A SIMPLE STORY. IN FOUR VOLUMES.
BY MRS. INCHBALD.
VOL. I.
LONDON: Printed for G. G. J. and J. ROBINSON, Pater-noster Row.
M, DCC, XCI.
PREFACE.
IT is said,
a book should be read with the same spirit with which it has been written.
In that case, fatal must be the reception of this — for the writer frankly avows, that during the time she has been writing it, she has suffered every quality and degree of weariness and lassitude, into which no other employment could have betrayed her.
It has been the destiny of the writer of this Story, to be occupied throughout her life, in what has the least suited either her inclination or capacity — with an invincible impediment in her speech, it was her lot for thirteen years to gain a subsistence by public speaking — and, with the utmost detestation to the fatigue of inventing, a constitution suffering under a sedentary life, and an education confined to the narrow boundaries prescribed her sex, it has been her fate to devote a tedious seven years to the unremitting labour of literary productions—whilst a taste for authors of the first rank has been an additional punishment, forbidding her one moment of those self-approving reflections which are assuredly due to the industrious.— But, alas! in the exercise of the arts, industry scarce bears the name of merit.—What then is to be substituted in the place of genius? GOOD FORTUNE.—And if these volumes should be attended by the good fortune that has accompanied her other writings, to that divinity, and that alone, she shall attribute their success.
Yet, there is a
first cause
still, to whom I cannot here forbear to mention my obligations.
The Muses, I trust, will pardon me, that to them I do not feel myself obliged—for, in justice to their heavenly inspirations, I believe they have never yet favoured me with one visitation; but sent in their disguise NECESSITY, who, being the mother of Invention, gave me all mine —while FORTUNE kindly smiled, and was accessary to the cheat.
But this important secret I long wished, and endeavoured to conceal; yet one unlucky moment candidly, though unwittingly, divulged it— I frankly owned, "That Fortune having chased away Necessity, there remained no other incitement to stimulate me to a labour I abhorred." — It happened to be in the power of the person to whom I confided this secret, to send NECESSITY once more. — Once more, then, bowing to its empire, I submit to the task it enjoins.
This case has something similar to a theatrical anecdote told (I think) by Colly Cibber:
A performer of a very mean salary, played the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet so exactly to the satisfaction of the audience, that this little part, independent of the other characters, drew immense houses whenever the play was performed — The manager in consequence, thought it but justice to advance the actor's salary; on which the poor man (who, like the character he represented, had been half starved before) began to live so comfortably, he became too plump for the part; and being of no importance in any thing else, the manager of course now wholly discharged him—and thus, actually reducing him to the want of a piece of bread, in a short time he became a proper figure for the part again.
Welcome, then, thou all-powerful principle, NECESSITY!—THOU, who art the instigator of so many bad authors and actors — but, to their shame, not of all:—THOU, who from my infancy seldom hast forsaken me, still abide with me.— I will not complain of any hardship thy commands require, so thou doest not urge my pen to prostitution.— In all thy rigour, oh! do not force my toil to libels—or, what is equally pernicious — panegyric on the unworthy!
A SIMPLE STORY.
CHAPTER I.
DOrriforth, bred at St. Omer's in all the scholastic rigour of that college, was by education, and the solemn vows of his order, a Roman Catholic priest—but nicely discriminating between the philosophical and the superstitious part of that character, and adopting the former only, he possessed qualities not unworthy the first professors of Christianity—every virtue which it was his vocation to preach, it was his care to practise; nor was he in the class of those of the religious, who, by secluding themselves from the world; fly the merit they might have in reforming mankind. He refused to shelter himself from the temptations of the layman by the walls of a cloister, but sought for, and found that shelter in the centre of London, where he dwelt, in his own prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance.
He was about thirty, and had lived in the metropolis near five years, when a gentleman, above his own age, but with whom he had from his youth contracted a most sincere friendship, died, and left him the sole guardian of his daughter, a young lady of eighteen.
The deceased Mr. Milner, on his approaching dissolution, perfectly sensible of his state, thus reasoned to himself before he made the nomination: "I have formed no intimate friendship during my whole life, except one —I can be said to know the heart of no man except the heart of Dorriforth —After knowing his, I never sought acquaintance with another—I did not wish to lessen the exalted estimation of human nature he had inspired. In this moment of trembling apprehension from every thought that darts across my mind, much more for every action which soon I must be called to answer for; all worldly views here thrown aside, I act as if that tribunal before which I every moment expect to appear, were now sitting in judgment upon my purpose.—The care of an only child is the great charge that in this tremendous crisis I have to execute—these earthly affections that bind me to her by custom, sympathy, or what I fondly call parental love, would direct me to study her present happiness, and leave her to the care of some of those she styles her dearest friends; but they are friends only in the sunshine of fortune; in the cold nipping frost of disappointment, sickness, or connubial strife, they will forsake the house of care, although the house which they themselves may have built."
Here the excruciating anguish of the father, overcame that of the dying man.
"In the moment of desertion," continued he, "which I now picture to myself, where will my child find comfort? — That heavenly aid religion gives, which now amidst these agonizing tortures, chears with the bright ray of consolation my frightened soul; that, she will be denied."
It is in this place proper to remark, that Mr. Milner was a member of the church of Rome, but on his marriage with a lady of Protestant tenets, they mutually agreed their sons should be educated in the religious opinion of their father, and their daughters in that of their mother. One child only was the result of their union, the child whose future welfare now occupied the thoughts of her expiring father — from him the care of her education had been withheld, as he kept inviolate the promise made to her departed mother on the article of religion, and therefore consigned his daughter to a Protestant boarding-school, from whence she was sent with merely such sentiments of religion, as young ladies of fashion mostly imbibe. Her little heart employed in all the endless pursuits of personal accomplishments, had left her mind without one ornament, except those which nature gave, and even they were not wholly preserved from the ravages made by its rival,
Art.
While her father was in health he beheld with the extreme of delight, his accomplished daughter without one fault with which taste or elegance could have reproached her, nor ever enquired what might be her other failings — Cast on a bed of sickness, and upon the point of leaving her to her future fate, those failings at once rushed on his memory—and all the pride, the fond enjoyment he had taken in beholding her open the ball, or delight her hearers with her sprightly wit, escaped his remembrance; or not escaping, were thought of with a sigh of contrition, or at best a contemptuous frown, at the frivolous qualification.
"Something more essential," said he to himself, "must be considered — something to prepare her for an hour like this I now experience—can I then leave her to the charge of those who themselves never remember such an hour will come?—Dorriforth is the only person I know, who, uniting every moral virtue to those of religion, and native honour to pious faith; will protect without controuling, instruct without tyrannizing, comfort without flattering, and perhaps in time make good by choice rather than by constraint, the dear object of his dying friend's sole care."
Dorriforth, who came post from London to visit Mr. Milner in his illness, received a few moments before his death all his injunctions, and promised to fulfil them—but in this last token of Mr. Milner's perfect esteem of his friend, he still restrained him from all authority to direct his ward in one religious opinion contrary to those her mother had professed, and in which she herself had been educated.
"Never perplex her mind with an idea that may disturb, but cannot reform" — were his latest words, and Dorriforth's reply gave him entire satisfaction.
Miss Milner was not with her father at this affecting period—some delicately nervous friend, with whom she was on a visit at Bath, thought proper to conceal from her not only the danger of his death, but even his indisposition, lest it might alarm a mind she thought too susceptible. This refined tenderness gave poor Miss Milner the almost insupportable agony, of hearing her father was no more, even before she was told he was not in health. In the bitterest anguish she flew to pay her last duty to his remains, and performed it with the truest filial love, while Dorriforth, upon important business, was obliged to return to town.
CHAPTER II.
DOrriforth returned to London heavily afflicted for the loss of his friend, and yet perhaps with his thoughts more engaged upon the trust that friend had reposed in him. He knew the life Miss Milner had been accustomed to lead; he dreaded the repulses his admonitions might possibly meet from her; and feared he had undertaken a task he was too weak to execute — the protection of a young woman of fashion.
Mr. Dorriforth was nearly related to one of our first catholic peers; his income was by no means confined, but approaching to affluence, yet his attention to those in poverty, and the moderation of his own desires were such, that he lived in all the careful plainness of oeconomy—his habitation was in the house of a Mrs. Horton, an elderly lady, who had a maiden niece residing with her not many years younger than herself — But although Miss Woodley was thirty, and in person exceedingly plain, yet she possessed such an extreme chearfulness of temper, and such an inexhaustible fund of good nature, that she escaped not only the ridicule, but even the appellation of an old maid.
In this house Dorriforth had lived before the death of Mr. Horton, nor upon that event did he think it necessary, notwithstanding his religious vow of celibacy, to sly the roof of two such unseductive innocent females as Mrs. Horton and her niece—on their part, they regarded him with all that respect and reverence the most religious slock regards its pastor; and his friendly society they not only esteemed a spiritual, but a temporal advantage, as the liberal stipend he allowed for his apartments and board enabled them to continue in the large and commodious house, where they had resided during the life of Mr. Horton.
Here, upon Mr. Dorriforth's return from his journey, preparations were made for the reception of his ward, her father having made it one of his requests that she might, for a time at least, dwell in the same house with her guardian, receive the same visits, and cultivate the acquaintance of his acquaintances and friends.
When the will of her father was made known to Miss Milner, she submitted without the smallest reluctance to all he had required—her mind, at that time impressed with the most poignant sorrow for his loss, made no distinction of happiness that was to come; and the day was appointed, with her silent acquiescence, when she was to arrive in London, and take up her abode at Mrs. Horton's, with all the retinue of a rich heiress.
Mrs. Horton was delighted with the addition this acquisition to her family was likely to make to her annual income, and to the style of her living. — The goodnatured Miss Woodley was overjoyed at the expectation of their new guest, yet she herself could not tell why—but the reason was, her kind heart wanted more ample field for its benevolence; and now her thoughts were all pleasingly employed how she should render, not only the lady herself, but even all her attendants, happy in their new situation.
The thoughts of Dorriforth were less agreeably engaged — Cares, doubts, fears, possessed his mind—so forcibly possessed it, that upon every occasion which offered, he would inquisitively try to gain intelligence of his ward's disposition before he saw her; for he was, as yet, a stranger not only to the real propensities of her mind, but even to her person; a constant round of visits having prevented his meeting her at her father's, the very few times he had been at his house, since her return from boarding-school. The first person whose opinion he, with all proper reserve, asked concerning Miss Milner was lady Evans, the widow of a baronet who frequently visited at Mrs, Horton's.
But that the reader may be interested in what Dorriforth says and does, it is necessary to give some description of his person and manners. His figure was tall and elegant, but his face, except a pair of dark bright eyes, a set of white teeth, and a graceful fall in his clerical curls of dark brown hair, had not one feature to excite admiration—he possessed notwithstanding such a gleam of sensibility diffused over each, that many people mistook his face for handsome, and all were more or less attracted by it—in a word, the charm that is here meant to be described is a countenance—on his countenance you beheld the feelings of his heart—saw all its inmost workings—the quick pulses that beat with hope and fear, or the placid ones that were stationary with patient resignation. On this countenance his thoughts were pictured, and as his mind was enriched with every virtue that could make it valuable, so was his honest face adorned with every emblem of those virtues —and they not only gave a lustre to his aspect, but added a harmonious sound to all he uttered; it was persuasive, it was perfect eloquence, whilst in his looks you behold his thoughts moving with his lips, and ever coinciding with what he said.
With one of those interesting looks which revealed the anxiety of his heart, and with that graceful restraint of all gesticulation, for which he was remarkable even in his most anxious concerns, he addressed lady Evans who had called on Mrs. Horton to hear and to tell the news of the day: "Your ladyship was at Bath last spring—you know the young lady to whom I have the honour of being appointed guardian.—Pray"—
He was earnestly intent upon asking a question, but was prevented by her ladyship.
"Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me any thing about the lady—when I saw her she was very young; though indeed that is but three months ago, and she can't be much older now."
"She is eighteen." Answered Dorriforth, colouring with regret at the doubts her ladyship had increased, but not inspired.
"And she is very beautiful, that I can assure you." Replied her ladyship.
"Which I call no qualification." Said Dorriforth, rising from his seat in evident uneasiness.
"But where there is nothing else," returned lady Evans, "let me tell you, beauty is something."
"Much worse than nothing, in my opinion." Returned Dorriforth.
"But now, Mr. Dorriforth, do not from what I have said, frighten yourself, and imagine the young lady worse than she really is—all I know of her, is merely, that she's a young, idle, indiscreet, giddy girl, with half a dozen lovers in her suite; some coxcombs, some men of gallantry, some single, and some married."
Dorriforth started.—"For the first time of my life," cried he with a manly sorrow, "I wish I had never known her father."
"Nay," said Mrs. Horton, who expected every thing to happen just as she wished, (for neither an excellent education, the best company, or long experience had been able to cultivate or brighten this good lady's understanding.) "Nay," said she, "I am sure, Mr. Dorriforth, you will soon convert her from all her evil ways."
"Dear me," returned lady Evans, "I am sure I never meant to hint at any thing evil—and for what I have said, I will give you up my authors if you please; for they were not observations of my own; all I do is to mention them again."
The good natured Miss Woodley, who sat working at the window, an humble listener to this discourse, ventured on this to say exactly six words: "Then do'nt mention them any more."
"Let us change the subject," said Dorriforth.
"With all my heart," cried her ladyship, "and I am sure it will be to the young lady's advantage."
"Is she tall, or short?" asked Mrs. Horton, still wishing for farther information.
"Oh, tall enough of all conscience," returned lady Evans; "I tell you again there is no fault can be found with her person."
"But if her mind is defective"—exclaimed Dorriforth with a sigh—
"—That may be improved as well as the person." Cried Miss Woodley.
"No my dear," returned her ladyship, "I never heard of a pad to make strait an ill-shapen disposition."
"O yes, lady Evans," aswered Miss Woodley, "good company, good books, experience, and the misfortunes of others, may have more power to form the mind to virtue, than"—
"Her ladyship would not suffer her to go on, but rising hastily from her seat, cried, "I must be gone—I have fifty people waiting for me at home— besides, were I inclined to hear a sermon, I should desire Mr. Dorriforth to preach, and not you."
Just then Mrs. Hillgrave was announced.—"And here is Mrs. Hillgrave."—Continued lady Evans—"I believe Mrs. Hillgrave you know Miss Milner, don't you? The young lady who has lately lost her father."
Mrs. Hillgrave was the wife of a merchant who had met with some severe losses, and as soon as the name of Miss Milner was uttered, she lifted tip her hands, and the tears started in her eyes.
"There!" cried lady Evans, "I desire you will give your opinion of her, and I am sorry I cannot stay to hear it." Saying this, she courtesied and took her leave.
When Mrs. Hillgrave had been seated a few minutes, Mrs. Horton, who loved information equal to the most inquisitive of her sex, begged that lady,—"if she might be permitted to know, why, at the mention of Miss Milner, she had seemed so much affected?"
This question interesting the fears of Dorriforth, he turned anxiously round attentive to the reply.
"Miss Milner," answered she, "has been my benefactress, and the best I ever had." As she spoke, she took out her handkerchief and wiped away the tears that ran down her face.
"How so?" cried Dorriforth eagerly, with his eyes moistened with joy, nearly as much as her's were with gratitude.
"My husband, at the commencement of his distresses," replied Mrs. Hillgrave, "owed a sum of money to her father, and from repeated provocations, Mr. Milner was determined to seize upon all our effects—his daughter, however, procured us time in order to discharge the debt; and when she found that time was insufficient, and her father no longer to be dissuaded from his intention, she secretly sold some of her most valuable ornaments to satisfy his demand and screen us from its consequences."
Dorriforth, pleased at this recital, took Mrs. Hillgrave by the hand, and told her "she should never want a friend."
"Is Miss Milner tall, or short?" again asked Mrs. Horton, fearing from the sudden pause which had ensued the subject should be dropped.
"I don't know." Answered Mrs. Hillgrave.
"Is she handsome, or ugly?"
"I really can't tell."
"It is very strange you should not take notice!"
"I did take notice, but I cannot depend upon my own judgment—to me she appeared beautiful as an angel, but perhaps I was deceived by the beauties of her disposition."
CHAPTER III.
