"I believe you can say so," returned Sandford. "And in the name of God,
and your own happiness, since this is the state of you both, let me put
it out of your power to part?"
On which he opened his book and--married them.
Nevertheless, on that joyful day which restored her lost lover to her
hopes again, even on that very day after the ceremony was over, Miss
Milner--with all the fears, the superstition of her sex--felt an
excruciating shock when, looking on the ring Lord Elmwood had put upon
her finger in haste, she perceived it was a mourning-ring.
_IV.--Outcasts_
Alas! in seventeen years the beautiful, beloved Miss Milner was no
longer beautiful, no longer beloved, no longer virtuous.
Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth, was become a
hard-hearted tyrant.
Miss Woodley had grown old, but less with years than grief.
The boy Harry Rushbrook had become a man and the apparent heir of Lord
Elmwood's fortune, while his own daughter, his only child by his
once-adored Miss Milner, he refused ever to see again, in vengeance to
her mother's crime.
Sandford alone remained much as heretofore.
Lady Elmwood was a loved and loving bride seventeen years ago; now she
lay on her death-bed. At thirty-five "her course was run." After four
years of perfect happiness, Lord Elmwood was obliged to leave his wife
and child while he went to visit his large estates in the West Indies.
His voyage was tedious, his return delayed by serious illness, which a
too cautious fear of her uneasiness prompted him to conceal. He was away
three years.
It was no other than Lord Frederick Lawnly to whom Lady Elmwood
sacrificed her own and her husband's future peace; she did not, however,
elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter herself in the most
dreary retreat, where she partook of no comfort but the still
unremitting friendship of Miss Woodley. Even her child she left behind,
that she might be under her father's protection. Conceive, then, how
sharp her agony was on beholding the child sent after her as the
perpetual outcast of its father. Lord Elmwood's love to his wife had
been extravagant--the effect of his hate was the same. Once more he met
Lord Frederick in a duel, the effect of which was to leave his adversary
so defaced with scars as never again to endanger the honour of a
husband. He was himself dangerously wounded, yet nothing but the
assurance that his opponent was slain could tear him from the field.
Now, after ten years of exile, the once gay, volatile Miss Milner lay
dying with but one request to make--that her daughter should not suffer
for her sin. Sandford was with her; by all the influence he ever had
over Lord Elmwood, by his prayers, by his tears, he promised to implore
him to own his child. She could only smile her thanks, but she was
sufficiently sensible of his words to make a sign as if she wished to
embrace him; but, finding life leaving her fast, with a struggle she
clung to her child, and died in her arms.
_V.--His Daughter's Happiness_
Yet all that her mother's last appeal could obtain for the hapless
Matilda, not as her child, but as the granddaughter of Mr. Milner, was
the shelter of her father's roof on condition that she avoided his
sight. When by accident or design he ever saw or heard from her, that
moment his compliance with her mother's request ceased, and he abandoned
her once more. Still, the joy of being, even in so remote a way, under
her father's care, was extreme for her, though it was tempered with
jealousy of Rushbrook--a feeling which even her noble heart could not
completely quell--jealousy which was shared on her account by both Miss
Woodley and Mr. Sandford, and frequently made them unjust to Harry, whom
they regarded as an interloper.
But his passionate gratitude to Lady Elmwood, by whose entreaties he had
been restored to his uncle's favour, had made him adore her daughter
with an equal passion. He gazed with wonder at his uncle's insensibility
to his own happiness, and would gladly have led him to the jewel he cast
away, though even his own expulsion should be the fatal consequence.
At last, by accident, Lord Elmwood returned unexpectedly home when
Matilda was descending the staircase, and, in her affright, she fell
motionless into her father's arms. He caught her, as by the same impulse
he would have caught anyone falling for want of aid. Yet, when he found
her in his arms, he still held her there--gazed on her attentively--and
pressed her to his bosom.
At length, trying to escape the snare into which he had been led, he was
going to leave her on the spot where she fell, when her eyes opened, and
she uttered, "Save me!" Her voice unmanned him. His long-restraining
tears now burst forth, and, seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he
called out eagerly to recall her. Her name did not, however, come to his
recollection--nor any name but this--"Miss Milner, dear Miss Milner."
The sound did not awaken her; and now again he wished to leave her in
this senseless state, that not remembering what had passed, she might
escape the punishment.
But at this instant his steward passed, and into his hands he delivered
his apparently dead child, his face agitated with shame, with pity, with
anger, with paternal tenderness. On her recovery she was sent to a
neighbouring farm, not more than thirty miles away, her father having
given orders that it should be so.
Then a libertine lover of Lady Matilda's, finding her no longer under
her father's protection, resolved to abduct her, and by raising an alarm
of fire, caused all the inhabitants of the farmhouse to open the doors,
when two men rushed in, and, with the plea of saving her from the
flames, carried her away. News of this being taken to her father, he at
once set out in pursuit, and reached her in her last agony of despair,
folding her in his arms with the unrestrained fondness of a parent.
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!
Rushbrook had been detained at Elmwood during all this time, more from
the persuasions, nay, prayers, of Sandford than the commands of Lord
Elmwood. His uncle's summons for him to join them in town was,
therefore, received with delight. Yet his joy was tempered by finding
that it was to propose a matrimonial alliance that his uncle had sent
for 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."
On hearing on whom he had set his affections, Lord Elmwood immediately
left the room for 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 pardon. Go,
Sandford, and tell him this instant to quit my house, and never dare to
return."
But 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 knelt at his feet.
"Do you know what he has asked of me?" he asked.
"No," she replied, with the utmost innocence, "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, were 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. And whether the heart of Matilda
could sentence Rushbrook 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.
* * * * *