on the temper in

which he should find him.

At the commencement of the conversation he said, “Rushbrook begged for

time.”

“I have given him time, have I not?” cried Lord Elmwood: “What can be

the meaning of his thus trifling with me?”

Sandford replied, “My Lord, young men are frequently romantic in their

notions of love, and think it impossible to have a sincere affection,

where their own inclinations do not first point out the choice.”

“If he is in love,” answered Lord Elmwood, “let him take the object,

and leave my house and me for ever. Nor under this destiny can he have

any claim to pity; for genuine love will make him happy in banishment,

in poverty, or in sickness: it makes the poor man happy as the rich,

the fool blest as the wise.” The sincerity with which Lord Elmwood had

loved, was expressed more than in words, as he said this.

“Your Lordship is talking,” replied Sandford, “of the passion in its

most refined and predominant sense; while I may possibly be speaking of

a mere phantom, that has led this young man astray.”

“Whatever it be,” returned Lord Elmwood, “let him and his friends weigh

the case well, and act for the best—so shall I.”

“His friends, my Lord?—What friends, or what friend has he upon earth

but you?”

“Then why will he not submit to my advice; or himself give me a proper

reason why he cannot?”

“Because there may be friendship without familiarity—and so it is

between him and you.”

“That cannot be; for I have condescended to talk to him in the most

familiar terms.”

“To condescend, my Lord, is _not_ to be familiar.”

“Then come, Sir, let us be on an equal footing through you. And now

speak out _his_ thoughts freely, and hear mine in return.”

“Why, then, he begs a respite for a year or two.”

“On what pretence?”

“To me, it was preference of a single life—but I suspect it is—what he

imagines to be love—and for some object whom he thinks your Lordship

would disapprove.”

“He has not, then, actually confessed this to you?”

“If he has, it was drawn from him by such means, that I am not

warranted to say it in direct words.”

“I have entered into no contract, no agreement on his account with the

friends of the lady I have pointed out,” said Lord Elmwood; “nothing

beyond implications have passed betwixt her family and myself at

present; and if the person on whom he has fixed his affections, should

not be in a situation absolutely contrary to my wishes, I may, perhaps,

confirm his choice.”

That moment Sandford’s courage prompted him to name Lady Matilda, but

his discretion opposed—however, in the various changes of his

countenance from the conflict, it was plain to discern that he wished

to say more than he dared.

On which Lord Elmwood cried,

“Speak on, Sandford—what are you afraid of?”

“Of you, my Lord.”

He started.

Sandford went on——“I know no tie—no bond—no innocence, that is a

protection when you feel resentment.”

“You are right,” he replied, significantly.

“Then how, my Lord, can you encourage me to _speak on_, when that which

I perhaps would say, might offend you to hear?”

“To what, and whither are you changing our subject?” cried Lord

Elmwood. “But, Sir, if you know my resentful and relentless temper, you

surely know how to shun it.”

“Not, and speak plainly.”

“Then dissemble.”

“No, I’ll not do that—but I’ll be silent.”

“A new parade of submission. You are more tormenting to me than any one

I have about me. Constantly on the verge of disobeying my commands,

that you may recede, and gain my good will by your forbearance. But

know, Mr. Sandford, that I will not suffer this much longer. If you

chuse in every conversation we have together (though the most remote

from such a subject) to think of my daughter, you must either banish

your thoughts, or conceal them—nor by one sign, one item, remind me of

her.”

“Your daughter did you call her? Can you call yourself her father?”

“I do, Sir—but I was likewise the husband of her mother. And, as that

husband, I solemnly swear.”——He was proceeding with violence.

“Oh! my Lord,” cried Sandford, interrupting him, with his hands clasped

in the most fervent supplication—“Oh! do not let me draw upon her one

oath more of your eternal displeasure—I’ll kneel to beg that you will

drop the subject.”

The inclination he made with his knees bent towards the ground, stopped

Lord Elmwood instantly. But though it broke in upon his words, it did

not alter one angry look—his eyes darted, and his lips trembled with,

indignation.