THIS gentlewoman's visit inspired Mr. Dorriforth with some confidence in the principles and character of his ward.—The day arrived on which she was to leave her late father's seat, to take up her abode at Mrs. Horton's; and he, accompanied by Miss Woodley, went in his carriage to meet her, and waited at an inn on the road for her reception.
After many a sigh paid to the memory of her father, Miss Milner, upon the tenth of November, arrived at the place, half way on her journey to town, where Dorriforth and Miss Woodley were expecting her.—Besides attendants, she had with her a gentleman and a lady, distant relations of her mother's, who thought it but a proper testimony of their civility to attend her part of the way, but who so much envied her guardian the trust Mr. Milner had reposed in him, that as soon as they had delivered her safe into his care they returned.
When the carriage which brought Miss Milner stopped at the inn gate, and her name was announced to Dorriforth, he turned pale—something like a foreboding of disaster trembled at his heart, and consequently darted over all his face. — Miss Woodley was even obliged to rouze him from the dejection into which he was cast, or he would have sunk beneath it—she was obliged also to be the first to welcome his lovely charge.—Lovely beyond description.
But the sprightly vivacity, the natural gaietv, which report had given to Miss Milner, were softened by her recent sorrow to a meek sadness—and that haughty display of charms, imputed to her manners, was changed to a pensive demeanor.—The instant Dorriforth was introduced to her by Miss Woodley as her "Guardian, and her deceased father's most beloved friend," she burst into a flood of tears, knelt down to him for a moment, and promised ever to obey him as her father. —He had his handkerchief to his face at the time, or she would have beheld the agitation of his heart—the remotest sensations of his soul.
This affecting introduction being over, and some minutes passed in general conversation, the carriages were again ordered, and, bidding farewell to the friends who had accompanied her, Miss Milner, her guardian, and Miss Woodley departed for town; the two ladies in Miss Milner's carriage, and Dorriforth in that in which he came.
Miss Woodley, as they rode along, made no attempts to ingratiate herself with Miss Milner; though, perhaps, it might constitute one of her first wishes—she behaved to her but as she constantly behaved to every other creature—that was sufficient to gain the esteem of one, possessed of an understanding equal to this young lady's —she had penetration to discover Miss Woodley's unaffected worth, and was soon induced to reward it with the warmest friendship.
CHAPTER IV.
AFTER a night's rest in London, less strongly impressed with the loss of her father, reconciled, if not already attached to her new acquaintance, her thoughts pleasingly occupied with the reflection she was in that gay metropolis—a wild rapturous picture of which her active fancy had often formed— Miss Milner arose from a peaceful and refreshing sleep, with much of that vivacity, and all those airy charms, which for a while had yielded their transcendent power, to less potent sadness.
Beautiful as she had appeared to Miss Woodley and to Dorriforth the preceding day, when she joined them the next morning at breakfast, repossessed of her lively elegance and dignified simplicity, they gazed at her, and at each other alternately, with wonder!—and Mrs. Horton, as she sat at the head of her tea-table, felt herself but as a menial servant, such command has beauty if united with sense and with virtue.—In Miss Milner it was so united. —Yet let not our over-scrupulous readers be misled, and extend their idea of her virtue so as to magnify it beyond that which frail mortals commonly possess; nor must they cavil, if, on a nearer view, they find it less—but let them consider, that if Miss Milner had more faults than generally belong to others, she had likewise more temptations.
From her infancy she had been indulged in all her wishes to the extreme of folly, and habitually started at the unpleasant voice of controul—she was beautiful, she had been too frequently told the high value of that beauty, and thought those moments passed in wasteful idleness during which she was not gaining some new conquest—she had besides a quick sensibility, which too frequently discovered itself in the immediate resentment of injury or neglect— she had acquired also the dangerous character of a wit; but to which she had no real pretensions, although the most discerning critic, hearing her converse, might fall into this mistake.— Her replies had all the effect of rerepartee, not because she possessed those qualities which can properly be called wit, but that what she said was spoken with an energy, an instantaneous and powerful perception of what she said, joined with a real or well-counterfeited simplicity, a quick turn of the eye, and an arch smile of the countenance.—Her words were but the words of others, and, like those of others, put into common sentences; but the delivery made them pass for wit, as grace in an ill proportioned figure, will often make it pass for symmetry.
And now—leaving description—the reader must form a judgment of her by her actions; by all the round of great or trivial circumstances that shall be related.
At breakfast, which was just begun at the beginning of this chapter, the conversation was lively on the part of Miss Milner, wise on the part of Dorriforth, good on the part of Miss Woodley, and an endeavour at all three on the part of Mrs. Horton.—The discourse at length drew from Mr. Dorriforth this observation.
"You have a greater resemblance of your father, Miss Milner, than I imagined you had from report: I did not expect to find you so like him."
"Nor did I, Mr. Dorriforth, expect to find you any thing like what you are."
"No?—pray, madam, what did you expect to find me?"
"I expected to find you an elderly man, and a plain man."
This was spoken in an artless manner, but in a tone which obviously declared she thought her guardian both young and handsome.—He replied, but not without some little embarrassment, "A plain man you shall find me in all my actions."
She returned, "Then your actions are to contradict your looks."
For in what she said, Miss Milner had the quality peculiar to wits, to speak the thought that first occurs, which thought has generally truth on its side.—On this he ventured to pay her a compliment in return.
"You, Miss Milner, I should suppose, must be a very bad judge of what is plain, and what is not."
"How so, Sir?"
"Because I am sure you will readily own you do not think yourself handsome; and allowing that, you instantly want judgment."
"And I would rather want judgment than beauty," she replied, "and so I give up the one for the other."
With a serious face, as if proposing a most serious question, Dorriforth continued, "And you really believe you are not handsome?"
"I should from my own opinion believe so, but in some respects I am like you Roman Catholics; I don't believe from my own understanding, but from what other people tell me."
"And let this be the criterion," replied Dorriforth, "that what we teach is truth; for you find you would be deceived did you not trust to persons who know better than yourself. — But, my dear Miss Milner, we will talk upon some other topic, and never resume this again —we differ in opinion, I dare say, on one subject only, and this difference I hope will never extend itself to any other.— Therefore, let not religion be named between us; for as I have resolved never to persecute you, in pity be grateful, and do not persecute me."
Miss Milner looked with surprise that any thing so lightly said, should be so seriously received.—The kind Miss Woodley ejaculated a short prayer to herself, that heaven would forgive her young friend the involuntary sin of ignorance—while Mrs. Horton, unperceived as she imagined, made the sign of the cross upon her forehead to prevent the infectious taint of Heretical opinions. This, pious ceremony, Miss Milner, by chance, observed, and now shewed such an evident propensity to burst into a sit of laughter, that the good lady of the house could no longer contain her resentment, but exclaimed, "God forgive you." With a severity so far different from the idea the words conveyed, that the object of her anger was, on this, obliged freely to indulge that risibility which she had been struggling to smother; and without longer suffering under the agony of restraint, she gave way to her humour, and laughed with a liberty so uncontrouled, that in a short time left her in the room with none but the tender-hearted Miss Woodley a witness of her folly.
"My dear Miss Woodley," (then cried Miss Milner, after recovering herself,) "I am afraid you will not forgive me."
"No, indeed I will not." Returned Miss Woodley.
But how unimportant, how weak, how ineffectual are
words
in conversation—looks and manners alone express —for Miss Woodley, with her charitable face and mild accents, saying she would not forgive, implied only forgiveness—while Mrs. Horton, with her enraged voice and aspect, begging heaven to pardon the offender, palpably said, she thought her unworthy of all pardon.
CHAPTER V.
SIX weeks have now elapsed since Miss Milner has been in London, partaking with delight in all its pleasures, whilst Dorriforth has been sighing with apprehension, attending with precaution, and praying with the most zealous fervour for her safety.—Her own and her guardian's acquaintance, and the new friendships (to speak in the unmeaning language of the world) which she was continually forming, crowded so perpetually to the house, that seldom had Dorriforth even a moment left from her visits or visitors, to warn her of her danger—yet when a moment offered, he snatched it eagerly —pressed the necessity of "time not always passed in society; of reflection; of reading; of thoughts for a future state; and of virtues acquired to make old age supportable."—That forcible power of innate feeling, which directs the tongue to eloquence, had its effect while she listened to him, and she sometimes put on the looks and gesture of assent, and sometimes even spoke the language of conviction; but this, the first call of dissipation would change to ill-timed raillery, or peevish remonstrance at being limited in delights her birth and fortune entitled her to enjoy.
Among the many visitors who attended at her levees, and followed wherever she went, was one that seemed, even when absent, to share her thoughts. —This was Lord Frederick Lawnly, the son of a duke, and the avowed favourite of all the most discerning women of taste.
Lord Frederick was not more than twenty-three; sprightly, elegant, extremely handsome, and possessed of every accomplishment to captivate a heart less susceptible of love than Miss Milner's was supposed to be.— With these allurements, no wonder if she took a pleasure in his company—no wonder if she took a pride to have it known he was among the number of her most devoted admirers.—Dorriforth beheld the growing intimacy with alternate pain and pleasure—he wished to see Miss Milner married, to see his charge in the protection of another, rather than of himself; yet under the care of a young nobleman, immersed in all the vices of the town, without one moral excellence, but such as might result eventually from the influence of the moment—under such care he trembled for her happiness—yet trembled more lest her heart should be purloined, without even the authority of matrimonial views.
With these sentiments Dorriforth could never disguise his uneasiness at the sight of Lord Frederick, nor could his lordship but discern the suspicion of the guardian, and consequently each was embarrassed in the presence of the other.—Miss Milner observed, but observed with indifference, the sensations of both — there was but one passion which at present held a place in her heart, and that was vanity; vanity defined into all the species of pride, vainglory, self-approbation—an inordinate desire of admiration, and an immoderate enjoyment of the art of pleasing, for her own individual happiness, and not for the happiness of others.— Still had she a heart inclined, and oftentimes affected by tendencies less unworthy; but those approaches to what was estimable, were generally arrested in their first impulse by some darling folly.
Miss Woodley (who could discover virtue, although of the most diminitive kind, and scarcely through the magnifying glass of calumny could ever perceive a fault) was Miss Milner's constant companion, and her advocate with Dorriforth, whenever, during her absence, she became the subject of discourse—he listened with hope to the praises of her friend, but saw with despair how little they were merited.— Sometimes he struggled to contain his anger, but oftener strove to suppress tears of pity for her hapless state.
By this time all her acquaintance had given Lord Frederick to her as a lover, the servants whispered it, and some of the public prints had even fixed the day of marriage;—but as no explanation had taken place on the part of his lordship, Dorriforth's uneasiness was encreased, and he seriously told his Ward he thought it prudent to entreat lord Frederick to desist visiting her.—She smiled with ridicule at the caution, but finding it a second time repeated, and in a manner that savoured of authority, she promised to make, and to enforce the request.—The next time his lordship came she did so, assuring him it was by her guardian's desire; "who from motives of delicacy had permitted her rather to solicit as a favour, what he himself would make as a demand."— Lord Frederick reddened with anger— he loved Miss Milner, but he doubted whether (from the frequent proofs he had experienced of his own inconstancy) he should continue to love—and this interference of her guardian threatened an explanation or a dismission, before he became thoroughly acquainted with his own heart.—Alarmed, confounded, and provoked, he replied,
"By heaven I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself, and it is jealousy makes him treat me thus."
"For shame, my lord!" cried Miss Woodley, who was present, and trembling with horror at the sacrilegious idea.
"Nay, shame for him if he be not in love"— answered his lordship, "for what but a savage could behold beauty like her's, and not own its power?"
"Habit," replied Miss Milner, "is every thing—and Mr. Dorriforth sees and converses with beauty, and from habit does not fall in love, as you, my lord, merely from habit do."
"Then you believe," cried he, "love is not in my nature?"
"No more of it, my lord, than habit could very soon extinguish."
"But I would not have it extinguished—I would rather it should mount to a flame, for I think it a crime to be insensible of the blessings love can bestow."
"Then your lordship indulges the passion to avoid a sin?—the very motive which deters Mr. Dorriforth."
"Which ought to deter him, madam, for the sake of his oaths—but monastick vows, like those of marriage, were made to be broken—and surely when your guardian looks on you, his wishes"—
"Are never less pure," returned Miss Milner eagerly, "than those which dwell in the bosom of my celestial guardian."
At that instant Dorriforth entered the room. The colour had mounted into Miss Milner's face from the warmth with which she had delivered her opinion, and his entering at the very moment this compliment had been paid in his absence, heightened the blush to a deep glow on every feature, and a confusion that trembled on her lips and shook through all her frame.
"What's the matter?" cried Dorriforth, looking with concern on her discomposure.
"A compliment paid by herself to you, Sir," replied his lordship, "has thus affected the lady."
"As if she blushed at the untruth." Said Dorriforth.
"Nay, that is unkind," cried Miss Woodley, "for if you had been here"—
"— I would not have said what I did," replied Miss Milner, "but left him to vindicate himself."
"Is it possible I can want vindication?" returned Dorriforth, "Who would think it worth their while to slander so unimportant a person as I am?"
"The man who has the charge of Miss Milner," replied lord Frederick, "derives a consequence from her."
"No ill consequence, I hope, my lord?" replied Dorriforth with a firmness in his voice, and an eye fixed so stedfastly, that his lordship hesitated for a moment in want of a reply—and Miss Milner softly whispering to him, as her guardian turned his head, to avoid an argument, he bowed acquiescence.— And then, as incompliment to her, he wished to change the subject, with a smile of ridicule he cried,
"I wish, Mr. Dorriforth, you would give me absolution of all my sins, for I confess they are many, and manifold."
"Hold, my Lord," exclaimed Dorriforth, "do not confess before the ladies, lest in order to excite their compassion, you should be tempted to accuse yourself of sins, you have never yet committed."
At this Miss Milner laughed, seemingly so well pleased, that lord Frederick with a sarcastic sneer, repeated,
From Abelard it came,
And Heloisa still must love the name.
Whether from an inattention to the quotation, or from a consciousness it was wholly inapplicable, Dorriforth heard it without one emotion of shame or of anger—while Miss Milner seemed shocked at the implication; her pleasantry was immediately depressed, and she threw open the sash and held her head out at the window to conceal the embarrassment these lines had occasioned.
The earl of Elmwood was at this juncture announced—a Catholic nobleman, just come of age, and on the eve of marriage—his Lordship's visit was to his cousin, Mr. Dorriforth, but as all ceremonious visits were alike received by Dorriforth, Miss Milner, and Mrs. Horton's family in one common apartment, lord Elmwood was ushered into this, and for the present directed the conversation to a different subject.
CHAPTER VI.
IN anxious desire that the affection, or acquaintance, between lord Frederick Lawnly and Miss Milner might be finally broken, her guardian received with the highest satisfaction, overtures from Sir Edward Ashton, in behalf of his passion for that young lady.—Sir Edward was not young or handsome; old or ugly; but immensely rich, and possessed of qualities that made him, in every sense, worthy the happiness to which he aspired.—He was the man Dorriforth would have chosen before any other for the husband of his Ward, and his wishes made him sometimes hope, against his reason, that Sir Edward would not be rejected—and he resolved to try the force of his own power in the strongest recommendation of him.
Notwithstanding that dissimilarity of opinion, which in almost every respect, subsisted between Miss Milner and her guardian, there was generally the most punctilious observance of good manners from each towards the other—on the part of Dorriforth more especially; for his politeness would sometimes appear even like the result of a system he had marked out for himself, as the only means to keep his Ward restrained within the same limitations.—Whenever he addressed her there was an unusual reserve upon his countenance, and more than usual gentleness in his tone of voice; which seemed the effect of sentiments her birth and situation inspired, joined to a studied mode of respect best suited to enforce the same from her. —The wished-for consequence was produced—for though there was an instinctive rectitude in the understanding of Miss Milner that would have taught her, without other instruction, what manners to observe towards her deputed father; yet, from some volatile thought, or some quick sense of feeling, she had not been accustomed to subdue, she was perpetually on the verge of treating him with levity; but he would immediately recall her recollection by a reserve too awful, and a gentleness too sacred for her to violate. The distinction which both required, was thus, by his skilful management alone, preserved.
One morning he took an opportunity, before her and Miss Woodley, to introduce and press the subject of Sir Edward Ashton's hopes. He first spoke warmly in his praise, then plainly told Miss Milner he believed she possessed the power to make so deserving a man happy to the summit of his wishes. A laugh of ridicule was the only answer,— but a sudden and expressive frown from Dorriforth having quickly put an end to it, he resumed his wonted politeness and said,
"I wish, Miss Milner, you would shew more good taste than thus pointedly to disapprove of Sir Edward."
"How, Mr. Dorriforth," replied she, "can you expect me to give proofs of a good taste, when Sir Edward, whom you consider with such high esteem, has given so bad an example of his, in approving of me?"
Dorriforth wished not to flatter her frailty by a compliment she seemed to have sought for, and for a moment hesitated what to say.
"Answer, Sir, that question." She cried,
"Why then, madam," replied he, "it is my opinion, that supposing what your humility has advanced to be just, yet Sir Edward will not suffer by the suggestion; for in cases where the heart is so immediately concerned, as I believe Sir Edward's to be, good taste, or rather reason, has not proper power to act."
"You are right, Mr. Dorriforth; this is a thorough justification of Sir Edward—and when I fall in love, I must beg you will make the same excuse for me."
"Then," returned he earnestly, "before your heart is in that state I have described, exert your reason."
"I shall," answered she, "and not consent to marry a man whom I could never love."
"Unless your heart is already given away, Miss Milner, what can make you speak with such a degree of certainty?"
He thought on Lord Frederick while he said this, and he fixed his eyes upon her as if he wished to penetrate her sentiments, and yet trembled for what he might find there.—she blushed, and her looks would have confirmed her guilty, had not a free and unembarrassed tone of voice, more than her words, preserved her from that sentence.
"No," she replied, "my heart is not given away, and yet I can venture to declare Sir Edward will never possess an atom of it."
"I am sorry, for both your sakes, these are your sentiments,—he replied, "But as your heart is still your own," (and he seemed rejoiced to find it was) "permit me to warn you how you part with a thing so precious—the dangers, the sorrows you hazard in bestowing it, are greater than you may be aware of. The heart once gone, our thoughts, our actions, are no more our own, than that is."—He seemed
forcing
himself to utter all this, and yet to break off as if he could have said much more, had not the extreme delicacy of the subject prevented him.
When he left the room, and Miss Milner heard the door shut after him, she said with a thoughful and inquisitive earnestness, "what can make good people so skilled in all the weaknesses of the bad?" Mr. Dorriforth, with all those prudent admonitions, appears rather like a man who has passed his life in the gay world, experienced all its dangerous allurements, all its repentant sorrows, than like one who has lived his whole time secluded in a monastry or his own study.—Then he speaks with such exquisite sensibility on the subject of love, he commends the very thing he would decry.—I do not think my lord Frederick could make the passion appear in more pleasing colours by painting its delights, than Mr. Dorriforth can in describing its sorrows—and if he talks to me frequently in this manner, I shall certainly take pity on his lordship, for the sake of his enemies eloquence."
Miss Woodley, who heard the conclusion of this speech with the tenderest concern, cried, "Alas! you then think seriously of lord Frederick!"
"Suppose I do, wherefore that
alas!
Miss Woodley?"
"Because I fear you will never be happy with him."
"That is plainly telling me he will not be happy with me."
"I cannot speak of marriage from experience," answered Miss Woodley, "but I think I can guess what it is."
"Nor can I speak of love from experience," replied Miss Milner, "but I think I can guess what it is."
"But do not fall in love, my dear Miss Milner," (cried Miss Woodley, with an earnestness as if she had been asking a favour that depended upon the will of the person entreated,) "do not fall in love without the approbation of your guardian."
Her young friend laughed at the inefficacious prayer, but promised to do "all she could to oblige her."
CHAPTER VII.
SIR Edward, not wholly discouraged by the denial with which Dorriforth had, with delicacy, acquainted him, still hoped for a kinder reception, and was so frequently in the house of Mrs. Horton, that lord Frederick's jealousy was excited, and the tortures he suffered in consequence, convinced him beyond a doubt of the sincerity of his affection. He now, every time he beheld the object of his passion, (for he still continued his visits, tho' less frequently than before) pleaded his cause so ardently, that Miss Woodley, who was occasionally present, and ever compassionate, could scarce resist wishing him success. He now unequivocally offered marriage, and entreated to be suffered to lay his proposals before Mr. Dorriforth, but this Miss Milner positively forbid.
Her reluctance he imputed, however, more to the known partiality of her guardian to the addresses of Sir Edward, than to any motive which depended upon herself; and to Mr. Dorriforth his lordship conceived a greater dislike than ever; believing that through his interposition, in spite of his ward's attachment, he might yet be deprived of her—but Miss Milner declared both to him and to her friend, Love had, at present, gained no one influence over her mind.—Yet did the watchful Miss Woodley oftentimes hear a sigh burst forth, unknowing to herself, till she was reminded of it, and then a sudden blush of shame would instantly spread over her face.— This seeming struggle with her passion, endeared her more than ever to Miss Woodley, and she would even risk the displeasure of Dorriforth by her ready compliance in every new pursuit that might amuse the time, she else saw passed by her friend in heaviness of heart.
Balls, plays, incessant company, at length rouzed her guardian from that mildness with which he had been accustomed to treat her — night after night, his sleep had been disturbed by fears for her safety while abroad; morning after morning, it had been broken by the clamour of her return.—He therefore said to her one forenoon as he met her accidentally upon the stair case,
"I hope, Miss Milner, you pass this evening at home?"
Unprepared for the sudden question, she blushed and replied, "Yes." While she knew she was engaged to a brilliant assembly, for which she had been a whole week consulting her milliner in preparation.
She, however, flattered herself what she had said to Mr. Dorriforth might be excused as a slight mistake, the lapse of memory, or some other trifling fault, when he should know the truth— the truth was earlier divulged than she expected—for just as dinner was removed, her footman delivered a message to her from her milliner concerning a new dress for the evening—the
present evening
particularly marked.— Dorriforth looked astonished.
"I thought, Miss Milner, you gave me your word you would pass this evening at home?"
"I mistook then—for I had before given my word I should pass it abroad."
"Indeed?" cried he.
"Yes, indeed;" returned she, "and I believe it is right I should keep my first promise; is it not?"
"The promise you gave me then, you do not think of any consequence."
"Yes, certainly; if you do."
"I do."
"And mean, perhaps, to make it of much more consequence than it deserves, by being offended."
"Whether or not, I am offended— you shall find I am." And he looked so.
She caught his piercing, stedfast eye— her's were immediately cast down; and she trembled — either with shame or with resentment.
Mrs. Horton rose from her seat— moved the decanters and the fruit round the table—stirred the fire—and came back to her seat again, before another word was uttered.—Nor had this good woman's officious labours taken the least from the aukwardness of the silence, which as soon as the bustle she had made was over, returned in its full force.
At last, Miss Milner rising with alacrity, was preparing to go out of the room, when Dorriforth raised his voice, and in a tone of authority said,
"Miss Milner, you shall not leave the house this evening."
"Sir?"—she exclaimed with a kind of doubt of what she had heard—a surprise, which fixed her hand on the door she had half opened, but which now she shewed herself irresolute whether to open wide in defiance, or to shut submissive. — Before she could resolve, Dorriforth arose from his seat, and said with a degree of force and warmth she had never heard him speak with before.
"I command you to stay at home this evening."
And he walked immediately out of the apartment by the opposite door. —Her hand fell motionless from that she held — she appeared motionless herself for some time; — till Mrs. Horton, "beseeching her not to be uneasy at the treatment she had received," caused a flood of tears to flow, and her bosom to heave as if her heart was breaking.
Miss Woodley would have said something to comfort her, but she had caught the infection and could not utter a word—not from any real cause of grief did this lady weep; but there was a magnetic quality in tears, which always drew forth her's.
Mrs. Horton secretly enjoyed this scene, although the real well meaning of her heart, and ease of her conscience, did not tell her so—she, however, declared she had "long prognosticated it would come to this;" and she "now only thanked heaven it was no worse."
"What would you have worse, madam?" cried Miss Milner, "am not I disappointed of the ball?"
"You don't mean to go then?" said Mrs. Horton; "I commend your prudence; and I dare say it is more than your guardian gives you credit for."
"Do you think I would go," answered Miss Milner, with an earnestness that for a time suppressed her tears, "in contradiction to his will?"
"It is not the first time, I believe, you have acted contrary to that, Miss Milner." Returned Mrs. Horton, and affected a tenderness of voice, to soften the harshness of her words.
"If that is the case, madam," replied Miss Milner, "I see nothing that should prevent me now." And she flung out of the room as if she had resolved to disobey him.—This alarmed poor Miss Woodley.
"Dear Aunt," she cried to Mrs. Horton, "follow and prevail upon Miss Milner to give up her design; she means to go to the ball in opposition to her guardian's will."
"Then," cried Mrs. Horton, "I'll not be an instrument in deterring her— if she does, it may be for the best; it may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer knowledge what means are proper to use, to convert her from evil."
"But, dear madam, she must be prevented the evil of disobedience; and as you tempted, you will be the most likely to dissuade her—but if you will not, I must endeavour."
Miss Woodley was leaving the room to perform this good design, when Mrs. Horton, in humble imitation of the example given her by Dorriforth, cried,
"Niece, I command you not to stir out of this room, this evening."
Miss Woodley obediently sat down— and though her thoughts and heart were in the chamber with her friend, she never shewed by one impertinent word, or by one line of her face, the restraint she suffered.
At the usual hour, Mr. Dorriforth and his ward were summoned to tea:— Dorriforth entered with a countenance which evinced the remains of anger; his eye gave testimony of his absent thoughts; and although he took up a pamphlet and affected to read, it was plain to discern he scarcely knew he held it in his hand.
Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as wholly intent upon something else, as Dorriforth's—she was longing for the event of this misunderstanding, (for to age trivial matters are important,) and though she wished no ill to Miss Milner, yet with an inclination bent upon seeing something new— without the fatigue of going out of her own house — she was not over scrupulous what that novelty might be.— But for fear she should have the imprudence to speak a word upon the subject which employed her thoughts, or even look as if she thought of it at all; she pinched her lips close together, and cast her eyes on vacancy, lest their significant regards might detect her.— And for fear any noise should intercept even the sound of what might happen, she walked across the room more softly than usual, and more softly touched every thing she was obliged to lay her hand on.
Miss Woodley thought it her duty to be mute, and now the gentle gingle of a tea-spoon, was like a deep-toned bell, all was so quiet.
Mrs. Horton too, in the self-approving reflection that she herself was not in any quarrel, or altercation of any kind, felt at this moment remarkably peaceful, and charitable.—Miss Woodley did not recollect
herself
so, but was so in reality—in her peace and charity were instinctive virtues, accident could not encrease them.
The first cups of tea were scarcely poured out, when a servant came with Miss Milner's compliments and she should drink none.—The book shaked in Dorriforth's hand while this message was delivered—he believed her to be dressing for her evening's entertainment, and now studied in what manner to prevent, or to resent it.—He coughed —drank his tea—endeavoured to talk, but found it difficult—sometimes read —and in this manner near two hours were passed away, when Miss Milner came into the room.—Not drest for ball, but as she had rose from dinner. — Dorriforth read on, and seemed afraid to look up, lest he should behold what he could not have pardoned.— she drew a chair and sat down at the table by the side of Miss Woodley.
After a few minutes pause, and some small embarrassment on the part of Mrs. Horton, at the disappointment she had to contend with from Miss Milner's unexpected obedience, she asked that young lady "if she would now take tea?"—to which Miss Milner replied, "no, I thank you, ma'am," in a voice so languid, compared to her usual one, that Dorriforth lifted his eyes from the book; and seeing her in the same negligent dress she had worn all the day, cast them away again—not with a look of triumph, but of confusion.
And whatever he might have suffered had he beheld her decorated, and on the point of bidding defiance to his commands, yet even upon that trial, he had not endured half the painful sensations he now for a moment felt— he felt himself to blame.
He feared he had treated her with too much severity—he admired her condescension, accused himself for exacting it —he longed to ask her pardon, he did not know how.
A chearful reply from her, to a question of Miss Woodley's, embarrassed him still more—he wished she had been fullen, he then would have had a temptation, or a pretence, to have been so too.
With all these thoughts crowding fast on his mind he still read, or seemed to read, and to take no notice of what was passing; till a servant entered and asked Miss Milner what time she should want the chariot? to which she replied, "I don't go out to night."—He then laid the book out of his hand, and by the time the servent had left the room, thus began.
"Miss Milner, I give you, I fear, some unkind proofs of my regard—it is often the ungrateful task of a friend to be troublesome — sometimes unmannerly.—Forgive the duty of my office, and believe no one is half so much concerned if it robs you of any amusements, as I myself am."
What he said, he looked with so much sincerity, that had she been burning with rage at his behaviour, she must have forgiven him, for the regret he so forcibly exprest.—She was going to reply, but found she could not without accompanying her words with tears, therefore as soon as she attempted she desisted.
On this he rose from his seat, and going to her, said, "Once more shew your submission by obeying me a second time to day.—Keep your appointment, and be assured I shall issue my commands with greater circumspection for the future, as I find how strictly they are complied with."
Miss Milner, the gay, the proud, the haughty Miss Milner, sunk underneath this kindness, and wept with a gentleness and patience, which did not give more surprise than it gave satisfaction to Dorriforth.—He was charmed to find her disposition so little untractable —forboded the future prosperity of his guardianship, and her eternal, as well as temporal happiness from this specimen.
CHAPTER VIII.
ALTHOUGH Dorriforth was that good man that has been described, there was in his nature shades of evil—there was an obstinacy; such as he himself, and his friends termed firmness of mind; but had not religion and some opposite virtues weighed heavy in the balance, it would frequently have degenerated into implacable stubbornness.
The child of a once beloved sister, who married a young officer against her brother's consent, was at the age of three years left an orphan, destitute of every support but from his uncle's generosity: but though Dorriforth mentioned, he would never see him. Miss Milner, whose heart was a receptacle for the unfortunate, no sooner was told the melancholy history of Mr. and Mrs. Rusbrook, the parents of the child, than she longed to behold the innocent inheritor of her guardian's resentment, and took Miss Woodley with her to see the boy— he was at a farm house a few miles from town; and his extreme beauty and engaging manners, needed not the sorrows to which he had been born, to give him farther recommendation to the kindness of her, who had come to visit him. She beheld him with admiration and pity, and having endeared herself to him by the most affectionate words and caresses, on her bidding him farewell, he cried most sorrowfully to go along with her. Unused to resist temptations, whether to reprehensible, or to laudable actions, she yielded to his supplications, and having overcome a few scruples of Miss Woodley's, determined to take young Rusbrook to town and present him to his uncle. This idea was no sooner formed than executed. — By making a present to the nurse, she readily gained her consent to part with him for a day or two, and the signs of joy the child denoted on being put into the carriage, seemed to repay her before-hand, for every reproof she might receive from her guardian, for the liberty she had taken.
"Besides," said she to Miss Woodley, who had still her apprehensions, "do you not wish his uncle should have some warmer interest in his care than duty? —it is that alone, which induces Mr. Dorriforth to provide for him, but it is proper, affection, should have some share in his benevolence—and how, hereafter, will he be so fit an object for that love, which compassion must excite, as he is at present?"
Miss Woodley acquiesced.—But before they arrived at their own door it came into Miss Milner's remembrance, there was a grave sternness in the manners of her guardian when provoked; the recollection of which, made her something apprehensive for what she had done—Miss Woodley was more so. —They both became silent as they approached the street where they lived— for Miss Woodley having once represented her fears, and having suppressed them in resignation to Miss Milner's better judgment, would not repeat them—and Miss Milner would not confess they were now troubling her.
Just, however, as the coach stopt, she had the forecast and the humility to say, "we will not tell Mr. Dorriforth the child is his nephew, Miss Woodley, unless he should appear fond, and pleased with him, and then we may venture without any danger."
This was agreed, and when Dorriforth entered the room just before dinner, poor Harry Rusbrook was introduced to him as the son of a lady who frequently visited there. The deception passed — Dorriforth shook hands with him, and at length highly pleased with his engaging wiles, and applicable replies, took him on his knee, and kissed him with affection. Miss Milner could scarcely restrain the joy this gave her; but unluckily, Dorriforth said soon after to the child, "and now tell me your name."