Sandford, in order to appease him, bowed and offered to withdraw,

hoping to be recalled. He wished in vain—Lord Elmwood’s eyes followed

him to the door, expressive of rejoicing at his absence.

CHAPTER VIII.

The companions and counsellors of Lord Margrave, who had so prudently

advised gentle methods in the pursuit of his passion, while there was

left any hope of their success; now, convinced there was none, as

strenuously commended open violence;—and sheltered under the

consideration, that their depredations were to be practised upon a

defenceless woman, who had not one protector, except an old priest, the

subject of their ridicule;—assured likewise from the influence of Lord

Margrave’s wealth, that all inferior consequences could be overborne,

they saw no room for fears on any side, and what they wished to

execute, with care and skill premeditated.

When their scheme was mature for performance, three of his chosen

companions, and three servants, trained in all the villainous exploits

of their masters, set off for the habitation of poor Matilda, and

arrived there about the twilight of the evening.

Near four hours after that time (just as the family were going to bed)

they came up to the doors of the house, and rapping violently, gave the

alarm of fire, conjuring all the inhabitants to make their way out

immediately, as they would save their lives.

The family consisted of few persons, all of whom ran instantly to the

doors and opened them; on which two men rushed in, and with the plea of

saving Lady Matilda from the pretended flames, caught her in their

arms, and carried her off; while all the deceived people of the house,

running eagerly to save themselves, paid no regard to her, till looking

for the cause for which they had been terrified, they perceived the

stratagem, and the fatal consequences.

Amidst the complaints, the sorrow, and the affright of the people of

the farm, Miss Woodley’s sensations wanted a name—terror and anguish

give but a faint description of what she suffered—something like the

approach of death stole over her senses, and she sat like one petrified

with horror. She had no doubt who was the perpetrator of this

wickedness; but how was she to follow? how effect a rescue?

The circumstances of this event, as soon as the people had time to call

up their recollection, were sent to a neighbouring magistrate; but

little could be hoped from that. Who was to swear to the robber? Who,

undertake to find him out! Miss Woodley thought of Rushbrook, of

Sandford, of Lord Elmwood—but what could she hope from the want of

power in the two former?—what from the latter, for the want of will?

Now stupified, and now distracted, she walked about the house

incessantly, begging for instructions how to act, or how to forget her

misery.

A tenant of Lord Elmwood’s, who occupied a little farm near to that

where Lady Matilda lived, and who was well acquainted with the whole

history of her’s and her mother’s misfortunes, was returning from a

neighbouring fair, just as this inhuman plan was put in execution. He

heard the cries of a woman in distress, and followed the sound, till he

arrived at a chaise in waiting, and saw Matilda placed in it, by the

side of two men, who presented pistols to him, as he offered to

approach and expostulate.

The farmer, uncertain who this female was, yet went to the house she

had been taken from (as the nearest) with the tale of what he had seen;

and there, being informed it was Lady Matilda whom he had beheld, this

intelligence, joined to the powerful effect her screams had on him,

made him resolve to take horse immediately, and with some friends,

follow the carriage till they should trace the place to which she was

conveyed.

The anxiety, the firmness discovered in determining on this

understanding, somewhat alleviated the agony Miss Woodley endured, and

she began to hope, timely assistance might yet be given to her beloved

charge.

The man set out, meaning at all events to attempt her release; but

before he had proceeded far, the few friends that accompanied him,

began to reflect on the improbability of their success, against a

nobleman, surrounded by servants, with other attendants likewise, and,

perhaps, even countenanced by the father of the lady, whom they

presumed to take from him; or if not, while Lord Elmwood beheld the

offence with indifference, that indifference gave it a sanction, they

might in vain oppose. These cool reflections tending to their safety,

had their weight with the companions of the farmer; they all rode back,

rejoicing at their second thoughts, and left him to pursue his journey

and prove his valour by himself.

CHAPTER IX.

It was not with Sandford, as it had lately been with Rushbrook under

the displeasure of Lord Elmwood—to the latter he behaved, as soon as

their dissension was past, as if it had never happened—but to Sandford

it was otherwise—the resentment which he had repressed at the time of

the offence, lurked in his heart, and dwelt upon his mind for several

days; during which, he carefully avoided exchanging a word with him,

and gave every other demonstration of his anger.