"Harry Rusbrook." Replied he with great force and clearness in his voice.
Dorriforth was holding him fondly round the waist as he stood with his feet upon his knees; and at this reply he did not throw him from him—but he removed his hands, which supported him, so suddenly, that the child to prevent falling on the floor, threw himself about his uncle's neck.—Miss Milner and Miss Woodley turned aside to conceal their tears. "I had liked to have been down." Cried Harry, fearing no other danger.—But his uncle took hold of each hand that had twined around him, and placed him immediately on the ground; and dinner being that instant served, he gave no greater marks of his resentment than calling for his hat, and walking instantly out of the house.
Miss Milner cried for anger; yet she did not treat with less kindness the object of this vexatious circumstance: she held him in her arms all the while she sat at table, and repeatedly said to him, (though he had not the sense to thank her) "she would always be his friend."
The first emotions of resentment against Dorriforth being over, she was easily prevailed upon to return with poor Rusbrook to the farm house, before it was likely his uncle should come back; another instance of obedience which Miss Woodley was impatient her guardian should know; she therefore enquired where he was, and sent him a note to acquaint him with it, offering at the same time an apology for what had happened. He returned in the evening seemingly reconciled, nor was a word mentioned of the incident which had occurred during the day; yet there remained in the austere looks of Dorriforth a perfect remembrance of it, and not one trait of compassion for his helpless nephew.
CHAPTER IX.
THERE are few things so mortifying to a proud spirit as to suffer by immediate comparison — men, can scarcely bear this humiliation, but to women the punishment is intolerable; and Miss Milner now laboured under the disadvantage to a degree, which gave her no small inquietude.
Miss Fenton, a young lady of the most delicate beauty, elegant manners, gentle disposition, and discreet conduct, was introduced to Miss Milner's acquaintance by her guardian; and frequently, sometimes inadvertently, held up by him as a pattern for her to follow—for when he did not say this in direct terms, it was insinuated by the warmth of his panegyricks on those virtues in which Miss Fenton excelled, and his ward was obviously deficient. Conscious of her inferiority in these subjects of her guardian's praise, Miss Milner, instead of being inspired to emulation, was provoked to envy.
Not to admire Miss Fenton was impossible—to find a fault in her person or sentiments was equally impossible— and yet to love her, was very unlikely.
That serinity of mind which kept her features in a continual placid form, though enchanting at the first glance, upon a second, or third, fatigued the sight for a want of variety; and to have seen her distorted with rage, convulsed with mirth, or in deep dejection had been to her advantage.—But her superior soul appeared above those natural commotions of the mind, and there was more inducement to worship her as a saint, than to love her as a woman.—Yet Dorriforth, whose heart was not formed (at least not educated) for love; regarding her in the light of friendship, beheld her as the most perfect model for her sex, Lord Frederick on first seeing her was struck with her beauty, and Miss Milner apprehended she had introduced a rival; but he had not seen her three times, before he called her the most "insufferable of Heaven's creatures," and vowed there was more charming variation in the features of Miss Woodley.
Miss Milner had a heart affectionate to her sex, even where she saw them in the possession of charms superior to her own; but whether from the spirit of contradiction, whether from feeling herself more than ordinarily offended by her guardian's praise of this lady, or whether there was something in the reserve of Miss Fenton that did not accord with her own frank and ingenuous disposition so as to engage her esteem, it is certain she took infinite satisfaction in hearing her beauty and her virtues depreciated, or turned to ridicule, particularly if Mr. Dorriforth was present. This was very painful to him upon many accounts; perhaps regard to Miss Milner's conduct was not among the least; and whenever the circumstance occurred, he could with difficulty restrain his anger. Miss Fenton was not only a young lady whose amiable qualities Dorriforth admired, but she was soon to be allied to him by her marriage with his nearest relation, lord Elmwood, a young nobleman whom he sincerely loved.
Lord Elmwood had discovered all that beauty in Miss Fenton which every common observer could not but see— the charms of her mind and her fortune had been pointed out to him by his Tutor; and the utility of their marriage in perfect submission to his precepts, his lordship never permitted himself to question.
This Preceptor, held with a magisterial power the government of his pupil's passions; nay, governed them so entirely, no one could perceive (nor did the young lord himself know) that he had any.
This rigid monitor and friend, was a Mr. Sandford, bred a jesuit in the same college where Dorriforth was educated, but before his time the order was compelled to take another name.—Sandford had been the tutor of Dorriforth as well as of his cousin lord Elmwood, and by this double tie seemed now entailed upon the family.— As a jesuit, he was consequently a man of learning; possessed of steadiness to accomplish the end of any design once meditated, and of wisdom to direct the conduct of men more powerful, but less ingenious than himself. The young earl accustomed in his infancy to fear him as his master, in his youth and manhood received every new indulgence with which his preceptor favoured him with gratitude, and became at length to love him as his father—nor had Dorriforth as yet shook off similar sensations.
Mr. Sandford perfectly knew how to work upon the passions of all human nature, but yet had the conscience not to "draw all hearts towards him."— There were of mankind, those, whose hate he thought not unworthy his holy labour; and in that, he was more rapid in his success than even in procuring esteem. In this enterprize he succeeded with Miss Milner, even beyond his most sanguine wish.
She had been educated at an English boarding school, and had no idea of the superior, and subordinate state of a foreign seminary—besides, as a woman, she was privileged to say any thing she pleased; and as a beautiful woman, she had a right to expect whatever she pleased to say, should be admired.
Sandford knew the hearts of women, as well as those of men, notwithstanding he had passed but little of his time in their society — he saw Miss Milner's heart at the first view of her person; and beholding in that little circumference a weight of folly he wished to see eradicated, he began to toil in the vineyard, eager to draw upon him her detestation, in the hope he could also make her abominate herself. The mortifications of slight he was expert in, and being a man of talents, such as all companies, especially those Miss Milner often frequented, looked on with respect, he did not begin by wasting that reverence so highly valued upon ineffectual remonstrances, of which he could foresee the reception, but awakened the attention of the lady solely by his neglect of her. He spoke of her in her presence as of an indifferent person; sometimes forgot to name her when the subject required it; and then would ask her pardon and say he "did not recollect her," with such seeming sorrow for his fault, she could not think the offence intended, and of course felt the affront much more severely.
While, with every other person she was the principle, the first cause upon which a whole company depended for conversation, musick, cards, or dancing, with Mr. Sandford she found she was of no importance.—Sometimes she tried to consider this disregard of her as merely the effect of ill-breeding, but he was not an ill-bred man; he was a gentleman by birth, and one who had kept the best company; a man of sense and learning.—"And does such a man slight me without knowing it?" She cried— for she had not dived so deep into the powers of simulation, as to suspect such careless manners were the result of art.
This behaviour of Mr. Sandford's had its desired effect; it humbled Miss Milner in her own opinion, more than a thousand sermons would have done preached on the vanity of youth and beauty. She felt an inward nothingness she never knew before, and had been cured of all her pride, had she not possessed a degree of spirit beyond the generality of her sex, and such as even Mr. Sandford with all his penetration did not expect.—She determined to resent his treatment, and entering the list as his declared enemy, give reasons to the beholders why he did not, with them, acknowledge her sovereignty.
She now commenced hostilities on all his arguments, his learning, and his favourite axioms; and by a happy turn for ridicule, in want of other weapons, threw in the way of the holy Father as great trials for his patience, as any his order could have substituted in penance. Some things he bore like a martyr—at others, his fortitude would forsake him, and he would call on her guardian, his late pupil, to interpose with his authority; on which she would declare she only acted "to try the good man's temper," and had he combated with his fretfulness but a few minutes longer, she would have acknowledged his right to cannonization; but having yielded to the sallies of his anger, he must now go through numerous other probations."
If Miss Fenton was admired by Dorriforth, by Sandford she was adored— and instead of giving her as an example to Miss Milner, he spoke of her as of one, endowed beyond Miss Milner's power of imitation.—Often with a shake of his head and a sigh would he say,
"No, I am not so hard upon you as your guardian; I only desire you to love Miss Fenton; to resemble her, I believe, is above your ability."
This was something too much—and poor Miss Woodley, who was generally a witness of these controversies, suffered a degree of sorrow at every sentence that distrest Miss Milner.—Yet as she suffered for Mr. Sandford too, the joy of her friend's reply was abated by the uneasiness it gave to him. But Mrs. Horton felt for none but the right reverend priest; and often did she feel so violently interested in his cause, she could not refrain giving an answer herself in his behalf—thus, doing the duty of an adversary.
CHAPTER X.
MR. Sandford finding his friend Dorriforth frequently perplexed in the management of his ward, and he himself thinking her incorrigible, gave his advice, that a proper match should be immediately sought out for her, and the care of so dangerous a person given into other hands. Dorriforth acknowledged the propriety of this council, but lamented the difficulty there was in pleasing his ward as to the quality of her lover, for she had refused, besides Sir Edward Ashton, many others of equal pretensions. "Depend upon it then," cried Mr. Sandford, "her affections are already engaged, and it is proper you should know to whom."— Dorriforth thought he did know, and mentioned lord Frederick Lawnly; but said he had no farther authority for the supposition, than what his observation had given him, for that every explanation both on his lordship's side, and on that of the lady's, were evaded. —"Take her then," cried Sandford, "into the country, and if his Lordship does not follow, there is an end to your suspicions."—"I shall not easily prevail upon Miss Milner to leave the town," replied Dorriforth, "while it is in its highest fashion; while all the gay world are resorted hither."—"You can but try," returned Sandford, "and if you should not succeed now; at least fix the time you mean to go during the Autumn, and keep to your determination."—"But in the Autumn," replied Dorriforth, "lord Frederick will of course be in the country, and as his uncle's estate is near to our residence, he will not then so evidently follow Miss Milner, as he would, could I induce her to go now."
It was agreed the attempt should be made — and instead of receiving the proposal with uneasiness, Miss Milner, to the surprise of every one present, immediately consented; and gave her guardian an opportunity of saying several of the kindest and politest things upon her ready compliance.
"A token of approbation from you, Mr. Dorriforth," returned she, "I always considered with the highest estimation—but your commendations are now become infinitely superior in value, by their scarcity; for I do not believe that since Miss Fenton and Mr. Sandford came to town, I have received one testimony of your friendship."
Had these words been uttered with pleasantry, they might have passed without observation; but at the conclusion of the period, resentment flew to Miss Milner's face, and she darted a piercing look at Mr. Sandford, which more pointedly expressed she was angry with him, than had she spoken volumes in her usual strain of raillery.—Dorriforth looked confused—but the concern which she had so plainly evinced for his good opinion throughout what she had said, silenced any rebuke he might else have been tempted to give her, for this unwarrantable charge against his friend.— Mrs. Horton was shocked at the irreverent manner in which Mr. Sandford was treated — while Miss Woodley turned to him with a smile upon her face, hoping to set him an example of the manner in which he should receive this reproach.—Her good wishes did not succeed—yet he was perfectly unruffled, and replied with coolness,
"The air of the country has affected the young lady already—but it is a comfortable thing," continued he, "that in the variety of humours some women are exposed to, they cannot be steadfast even in deceit."
"Deceit," cried Miss Milner, "in what am I deceitful? did I ever pretend Sir, I had an esteem for you?"
"That had not been deceit, madam, but merely good manners."
"I never, Mr. Sandford, sacrificed truth to politeness."
"Except when the country has been proposed, and you thought it politeness to appear satisfied."
"And I was satisfied, till I recollected you might probably be of the party— then every grove was changed to a wilderness, every rivulet into a stagnated pool, and every singing bird into a croaking raven."
"A very poetical description." Returned he calmly.—"But, Miss Milner, you need not have had any apprehensions of my company in the country, for I understand the seat to which your guardian means to go, belongs to you; and depend upon it, madam, I shall never enter a house where you are the mistress."
"Nor any house I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but where you yourself are the master."
"What do you mean, madam? (and for the first time he elevated his voice,) am I the master here?"
"Your servants," replied she looking at the company, "will not tell you so, but I do."
"You condescend, Mr. Sandford," cried Mrs. Horton, "in talking so much to a young woman; but I know you do it for her good."
"Well, Miss Milner," cried Dorriforth, (and the most cutting thing he could say,) "since I find my proposal of the country has put you out of humour, I shall mention it no more."
With all that vast quantity of resentment, anger, or rage which sometimes boiled in the veins of Miss Milner, she was yet never wanting in that respect towards her guardian, which with-held her from uttering one angry sentence, immediately directed to him; and a severe word on his side, instead of exasperating, was sure to soften her. Such was the case at present — his words seemed to cut her to the heart, but she had not the asperity to reply to them as she thought they merited, and she burst into tears.—Dorriforth, instead of being concerned, as he usually was at seeing her uneasy, appeared on the present occasion provoked.—He thought her weeping was a new reproach to his friend Mr. Sandford, and to suffer himself to be moved by it, he considered would be a tacit condemnation of his friend's conduct. — She understood his thoughts, and getting the better of her tears, apologized for the weakness of which she had been guilty; adding,
"She could never bear with indifference an unjust accusation."
"To prove mine was such, madam," replied Dorriforth, "be prepared to quit London, without any marks of regret, within a few days."
She bowed assent; the necessary preparations were agreed upon; and while Miss Milner with apparent satisfaction adjusted the plan of her journey, (like those persons who behave well, not so much to please themselves as to vex their enemies,) she secretly triumphed in the mortification she supposed Mr. Sandford would receive, from her obedient behaviour.
The news of this intended journey was soon made public. There is a secret charm in being pitied, when the misfortune is but ideal, and Miss Milner found immense gratification in being told, "her's was a cruel case," and that it was "unjust and barbarous to force so much beauty to be concealed in the country, while London was filled with admirers; who, like her, would languish in consequence of the separation." These things, and a thousand such, a thousand times repeated, she still listened to with pleasure; yet preserved the constancy not to shrink from her resolution of submitting.
Those sighs, which Miss Woodley had long ago observed, became, however, more frequent still; and a tear half starting to her eye was an additional matter of her friends observation. Yet though Miss Milner at those times was softened to melancholy, she by no means appeared unhappy. Miss Woodley was acquainted with the name of love only, yet she concluded from these encreased symptoms, what she before only suspected, that love
must
be then basis. "Her senses have been captivated by the person and accomplishments of Lord Frederick," said Miss Woodley to herself, "while her understanding beholds his faults, and reproaches her passion—and, oh!" cried she, "could her guardian and Mr. Sandford know of this conflict, how much more would they have to admire than to condemn!"
With these friendly thoughts, joined to the most perfect good intent, Miss Woodley did not fail to give both gentlemen cause to believe, a contention of this nature was the present state of Miss Milner's mind.—Dorriforth was affected at the description, and Sandford urged more than ever the necessity of the country expedition. —In a few days time they undertook it; Mrs. Horton, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner, and Mr. Dorriforth, accompanied by Miss Fenton, whom Miss Milner, as she knew it to be the wish of her guardian, invited to pass the three months previous to her marriage, at her country seat. Elmwood House, or rather Castle, the seat of lord Elmwood, was only a few miles from this residence, and his lordship was expected to pass great part of the summer there with his tutor, Mr. Sandford.
In the neighbourhood was also an estate belonging to an uncle of lord Frederick's, and many of the company suspected they should soon see his lordship on a visit there, and to that expectation did they in great measure attribute Miss Milner's visible content.
CHAPTER XI.
WITH this party Miss Milner arrived at her country house, and for near six weeks all around was the perfect picture of tranquillity;—her satisfaction was as evident as every other person's; and every severe reflection being at this time unnecessary, either to teize her to her duty, or to warn her against her follies, she was even in perfect good humour with Miss Fenton, and added to the hospitality of a host, the kindness of a friend.
Mr. Sandford, who came with lord Elmwood to the neighbouring seat about a week after the arrival of Miss Milner at her's, was so scrupulous exact in the observance of his word, "
never to enter a house of Miss Milner's,
" that he would not even call upon his friend Dorriforth there—but in their walks, and at lord Elmwood's, the two parties would occasionally join, and of course Sandford and she at those times met—yet so distant was the reserve on either side, that not a single word was upon any occasion, ever exchanged between them.
Miss Milner did not like Mr. Sandford; yet, as there was no real cause for inveterate rancour, admiring him too as a man who meant well, and being besides of a most forgiving temper, she frequently felt concerned that he did not speak to her, although it had been to find fault as usual—and one morning as they were all, after a long ramble, drawing towards her house, where lord Elmwood was invited to dine, she even burst into tears at seeing Sandford turn back and wish them a "good day."
But though she had generosity to forgive an affront, she had not the humility to make a concession; and she foresaw that nothing less than some very humble atonement on her part, would prevail upon the haughty priest to be reconciled. Dorriforth saw her concern upon this trifling occasion with a secret pleasure, and an admiration she had never before excited. She insinuated to him to be a mediator between them; but before any accommodation could take place, the peace and composure of their abode was disturbed by the arrival of Sir Edward Ashton at lord Elmwood's, where it appeared as if he had been invited in order to pursue his matrimonial plan.
At a dinner at lord Elmwood's Sir Edward was announced as an unexpected visiter; Miss Milner did not suppose him such, and turned pale when his name was uttered—Dorriforth fixed his eyes upon her with some tokens of compassion, while Sandford seemed to exult, and by his repeated "Welcomes" to the baronet, gave evident proofs how much he was rejoiced to see him. All the declining enmity of Miss Milner was renewed at this behaviour, and suspecting Sandford to be the instigator of his visit, she could not overcome her displeasure, but gave way to it in a manner she thought the most mortifying.—Sir Edward in the course of conversation, enquired "what neighbours were in the country;" and she with the highest appearance of satisfaction, named lord Frederick Lawnly, as one who was hourly expected at his uncle's. The colour spread over Sir Edward's face—Dorriforth looked confounded—and Mr. Sandford as if he could have struck her.
"Did lord Frederick tell
you
he should be down?" Sandford asked of Dorriforth.
To which he replied, "No."
"But I hope, Mr. Sandford, you will permit me to know?" cried Miss Milner.—For as she now meant to torment him by what she said, she no longer constrained herself to silence— and as he harboured the same kind intent towards her, he had no longer any objection to make a reply, and therefore answered,
"No, madam, if it depended upon my permission, you should
not
know."
"Not
any thing,
Sir, I dare say;— you would keep me in utter ignorance."
"I would."
"From a self-interested motive, Mr. Sandford—that I might have a greater respect for you."
Some of the persons present laughed —Mrs. Horton coughed—Miss Woodley blushed—lord Elmwood sneered— Dorriforth frowned—and Miss Fenton, looked just as she did before.
The conversation was changed as soon as possible, and early in the evening the company returned home.
Miss Milner had scarce left her dressing room, where she had been taking off some part of her dress, when Dorriforth's servant came to acquaint her his master was alone in his study, and begged to speak with her.—She felt herself tremble—she immediately experienced a consciousness she had not acted properly at lord Elmwood's; for she had a prescience her guardian was going to upbraid her, and her heart told her, he had never yet reproached her without a cause.
Miss Woodley just then entered the apartment, and she even found herself so much a coward, as to propose her going to Dorriforth along with her, and aiding her with a word or two occasionally in her excuse.
"What you, my dear," returned Miss Woodley, "who not two hours ago, had the courage to vindicate your own cause before a whole company, of whom many were your adversaries; do you want an advocate before your guardian only? and he, who has ever treated you with tenderness."
"It is that tenderness which frightens me, Miss Woodley; that intimidates, and strikes me dumb—is it possible I can return impertinence to the language and manners Mr. Dorriforth uses? and as I am debarred from that, what can I do but stand before him like a guilty creature, acknowledging my faults."
She again entreated Miss Woodley to go with her, but on a positive refusal, from the impropriety of such an intrusion, she was at length obliged to go by herself.
How much do different circumstances influence not only the manners, but even the persons of some people!—Miss Milner in the drawing room at lord Elmwood's surrounded by listeners, by admirers, (for even her enemies beheld her with admiration,) and warm with their approbation and applause — and Miss Milner, with no giddy observer to give a false eclat to her actions, left destitute of all but her own understanding, (which secretly condemns her,) and upon the point of receiving the censure of her guardian and friend, are two different beings.—Though still beautiful beyond description, she does not look even in person the same.—In the last mentioned situation, she was shorter in stature than in the former—she was paler — she was thinner — and a very different contour presided over her whole air, and all her features.
When she arrived at the study door, she opened it with a trepidation she could hardly account for, and entered to Dorriforth the altered woman she has been represented. His heart had taken the most decided part against her, and his face assumed the most severe aspect of reproach; when her appearance gave an instantaneous change to
his
whole mind, and countenance.
She halted, as if she feared to approach—he hesitated, as if he knew not how to speak. — Instead of the warmth with which he was prepared to begin, his voice involuntarily softened, and without knowing what he said, he began,
"My dear Miss Milner"—
She expected he was angry, and in her confusion his gentleness was lost upon her—she imagined what he said might be severe, and she continued to tremble, although he repeatedly assured her, he meant only to advise, not to upbraid her.
"For in respect to all those little disputes between Mr. Sandford and you," said he, "I should be partial if I blamed you more than him— indeed, when you take the liberty to censure him, his character makes the freedom appear in a more serious light than when he complains of you—yet, if he provokes your retorts, he alone must answer for them; nor will I undertake to decide betwixt you.—But I have a question to ask you, and to which I require a serious and unequivocal answer. —Do you expect lord Frederick in the country?"
Without hesitation she replied, "she did."
"I have one more question to ask, madam, and to which I expect a reply equally unreserved.—Is lord Frederick the man you approve for a husband?"
Upon this close interrogation she discovered an embarrassment, and a confusion beyond any she had ever before given proofs of; and in this situation she faintly replied,
"No, he is not."
"Your words tell me one thing," answered Dorriforth, "while your looks declare another—which am I to trust?"
"Which you please." She returned with an insulted dignity, that astonished, awed, yet did not convince him.
"But then why encourage him to follow you hither, Miss Milner?"
"Why commit a thousand follies (she replied in tears) every hour of my life?"
"You then promote the hopes of lord Frederick without one serious intention of completing them? This is a conduct which it is my duty to guard you against, and you shall no longer deceive either him or yourself. The moment he arrives it is my fixed resolution you refuse to see him, or agree to become his wife."
In answer to this, she appeared averse both to the one proposition and the other, yet came to no explanation why; but left her guardian at the conclusion of the conversation as much at a loss to decide upon her real sentiments, as he was before he had thus seriously requested to be informed of them; but having steadfastly taken the resolution which he had declared to her, he found that determination a certain relief to his mind.
CHAPTER XII.
SIR Edward Ashton, though not invited by Miss Milner, yet frequently did himself the favour to come to her house; sometimes he accompanied lord Elmwood on a visit to her, at other times he came to see Dorriforth only, who generally introduced him to the ladies. But Sir Edward was either so unwilling to give pain to the object of his love, or so much intimidated by her frowns, that he seldom addressed a single word to her, except the common compliments at entering, and retiring. —This apprehension of offending, without one hope of pleasing, had the most awkward effect upon the manners of the worthy baronet, and his endeavours to insinuate himself into the affections of the woman he loved, merely by the means of not giving her offence either by speaking or looking at her, was a circumstance so whimsical, that it frequently forced a smile from Miss Milner, though the very name of Sir Edward was of power to throw a gloom over her face; for she looked upon him as the cause why she should be hurried to make an election of a lover, before her own mind could well direct her where to fix.—Besides, his pursuit was a trouble, while it was not the smallest triumph to her vanity, which by the addresses of lord Frederick, was in the highest manner gratified.
His lordship now arrives in the country, and calls at Miss Milner's; her guardian sees his chariot coming along the lawn and gives orders to the servants, to say their lady is not at home, but that Mr. Dorriforth is; lord Frederick leaves his compliments and goes away.
The ladies all saw his carriage and servants at the door; Miss Milner flew to the glass to adjust her dress, and in her looks expressed signs of palpitation —but in vain she keeps her eyes fixed upon the door of the apartment; he does not enter.
After some minutes expectation, the door opens and her guardian comes in; she was disappointed, he perceived she was, and he looked at her with a very serious face; she immediately called to mind the assurance he had given her, "that her acquaintance with lord Frederick in its present state should not continue," and between chagrin and confusion, she was at a loss how to behave.
Notwithstanding the ladies were all present, Dorriforth said to her, without the smallest reserve, "Perhaps, Miss Milner, you may think I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in giving orders to your servants to deny you to lord Frederick, but until his lordship and I have had a private conference, or you condescend to declare your sentiments more fully in regard to his visits, I think it my duty to put an end to them."
"You will always perform your duty, Mr. Dorriforth, I have no doubt, whether I concur or not."
"Yet believe me, madam, I should do it much more chearfully, could I hope it was scantioned by your inclinations."
"I am not mistress of my inclinations, Sir, or they should conform to yours."
"Place them under my direction, madam, and I'll answer they will."
A servant entered.—"Lord Frederick is returned, Sir, and says he should be glad to see you."—"Shew him into the study." Cried Dorriforth hastily, and rising from his seat, left the room.
"I hope they won't quarrel." Said Mrs. Horton, meaning, she thought they would.
"I am sorry to see you so uneasy, Miss Milner." Said Miss Fenton, with the most perfect unconcern.
As the badness of the weather had prevented their usual morning's exercise, the ladies sat employed at their needles till the dinner bell called them away.— "Do you think lord Frederick is gone?" then, whispered Miss Milner to Miss Woodley. — "I think not," returned Miss Woodley. — "Go ask of the servants, dear creature." And Miss Woodley went out of the room.— She soon returned and said, apart, "He is now getting into his chariot, I saw him pass hastily through the hall; he seemed to fly."
"Ladies, the dinner is waiting," cried Mrs. Horton, and they repaired to the dining room; where Dorriforth soon after came, and engrossed their whole attention by his disturbed looks, and unusual silence. Before dinner was over he was, however, more himself, but still he appeared thoughtful and dissatisfied. At the time of their evening walks he excused himself, and was seen in a distant field with Mr. Sandford in earnest conversation; for they frequently stopt on one spot for a quarter of an hour, as if the interest of the subject had so totally engaged them, they stood still without knowing it. Lord Elmwood, who had joined the ladies, walked home with them; Dorriforth entered soon after, in a much less gloomy humour than when he went out, and told his lordship he and the ladies would dine with him to-morrow if he was disengaged, and it was fixed they should.
Still Dorriforth was in some perturbation, but the immediate cause was concealed till the next day, when, about an hour before the company's departure from the Castle, Miss Milner and Miss Woodley were desired, by a servant, to walk into a separate apartment, where they found Dorriforth with Mr. Sandford waiting their coming. Her guardian made an apology to Miss Milner for the form, the ceremony, of which he was going to make use; but he trusted, the extreme weight with which his mind was oppressed, lest he should mistake the real sentiments of a lady whose happiness depended upon his being correct in the knowledge of them, he trusted, that would plead his excuse.
"I know, Miss Milner," continued he, "the world in general, allows to unmarried women great latitude in disguising their mind with respect to the man they love.—I too, am willing to pardon any little dissimulation that is but consistent with that modesty, becoming every woman on the subject of marriage. But to what point I may limit, or you may think proper to extend this kind of venial deceit, may so widely differ, that it is not impossible I remain wholly unacquainted with your sentiments, even after you have revealed them to me.—Under this consideration, I wish once more to hear your thoughts in regard to matrimony, and to hear them before one of your own sex, that I may be enabled to form my opinion by her constructions."
To all this serious oration, Miss Milner made no other reply than by turning to Mr. Sandford, and asking, "If he was the person of her own sex, to whose judgment her guardian meant to submit his own?"
"Madam," cried Sandford very angrily, "you are come hither upon serious business."
"Any business must be serious to me, Mr. Sandford, in which you are concerned; and if you had called it
sorrowful,
the epithet would have suited as well."
"Miss Milner," said her guardian, "I did not bring you here to contend with Mr. Sandford."
"Then why, Sir, bring him hither? for where he and I are, there must be contention."
"I brought him hither, madam, or rather brought you to this house, merely that he might be present on this occasion, and with his discernment relieve me from a suspicion, that my own judgment can neither suppress or confirm."
"Is there any more company you may wish to call in, Sir, to clear up your doubts of my veracity? if so, pray send for them before you begin your interrogations."
He shook his head—she continued. "The whole world is welcome to hear what I say, and every different judge welcome, if they please, to judge me differently."
"Dear Miss Milner—," cried Miss Woodley, with a tone of reproach for the vehemence with which she spoke.
"Perhaps, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, "you will not now, reply to those questions I was going to put to you?"
"Did I ever refuse, Sir," returned she with a self-approving air, "to comply with any request you have seriously made me? Have I ever refused to obey your commands whenever you thought proper to lay them upon me? if not, you have no right to suppose I will now."
He was going to reply, when Mr. Sandford sullenly interrupted him, and making towards the door, cried, "When you come to the point for which you brought me here, send for me again."
"Stay now," cried Dorriforth. "And Miss Milner," continued he, "I not only entreat, but command you to tell me.—Have you given your promises, your word, or your affections to lord Frederick Lawnley?"
The colour spread over her face, and she replied — "I thought confessions were only permitted in secrecy; however, as I am not a member of your church, I submit to the persecution of a heretick, and answer — Lord Frederick has neither my word, my promise, nor any share in my affections."
Sandford, Dorriforth, and Miss Woodley all looked at each other with a surprise that was for some time dumb. — At length Dorriforth said, "And it is your firm intention never to become his wife?"
To which she answered—"At present it is."
"At present! do you suspect you shall change your sentiments?"
"Women, sometimes do."
"But before that change can take place, madam, your acquaintance will be broken off: for it is that, I shall next insist upon; and to which you can have no objection."
She replied, "I had rather it would continue."
"On what account?" cried Dorriforth.
"Because it entertains me."
"For shame, for shame!" returned he, "it endangers both your character and your happiness.—Yet again, do not suffer me to break with his lordship if should like to become his wife; if in that respect it militates against your felicity?"
"By no means," she answered; "lord Frederick makes part of my amusement, but could never constitute my felicity."
"Miss Woodley," said Dorriforth, "do you comprehend your friend in the same literal and unequivocal sense I do?"
"Certainly I do, Sir." Answered Miss Woodley.
"And pray, Miss Woodley," said he, "were those the sentiments which you have always entertained?"
Miss Woodley hesitated—he continued. "Or has the present conversation altered them?"
She hesitated again, then answered— "The present conversation has altered them."
"And yet you confide in it!" Cried Sandford, looking at her with contempt.
"Certainly I do." Replied Miss Woodley.
"Do not you then, Mr. Sandford?" asked Dorriforth.
"I would advise you to act the same as if I did." Replied Sandford.
"Then, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, "you see lord Frederick no more—and I hope I have your permission to tell him so?"
"You have, Sir." She replied with a completely unembarrassed countenance and voice.
Miss Woodley looked hard at her, to discover some lurking wish adverse to all these protestations, but she could not discern one. — Sandford too fixed his penetrating eyes as if he would look through her soul, but finding it perfectly composed, he cried out,
"Why then not write his lordship's dismission herself, and save you, Mr. Dorriforth, the trouble of any farther contest with him?"
"Indeed, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, "that would oblige me; for it is with the greatest reluctance I meet his lordship upon this subject—he was extremely impatient and importunate the last time he was with me—he took advantage of my ecclesiastic situation to treat me with a levity, and ill-breeding, I could ill have suffered upon any other consideration, than the complying with my duty to you."
"Dictate what you please, Mr. Dorriforth, and I will write it." Said she with a warmth like the most unaffected inclination.—"And while you, Sir," she continued, "are so indulgent as not to distress me with the importunities of any gentleman to whom I am averse, I think myself equally bound to rid you of the impertinence of every one, to whom you may have objection."
"But," answered he, "be assured I have no material objection to my lord Frederick, except from that dilemma, into which your acquaintance with him has involved us all; and the same I should conceive against any other man, where the same circumstance occurred.— As you have now, however, freely and politely consented to the manner in which it has been proposed, you shall break with him, I will not trouble you a moment longer upon a subject on which I have so frequently explained my wishes, but conclude it by assuring you, your ready acquiescence has given me the sincerest satisfaction."