Sandford, though experienced in the cruelty and ingratitude of the

world, yet could not without difficulty brook this severity, this

contumely, from a man, for whose welfare, ever since his infancy, he

had laboured; and whose happiness was more dear to him, in spite of all

his faults, than that of any other person. Even Lady Matilda was not so

dear to Sandford as her father—and he loved her more that she was Lord

Elmwood’s child, than for any other cause.

Sometimes the old Priest, incensed beyond bearing, was on the point of

saying to his patron, “How, in my age, dare you thus treat the man,

whom in his youth you respected and revered?”

Sometimes instead of anger, he felt the tear, he was ashamed to own,

steal to his eye, and even fall down his cheek. Sometimes he left the

room half determined to leave the house—but these were all half

determinations; for he knew him with whom he had to deal too well, not

to know that he might be provoked into yet greater anger; and that

should he once rashly quit his house, the doors most probably would be

shut against him for ever.

In this humiliating state (for even many of the domestics could not but

observe their Lord’s displeasure) Sandford passed three days, and was

beginning the fourth, when sitting with Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook just

after breakfast, a servant entered, saying, as he opened the door, to

somebody who followed, “You must wait till you have my Lord’s

permission.”

This attracted their eyes to the door, and a man meanly dressed, walked

in, following close to the servant.

The latter turned, and seemed again to desire the person to retire, but

in vain; he rushed forward regardless of his opposer, and in great

agitation, cried,

“My Lord, if you please, I have business with you, provided you will

chuse to be alone.”

Lord Elmwood, struck with the intruder’s earnestness, bade the servant

leave the room; and then said to the stranger,

“You may speak before these gentlemen.”

The man instantly turned pale, and trembled—then, to prolong the time

before he spoke, went to the door to see if it was shut—returned—yet

still trembling, seemed unwilling to say his errand.

“What have you done,” cried Lord Elmwood, “that you are in this terror?

What have you done, man?”

“Nothing, my Lord,” replied he, “but I am afraid I am going to offend

you.”

“Well, no matter;” (he answered carelessly) “only go on, and let me

know your business.”

The man’s distress increased—and he cried in a voice of grief and

affright—“Your child, my Lord!”——

Rushbrook and Sandford started; and looking at Lord Elmwood, saw him

turn white as death. In a tremulous voice he instantly cried,

“What of her?” and rose from his seat.

Encouraged by the question, and the agitation of him who asked it, the

poor man gave way to his feelings, and answered with every sign of

sorrow,

“I saw her, my Lord, taken away by force—two ruffians seized and

carried her away, while she screamed in vain to me for help, and tore

her hair in distraction.”

“Man, what do you mean?” cried the Earl.

“Lord Margrave,” replied the stranger, “we have no doubt, has formed

this plot—he has for some time past beset the house where she lived;

and when his visits were refused, he threatened this. Besides, one of

his servants attended the carriage; I saw, and knew him.”

Lord Elmwood listened to the last part of this account with seeming

composure—then turning hastily to Rushbrook, he said,

“Where are my pistols, Harry?”

Sandford rose from his seat, and forgetting all the anger between them,

caught hold of the Earl’s hand, and cried, “Will you then prove

yourself a father?”

Lord Elmwood only answered, “Yes,” and left the room.

Rushbrook followed, and begged with all the earnestness he felt, to be

permitted to accompany his uncle.

While Sandford shook hands with the farmer a thousand times; and he, in

his turn, rejoiced, as if he had already seen Lady Matilda restored to

liberty.

Rushbrook in vain entreated Lord Elmwood; he laid his commands upon him

not to go a step from the Castle; while the agitation of his own mind,

was too great, to observe the rigour of this sentence on his nephew.

During the hasty preparations for the Earl’s departure, Sandford

received from Miss Woodley the sad intelligence of what had happened;

but he returned an answer to recompence her for all she had suffered on

the occasion.