"I hope, Mr. Sandford," said she, turning to him with a smile, "I have given you satisfaction likewise."
Sandford could not say yes, and was ashamed to say no; he, therefore, made no answer except by his looks, which were full of suspicion. She, notwithstanding, made him a very low courtesy. —Her guardian then handed her out of the apartment into her coach, which was waiting to take her, Miss Woodley, and himself home.
CHAPTER XIII.
NOtwithstanding the seeming readiness with which Miss Milner had resigned all farther acquaintance with lord Frederick, during the short ride home she appeared to have lost great part of her wonted spirits; she was thoughtful, and once sighed most heavily. Dorriforth began to fear she had not only made a sacrifice of her affections, but of her varacity; yet, why she had done so, he could not comprehend.
As the carriage moved slowly thro' a lane between Elmwood Castle and her house, on casting her eyes out of the window, Miss Milner's countenance was brightened in an instant, and that instant lord Frederick on horse-back was at the coach door, and the coachman stopt.
"Oh, Miss Milner," cried he, (with a voice and manner that could give little suspicion of the truth of what he said) "I am over-joyed at the happiness of seeing you, even though it is but an accidental meeting."
She was evidently glad to see him, but the earnestness with which he spoke, put her upon her guard not to express the like, and she said in a cool constrained manner, she "was glad to see his lordship."
The reserve with which she spoke, gave lord Frederick immediate suspicion who was in the coach with her, and turning his head quickly, he met the stern eye of Dorriforth; upon which, without the smallest salutation, he turned from him again abruptly and rudely. Miss Milner was confused, and Miss Woodley in torture at the palbable affront; to which Dorriforth alone appeared indifferent.
"Go on," said Miss Milner to the footman, "desire the coachman to drive on."
"No," cried lord Frederick, "not till you have told me when I shall see you again."
"I will write you word, my lord." Replied she, something alarmed; "You shall have a letter immediately after I get home."
As if he guessed what its contents were to be, he cried out with warmth, "Take care then, madam, how you treat me in that letter—and you, Mr. Dorriforth," turning to him, "do you take care what it contains, for if it is dictated by you, to you I shall send the answer."
Dorriforth, without making his lordship a reply, or casting a look at him, put his head out of the window on the opposite side, and called, in a very angry tone to the coachman, "How dare you not drive on, when your lady orders you?
The sound of Dorriforth's voice in anger was to the servants so unusual, it acted like a stroke of electricity on the man, and he drove on at the instant so swiftly, that lord Frederick was in a moment left many yards behind. As soon, however, as he recovered from the surprise into which this sudden command had thrown him, he rode with speed after the carriage, and followed it till they all arrived at the door of Miss Milner's house; there his lordship, giving himself up to the rage of love, or to rage against Dorriforth for the contempt with which he had treated him, leapt from his horse as Miss Milner stept from her carriage, and seizing her hand, entreated her "Not to desert him, in compliance to the monastick precepts of hypocrisy."
Dorriforth heard this, standing silently by, with a manly scorn painted on his countenance.
Miss Milner struggled to loose her hand, saying, "Excuse me from replying to you now, my lord."
In return to which his lordship brought her hand to his lips, and began to devour it with kisses, when Dorriforth with an instantaneous impulse, rushed forward, and struck him a blow in the face.—Under the force with which this assault was given, and the astonishment it excited, his lordship staggered, and letting fall the hand of Miss Milner, her guardian immediately laid hold of it, and led her into the house.
She was terrified beyond description; and it was with difficulty Mr. Dorriforth could get her to her own chamber, without taking her in his arms.— When, with the assistance of her woman, he had placed her upon a sopha—all shame and confusion for what he had done, he dropped upon his knees before her, and earnestly "entreated her forgiveness for the indelicacy he had been guilty of in her presence."—And that he had alarmed her, and lost sight of the respect which he thought sacredly her due, seemed to be the only circumstance that dwelt upon his thoughts.
She felt the indecorum of the posture he had condescended to take, and was shocked — to see her guardian at her feet, struck her with the same impropriety as if she had beheld a parent there; and all agitation and emotion, she implored him to rise, and with a thousand protestations declared, "she thought the rashness of the act, was the highest proof of his regard for her."
Miss Woodley now entered; for her care being ever employed upon the unfortunate, lord Frederick on this occasion, had been the object of it; and she had waited by his side, and with every good purpose, preached patience to him, while he was smarting under the pain and shame of his chastisement.—At first, his fury threatened to retort upon the servants around him, and who refused his entrance into the house, the punishment he had received — But in the certainty of an honourable amends which must hereafter be made, he overcame the many temptations which the moment offered, and remounting his horse, rode from the place.
No sooner had Miss Woodley entered the room, and Dorriforth had resigned to her the care of his ward, than he flew to the spot where he had left his lordship, negligent what might have been the event had he still remained there.—After enquiring, and being told he was gone, Dorriforth returned to his own apartment; and with a bosom torn by more excruciating sensations far, than those he had given to his adversary.
The remorse that first struck him as he shut the door upon himself was — I have departed from my character — from the sacred character, and dignity of my profession and sentiments — I have departed from myself.— I am no longer the philosopher, but the ruffian—I have treated with an unpardonable insult a young nobleman, whose only crime was love, and a fond desire to insinuate himself into the favour of his mistress. — I must atone for this outrage in whatever manner he may choose, and the law of justice and equity (though in this one instance, contrary to the law of religion) enjoins, that if he demands my life, in satisfaction for his wounded
honour, it is his due. "Alas," cried he, "that I could have laid it down this morning, unsullied with the cause, for which it will make but poor atonement."
He next reflected — I have offended, and filled with horror a beautiful young lady, whom it was my duty to have protected from the brutal manners, to which I myself have exposed her.
Again—I have drawn upon me the just reproaches of my faithful preceptor and friend; the man in whose judgment it was my delight to be approved — above all, I have drawn upon myself, the stings of my own conscience.
"Where shall I pass this sleepless night?" cried he, walking repeatedly across his chamber; "Can I go to the ladies? I am a brute, unworthy such society.—Shall I go and repose my disturbed mind on Sandford? I am ashamed to tell him the cause of my uneasiness. —Shall I go to lord Frederick, and humbling myself before him, beg his forgiveness? He would spurn me for a coward.—No"—(and he lifted up his eyes to Heaven) "Thou all great, all wise, and all omnipotent being, whom I have above any other offended, to thee alone I apply in this hour of tribulation, and from thee alone I expect comfort. — And the confidence with which I now address myself to thee, encouraged by that long intercourse religion has effected, in this one moment pays me amply, for the many years of my past life wholly devoted to thy service."
CHAPTER XIV.
ALTHOUGH Miss Milner had foreseen no fatal event from the indignity offered lord Frederick, yet she passed a night very different from those to which she had been accustomed. No sooner was she falling into a sleep, than a thousand vague, but distressing ideas darted across her imagination.— Her heart would at times whisper to her as she was half asleep, "lord Frederick is banished from you for ever." —She shakes off the uneasiness this idea brings along with it—she then starts, and beholds the blow still aimed at him by Dorriforth.—And no sooner has she driven away this painful image, than she is again awakened by seeing her guardian at her feet suing for pardon.— She sighs, she trembles, she is chilled with terror.
Relieved by a flood of tears; towards the morning she sinks into a refreshing slumber, but waking, finds the self-same images crowding all together upon her mind — she is doubtful to which to give the preference — one, however, rushes the foremost, and will continue so—she knows not the consequence of ruminating, nor why she dwells upon that, more than upon all the rest, and yet it will give place to none.
She rises in a languid and disordered state, and at breakfast adds fresh pain to Dorriforth by her altered appearance.
He had scarce left the breakfast room when an officer waited upon him charged with a challenge from lord Frederick. To the message delivered to him by this gentleman, Dorriforth replied,
"As a clergyman, more especially in the church of Rome, I know not whether I am not exempt from answering a claim of this kind; but not having had forbearance to avoid an offence, I have no right to a privilege that would only indemnify me from making reparation."
"You will then meet his lordship, Sir, at the appointed time?" Said the officer.
"I will," answered Dorriforth, "and my immediate care shall be to procure a gentleman to accompany me."
The officer withdrew, and as soon as Dorriforth was once more alone, he was going once more to reflect, but he durst not — since yesterday, reflection, for the first time of his life, was become painful to him; and even as he rode the short way to lord Elmwood's immediately after, he found his own thoughts so insufferable, he was obliged to enter into conversation with his servant. Solitude, that he was formerly so charmed withal, at those moments had been worse than death.
At lord Elmwood's, he met Sandford in the hall, and the sight of him was no longer welcome, but displeasing — he knew how different the principles he had just adopted were to those of that reverend friend's, and without his complaining, or even suspecting what had happened, his presence was a sufficient reproach. — Dorriforth passed him as hastily as he could, and enquiring for lord Elmwood, disclosed to him his errand, which was to ask him to be his second; his lordship started, and wished to consult his tutor, but that his kinsman strictly forbid; and having urged his reasons with arguments, such as his lordship could not refute; he at length prevailed upon him to promise he would accompany him to the field, which was at a few miles distance only, and the parties were to be there at seven on the same evening.
As soon as his business with lord Elmwood was settled, Dorriforth returned home, to make some necessary preparations for the event which might ensue from this meeting — he wrote letters to several of his friends; and one to his ward, over which he shed tears.
Sandford going into lord Elmwood's library soon after Dorriforth had left it, expressed his surprise at finding him gone; upon which that young nobleman, after answering a few questions, and giving a few significant tokens, that he was entrusted with a secret, frankly confessed, what he had promised to conceal.
Sandford, as much as a holy man could be, was enraged at Dorriforth for the cause of this challenge, but was still more enraged at him for his wickedness in accepting it — he applauded his pupil's virtue in making the discovery, and congratulated himself that he should be the instrument, of saving not only the blood of his friend, but of preventing the scandal of his being engaged in a duel.
In the ardour of his designs he went immediately to Miss Milner's — entered the house he had so long refused to enter, and at a time when he was on aggravated bad terms with its owner.
He asked for Dorriforth, went hastily into his apartment, and poured upon him a torrent of rebukes. — Dorriforth bore all he said with the patience of a devotee, but with the firmness of a man. — He owned his fault, but no eloquence could make him recall the promise he had given to repair the injury. — Unshaken by the arguments, persuasions, and menaces of Sandford, he gave a fresh proof of that inflexibility for which he has been described — and after two hours dispute they parted, neither of them the better for what either had advanced, but Dorriforth something the worse; his conscience gave testimony to Sandford's opinion, "that he was bound by ties more sacred than worldly honour," but while he owned, he would not yield to the duty.
Sandford left him, determined, however, that lord Elmwood should not be accessary in his guilt, and this he declared, on which Dorriforth took the resolution of seeking another second.
In passing through the house on his return home, Sandford met, by accident, Mrs. Horton, Miss Milner, and the other two ladies returning from a saunter in the garden.—Surprised at the sight of Mr. Sandford in her house, Miss Milner would not express that surprise, but going up to him with all the friendly benevolence which generally played about her heart, she took hold of one of his hands, and pressed it with a kindness which told him he was welcome more forcibly, than if she had made the most elaborate speech to convince him of it. — He, however, seemed little touched with her behaviour, and as an excuse for breaking his word, cried,
"I beg your pardon, madam, but I was brought hither in my anxiety to prevent murder."
"Murder!" Exclaimed all the ladies.
"Yes," answered he, addressing himself to Miss Fenton, "your betrothed husband is a party concerned; he is going to be second to Mr. Dorriforth, who means this very evening to be killed by my lord Frederick, or to kill him, in addition to the blow he gave him last night."
Mrs. Horton exclaimed, "If Mr. Dorriforth dies, he dies a martyr."
Miss Woodley cried with fervour, "Heaven forbid!"
Miss Fenton cried, "Dear me!"
While Miss Milner, without uttering one word, sunk speechless on the floor.
They lifted her up and brought her to the door which entered the garden. She soon recovered; for the tumult of her mind would not suffer her to remain inactive, and she was rouzed, in spite of her weakness, to endeavour to ward off the present disaster.—In vain, however, she tried to walk to Dorriforth's apartment—in the trial she sunk as before, and was taken to a settee, while Miss Woodley was dispatched to bring her guardian to her.
Informed of the cause of her swoonings, he followed Miss Woodley with a tender anxiety for her health, and with grief and confusion that he had so carelessly endangered it.—On his entering the room Sandford beheld the inquietude of his mind, and cried, "here is your
guardian,
" with a cruel emphasis on the word.
He was too much engaged by the indisposition of his ward to reply to Sandford.—He placed himself on the settee by her, and with the utmost tenderness, reverence, and pity, entreated her not to be concerned at an accident in which he, and he only, had been to blame; but which he had still no doubt would be accommodated in the most amicable manner.
"I have one favour to require of you, Mr. Dorriforth," said she, "and that is your promise, your solemn promise, which I know is sacred, that you will not fight with my lord Frederick."
He hesitated.
"Oh, madam," cried Sandford, "he is grown a libertine now, and I would not believe his word were he to give it you."
"Then, Sir," returned Dorriforth angrily, "you
may
believe my word, for I will keep that, I have passed to you. —I will give lord Frederick all the restitution in my power.—But my dear Miss Milner, let not this alarm you; we may not find it convenient to meet this many a day; and most probably some fortunate explanation may yet take place and prevent our meeting at all. If not, reckon but among the many duels that are fought, how few are fatal; and even in that case, how small would be the loss to society"—He was proceeding.
"I should ever deplore the loss," cried Miss Milner, "I could not survive the death of either, in such a case."
"For my part," returned Dorriforth, "I look upon my life as much forfeited to his lordship, to whom I have given a high offence, as it might in other instances have been forfeited to the offended laws of the land. Honour, is the law of the polite part of the land; we know it; and when we transgress against it knowingly, we justly incur our punishment. —However, Miss Milner, this business is not to be settled immediately, and I have no doubt but all will be as you could wish.—Do you think I should appear thus easy," added he with a smile, "if I were going to be shot at by my lord Frederick?"
"Very well." Cried Sandford, with a look that demonstrated he knew better."
"You will stay within then, all this day?" Said Miss Milner.
"I am engaged out to dinner," he replied, "it is unlucky—I am sorry for it—but I'll be at home early in the evening."
"Stained with human blood," cried Sandford, "or yourself a corpse."
The ladies all lifted up their hands, and Miss Milner rose from her seat and threw herself at her guardian's feet.
"You knelt to me last night, I now kneel to you," (she cried) "kneel, never desiring to rise more, if you persist in your intention.—I am weak, I am volatile, I am indiscreet, but I have a heart from whence some impressions can never be erased."
He endeavoured to raise her, she persisted to kneel—and here the trouble, the affright, the terror she endured, discovered to her for the first time her own sentiments—which, till that moment, she had doubted—and she continued,
"I no longer pretend to conceal my passion—I love lord Frederick Lawnly."
Her guardian started.
"Yes, to my shame I love him:" (cried she, all emotion) "I meant to have struggled with the weakness, because I supposed it would be displeasing to you—but apprehension for his safety takes away every power of restraint, and I beseech you to spare his life."
"This is exactly what I thought." Cried Sandford, triumphantly.
"Good heaven!" cried Miss Woodley.
"But it is very natural." Said Mrs. Horton.
"I own," said Dorriforth, (struck with amaze, and now taking her from his feet with a force she could not resist) "I own, Miss Milner, I am greatly affected at this contradiction in your character"—
"But did not I say so?" cried Sandford, interrupting him.
"However," continued he, "you may take my word, though you have deceived me in your's, that lord Frederick's life is secure. — For your sake, I would not endanger it for the universe.—But let this be a warning to you"—
He was proceeding with the most poignant language, and austere looks, when observing the shame, the terror, and the self-reproach which agitated her mind, he divested himself in great measure of his austerity, and said, mildly,
"Let this be a warning to you, how you deal in future with the friends who wish you well—you have hurried me into a mistake that might have cost me my life, or the life of the man you love; and thus exposed
you
to misery, more bitter than death."
"I am not worthy your friendship, Mr. Dorriforth," said she, sobbing with grief, "and from this moment forsake me."
"No, madam, not in the moment you first discover to me, how I can make you happy."
The conversation appearing now to become of that nature in which the rest of the company could have no share whatever; they all, except Mr. Sandford, were retiring; when Miss Milner called Miss Woodley back, saying, "Stay you with me; I was never so unfit to be left without your friendship."
"Perhaps for the present you can much easier dispense with mine?" said Dorriforth. She made no answer: he therefore having once more assured her lord Frederick's life was safe, was quitting the room; when he recollected in what a state of humiliation he had left her, and turning towards her as he opened the door, added,
"And be assured, madam, my esteem for you, shall be the same as ever."
Sandford, as he followed Dorriforth, bowed to Miss Milner too, and repeated the self-same words.—"And, madam, be assured my esteem for you, shall be
the same as ever.
"
CHAPTER XV.
THIS taunting reproof from Sandford made little impression upon Miss Milner, whose thoughts were all fixed on a subject of much more importance than the opinion he entertained of her. — She threw her arms about Miss Woodley as soon as they were left alone, and asked, with anxiety, "What she thought of her behaviour?" Miss Woodley, who could not approve of the duplicity her friend had betrayed, still wished to reconcile her as much as possible to her own conduct, and replied, she "highly commended the frankness with which she had, at last, acknowledged her sentiments."
"Frankness!" cried Miss Milner, starting. "Frankness, my dear Miss Woodley! — what you have just now heard me say, is all a falsehood."
"How, Miss Milner!"
"Oh, my dear Miss Woodley," returned she, sobbing upon her bosom, "pity the agonies of my heart, by nature sincere, when such are the fatal propensities it cherishes, I must submit to the grossest falsehoods rather than reveal the truth."
"What do you mean?" Cried Miss Woodley, with the strongest amazement painted on her face.
"Do you suppose I love lord Frederick?" Returned the other. "Do you suppose I
can
love him?—Oh fly, Miss Woodley, and prevent my guardian from telling him such an untruth."
"What do you mean?" repeated Miss Woodley; "I protest you frighten me:"—and this inconsistency in the behaviour of Miss Milner, really appeared as if her senses had been deranged.
"Only fly," resumed she, "and prevent the inevitable ill consequence which must ensue from lord Frederick's being told this falsehood.—It will involve us all in greater disquietude than we suffer at present."
"Then what has influenced you, my dear Miss Milner?"—
"That which impels my every action." Returned she; "An unsurmountable instinct—a fatality, that will ever render me the most miserable of human beings; and yet you, even you, my dear Miss Woodley, will not pity me."
Miss Woodley pressed her close in her arms, and vowed, "That while she was unhappy, from whatever cause, she still would pity her."
"Go to Mr. Dorriforth then, and prevent him from imposing upon lord Frederick."
"But that imposition is the only means to prevent the duel." Replied Miss Woodley. "The moment I have told him you have no regard for his lordship, he will no longer refuse to fight with him."
"Then at all events I am undone," exclaimed Miss Milner, "for the duel is horrible, even beyond every thing else."
"How so?" returned Miss Woodley, "since you have declared you do not care for lord Frederick."
"But are you so blind," returned Miss Milner with a degree of madness in her looks, "to believe I do not care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh, Miss Woodley! I love him with all the passion of a mistress, and with all the tenderness of a wife."
Miss Woodley at this sentence sat down—it was on a chair that was close to her—her feet could not have taken her to any other.—She trembled—she was white as ashes, and deprived of speech. Miss Milner, taking her by the hand, said,
"I know what you feel — I know what you think of me—and how much you hate and despise me.—But Heaven is witness to all my struggles — nor would I, even to myself, acknowledge the shameless prepossession, till forced by a sense of his danger"—
"Silence." Cried Miss Woodley, struck with horror.
"And even now," resumed Miss Milner, "have I not concealed it from all but you, by plunging myself into a new difficulty, from whence I know not how I shall be extricated?—And do I entertain a hope? No, Miss Woodley, nor ever will.—But suffer me to own my folly to you — to entreat your soothing friendship to free me from my weakness. — And, oh! give me your friendly advice to deliver me from the difficulties which surround me."
Miss Woodley was still pale, and still silent.
Education, is called second nature; in the strict (but not enlarged) education of Miss Woodley, it was more powerful than the first—and the violation of oaths, persons, or things consecrated to Heaven, was, in her opinion, if not the most enormous, the most horrid among the catalogue of crimes.
Miss Milner had lived too long in a family who had imbibed those opinions not to be convinced of their existence; nay, her own reason told her that solemn vows of whatever kind, ought to be binding; and the more she respected her guardian's understanding, the less she called in question his religious tenets—in esteeming him, she esteemed all his notions; and among the rest, even venerated those of his religion.— Yet that passion, which had unhappily taken possession of her whole soul, would not have been inspired, had there not subsisted an early difference, in their systems of divine faith—had she been early taught what were the sacred functions of a Roman ecclesiastick, though all her esteem, all her admiration, had been attracted by the qualities and accomplishments of her guardian; yet education would have given such a prohibition to her love, that she had been precluded from it, as by that barrier which divides a sister from a brother.
This, unfortunately, was not the case; and Miss Milner loved Dorriforth without one conscious check to tell her she was wrong, except that which convinced her, her love would be avoided by him, with detestation, with horror.
Miss Woodley, something recovered from her first surprise, and suffering—for never did her susceptible mind suffer so exquisitely—amidst all the grief and abhorrence she felt, pity was still predominant—and reconciled to the faults of Miss Milner by her misery, she once more looked at her with friendship, and asked, "what she could do, to render her less unhappy?"
"Make me forget," replied Miss Milner, "every moment of my past life since I first saw you—that moment was teeming with a weight of cares I must labour under till my death."
"And even in death," replied Miss Woodley, "do not be so presumptuous as to hope to shake them off—if unrepented in this world"—
She was proceeding—but the anxiety her friend endured, would not suffer her to be wholly free from the apprehension, that notwithstanding the positive assurance of her guardian, (should he and lord Frederick me
) the duel might still take place; she therefore rung the bell and enquired if Mr. Dorriforth was still at home?—the answer was—"He is rode out."—"You remember," said Miss Woodley, "he told you he should dine out."—This did not, however, dismiss her fears, and she dispatched two servants different ways in pursuit of him, acquainting them with her suspicions, and charging them to prevent his and lord Frederick's meeting. Sandford had also taken his precautions; but though he knew the time, he did not know the exact place of their appointment, for that, lord Elmwood had forgot to enquire.
The excessive alarm which Miss Milner discovered upon this occasion, was imputed by the servants, and others who were witness of it, to her affection for lord Edward, while none but Miss Woodley knew, or had the most distant suspicion of the real cause.
Mrs. Horton and Miss Fenton, who were sitting together expatiating on the duplicity of their own sex in the instance just before them, had, notwithstanding the interest of the discourse, a longing desire to break it off; for they were impatient to see this poor frail being whom they were loading with their innocent—as it was among friends—calumny. They longed to see if she would have the confidence to look them in the face: they, to whom she had so often protested, she had not the smallest attachment to lord Frederick but from motives of vanity.
These ladies heard with much satisfaction dinner was served, but met Miss Milner at table with a less degree of pleasure than they expected; for her mind was so totally abstracted from them, they could not discern a single blush, or confused glance, which their presence occasioned. No, Miss Milner had before them divulged nothing of which she was ashamed, she only was ashamed what she had said was not truth. In the bosom of Miss Woodley alone, was that secret entrusted which could call a blush into her face, and before her she
did
feel confusion—before the gentle friend, to whom she had till this time communicated all her faults without embarrassment, she now cast down her eyes in shame, and scarce durst lift them up to meet her's.
At table there was little talking, and less eating; Miss Milner did not attempt to eat; Miss Woodley endeavoured, but could not.
Soon after the dinner was removed, lord Elmwood entered; and that gallant nobleman declared—"Mr. Sandford had used him ill in not permitting him to accompany his relation; for he feared Dorriforth would now throw himself upon the sword of lord Frederick without a friend by to defend him."—A rebuke from the eye of Miss Woodley, which from this day forward had a command over Miss Milner, restrained her from expressing the affright she suffered from this supposition of his lordship's. Miss Fenton replied, "As to that, my
ord, I see no reason why Mr. Dorriforth and lord Frederick should not now be friends.—"Certainly," said Mrs. Horton, "for as soon as my lord Frederick is made acquainted with Miss Milner's confession, all differences must be reconciled."—"What confession?" asked his lordship.
Miss Milner, to avoid hearing a repetition of that which gave her pain but to think of, arose in order to retire into her own apartment, but was obliged to sit down again—and received the assistance of her friend and lord Elmwood to lead her into her dressingroom. Reclined upon a sopha there, a silence ensued between her and Miss Woodley for near half an hour; and when the conversation began, the name of Dorriforth was never uttered—they were both grown cool and considerate since the discovery, and both were equally ashamed and fearful of naming him.
The vanity of the world, the folly of riches, the pleasures of retirement, and such topics engaged their discourse, but not their thoughts, for near two hours; and the first time the word Dorriforth was spoken, a servant with alacrity opened the dressing room door, without previously rapping, and cried, "Mr. Dorriforth, madam."
Dorriforth immediately came in, and went eagerly to Miss Milner.—Miss Woodley beheld the glow of joy, and guilt upon her face, and did not rise to give him her seat, as was her custom if he came with intelligence to his ward, and she was sitting next her —he therefore stood while he repeated all that had happened in his interview with lord Frederick.
But with her gladness to see her guardian safe, Miss Milner had forgot to enquire for the safety of his lordship; the man whom she had pretended to love so passionately—even a smile of rapture was upen her face, though Dorriforth might be returned from putting him to death. This incongruity of behaviour Miss Woodley saw, and was confounded— but Dorriforth, in whose thoughts a suspicion either of her love to him, or want of love for lord Frederick, had not the smallest place, easily reconciled this inconsistency, and said,
"You see by my countenance all is well, and therefore you smile on me before I tell you what has passed."
This brought her to the recollection of her conduct, and now with a countenance constrained to some show of gravity, she tried to express alarm she did not feel.
"Nay, I have the pleasure to assure you Lord Frederick is safe," resumed Dorriforth, "and the disgrace of his blow washed entirely away, by a few drops of blood from this arm," and he laid his hand upon his left arm, which rested in his waistcoat as a sling.
She cast her eyes there, and seeing where the ball had entered the coat sleeve, she gave an involuntary scream, and sunk on the side of the sopha. Instead of that tender sympathy with which Miss Woodley used to attend her upon the slightest illness or affliction, she now addressed her in a sharp tone, and cried, "Miss Milner, you have heard lord Frederick is safe, you have then nothing to alarm you."—Nor did she run to offer a smelling bottle, or to raise her head. Her guardian seeing her near fainting, and without this assistance from her friend, was going himself to give it; but on this, Miss Woodley interfered, and having taken her head upon her arm, assured him, "It was a trifling weakness to which Miss Milner was accustomed, and that she would ring for her woman, who knew how to relieve her instantly with a few drops."—Satisfied with this, Dorriforth left the room; and a surgeon being arrived to dress his wound, he retired into his own chamber.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE power delegated to the keeper of our secrets, Miss Woodley was the last person on earth to abuse — but she was also the last, who, by her complacency would participate in the guilt of her friend—and there was no guilt, except that of murder, which she thought equal to the crime in question, provided it was ever perpetrated. — Adultery, her reason would perhaps have informed her, was a more pernicious evil to society; but to a religious mind, what sounds so horrible as sacrilege? Of vows made to God or to man, the former must weigh the heavier.— Moreover, the dreadful sin of infidelity in the marriage state, is much softened
to a common understanding, by the frequency of the crime; whereas, of vows broken by a devotee she had scarce heard of any; or if any, they were generally followed by such examples of divine vengeance, such miraculous punishments in this world, (as well as eternal punishment in the other) that served to exaggerate their wickedness.
She, who could, and did pardon Miss Milner, was the person who saw her passion in the severest light, and resolved to take every method, however harsh, to root it from her heart—nor did she fear success, resting on the certain assurance, that however deep her love was fixed, it would never be returned. Yet this confidence did not prevent her taking every precaution, lest Dorriforth should come to the knowledge of it—she would not have his composed mind disturbed with such a thought — his steadfast principles so much as shook by the imagination— nor overwhelm him with those self-reproaches which his fatal attraction, unpremeditated as it was, would still have drawn upon him.
With this plan of concealment, in which the natural modesty of Miss Milner acquiesced, there was but one effort to make which that young lady was not prepared for; and that was an entire separation from her guardian.—She had, from the first, cherished her passion without the most distant prospect of a return—she was prepared to see Dorriforth without ever seeing him nearer to her than her guardian and friend, but not to see him at all—for that, she was not prepared.
But Miss Woodley reflected upon the inevitable necessity of this step before she made the proposal, and then made it with a firmness, that might have done honour to the inflexibility of Dorriforth himself.
During the few days that intervened between her open confession of love for lord Frederick, and this proposal, the most intricate incoherence appeared to the whole family, in the character of Miss Milner—and in order to evade a marriage with his lordship, and to conceal, at the same time, the shameful propensity which lurked in her breast, she was once, even on the point of declaring a passion for Sir Edward Ashton.
In the duel which had taken place between lord Frederick and Dorriforth, the latter had received his antagonist's fire, but positively refused to return it; by which he had kept his promise not to endanger his lordship's life, and had reconciled Sandford, in great measure, to his behaviour—and Sandford now (his resolution once broken) no longer refused entering Miss Milner's house, but came every time it was convenient, though he yet avoided its mistress as much as possible; or showed by every word and look, when she was present, that she was still less in his favour than she had ever been.
He visited Dorriforth on the evening after his engagement with lord Frederick, and again the next morning breakfasted with him in his own chamber; nor did Miss Milner see her guardian since his first return from that engagement till the following noon. She enquired, however, of the servant how his master did, and was rejoiced to hear his wound was but very slight — yet this enquiry she durst not make before Miss Woodley, but waited till she was absent.
When Dorriforth made his appearance the next day, it was evident he had thrown from his heart a load of cares; and though they had left a languor upon his face, there was content in his voice, his manners, in his every word and action.—Far from seeming to retain any resentment towards his ward, for the trouble and danger into which her imprudence had led him, he appeared rather to pity her weakness, and to wish to sooth the perturbation which the recollection of her own conduct had obviously raised in her mind—His endeavours were most successful—she was soothed every time he spoke to her; and had not the watchful eye of Miss Woodley stood guard over her inclinations, she had plainly evinced, she was enraptured with the joy of seeing him again himself, after the danger to which he had been exposed.
These emotions, which she laboured to subdue, passed, however, the bounds of her ineffectual resistance; when at the time of retiring after dinner, he said to her in a low voice, but such as it was meant the company should hear, "Do me the favour, Miss Milner, to call at my study sometime in the evening; I have to speak to you upon business."
She answered, "I will, Sir." And her eyes swam with delight in expectation of the interview.
Let not the reader, nevertheless imagine, there was in that ardent expectation, one idea which the most spotless mind, in love, might not have indulged without reproach.—Sincere love, (at least among the delicate of the female sex) is often gratified by that degree of enjoyment, or rather forbearance, which would be torture in the pursuit of any other passion—real, delicate, and restrained love, like that of Miss Milner's, was indulged in the sight of the object only; and having bounded her wishes by her hopes, the height of her happiness was limited to a conversation in which no other but themselves partook a part.
Miss Woodley was one who heard the appointment, but the only one who conceived with what sensation it was received.
While the ladies remained in the same room with Dorriforth, Miss Milner thought of little, except of him—as soon as they withdrew into another apartment, she remembered Miss Woodley, and turning her head suddenly, saw Miss Woodley's face imprinted with suspicion and displeasure— this at first was painful to her—but recollecting that in a couple of hours time she was to meet her guardian alone— speak to him, and hear him speak to herself only—every other thought was absorbed in that one, and she considered with indifference, the uneasiness, or the anger of her friend.
Miss Milner, to do justice to her heart, did not wish to beguile Dorriforth into the snares of love.—Could any supernatural power have endowed her with the means, and at the same time shewn to her the ills that must arise from such an effect of her charms, she had assuredly enough of virtue to have declined the conquest; but without enquiring of herself what she proposed? She never saw him without previously endeavouring to look more attractive than she would have desired, in any other company.—And now, without listening to the thousand exhortations that were speaking in every feature of Miss Woodley's face, she flew to a looking-glass, to adjust her dress in a manner than she thought most enchanting.