Within a few hours Lord Elmwood set off, accompanied by his guide, the

farmer, and other attendants furnished with every requisite to

ascertain the success of their enterprise—while poor Matilda little

thought of a deliverer nigh, much less, that her deliverer should prove

her father.

CHAPTER X.

Lord Margrave, black as this incident of his life must make him appear

to the reader, still nursed in his conscience a reserve of specious

virtue, to keep him in peace with himself. It was his design to plead,

to argue, to implore, nay even to threaten, long before he put his

threats in force; and with this and the following reflection, he

reconciled—as most bad men can—what he had done, not only to the laws

of humanity, but to the laws of honour.

“I have stolen a woman certainly;” said he to himself, “but I will make

her happier than she was in that humble state from which I have taken

her. I will even,” said he, “now that she is in my power, win her

affections—and when, in fondness, hereafter she hangs upon me, how will

she thank me for this little trial, through which I shall have

conducted her to happiness!”

Thus did he hush his remorse, while he waited impatiently at home, in

expectation of his prize.

Half expiring with her sufferings, of body as well as of mind, about

twelve o’clock the next night, after she was borne away, Matilda

arrived; and felt her spirits revive by the superior sufferings that

awaited her—for her increasing terrors roused her from the death-like

weakness, brought on by fatigue.

Lord Margrave’s house, to which he had gone previous to this occasion,

was situated in the lonely part of a well-known forest, not more than

twenty miles distant from London: this was an estate he rarely visited;

and as he had but few servants here, it was a place which he supposed

would be less the object of suspicion in the present case, than any

other of his seats. To this, then, Lady Matilda was conveyed—a superb

apartment allotted her—and one of his confidential females placed to

attend upon her, with all respect, and assurances of safety.

Matilda looked in this woman’s face, and seeing she bore the features

of her sex, while her own knowledge reached none of those worthless

characters of which this person was a specimen, she imagined that none

of those could look as she did, and therefore found consolation in her

seeming tenderness. She was even prevailed upon (by her promises to sit

by her side and watch) to throw herself on the bed, and suffer sleep

for a few minutes—for sleep to her was suffering; her fears giving

birth to dreams terrifying as her waking thoughts.

More wearied than refreshed with her sleep, she rose at break of day,

and refusing to admit of the change of an article in her dress, she

persisted to sit in the torn disordered habit in which she had been

dragged away; nor would she taste a morsel, of all the delicacies that

were prepared for her.

Her attendant, for some time observed the most reverential awe; but

finding this had not the effect of gaining compliance with her advice,

she varied her manners, and began by less submissive means to attempt

an influence. She said her orders were to be obedient, while she

herself was obeyed—at least in circumstances so material as the lady’s

health, of which she had the charge as a physician, and expected equal

compliance from her patient—food and fresh apparel she prescribed as

the only means to prevent death; and even threatened her invalid with

something worse, a visit from Lord Margrave, if she continued

obstinate.

Now loathing her for the deception she had practised, more, than had

she received her thus at first, Matilda hid her eyes from the sight of

her; and when she was obliged to look, she shuddered.

This female at length thought it her duty to wait upon her worthy

employer, and inform him the young lady in her trust would certainly

die, unless there were means employed to oblige her to take some

nourishment.

Lord Margrave, glad of an opportunity that might apologize for his

intrusion upon Lady Matilda, went with eagerness to her apartment, and

throwing himself at her feet, conjured her if she would save his life,

as well as her own, to submit to be consoled.

The extreme disgust and horror his presence inspired, caused Matilda

for a moment to forget all her want of power, her want of health, her

weakness; and rising from the place where she sat, she cried, with her

voice elevated,

“Leave me, my Lord, or I’ll die in spite of all your care; I’ll

instantly expire with grief, if you do not leave me.”

Accustomed to the tears and reproaches of the sex—though not of those

like her—he treated with contempt these menaces of anger, and seizing

her hand, carried it to his lips.

Enraged, and overwhelmed with sorrow at the affront, she cried,

(forgetting every other friend she had,) “Oh! my dear Miss Woodley, why

are you not here to protect me?”

“Nay,” returned Lord Margrave, stifling a fit of laughter, “I should

think the old Priest would be as good a champion as the lady.”

The remembrance of Sandford, with all his kindness, now rushed so

forcibly on Matilda’s mind, that she shed a shower of tears, on

thinking how much he felt, and would continue to feel, for her

situation. Once she thought on Rushbrook, and thought even _he_ would

be sorry for her. Of her father she did not think—she dared not—one

single moment that thought intruded, but she hurried it away—it was too

bitter.

It was now again quite night; and near to that hour when she came first

to the house. Lord Margrave, though at some distance from her, remained

still in her apartment, while her female companion had stolen away. His

insensibility to her lamentations—the agitated looks he sometimes cast

upon her—her weak and defenceless state, all conspired to fill her mind

with horror.

He saw her apprehensions in her distracted face, disheveled hair, and

the whole of her forlorn appearance—yet, notwithstanding his former

resolutions, he could not resist the desire of fulfilling all her

dreadful expectations.

He once again approached her, and again was going to seize her hand;

when the report of a pistol, and a confused noise of persons assembling

towards the apartment prevented him.

He started—but looked more surprised than alarmed—her alarm was

augmented; for she supposed this tumult was some experiment to

intimidate her into submission. She wrung her hands, and lifted up her

eyes to Heaven, in the last agony of despair, when one of Lord

Margrave’s servants entered hastily and announced,

“Lord Elmwood!”

That moment her father entered—and with all the unrestrained fondness

of a parent, folded her in his arms.

Her extreme, her excess of joy on such a meeting, and from such anguish

rescued, was, in part, repressed by his awful presence. The

apprehensions to which she had been accustomed, kept her timid and

doubtful—she feared to speak, or clasp him in return for his embrace,

but falling on her knees, clung round his legs, and bathed his feet

with her tears.——These were the happiest moments that she had ever

known—perhaps, the happiest _he_ had ever known.

Lord Margrave, on whom Lord Elmwood had not even cast a look, now left

the room; but as he quitted it, called out,

“My Lord Elmwood, if you have any demands on me,”—

The Earl interrupted him, “Would you make me an executioner? The law

shall be your only antagonist.”

Matilda, quite exhausted, yet upheld by the sudden transport she had

felt, was led by her father out of this wretched dwelling—more

despicable than the beggar’s hovel.

CHAPTER XI.

Overcome with the want of rest for two nights, from her distracting

fears, and all those fears now hushed; Matilda, soon after she was

placed in the carriage with Lord Elmwood, dropped fast asleep; and

thus, insensibly surprised, leaned her head against her father in the

sweetest slumber that imagination can conceive.

When she awoke, instead of the usual melancholy scene before her view,

she beheld her father, and heard the voice of the once dreaded Lord

Elmwood tenderly saying,

“We will go no further to-night, the fatigue is too much for her; order

beds here directly, and some proper person to sit up and attend her.”

She could only turn to him with a look of love and duty; her lips could

not utter a sentence.

In the morning she found her father by the side of her bed. He inquired

“If she was in health sufficient to pursue her journey, or if she would

remain where she was?”

“I _am_ able to go with you,” she answered instantly.

“Nay,” replied he, “perhaps you ought to stay here till you are

better?”

“I am better,” said she, “and ready to go with you.”——Half afraid that

he meant to send her from him.

He perceived her fears, and replied, “Nay, if you stay, so shall I—and

when I go, I shall take you along with me to my house.”

“To Elmwood House?” she asked eagerly.

“No, to my house in town, where I intend to be all the winter, and

where we shall live together.”

She turned her face on the pillow to conceal tears of joy, but her sobs

revealed them.

“Come,” said he, “this kiss is a token you have nothing to fear.” And

he kissed her affectionately. “I shall send for Miss Woodley too

immediately,” continued he.

“Oh! I shall be overjoyed to see her, my Lord—and to see Mr.

Sandford—and even Mr. Rushbrook.”

“Do you know _him_?” said Lord Elmwood.