Time stole away, and the time to go to her guardian arrived. In his presence, unsupported by the presence of a third person, every grace she had practised, every look she had borrowed to set off her charms were annihilated, and she became a native beauty, with the artless arguments of reason, only for her aid.—Awed thus, by his power, from every thing but what she really was, she never was perhaps half so bewitching as in those timid, respectful, and embarrassed moments she passed alone with him.—He caught at those times her respect, her diffidence, nay, even her embarrassment; and never would one word of anger pass on either side.
On the present occasion, he first, expressed the highest satisfaction that she had at length, revealed to him the state of her mind.
"And taking every thing into consideration, Miss Milner," added he, "I rejoice that your sentiments happen to be such as you have owned—for although my lord Frederick is not the very man I could have wished for your perfect happiness, yet in the state of human perfection and human happiness, you might have fixed your affections with much less propriety; and yet, where my unwillingness to thwart your inclinations, might not have permitted me to contend with them."
Not a word of reply did this demand, or if it had, not a word could she have given.
"And now, madam, the reason of my desire to speak with you—is to know from yourself, the means you think most proper to pursue, in order to acquaint his lordship, that notwithstanding this late repulse, there are hopes of your partiality in his favour."
"Defer the explanation." Returned she, eagerly.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Milner, that cannot be—besides, how can you indulge a disposition thus unpitying?— even so ardently did I desire to render his lordship happy, though he came armed against my life, that had I not reflected, previous to our engagement it would appear like fear, and the means of bartering for his forgiveness; I should have revealed your sentiments the moment I had seen him. When the engagement was over, I was too impatient to acquaint you of his safety, to think then on gratifying him.—And indeed, the delicacy of the declaration, after the many denials you have no doubt given him, should be considered— I therefore entreat your approbation of the manner in which it shall be made."
"Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments of surprize? and that pity, which the fate impending inspired; and which might urge me to express myself of lord Frederick, in a manner my cooler thoughts will not warrant?"
"There was nothing in your expressions, my dear Miss Milner, the least equivocal—if you were off your guard, when you pleaded for lord Frederick, as I believe you were, you said more sincerely what you thought; and no discreet, or rather indiscreet retractions, can make me change my opinion."
"I am very sorry." She replied, confused, and trembling.
"Why sorry? Come, give me commission to reveal these sentiments.—I'll not be too hard upon you—a hint from me to his lordship will do—hope, is ever apt to interpret the slightest words to its own use, and a lover's hope, is beyond all others, sanguine."
"I never gave lord Frederick hope."
"But did you ever plunge him into despair?"
"His pursuit says I never have, but he has no other proof."
"However light and frivolous you have been upon frivolous subjects, yet I must own, Miss Milner, I expected, that when a case of this importance came seriously before you, you would have discovered a proper stability in your behaviour."
"I do, Sir; and it was only while I was affected with a weakness, which arose from accident, that I have ever shewed an inconsistence."
"You then still assert you have no affection for my lord Frederick?"
"Not sufficient to become his wife."
"You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder you should be so; it shews a prudent foresight that does you honour—but, my dear, are there no dangers in a single state?—if I may judge, Miss Milner, there are many more to a young lady of your accomplishments, than were you under the protection of a husband."
"My father, Mr. Dorriforth, thought your protection sufficient."
"But that protection was rather to direct your choice, than to be the cause of your not choosing at all.—Give me leave to point out an observation which, perhaps, I have too frequently done before, but upon this occasion I must intrude it once again.—Miss Fenton is its object—her fortune is inferior to your's, her personal attractions less."—
Here the strong glow of joy, and of gratitude, for an opinion so negligently, and yet so sincerely expressed, flew to Miss Milner's face, neck, and even to her hands and fingers; the blood mounted to every part of her skin that was visible, for not a fibre but felt the secret transport, that Dorriforth thought her more beautiful than the beautiful Miss Fenton.
If he observed her blushes, he was unsuspicious of the cause, and went on.
"There is, besides, in the temper of Miss Fenton, a sedateness that might with less hazard secure her safety in an unmarried life; and yet she very properly thinks it her duty, as she does not mean to seclude herself by any vows to the contrary, to become a wife—and in obedience to the counsel of her friends, will be married within a very few weeks."
"Miss Fenton may marry from obedience, I never will."
"You mean to say, Love shall alone induce you?"
"I do."
"If, madam, you would point out a subject upon which I am the least able to speak, and on which my sentiments, such as they are, are formed alone from theory (and even there instructed but with caution) it is the subject of love. —And yet, Miss Milner, even that little I know, tells me, without a doubt, that what you said to me yesterday, pleading for lord Frederick's life, was the result of the most violent and tender love."
"The
little you know
then, Mr. Dorriforth, has deceived you; had you
known more,
you would have judged otherwise."
"I submit to the merit of your reply; but without allowing me a judge at all, I will appeal to those who were present with me."
"Are Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford to be the connoisseurs?"
"No; I'll appeal to Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley."
"And yet, I believe," replied she with a smile, "I believe, theory, must only be the judge even there."
"Then from all you have said, madam, on this occasion, I am to conclude you still refuse to marry lord Frederick?"
"You are."
"And you submit never to see him again?"
"I do."
"All you then said to me, yesterday, was false?"
"I was not mistress of myself at the time."
"Therefore it was truth—for shame, for shame!"
At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Sandford walked in—he started back on seeing Miss Milner, and was going away again; but Dorriforth called to him to stay, and said with warmth,
"Tell me, Mr. Sandford, by what power, by what persuasion, I can prevail upon this lady to confide in me as her friend; to lay her heart open, and credit mine when I declare to her, I have no view in all the advice I give, but her immediate welfare?"
"Mr. Dorriforth, you know my opinion of the lady," replied, Sandford, "it has been formed ever since my first acquaintance with her, and it still remains the same."
"But instruct me how I am to inspire her with confidence;" returned Dorriforth, "how I am to impress her with that which is for her advantage?"
"You can work no miracles," replied Sandford, "you are not holy enough."
"And yet Miss Milner," answered Dorriforth, "appears to be acquainted with that mystery; for what but the force of a miracle, can induce her to contradict to-day, what before you, and several other witnesses, she positively acknowledged yesterday?"
"Do you call that miraculous?" cried Sandford, "The miracle had been if she had not done so—for did she not yesterday, contradict what she acknowledged the day before?—and will she not to-morrow, disavow what she says to-day?"
"I wish she may." Replied Dorriforth mildly, for he beheld the tears flowing down her face at the rough and severe manner in which Sandford had spoken, and began to feel for her uneasiness.
"I beg pardon," cried Sandford, "for speaking so rudely to the mistress of the house—I have no business here, I know; but where you are, Mr. Dorriforth, unless I am turned out, I shall ever think it my duty to come."
Miss Milner courtesied, as much as to say he was welcome to come.—He continued,
"I was to blame, that on a nice punctilio, I left you so long without my visits, and without my counsel; in the time, you have run the hazard of being murdered, and what is worse, of being excommunicated; for had you been so rash as to have returned your opponent's fire, not all my interest at Rome would have obtained remission of the punishment."
Miss Milner, through all her tears, could not now restrain her laughter—on which he resumed;
"And here do I venture like a missionary among savages—but if I can only save you from the scalping knives of some of them; from the miseries which that lady is preparing for you, I am rewarded."
Sandford spoke this with great fervour, and the crime of her love never appeared to Miss Milner in so tremendous a point of view as thus, unknowingly alluded to by him.
"
The miseries that lady is preparing for you,
" hung upon her ears like the notes of a raven, and equally ominous.—The words "
murder
" and "
excommunication
" he had likewise uttered; all the fatal effects of sacrilegious love.—Frightful superstitions struck to her heart, and she could scarcely prevent falling down under their oppression.
Dorriforth beheld the difficulty she had in sustaining herself, and went with the utmost tenderness and supported her; saying, "I beg your pardon—I invited you hither with a far different view than your uneasiness."—
Sandford was begining to speak. "Hold, Mr. Sandford," resumed he, "the lady is under my protection, and I know not whether it is not necessary you should apologize to her, and to me, for what you have already said."
"You asked my opinion, or I had not given it you—would you have me, like her, speak what I do not think?"
"Say no more, Mr. Sandford." Cried Dorriforth — and leading her kindly to the door, as if to defend her from his malice, told her "He would take another opportunity to renew the subject."
CHAPTER XVII.
WHEN Dorriforth was alone with Sandford, he explained to him what before, he had only hinted; and this learned jesuit frankly confessed, "That the mind of a woman was far above, or rather beneath, his comprehension." —It was so, indeed—for with all his penetration, and he had a great deal, he had not yet penetrated into the recesses of Miss Milner's heart.
Miss Woodley, to whom she repeated all that had passed between herself, her guardian, and Sandford, took this moment, during the alarm and agitation of her spirits, to alarm them still more by her prophetic insinuations; and at length represented to her here, for the first time, the necessity, "That Mr. Dorriforth and she should remain no longer under the same roof." This was like the stroke of sudden death to Miss Milner, and clinging to life, she endeavoured to avert the blow by prayers, and by promises—her friend loved her too sincerely, however, to be prevailed upon.
"But in what manner can I bring about the separation?" cried she, "for till I marry we are obliged, by my father's request, to live in the same house."
"Miss Milner," answered Miss Woodley, "much as I respect the will of a dying man, I regard your and Mr. Dorriforth's present, and eternal happiness much more; and it is my resolution you
shall part
—if you will not contrive the means, that duty falls on me, and without any invention, I see the measure at once."
"What is it?" Cried Miss Milner eagerly.
"To go and reveal to Mr. Dorriforth, without hesitation, the real state of your heart; which your present inconsistent conduct will but too readily confirm."
"You would not plunge me into so much shame, into so much anguish!" Cried she, distractedly.
"No," replied Miss Woodley, "not for the world, provided you will separate from him, by any method of your own—but that you
shall
separate is my determination; and in spite of all your sufferings, this shall be the means, unless you instantly agree to some other."
"Good Heaven, Miss Woodley! is this your friendship?"
"Yes—and the truest friendship I have to bestow.—Think what a task I undertake for your sake and his, when I condemn myself to explain to him your weakness — what astonishment! what confusion! what remorse, do I foresee painted upon his face!—I hear him call you by the harshest names, and behold him fly from your sight for ever, as an object of his detestation."
"Oh spare the dreadful picture.—Fly from my sight for ever — detest my name. Oh! my dear Miss Woodley, let his friendship for me but still remain, and I will consent to any thing. — You may command me — I will go away from him directly—but let us part in friendship—Oh! without the friendship of Mr. Dorriforth, life would be a heavy burthen indeed."
Miss Woodley immediately began to plan schemes for their separation; and with all her invention alive on the subject, this was the only probable one she could form.
Miss Milner was to write to her distant relation at Bath, complaining of the melancholy of a country life, which she was to say her guardian imposed upon her, and entreat the lady to send a pressing invitation for her to pass a month or two with her; this invitation was to be shewn to Dorriforth for his approbation, and both Miss Woodley and Miss Milner were to enforce it, by expressing their earnest wishes for his consent. This plan properly regulated, the necessary letter was sent by Miss Milner to Bath, and Miss Woodley waited with patience, but with a watchful guard upon the conduct of her friend till the answer arrived.
During this interim a most tender and complaining epistle from lord Frederick was delivered Miss Milner; to which as he received no answer, his lordship prevailed upon his uncle, with whom he resided, to wait upon her, and obtain her verbal reply; for he still flattered himself, fear of her guardian's anger, or perhaps his interception of the letter he had sent, was the cause of her seeming contempt.
The old gentleman was introduced to Miss Milner, and after to Mr. Dorriforth, but received from each an answer so explicit, that left his nephew no longer in doubt but all farther pursuit was vain.
Sir Edward Ashton about this time also, submitted to a formal dismission, and had the mortification to reflect, he was bestowing upon the object of his affections the tenderest proof of his regard, by absenting himself wholly from her society.
Upon this serious and certain conclusion to the hopes of lord Frederick, Dorriforth was more astonished than he had ever yet been at the conduct of his ward—he had once thought her behaviour, in respect to his lordship, was ambiguous, but since her confession of a passion for him, he had no doubt but that in the end, she would become his wife. — He lamented to find himself mistaken, and now thought it proper to give some important marks of his condemnation of her pernicious caprice; and not merely in words, but by the general tenour of his behaviour. He consequently became much more reserved, and more austere than he had been, since his first acquaintance with her; for his manners, not from design, but unknowingly, were softened since his guardianship, by that render respect he had never ceased to pay to the object of his protection.
Notwithstanding this severity he assumed, his ward in the prospect of parting from him grew melancholy; Miss Woodley's love to her friend rendered her little otherwise; and Dorriforth's peculiar gravity, oftentimes rigour, could not but make the whole party much less cheerful than they had been. Lord Elmwood too was lying dangerously ill of a fever; Miss Fenton of course was as much in sorrow as her nature would suffer her to be, and both Sandford and Dorriforth in extreme concern on his lordship's account.
In this state of affairs, the letter of invitation arrives from lady Luneham at Bath: it was shown to Dorriforth; and to prove to his ward he is so much offended, as no longer to feel that excessive interest in her concerns he once did, he gives his opinion on the subject with indifference — he desires "Miss Milner will do as she herself thinks proper."—Miss Woodley instantly accepts this permission, writes back, and appoints the day, her friend means to set off for the visit.
She is wounded to the heart by the cold and unkind manners of her guardian, but dares not take one method to retrieve his opinion.—Alone, and to Miss Woodley she sighs and weeps; he discovers her sorrow, and is doubtful whether the departure of lord Frederick from that part of the country, is not the cause.
When the day on which she was to set off for Bath, was within two days distance only; the behaviour of Dorriforth took, by degrees, its usual form; if not a greater share of polite and tender attention than ever.—It was the first time he had parted from Miss Milner since he became her guardian, and he felt upon the occasion, a reluctance. —He had been angry with her, he had shewn her he was so, and he now began to wish he had not.—She is not happy, (he considered within himself) every word and action declares she is not, and I may have been too severe, and added to her uneasiness.—"At least we will part on good terms."—Said he—"Indeed my regard for her is such, I cannot part otherwise."
She soon discerned his returning kindness, and it was a gentle tie that would have fastened her to the spot where she was, but for the firm resistance of Miss Woodley.
"What will a few months absence effect?" cried she, pleading her cause, "At the end of a few months at farthest, he will expect me back, and where will be the merit in this shortseparation?"
"In that time," replied Miss Woodley, "we may find some method to make it still longer."—To this she listened with a kind of despair, but uttered she "was resigned;" and accordingly prepared for her departure.
Dorriforth was all anxiety that every circumstance of her journey should be commodious; he was eager she should be happy, and he was eager she should see he entirely forgave her.—He would have gone part of the way with her, but for the extreme illness of lord Elmwood, in whose chamber he passed chief of the day, and slept in Elmwood House every night.
On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his hand and conducted Miss Milner to the carriage, all the way he led her she could not restrain a flood of tears; which encreased, as he parted from her, to convulsive sobs.— He was affected; and notwithstanding he had previously bid her farewell, he drew her gently on one side and said, with his eyes moistened from regard of the most laudable nature,
"My dear Miss Milner, we part friends?—I hope we do?—on my side, depend upon it, I regret nothing so much at this short separation, as having ever given you a moment's pain."
"I believe so." Was all she could say, for she hastened to break from him, lest his discerning eye should discover the cause of the weakness which thus overcame her.—But her apprehensions were groundless; the rectitude of his own heart was a bar to the suspicion of her's.—He once more kindly bade her adieu, and the carriage drove away.
Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley accompanied Miss Milner part of the journey, about thirty miles, where they were met by Sir Harry and lady Luneham.—Here was a parting nearly as affecting as that between her and her guardian. Miss Woodley, who for several weeks had treated her friend with a rigidness she herself hardly supposed was in her nature, now bewailed her own severity, begged her forgiveness, promised to correspond with her punctually, and to omit no opportunity of giving her every consolation short of cherishing her fatal passion; but in that, and that only, was the heart of Miss Milner to be consoled.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
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