“Yes,” she replied, “I have seen him two or three times.”

The Earl hoping the air might be a means of re-establishing her

strength and spirits, now left the room, and ordered his carriage to be

prepared: while she arose, attended by one of his female servants, for

whom he had sent to town, to bring such changes of apparel as were

requisite.

When Matilda was ready to join her father in the next room, she felt a

tremor seize her, that made it almost impossible to appear before him.

No other circumstance now impending to agitate her heart, she felt more

forcibly its embarrassment at meeting on terms of easy intercourse,

him, of whom she had never been used to think, but with that distant

reverence and fear, which his severity had excited; and she knew not

how she should dare to speak to, or look on him, with that freedom her

affection warranted.

After several efforts to conquer these nice and refined sensations, but

to no purpose, she at last went to his apartment. He was reading; but

as she entered, he put out his hand and drew her to him. Her tears

wholly overcame her. He could have intermingled his—but assuming a

grave countenance, he commanded her to desist from exhausting her

spirits; and, after a few powerful struggles, she obeyed.

Before the morning was over, she experienced the extreme joy of sitting

by her father’s side as they drove to town, and of receiving, during

his conversation, a thousand proofs of his love, and tokens of her

lasting happiness.

It was now the middle of November; and yet, as Matilda passed along,

never to her, did the sun shine so bright as upon this morning—never

did her imagination comprehend, that the human heart could feel

happiness true and genuine as hers!

On arriving at the house, there was no abatement of her felicity: all

was respect and duty on the part of the domestics—all paternal care on

the part of Lord Elmwood; and she would have been at that summit of her

wishes which annihilates hope, but that the prospect of seeing Miss

Woodley and Mr. Sandford, still kept this passion in existence.

CHAPTER XII.

Rushbrook was detained at Elmwood House during all this time, more from

the persuasions, nay prayers, of Sandford, than the commands of Lord

Elmwood. He had, but for Sandford, followed his uncle, and exposed

himself to his anger, sooner than have endured the most piercing

inquietude, which he was doomed to suffer, till the news arrived of

Lady Matilda’s safety. He indeed had little else to fear from the known

firm, courageous character of her father, and the expedition with which

he undertook his journey; but lovers’ fears are like those of women,

obstinate, and no argument could persuade either him or Miss Woodley

(who had now ventured to come to Elmwood House) but that Matilda’s

peace of mind might be for ever destroyed, before she was set at

liberty.

The summons from Lord Elmwood for their coming to town, was received by

each of this party with delight; but the impatience to obey it, was in

Rushbrook so violent, it was painful to himself, and extremely

troublesome to Sandford; who wished, from his regard to Lady Matilda,

rather to delay, than hurry their journey.

“You are to blame,” said he to him and Miss Woodley, “to wish by your

arrival, to divide with Lord Elmwood that tender bond, which ties the

good who confer obligations, to the object of their benevolence. At

present there is no one with him to share in the care and protection of

his daughter, and he is under the necessity of discharging that duty

himself; this habit may become so powerful, that he _cannot_ throw it

off, even if his former resolutions should urge him to it. While we

remain here, therefore, Lady Matilda is safe with her father; but it

would not surprise me, if on our arrival (especially if we are

precipitate) he should place her again with Miss Woodley at a

distance.”

To this forcible conjecture, they submitted for a few days, and then

most gladly set out for town.

On their arrival, they were met, even at the street-door, by Lady

Matilda; and with an expression of joy, they did not suppose her

features could have worn. She embraced Miss Woodley! hung upon

Sandford! and to Mr. Rushbrook, who from his conscious love only bowed

at an humble distance, she held out her hand with every look and

gesture of the tenderest esteem.

When Lord Elmwood joined them, he welcomed them all sincerely; but

Sandford the most, with whom he had not spoken for many days before he

left the country, for his allusion to the wretched situation of his

daughter.—And Sandford (with his fellow-travellers) now saw him treat

that daughter with an easy, a natural fondness, as if she had lived

with him from her infancy. He appeared, however, at times, under the

apprehension, that the propensity of man to jealousy, might give

Rushbrook a pang at this dangerous rival in his love and fortune—for

though Lord Elmwood remembered well the hazard he had once ventured to

befriend Matilda, yet the present unlimited reconciliation was

something so unlooked for, it might be a trial too much for his

generosity, to remain wholly disinterested on the event. Slight as was

this suspicion, it did Rushbrook injustice. He loved Lady Matilda too

sincerely, he loved her father’s happiness, and her mother’s memory too

faithfully, not to be rejoiced at all he witnessed; nor could the

secret hope that whispered him, “Their blessings might one day be

mutual,” increase the pleasure he found, in beholding Matilda happy.

Unexpected affairs, in which Lord Elmwood had been for some time

engaged, had diverted his attention for awhile from the marriage of his

nephew; nor did he at this time find his disposition sufficiently

severe, to exact from the young man a compliance with his wishes, at so

cruel an alternative as that of being for ever discarded. He felt his

mind, by the late incident, too much softened for such harshness; he

yet wished for the alliance he had proposed; for he was more consistent

in his character than to suffer the tenderness his daughter’s peril had

awakened, to derange those plans which he had long projected. Never

even now, for a moment did he indulge—for perhaps it would have been an

indulgence—the idea of replacing her exactly in the rights of her

birth, to the disappointment of all his nephew’s expectations.

Yet, milder at this crisis in his temper than he had been for years

before, and knowing he could be no longer irritated upon the subject of

his daughter, he once more resolved to trust himself in a conference

with Rushbrook on the subject of marriage; meaning at the same time to

mention Matilda as an opponent from whom he had nothing to fear. But

for some time before Rushbrook was called to this private audience, he

had, by his unwearied attention, endeavoured to impress upon Matilda’s

mind, the softest sentiments in his favour. He succeeded—but not as he

wished. She loved him as her friend, her cousin, her foster-brother,

but not as a lover. The idea of love never once came to her thoughts;

and she would sport with Rushbrook like the most harmless child, while

he, all impassioned, could with difficulty resist telling her, what she

made him suffer.

At the meeting between him and Lord Elmwood, to which he was called for

his final answer on that subject which had once nearly proved so fatal

to him; after a thousand fears, much confusion and embarrassment, he at

length frankly confessed his “Heart was engaged, and had been so, long

before his uncle offered to direct his choice.”

Lord Elmwood desired to know, “On whom he had placed his affections.”

“I dare not tell you, my Lord,” returned he, infinitely confused; “but

Mr. Sandford can witness their sincerity and how long they have been

fixed.”

“Fixed!” cried the Earl.

“Immoveably fixed, my Lord; and yet the object is as unconscious of my

love to this moment, as you yourself have been; and I swear ever shall

be so, without your permission.”

“Name the object,” said Lord Elmwood, anxiously.

“My Lord, I dare not.—The last time I named her to you, you threatened

to abandon me for my arrogance.”

Lord Elmwood started.——“My daughter! Would you marry her?”

“But with your approbation, my Lord; and that——”

Before he could proceed a word further, his uncle left the room

hastily—and left Rushbrook all terror for his approaching fate.

Lord Elmwood went immediately into the apartment where Sandford, Miss

Woodley, and Matilda, were sitting, and cried with an angry voice, and

with his countenance disordered,

“Rushbrook has offended me beyond forgiveness.—Go, Sandford, to the

library, where he is, and tell him this instant to quit my house, and

never dare to return.”

Miss Woodley lifted up her hands and sighed.

Sandford rose slowly from his seat to execute the office.

While Lady Matilda, who was arranging her music books upon the

instrument, stopped from her employment suddenly, with her face bathed

in tears.

A general silence ensued, till Lord Elmwood, resuming his angry tone,

cried, “Did you hear me, Mr. Sandford?”

Sandford now, without a word in reply, made for the door—but there

Matilda impeded him, and throwing her arms about his neck, cried,

“Dear Mr. Sandford, do not.”

“How!” exclaimed her father.

She saw the impending frown, and rushing towards him, took his hand

fearfully, and knelt at his feet. “Mr. Rushbrook is my relation,” she

cried in a pathetic voice, “my companion, my friend—before you loved me

he was anxious for my happiness, and often visited me to lament with,

and console me. I cannot see him turned out of your house without

feeling for _him_, what he once felt for _me_.”

Lord Elmwood turned aside to conceal his sensations—then raising her

from the floor, he said, “Do you know what he has asked of me?”

“No,” answered she in the utmost ignorance, and with the utmost

innocence painted on her face; “but whatever it is, my Lord, though you

do not grant it, yet pardon him for asking.”

“Perhaps _you_ would grant him what he has requested?” said her father.

“Most willingly—was it in my gift.”

“It is,” replied he. “Go to him in the library, and hear what he has to

say; for on your will his fate shall depend.”

Like lightning she flew out of the room; while even the grave Sandford

smiled at the idea of their meeting.

Rushbrook, with his fears all verified by the manner in which his uncle

had left him, sat with his head reclined against a bookcase, and every

limb extended with the despair that had seized him.

Matilda nimbly opened the door and cried, “Mr. Rushbrook, I am come to

comfort you.”

“That you have always done,” said he, rising in rapture to receive her,

even in the midst of all his sadness.

“What is it you want?” said she. “What have you asked of my father that

he has denied you?”

“I have asked for that,” replied he, “which is dearer to me than my

life.”

“Be satisfied then,” returned she, “for you shall have it.”

“Dear Matilda! it is not in your power to bestow.”

“But he has told me it _shall_ be in my power; and has desired me to

give, or to refuse it you, at my own pleasure.”

“O Heavens!” cried Rushbrook in transport, “Has he?”

“He has indeed—before Mr. Sandford and Miss Woodley. Now tell me what

you petitioned for?”

“I asked him,” cried Rushbrook, trembling, “for a wife.”

Her hand, which had just then taken hold of his, in the warmth of her

wish to serve him, now dropped down as with the stroke of death—her

face lost its colour—and she leaned against the desk by which they were

standing, without uttering a word.

“What means this change?” said he; “Do you not wish me happy?”

“Yes,” she exclaimed: “Heaven is my witness. But it gives me concern to

think we must part.”

“Then let us be joined,” cried he, falling at her feet, “till death

alone can part us.”

All the sensibility—the reserve—the pride, with which she was so amply

possessed, returned to her that moment. She started and cried, “Could

Lord Elmwood know for what he sent me?”

“He did,” replied Rushbrook—“I boldly told him of my presumptuous love,

and he has given to you alone, the power over my happiness or misery.

Oh! do not doom me to the latter.”

Whether the heart of Matilda, such as it has been described, _could_

sentence him to misery, the reader is left to surmise—and if he

supposes that it could _not_, he has every reason to suppose that their

wedded life, was—a life of happiness.

He has beheld the pernicious effects of an _improper education_ in the

destiny which attended the unthinking Miss Milner.—On the opposite

side, what may not be hoped from that school of prudence—though of

adversity—in which Matilda was bred?

And Mr. Milner, Matilda’s grandfather, had better have given his

_fortune_ to a distant branch of his family—as Matilda’s father once

meant to do—so that he had given to his daughter

A PROPER EDUCATION.

Plays written by Mrs. Inchbald, and published

by G. G. and J. Robinson, Paternoster Row.

LOVERS’ VOWS;

A Play in five Acts, from the German of

Kotzebue.

WIVES AS THEY WERE, AND MAIDS

AS THEY ARE.

EVERY ONE HAS HIS FAULT.

I’LL TELL YOU WHAT,

Comedies in five Acts.

SUCH THINGS ARE,

A Play in five Acts.

THE MARRIED MAN,

A Comedy, Price 1s. 6d. each.

THE CHILD OF NATURE.

APPEARANCE IS AGAINST THEM.

THE WIDOW’S VOW.

THE MIDNIGHT HOUR,

A Comedy.

THE WEDDING DAY,

Price One Shilling each.

NATURE AND ART,

The Second Edition, in Two Volumes, Price

7s. sewed.